Rebel Temptress (Historical Romance) by Constance O'Banyon

almost the moment her head hit the pillow.
    * * *
    Jordan poured himself a glass of wine and stood staring out into the twilight. The sun was going down on his wedding day, and his child bride was asleep in her room. How different his wedding had been from what he had planned. If he had married Meagan, as he had wanted, he would be in her bed this very moment. He pulled the heavy draperies together and seated himself in the tall wingback chair.
    Meagan was no innocent virgin, as Honor was, nor had Jordan been the first man to be with her. He remembered the first time he had made love to her. He had been out riding one day when he came upon a secluded part of Green Rivers, where he had swum as a child. He had hardly believed his eyes when he saw Meagan swimming alone. They had both been eighteen at the time. He dismounted and sat on the riverbank, watching her, fascinated. She laughingly challenged him to enter the water. He had dreamed of her so often, but she had seemed to prefer older men to escort her to the many community functions, and she had paid little heed to him. He felt excitement as she stood up, revealing the fact she wore nothing. The water glistened on her perfectly shaped breasts. The look in Meagan's eyes taunted him, daring him to accept her offer.
    "I will have to strip," he told her boldly.
    "Do so," she said, meeting his challenge. "For I can assure you I have no more clothes on than the day I was born."
    Later he was to wonder if she had planned to lure him into the water, for she knew he rode by the river every day on his way to the fields. But at the time he had been unable to think of anything but being with her.
    It had taken no time for him to dispose of his clothing and dive into the water. Meagan teased him and swam just out of his reach, until he thought he would go mad. Then finally she tired of the game and swam over to him. He could still feel that silky body pressed closely to his. He kissed her hungrily, then carried her out of the water, marveling at the perfection of her body.
    His hands shook has he poured another glass of wine, wishing for something stronger, but knowing Amanda Landau had never kept hard liquor in her home.
    It had not mattered to Jordan at the time that he had not been the first man to have Meagan. He made love to her on the riverbank. But later, as he began to fall in love with her, he was driven mad by jealousy at the thought of Meagan in another man's arms. When he had questioned her about it, she had laughingly told him that he might not have been the first, but he would definitely be the last. Jordan had begged her to marry him, and she had agreed. But then the war had come along, and she had refused to become his wife until he returned.
    He thought of the day he had ridden away to join his regiment. Meagan had cried and sworn she would miss him and wait for his return. The first year she had written to him often, but then the letters had come less frequently and finally had stopped altogether. At the time he had blamed it on the war, thinking her letters had gone astray, but now he knew that was not the case. He remembered his last leave. Had she been cold then?
    Jordan poured himself another glass of wine and walked over to the piano and picked up the small miniature encased in a golden frame. It was a painting of Meagan and Honor painted three years ago. Honor looked the angelic child, with her pale silky hair hanging about her face. She was dressed in pink and looked innocent and childlike, while Meagan wore blue to match her eyes—eyes that stared boldly back at him from the picture, taunting him as they had so often done in real life.
    He hurled the miniature across the room and watched as it smashed into the wall.
    "Damn you, Meagan," he shouted. "The day will come when I will have my revenge on you." He emptied the bottle of wine and started on a second. "One day, Meagan," he vowed, "you will come crawling back to me. We shall see then who will suffer for