Rebellion & In From The Cold (44 page)

If it didn’t smack so much of running away, he’d have been on his horse and headed back to Boston. He’d be damned if he’d ride away a second time. This time, she could go, and the devil take her.

Why had she had to look so beautiful, standing there in her blue dress with the sun coming through the window at her back?

Why did it matter to him how she looked? he thought viciously. He didn’t want her any longer. He didn’t need a sharp-tongued shrew of a woman in his life. There was too much work to be done.

By God, he’d all but begged her to have him. How it grated on his pride! And she, the hussy, had lain with him in the hay, given herself to him, made him think it mattered to her. He’d been so gentle, so careful with her. Never before had he opened his heart so to a woman. Only to have it handed back to him.

Well, he hoped she found some weak-kneed spineless lout she could boss around. And if he discovered she had, he would cheerfully kill the man with his own two hands.

He heard the sound of a horse approach and swore. If those two little pests had come to disrupt his solitude, he would send them packing soon enough. Taking up his line, he stood, feet planted, and prepared to roar his nephews back to the house.

But it was Alanna who came riding out of the woods. She was coming fast, a bit too fast for Ian’s peace of mind. Beneath the jaunty bonnet she wore her hair had come loose so that it streamed behind her, a midnight flag. A few feet away, she reined the horse. Even at the distance, Ian could see her eyes were a brilliant and glowing blue. The mare, well used to reckless women riders, behaved prettily.

When he got his breath back, Ian shot her a killing look. “Well, you’ve managed to scare away all the fish for ten miles. Don’t you have better sense than to ride through unfamiliar ground at that speed?”

It wasn’t the greeting she’d hope for. “The horse knew the way well enough.” She sat, waiting for him to help her dismount. When he merely stood, glaring, she swore and struggled down herself. “You’ve changed little, MacGregor. Your manners are as foul as ever.” “You came all the way to Virginia to tell me so?” She fixed the mare’s reins to a nearby branch before she whirled on him. “I came at your aunt’s kind invitation. If I had known you were anywhere in the territory, I wouldn’t have come. Seeing you is the only thing that has spoiled my trip, for in truth, I’ll never understand how a man such as yourself could possibly be related to such a fine family. It would be my fondest wish if you would—” She caught herself, blew out a breath and struggled to remember the resolve she had worked on all through the night. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“God help me if that had been your intention, then.” He turned back to pick up his line. “You got yourself off the horse, Mrs. Flynn. I imagine you can get yourself back on and ride.”

“I will speak with you,” she insisted.

“Already you’ve said more than I wish to hear.” And if he stood looking at her another moment, he would crawl. “Now mount and ride before you push me too far.”

“Ian, I only want to—”

“Damn you to hell and back again.” He threw down the line. “What right have you to come here? To stand here and make me suffer? If I had murdered you before I left I’d be a happy man today. You let me think you cared for me, that what happened between us meant something to you, when all you wanted was a toss in the hay.”

Every ounce of color fled from her cheeks, then rushed back again in flaming fury. “How dare you? How dare you speak so to me?” She was on him like a wildcat, all nails and teeth. “I’ll kill you for that, MacGregor, as God is my witness.”

He grabbed wherever he could to protect himself, lost his balance and tumbled backward with her into the river.

The dunking didn’t stop her. She swung, spit and scratched even as he slid on the slippery bottom and took her under with him.

“Hold, woman, for pity’s sake. You’ll drown us both.” Because he was choking, coughing up water and trying to keep her from sinking under again, he didn’t see the blow coming until his ears were already ringing. “By God, if you were a man!”

“Don’t let that stop you, you bloody badger.” She swung again, missed and fell facedown in the river.

Cursing all the way, he dragged her onto the bank, where they both lay drenched and breathless.

“As soon as I’ve the strength to stand, I’ll kill her,” he said to the sky.

“I hate you,” she told him after she’d coughed up river water. “I curse the day you were born. And I curse the day I let you put your filthy hands on me.” She managed to sit up and drag the ruined bonnet out of her eyes.

Damn her for being beautiful even wet and raging. His voice was frigid when he spoke. A dangerous sign. “You asked me to put them on you, as I recall, madam.”

“Aye, that I did, to my disgust.” She threw the bonnet at him. “’Tis a pity the roll in the hay wasn’t more memorable.”

“Oh?” She was too busy wringing out her hair to note the reckless light in his eyes. “Wasn’t it now?”

“No, it wasn’t. In fact, I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned it.” With what dignity she still had in her possession, she started to rise. He had her flat on her back in an instant.

“Well, then, let me refresh your memory.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. She responded by sinking her teeth into his lip. He cursed her, gathered her dripping hair in his hand and kissed her again.

She fought herself, all the glorious feelings that poured through her. She fought him, the long firm body that so intimately covered hers. Like scrapping children, they rolled over the grassy bank, blindly seeking to punish for hurts old and new.

Then she whimpered, a sound of submission and of joy. Her arms were around him, her mouth opening hungrily to his. All the force of her love burst out in that one meeting of lips and fueled a fire already blazing.

Frantic fingers tore at buttons. Desperate hands pulled at wet, heavy clothing. Then the sun was steaming down on their damp bodies.

He wasn’t gentle now. She didn’t wish it. All the frustration and the need they had trapped within themselves tore free in a rage of passion as they took from each other under the cloudless spring sky.

With her hands in his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers again and again, murmuring wild promises, wild pleas. As they lay on the carpet of new grass, he absorbed the scent that had haunted him for weeks. He stroked his hands along the smooth white skin he had dreamed of night after night.

When she arched against him, ruthlessly stoking his fires, he plunged into her. Her name was on his lips as he buried his face in her hair. His was on hers as she wrapped her long limbs around him. Together they raced toward the end they both craved, until at last they lay still, each hounded by their own thoughts.

He drew himself up on his elbow and with one hand cupped her face. As she watched, loving him, she saw the temper return slowly to his eyes.

“I give you no choice this time, Alanna. Willing or weeping we marry.”

“Ian, I came here today to tell you—”

“I don’t give a bloody damn what you came to tell me.” His fingers tightened on her chin. He had emptied himself in her, body and soul. She had left him with nothing, not even pride. “You can hate me and curse me from now until the world ends, but you’ll be mine. You are mine. And by God, you’ll take me as I am.”

She gritted her teeth. “If you’d let me say a word—”

But a desperate man didn’t listen. “I’ll not let you go again. I should not have before, but you’ve a way of scraping a man raw. Whatever I can do to make you happy, I’ll do. Except abandon my own conscience. That I cannot do, and won’t. Not even for you.”

“I don’t ask you to, and never would. I only want to tell you—”

“Damn it, what is it that’s digging a hole in my chest?” Still swearing he reached between them. And held up the MacGregor ring that dangled from a cord around her neck. It glinted in the sunlight as he stared at it. Slowly, he closed his fingers around it and looked down at her. “Why …” He took another moment to be sure he could trust his voice. “Why do you wear this?”

“I was trying to tell you, if you would only let me speak.”

“I’m letting you speak now, so speak.”

“I was going to give it back to you.” She moved restlessly beneath him. “But I couldn’t. It felt dishonest to wear it on my finger, so I tied it to a cord and wore it by my heart, where I kept you, as well. No, damn you, let me finish,” she said when he opened his mouth. “I think I knew even as I heard you ride away that morning that I had been wrong and you had been right.”

The beginnings of a smile teased his mouth. “I have river water in my ears, Mrs. Flynn. Would you say that again?”

“I said it once, I’ll not repeat it.” If she’d been standing, she would have tossed her head and lifted her chin. “I didn’t want to love you, because when you love so much, it makes you afraid. I lost Rory in the war, my mother from grief and poor Michael Flynn from a fever. And as much as they meant to me, I knew that you meant more.”

He kissed her, gently. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“I thought I wanted a quiet home and a family, a husband who would be content to work beside me and sit by the fire night after night.” She smiled now and touched his hair. “But it seems what I wanted all along was a man who would never be content, one who would grow restless by the fire after the first night or two. One who would fight all the wrongs or die trying. That’s a man I would be proud to stand beside.”

“Now you humble me,” he murmured, and rested his brow on hers. “Only tell me you love me.”

“I do love you, Ian MacGregor. Now and always.”

“I swear to give you that home, that family, and to sit by the fire with you whenever I can.”

“And I promise to fight beside you when the need comes.”

Shifting, he snapped the cord and freed the ring. His eyes were on hers as he slipped it onto her finger. “Never take it off again.”

“No.” She took his hand in hers. “From this moment, I’m a MacGregor.”

Boston. Christmas Eve, 1774

No amount of arguments could keep Ian out of the bedroom where his wife struggled through her first birthing. Though the sight of her laboring froze his man’s heart, he stood firm. His aunt Gwen in her quiet, persuasive way had done her best, but even she had failed.

“It’s my child, as well,” he said. “And I’ll not leave Alanna until it’s born.” He took his aunt’s hand and prayed he’d have the nerve to live by his words. “It’s not that I don’t trust your skills, Aunt Gwen. After all, I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“It’s no use, Gwen.” Serena chuckled. “He’s as stubborn as any MacGregor.”

“Hold her hand then, when the pain is bad. It won’t be much longer now.”

Alanna managed a smile when Ian came to her side. She hadn’t known it would take so long to bring such a small thing as a child into the world. She was grateful that he was with her and for the comforting presence of Gwen, who had brought so many dozens of babies into the world. Gwen’s husband, who was a doctor, would have attended the birth as well, had he not been called away on an emergency.

“You neglect our guests,” Alanna said to Ian as she rested between contractions.

“They’ll entertain themselves well enough,” Serena assured her.

“I don’t doubt it.” She closed her eyes as Gwen wiped her brow with a cool cloth. It pleased her that her family was here for Christmas. Both the Murphys and the Langstons. She should have been doing her duties as hostess on this first Christmas in the house she and Ian had bought near the river, but the babe, not due for another three weeks, was putting in an early appearance.

When the next pang hit, she squeezed Ian’s hand and tensed.

“Relax, relax, mind your breathing,” Gwen crooned. “There’s a lass.”

The pains were closer now, and stronger. A Christmas baby, she thought, struggling to rise over the wave. Their child, their first child, would be a priceless gift to each other on this the most holy night of the year.

As the pain passed, she kept her eyes closed, listening to the soothing sound of Ian’s voice.

He was a good man, a solid husband. She felt his fingers twine around hers. True, her life was not a peaceful one, but it was eventful. He had managed to draw her into his ambitions. Or perhaps the seeds of rebellion had always been inside her, waiting to be nurtured. She had come to listen avidly to his reports of the meetings he attended and to feel pride when others sought his advice. She could not but agree with him that the Port Bill was cruel and unjust. Like Ian, she scorned the idea of paying for the tea that had been destroyed in order to escape the penalty.

No, they had not been wrong. She had learned there was often right in recklessness. She had to smile. It was recklessness, and right, that had brought her here to a birthing bed. And she thanked God for it.

And hadn’t other towns and provinces rallied to support Boston, just as her family and Ian’s had rallied to support them in this, the birth of their first child?

She thought of their honeymoon in Scotland, where she had met his family and walked in the forests of his childhood. One day they would go back and take this child, show him, or her, the place of roots. And to Ireland, she thought as the pain returned, dizzying. The child would not forget the people who had come before. And while the child remembered, he would choose his own life, his own homeland. By their struggles, they would have given him that right.

“The babe’s coming.” Gwen shot Ian a quick, reassuring smile. “You’ll be a papa very soon.”

“The birth of our child,” Alanna panted, fighting to focus on Ian. “And soon, the birth of our nation.”

Though he could taste his own fear, for her, he laughed. “You’re becoming more of a radical than I, Mrs. MacGregor.”

“I do nothing by half measures. Oh, sweet Jesus, he fights for life.” She groped for her husband’s hand. “There can be little doubt he will be his father’s son.”

“Or her mother’s daughter,” Ian murmured, looking desperately at Gwen. “How much longer?” he demanded. “She suffers.”

“Soon.” She let out a little sound of impatience as there was a knock on the door.