“Madam, I suggest you quit dictating to me.”
“Fine! Go back to the hay, go straight to hell. I don’t give a damn where you go….”
Despite her best efforts to remain calm and rational, she was losing her temper. But the arch of his brow and the sharp glitter in his eyes was suddenly unnerving. She had to control her temper and behave in a reasonable, dignified manner.
“Ian, this is becoming quite ridiculous. There is no reason for us to be enemies.”
“I haven’t come to fight,” he informed her. But there was an edge to his tone.
He’d fight, all right.
“Ian, I’ve had a wretched day. If you come any closer to me, I swear by God, I promise that I will make you wretched, I will fight—”
“Fight your lawfully wedded husband?” he mocked, eyes narrowing.
“Ian, really, now …”
“Really, now, yes, indeed, my beloved—wife?”
He suddenly leaned across the desk; she found her wrist imprisoned in his grasp. Before she could protest or wrench free, he was around the desk in a lightning-swift movement.
He’d been drinking, yes. She was suddenly afraid of the volatility of his mood.
But he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t drunk at all. She saw that in his eyes as he swept her up despite her sputtering protests. He held her tightly in his arms. She strained against his hold to no avail. He cast her down upon the bed, bracing against it, his palms flat upon the bed on either side of her head. He stared at her with a barely constrained anger, eyes seeming to rip into her as he spoke at last. “I’ll be damned if I’m sleeping in the hay again. Tonight, I’m sleeping here, in my room, in my house, with my wife. Your current feelings on the matter are quite irrelevant to me; accept the situation or fight it—and me—it makes no difference.”
He pushed himself away from the bed and seemed to tower over her. “There will be but one outcome for this marriage tonight. I will have my way—and my wife.”
Chapter 9
She could be the most exasperating human being Ian had ever come in contact with: willing to fight when all hope of any purpose was gone, and never, never willing to accept defeat in any way, shape, or form.
And yet…
If he weren’t still plagued with guilt regarding Risa, he wouldn’t be entirely displeased. And if he didn’t remain quite so infuriated with Alaina regarding the entire Peter O’Neill incident…
Then what?
She was beautiful. Gathering herself against the bedstead, looking up at him warily, Alaina was beautiful. With her cat-gold eyes, sun-silk hair, and slim yet curvacious form, she was stunning. He had married her with a prayer that she wasn’t carrying O’Neill’s child; he’d been almost ridiculously pleased to discover that she had been as innocent as any young woman in their society who might have been brought up in the strictest home under a careful mama’s ever-watchful eye. And still…
She was accustomed to doing whatever she pleased, however dangerous it might be. And he was sick to death of hearing that she’d been in love with a swaggering, useless braggart like O’Neill. He still wanted to tear Peter O’Neill to shreds.
Perhaps it had been rude to stay away the entire day. But a streak of pained nostalgia had seized hold of him, and it had seemed important to spend the time with his kin—and away from the bride who played such havoc with both his temper and his passions.
Admittedly, he had spent a fair amount of time consumed with guilt because of Risa.
He was going to have to face her. What would he tell her? How would he explain?
Alaina had taken her place…
Alaina. Who was in love with Peter and ready to fight her new husband to the death for the honor he had fought to preserve!
They’d spent the day out in one of the old Indian cabins near Cimarron—Ian, James, Julian, Jerome, and Brent. Ian’s father had joined them eventually and they had drunk brandy and talked and laughed about the old days. James and Jarrett had reminisced about the war; they had all laughed about fishing incidents, Ian’s first encounter with a gator, the beauty of everything around them. The day had been good; but Ian still felt a strange pain, and it didn’t help to have this shrew he had acquired—no matter how beautiful—telling him to go sleep in the hay.
Yet as he watched her, she intrigued him, for she began playing a new act. She scrambled up and sat rigidly as she stared at him, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, hair billowing freely down her back in long, thick waves the color of a brilliant sun. That angelic shade framed her delicate face; her small chin was lifted high.
“Ian?”
“No.”
“No, what?” she flared. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”
“No, I’m not leaving. You can fight from here until the peninsula sinks.”
“You don’t understand. I’m really, really tired.”
“Oh?” he queried with some amusement, turning away from her and sitting at his desk to pull off his boots. Her voice was no longer defiant. It definitely carried a note of hauteur, but it was somewhat pleading as well.
She nodded earnestly. “I mean, you must admit, it’s been an eventful two days. Tired can’t begin to describe how I feel. I’m actually exhausted….” her voice trailed off with a slight catch as she watched him rise, doff jacket and shirt, and then breeches. Her eyes rose to his, faltering only once to take in the length of his naked body, widening, riveting back to his face. She was beautifully flushed against the pure white cotton of the embroidered nightgown she wore tonight, and he knew that she had ascertained in her quick sweep of his anatomy that he had come in definitely intending to keep her awake awhile.
And tonight, maybe she hoped not to have to fight him because she knew she couldn’t win. She meant to use other tactics now—appealing to his sensibilities as a gentleman?
“Ian, you’re not listening to me. Really, I’m so desperately tired,” she informed him.
“Ah… vigorous physical activity helps sleep,” he told her.
“I’ve had sufficient vigorous physical activity already, thank you!” she snapped.
He couldn’t help but smile. Nor did he intend to let her off the hook in the least. “You’re a newlywed, my love. Newly weds never sleep until dawn.”
If he hadn’t seen the swift calculations going on in her mind, he might have been swayed by her sudden tears.
“Ian… it’s been a difficult day. I’m… I’m hurt…” she said, forcing two liquid tears to pool in her eyes. “Last night was new to me, you must understand—”
He strode to the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at her. “You’re in no physical pain— I’d say that’s quite evident. And as far as your delicate emotional state, I thought you were suffering last night when I saw those sweet little tears on your cheeks. The next thing I knew—despite my warnings—you were crawling down a rose trellis to meet Peter O’Neill.”
“I didn’t go to meet him!” she cried.
“Right. You went to escape me—and this room.”
She let out an oath of irritation, then met his eyes. He saw a pulse ticking wildly at her throat, and he was both startled and aroused to realize that she was fighting both him—and herself. She was afraid—not so much of what he would do, but of what she might feel. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “There’s an old expression, my love, and I’ve told you it will hold true. You make your bed, you lie in it. Well, Mrs. McKenzie, this is the bed.”
“And I’m a small pleasure.”
He started to laugh, coming to another realization. He had offended her. He tilted her chin upward. “Mmm…
well, as you said, it was all rather new for you. I imagine you’ll be an excessive pleasure this time.”
She jerked her chin free from his touch. “Ian—”
“Alaina, you’re not going to talk me out of sleeping with you tonight.”
She scowled furiously, keeping her eyes averted from the length of him at he
r side. “There’s a whiskey bottle on your desk,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to summon your kin up here for a few more drunken toasts to start off the night?”
“Are you sure you’re not wishing I could summon Peter O’Neill up here?”
“Perhaps it would be better to have an adoring married lover than a bitter autocrat of a husband!” she told him, and made a move to leap from the bed.
He caught her wrist. “You have what you’re getting,” he told her warningly.
“I’m just getting the whiskey bottle.”
“I don’t need any whiskey. And I think it only fair to warn you that I am heartily sick of hearing about your mad devotion to Peter O’Neill.”
“And I am heartily sick of you thinking that you can— that you have the right to walk in here whenever you so please and make demands. Let me go! Fair is fair. I need quite a bit of whiskey!”
He shook his head firmly. “What you need is to be very aware of the fact that you have married me.”
She wrenched free from him and started to spring from the bed. She was very fast. So was he. He lunged across the bed and caught the sleeve of her gown. He heard the rending of fabric and became entangled in the gown as it tore from her torso and held fast against her limbs. He straddled her as she lay trapped, breathing far too quickly, her pulse hammering against her throat. A tiny blue vein was just barely visible in the ivory flesh of her breast. Her eyes were brilliantly gold in the room’s dying firelight as they met his; like a cat it seemed she flexed her claws as her hands and nails pressed against his chest.
“Must we do this again?” she whispered.
He laughed softly. “We must.”
“Why?” she demanded, eyes wide and flashing.
“Why?” The question gave him pause; she had voiced it in earnest.
“Because… making love is what husbands and wives do.”
“Making love is more frequently what husbands and mistresses do, so it appears in life!” she exclaimed.
She was angry, he thought. Angry—because he had wounded her tremendous pride today. He hadn’t done so intentionally, yet the fire burning in her now made her all the more tempting. He wanted her; he’d married her.
He’d be damned if he’d ever be such a fool as to sleep in the hay again.
He shook his head, and gently curled a tendril of her hair around his finger. “Sex is one reason men marry; it is a craving, a hunger, and I promise you, you will realize that it is so for your fairer—if not gentler—sex just as it is for us.”
Her eyes clouded. “Ian, your hunger is not for me.”
“You’re quite mistaken. What goes on between men and women, husbands and wives, can be exceptionally beautiful. And yet … a weapon as well. We’ll not use it so.”
She shook her head, but stared at him and must have seen both the amusement and determination in his eyes. She threw her arms out to her sides with exasperation, eyes furiously defying his. “Fine. Fine. Just do whatever you so choose!” she cried out dramatically.
His smile deepened. “I intend to,” he assured her.
Yet staring down at her, he suddenly remembered words Peter had used to describe her: ripe, lush. It galled him to think of Peter and Alaina.
Lush…
The valley between her breasts. He lowered his head and brushed her flesh there with his lips first, then the tip of his tongue, drawing a hot, liquid line between them.
Ripe…
Her breasts themselves. His mouth traveled to cover a dusky rose nipple, tongue sweeping around it, flicking the peak. His head against her chest, he could feel the thunder of her heart. She lay so perfectly still, not protesting, not moving. He rose slightly above her. Her eyes were squeezed shut; her face was pale, her lips just slightly parted, her breath sweeping quickly in and out. He smiled, pressed his lips to her throat. Cupped her breast into his palm, caressed it again with his tongue and the gentle edge of his teeth. He drew his hand down the length of her, so sensually enticed that he forgot for a moment who she was, and even that she was his wife. He savored the slim and so beautifully curved length of her, stroking, touching, moving against her. Her flesh burned as soft as silk against his own; he felt her vibrantly with his fingertips and limbs, felt each curve with the fullness of his body. He rose above her again, taking her lips. Her eyes were still clenched, but her mouth parted to his coaxing, and he hesitated just a moment as humor tempered the fever within him. He moved his mouth seductively upon hers; he eased his weight to her side to allow him the freedom to know her, kissing her all the while with a deceptively soft, slow, tender thoroughness while the questing touch of his fingers roamed as lightly over her body. His mouth grew bolder, tongue delving, raking, plundering, drawing a little whimper from her throat. His touch became far more invasive as well, palm rotating over the soft blond triangle between her thighs. A needful throbbing began within his own flesh. He slipped his hand between her thighs; she started to clench them together. He shifted his weight, forcing her limbs apart with the weight of his own body. His sex, fully erect, teased the tender flesh of her femininity and he heard a sudden, wild intake of her breath. Her eyes flew open with sudden awareness and defiance; she trembled fiercely, staring at him, then closed her eyes again, going rigid.
The dutiful wife. She didn’t fight; she endured.
He smiled, watching her for long seconds. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow. She lay so perfectly still….
He inched lower, once again creating liquid trails of kisses against her throat and breasts. Fondling her flesh, suckling it. Inching still lower, cradling her breasts while drawing his mouth against her ribs, waist, and navel. Inching still. Lying directly between her thighs. Staring at her pale face briefly before parting her with his fingers and plunging into the most intimate kiss with the seductive caress of his mouth and the searing liquid impalement of his tongue.
Her eyes flew open; a desperate, stunned gasp escaped her. She wriggled to free herself, and did nothing but bring herself more tightly against him. He caught her hands, his fingers curling against them as he continued to caress and seduce, feeling the wild trembling and surge within her that created an explosive fire in himself. Her every twist and buck further inflamed him until he throbbed with an agonizing pain; still he persisted, drawing her as high as he dared.
He rose over her at last, thrusting into her with fevered passion. A choked sobbing sound escaped her; her eyes were open, dazed, unfocused upon his. Her palms fell against his chest, then her fingers curled into his shoulders. She lay shaking, then clinging to him as he wrapped her tightly against him, pressing ever more deeply into her. The sight, feel, and scent of her was intoxicating, scarcely bearable. He fought to control his pace until…
Her body tightened, constricted. Face pressed to his shoulder, she cried out and her limbs went limp; searing, liquid warmth gloved his sex as he moved deeply within her.
He thrust and shuddered violently, amazed at the explosive force her climax had drawn from him in turn. Wickedly delicious heat seared throughout him and he finished, moving again, and again, more gently within her, until she, too, was filled with the mercury of their lovemaking. He eased himself to her side, drawing her against him. She stiffened; he persisted. He inhaled the rich scent of her hair.
And remembered with sudden raw clarity that he had told Teddy he could take his daughter home when Ian’s leave was done.
Could he leave her? Could he endure to do so, now, when he had just discovered the ferocity of the heat she could create in him? He stroked her hair. She tried to pull away, and he realized she was sobbing softly.
At a complete loss, he firmly pressed her to her back so that he could meet her eyes. “What? By God, I know that I didn’t hurt you.”
“Ian, please!” she whispered, cat-gold eyes shimmering. The sound of her voice was earnest; no playacting now. “Please, just—”
He touched her cheek. “Alaina, I’m not a fool, and I’m not stupid,
and I do admit to a certain amount of experience! I caused you no pain. In fact, I dare say that you enjoyed what passed between us.”
“Oh, you will never understand!” she cried.
Puzzled, he allowed her to turn away from him. He leaned up on an elbow, stroking the length of her spine with the back of his hand. She trembled at his touch.
“You just take… everything!” she whispered to him.
He smiled, feeling the budding of a new tenderness for her rising within him. She wouldn’t have been angry or hurt now if she hadn’t responded to him.
“Alaina, you’re my wife.”
“It’s still wrong; you don’t… love me.”
“Ah, and there it is! Well, dear wife, you don’t love me, either,” he murmured. He felt his body tighten with irritation, wondering if she hadn’t dreamed of such feelings in the arms of a different man. That thorn in his side.
But she wasn’t trying to be hateful; she was just young, and new to the games of love.
He rolled her back to him determinedly. For once, her gold eyes were open and vulnerable, her delicate face was simply beautiful, her cheeks were damp with tears. “We have married, Alaina, for better or worse. You are my wife. Circumstances were not, perhaps, what they should have been, but I am frankly pleased to have discovered what I have in this bed of mine you do so detest. Marriage is a commitment, and you are married to me. So I beg you, find peace with it. I have done so already.”
Her lashes fell upon her cheeks. “Tell, me, was your peace found here—or in the hay?” she whispered miserably.
He hesitated, wondering how much power he dared give this woman over him. He touched her cheek, brushing her silken flesh ever so softly. “I slept with no companion other than Pye; most uncomfortably so. And I have spent this day with my kin, and my kin alone. Does that make what we’ve done any more acceptable?” Her eyes opened to his again. “I…”
“Well?”
Her lashes fluttered again. “Yes,” she said very softly.