Free Rebel by Heather Graham Page A

to fuse together. She had to make the surface one more time. Once again. And no matter how awful and detestable, she was going to have to call out to Ian McKenzie with a word she could scarcely bear to issue to him at this time.
    Her face broke the water. She managed a choked out, “Help!”
    Then the blackness seemed to encompass her, leaving only the tiniest pinhole of light….
    Her vision slowly returned, her mind dragging just behind it. She had been brought to the soft, grassy bank at the pool’s edge, near the fallen log. She lay naked on her stomach while a dripping naked man hovered over her, forcing the water from her lungs.
    She coughed, sputtered, and swung around in horror, eyes wide as she stared up at Ian. “Oh, God!”
    She leaped to her feet; too fast. She staggered. He steadied her. She struggled.
    “Look at me!” he commanded fiercely.
    She found herself doing so.
    His eyes appeared blacker, fiercer than ever. His anger was such that she thought he did mean her harm.
    “Were you trying to kill yourself over that fop? You little fool! He isn’t worth spit!”
    “What? I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”
    “But you were in love with him?”
    “Oh, God!” She shook her head wildly, vehemently. “Please, dear God, will you let me get dressed—”
    Still tense, he arched a dark brow. “You apparently didn’t mind jumping naked in a pool when you thought it was Peter O’Neill who’d be joining you.”
    “Let me go!”
    He did so. She raced straight for her clothing, fumbling terribly in her haste. She was aware that he dressed smoothly and competently at her side.
    Naturally!
she thought snidely.
Men!
He was far more accustomed to stripping and dressing than she. He was completely clothed, from uniform jacket to polished boots, scabbard, and sword, while she was still struggling with her corset.
    “May I?” he inquired politely at her back, reaching for the strings.
    “No, you—”
    But he already had his hands upon the ribboned strings that constricted the corset, and he had a knee set gently against her back to wrench them in.
    He was accustomed to corsets as well. Obviously. Laviniahad probably taught him all about corsets. All that he hadn’t learned from previous experience. Oh, God, were all men such loathsome creatures? Interested in sex, prestige, and money, and not at all concerned if those things came in one package or in several!
    She was shaking as he helped her into her afternoon tea gown as well, but when the dress was in place, she quickly pulled away from him to sit upon the log again, slip into her dress boots, and lace the ties. She realized that he was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with blue fire in his eyes all the while. When she was about to rise, one of his Union-issue-booted feet landed on the log beside her and he leaned low, more or less imprisoning her there upon the log.
    “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
    She stared at him, incredulous and, despite herself, more than a little intimidated. Ian McKenzie stood very tall, and as she was quite aware from newly gained firsthand experience, he was composed of good solid muscle for all that length. He was an exceptionally striking man, with his strong features, pitch-black hair, unusual dark blue eyes, and cleanly defined brows. His five-year seniority suddenly seemed like quite a bit as well; his jaw was set in a fashion that told her he knew what repercussions would befall them both over what had occurred here. He was angry, quite naturally. She felt a little chill, thinking that surely he could not mean that he really intended to kill Peter O’Neill. Of course he did not. Still, looking at him at that moment, she was glad that she was not O’Neill.
    Not that Ian seemed to regard her with much less contempt. Those penetrating eyes of his raked over her in a manner now that quite clearly condemned.
    She returned his stare.
    No. She would not let him cow her.
    “I have