Rebel by Heather Graham Page A

to feel as if she could wash away Peter’s touch—and his hateful words. The men were busy with brandy and port, the women were gossiping. The pool was a private place, known only by the McKenzies.
    She sat upon a heavy pine log and began industriously working at the ties on her elegant dress boots. With some difficulty she next shed her gown, petticoats, and the corset that was threatening to asphyxiate her. She paused just a moment, thinking that she remained somewhat decent in her chemise and pantalettes. But thenagain, if her clothing didn’t dry quickly in the sun, she’d have to return to the house—and the gossips—quite damp. If she stripped down and kept her clothing in perfect shape, took her swim, dressed, dried her hair in the sun, and returned to the house, no one would be the wiser. And besides, she still felt Peter’s horrible, horrible touch. Breathed his scent upon her flesh….
    She slipped from the rest of her clothing, carefully arranged it all in a pile a distance from the water, then gasped just slightly as the cool spring water touched the hot fire of her flesh.

Chapter 3
    L avinia wasn’t there.
    She hadn’t come to elegantly drape herself upon the log, and she didn’t even await him angrily, pacing up and down, ready to argue before impatiently insisting that there was always too little time, they must make up.…
    Well, he had tarried too long. Maybe she thought that he wasn’t coming, that he’d had other plans. He silently cursed the fools who had waylaid him.
    First, the warmonger Alfred Ripply.
    And then, in the pantry, that damned pompous rooster Peter.
    He gazed at the log. It was her place. The heavy old pine log.
    She liked to perch upon it, knowing full well just how elegant she could look, sitting very straight, long legs curled beneath her, pale features guarded from the sun by a parasol.
    He warned, himself that he had best cool the fires within him. Lavinia was apparently irritated that he hadn’t run when she had beckoned. He sat down upon the log, wondering if he shouldn’t be grateful he had missed his chance with Lavinia. He hadn’t particularly intended to be chaste, but it appeared a greater power might be forcing him to act like a man contemplating marriage—to a good woman who understood his inner turmoil.
    But right now the tempest within him was maddening. He’d needed, wanted, an escape from his thoughts.
    He ran his fingers through his hair.
    He was going to be called upon very soon to make some very hard decisions.
    Peaceful, rational men and women were still saying that there couldn’t be a war.
    But Ian had seen firsthand the passions of those who might well bring about bloodshed. None of this had happened overnight. This argument had been in the brewing since the founding fathers had written the constitution—and left out the question of slavery.
    Now the explosion was coming.
    And if it did come to war, what in God’s name was he going to do?
    No way out of it; Florida was a slave state, most of the planters here did depend on slave labor. Ian would have to fight against his own friends and neighbors.
    Sighing, he stared up at the sky. It was so blue. It was what he loved most about being home. Winter did come, and rains came, and wild, deadly electric storms came to ravage the Florida peninsula, especially in the Tampa Bay area. But winter never stayed long; the sky was so seldom hung with gloom. Most days were radiant like this late spring afternoon, with the sky cast in a magnificent clear blue. And when the days weren’t radiant…
    Well, he loved the storms as well. Loved the wild, angry slash of lightning across the sky, loved the feel of the wind against his face, loved to ride the flatlands in a fury on Pye right before a storm broke.
    It would have been so nice to forget it all—for a time, at least—in Lavinia’s simple… lust.
    A slight sound in the water startled him from his thoughts just as he realized that a pile of feminine