Surrender (3 page)

There were more Yanks in the waters, Risa thought, trying to reason quickly and rationally. And she wondered if just maybe, Ian McKenzie might be in these waters now, and if salvation might be a lot closer than she had imagined.

She tried to shield her eyes again from the light, and look beyond it to their captor. All she could see was the wicked length of the sword—and the dark silhouette of the man.

Better chance the sharks in one piece, she determined. Here, in this little dinghy, with the wicked blade-wielding captain, she was doomed. In the water, God help her, she might stand a chance …

She rose. The boat rocked precariously.

“Now, what in God’s name—” the deep voice of the captain began. Then he realized her intent. “Wait, you fool!” came the man’s irate command.

Wait? Never.

She leapt.

He reached for her, just missing her arm, and catching a wisp of the fabric of her skirt instead.

He couldn’t stop her from diving, but he had arrested her momentum, Risa realized in horror.

She made it into the water, but then felt a sharp pain as she cracked her head against the boat.

The lamplight faded. Darkness overwhelmed her as she sank into the sea.

Risa awoke, hearing the crackle of a fire. She opened her eyes very slowly. She could remember hitting her head, but the pain had faded away. For a moment her vision was blurred; the world was fuzzy. Then it began to fall in place.

She lay on a handsome sofa, encompassed in a warm blanket, her head on a soft pillow. She was in a pleasant room, with the fire crackling against the salt sea coolness of the night. The fire was all that gave light to the room, so it was cast into pleasantly soft crimson shadows. Despite the deeply muted light, she could see shapes and forms, handsomely polished pine floors, area rugs scattered about. She was in a home, she realized. Several wing-backed chairs faced the fire. Family portraits lined the coral rock mantel. The crackling fire, leaping in beautiful shades from blue to gold, captured her vision for several long moments.

Then she saw him.

Her heart seemed to stop, then slam against her chest. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

Ian!

Oh, God, Ian!

She had fallen into the sea, plummeted toward death, but miraculously,
he
had found her, and she had been rescued.

He stood in this parlor, leaning against the far end of the mantle.

His back was to her; his dark head bowed. He’d been out in the water as well, obviously, and recently. She must not have been out too long. He’d stripped down to his breeches, which were still damp, clinging to his lean hips and muscled thighs. His feet were bare, his
broad shoulders caught the glow of firelight and gleamed and rippled with bronze power.

She sat up slowly, a heady sensation of relief flooding through her. She discovered that her skirts had been cut and ripped away, certainly in his efforts to save her life. She was left with nothing but pantalets, bare feet, corset, and ragged chemise, but she couldn’t feel distressed at her lack of apparel—not when she was alive. She was a realist. Ian and his men had ripped up her clothing to save her life, and she was simply grateful.

“Ian!” she cried out, leaping up before he could swing around. She threw herself against him, so very relieved, arms wrapped around him, cheek against his bronze back. She hadn’t forgotten that he was married; she was simply grateful to greet an old friend and ally.

“Oh, Ian, oh, thank God, I thought I was dead, in serious trouble at the very least with those wretched Rebs—they’re trying to take a supply boat, bound for Key West, I can tell you all about it, I heard them talking! I think they engaged with a few scouting parties in small boats already. But that’s not why I’m here, you have to … you have to catch the Mocassin! Oh, God, I never thought that I’d make it here, but I had to find you. I
had
to find you …” She paused for breath, shaking. She was becoming incoherent. He turned around, but she didn’t see his face or his hand on the top of her head, stroking her hair as he drew her close to his chest. Bittersweet pain filled her. She could find comfort with him, yes. She could be soothed. Because they were friends now. But he was Alaina’s husband, even if he had loved her first. They had never made love; she had been too proper. Yet the dreams had been there.

For a moment she allowed herself to feel the gentleness of his fingers in her hair. She luxuriated in the feel of her face against his chest, breathing the decidedly masculine scent of him, clean salt, sea air, a hint of brandy and …

“You heard about Reb plans to attack a Yankee ship?”

She nodded. “Yes, but you have to go after Alaina. Ian, I’m so sorry, but she is the Mocassin. It’s a long story, but she was sick, and ranting, and I pieced to-
gether what she was saying. I tried to follow her … but anyway, she went to the islands for supplies, and is making landfall somewhere near here. And I’m so afraid that she’ll be caught by someone who doesn’t care that she’s a woman, and that … some people have become so vicious with this war, I’m afraid she’ll be hanged. Ian, you must find her and capture her; you must somehow dissuade her from her course …”

He had gone very tense, and she was sorry, so sorry. Risa knew he had suspected his wife of espionage, but he had surely prayed that she was not the elusive Mocassin—the spy wanted dead or alive, condemned by military justice, no quarter to be given.

Risa swallowed hard. “You have to go. You have to find her. Yourself. It’s imperative. But we must stop what is happening as well. Send one of your men out to warn the Union navy that a despicable, cutlass-wielding Reb captain is out to seize the
Maid of Salem
, and steal her cargo of weapons and medicine. Dear God, this is horrible. I know that the war effort must be sustained, that the Reb captain has to be found and engaged in battle and fed to the sharks, but Alaina has to be found as well!”

His fingers were moving in her hair again; he was holding her close, very close. It felt good. She wished that she could forget time and the war.

Forget that he had married.

And that his wife had become one of her best friends.

“Oh, Ian.”

“Shh … sh … it’s all right. I will go for Alaina. I will find her.”

She nodded against his chest. His fingers brushed her cheek, and she felt ridiculously like a cat, so glad just to be stroked.

She had to pull away.

But she was still shaking, so relieved. It was good to be soothed, touched. No …

“Don’t, Ian,” she whispered.

But there was no substance to her voice.

They were just friends. He comforted her. Another few moments wouldn’t matter.

His flesh was as warm as the fire that cloaked it in
crimson, and that warmth seemed to radiate into her, nearly stilling her shivers. His arms had all the strength she seemed to lack. His knuckles moved gently over her cheek, her bare shoulders; his hand stroked her, holding her, warming her.

“No,” she repeated, but still, with no conviction.

“So,” he murmured, “a wretched Reb is out to take the
Maid of Salem
—and you know all about it,” he murmured.

“I heard them talking!” she whispered. “Just before your men came—before the bastard stepped aboard my boat! His men were out in a second dinghy, searching, and I heard them talking.”

“Mmm …”

She closed her eyes. She had to break away. But she was tired. The war had made everything so hard. She was a determined woman, independent, capable. But tonight, she felt so very weary. And he felt … strong.

Warm. Muscle rippled beneath her cheek, her hands. His bare chest seemed electric.

She felt a tender stroke upon her face, lifting her chin. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to see. For a moment, just a moment, she wanted the past, the dream.

She felt his mouth. It had been so long. His lips, on hers, demanding, tender, overwhelming her. His tongue parting her lips with an erotic force and thrust, sweeping the fullness of her mouth, seducing …

His hands …

Moving over her ribs, her hips, her breasts, a blaze of fire despite the fabric of her chemise and bone of her corset. As heady as wine, as seductive as flame, irresistible, so ungodly intimate …

He’d married Alaina.

And she couldn’t do this.

She tried to shake her head, but his fingers had threaded into her hair, and her lips were fully captured by the passionate assault of his kiss, the thrust of his tongue. His left arm was around her, supporting her, arching her back as his lips at last left hers, falling against her throat. Lower. Against the rise of her breasts.

“Ian, no—”

“What else did you hear?”

“What?”

She was fighting the unbidden rise of an illicit passion, and he was still seeking information.

“Did you hear—”

“No,” she said, adding firmly, “stop. This isn’t right, Ian, stop.” She pressed her hands firmly against him, opening her eyes, ready to face him.

“No—”

She broke off, suddenly dead silent and completely shocked. She was captured within arms that seemed to have the power of steel. Whose arms, she had no idea.

She’d been hearing him speak, his voice deep, low, and husky, yet a whisper in the firelit shadows. She’d stared at his back, seen the way that he stood, the breadth of his shoulders, the rippling bronze of his back.

It wasn’t Ian.

This man’s eyes were blue, like Ian’s. His height and build were nearly identical … but his face …

His features were different; his cheekbones were higher, slightly broader. And he was very bronze. Though his dark hair carried a hint of red that wasn’t just the firelight, she realized, it was very thick and straight. His nose was straight, his forehead high and smooth, his mouth well sculptured, very full, sensual. Damp from their kiss, curved in a curious, mocking smile as he stared down at her. His features, she realized, betrayed Indian blood, strikingly combined with classical European lines.

“Oh, my God!” she breathed at last in sheer dismay.

She fought to free her arms, straining desperately against him. “Let me go! This instant! You’re not Ian, oh, God, you’re so much like him—”

“Stop it, calm down!” he commanded, drawing her harder to his frame as she fought wildly to free herself.

“Calm down?! I will
not
calm down. Let me go, let me go. My God, who are you? Oh! You have to be related to Ian, and if so—oh, God! Then you’re a Rebel, the enemy …”

She kicked at him, trying to aim high in an effort to truly immobilize him, catching a kneecap instead. He grunted, and swept her up off her feet, striding back to
the sofa where she found herself slammed down as he crawled atop her. She tried to pound his chest, strike out against his face. He neatly caught her wrists, forcing them down to the arm of the sofa just above her head. She was left with nothing to do but gasp for breath and stare up at him, stunned and horrified. He was built so very much like Ian, it was uncanny. But he was different as well. He carried Seminole blood. She’d known, of course, that Ian had kin here, Rebel kin.

“Let go of me. I thought you were Ian!” she gasped, struggling to dislodge him. But his hold upon her was as fierce as his temper. He didn’t budge.

“Yes, you thought I was Ian. Sorry. I’m afraid that I’m the despicably wretched Rebel captain with the intent to take the
Maid of Salem
—my men will have to do without me now. Obviously, I’m related to Ian. I’m his cousin—Miss Magee. There is a startling resemblance among many of our generation.”

Miss Magee
. She felt so incredibly stupid. He knew who she was. But she had never imagined that Ian and his kin could be so very much like him that she could mistake a cousin for him! “Which cousin?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

“Jerome McKenzie, Miss Magee,” he said, a sardonic tone to his voice. “I’m trying to imagine the situation had you stumbled upon Ian’s brother Julian. The two of them are so much alike, you might have bedded with him for an hour before discovering your mistake.”

“Oh!” she gasped, so infuriated that she suddenly had the strength of Atlas. She freed a wrist with a wild wrench and brought her hand crashing against his bronze cheek. He recaptured her wrist so tightly that she let out a soft cry, her heart beating a staccato rhythm of pure panic as he leaned low over her.

“So tell me, were you really trying to save Alaina—or were you perhaps trying to make sure that my cousin was aware that his wife was an enemy agent?”

He stared at her, dark blue eyes hard and mocking, and she felt a chill sweep through her, adding to her fury. What in God’s name did she care what he thought? Throughout everything, she had behaved with incredible maturity and restraint. After his marriage, she had
shared nothing more intimate with Ian than compassion for the war’s victims. Yet here she was, caught in this one moment’s weakness …

“You bastard!” she hissed, shaking. “I don’t give a damn what you think, but don’t you see? If other Yankees catch Alaina, they’ll hang her! I came here to save her life, and someone must do something quickly. If you can find your cousin out here, find him. And if not, let me go, and I’ll damned well do it myself!”

“Oh, really? How incredibly arrogant, Miss Magee. I’m afraid that you couldn’t find my cousin in the swamps if I handed you a bloodhound and a detailed map.”

“I came this far! And you, sir, are an arrogant oaf, so you can just let me up—and I’ll be on my way!”

“Oh, no, Miss Magee. I don’t think so. I’ll find my cousin and Alaina. But you won’t be going anywhere.”

“What? You can’t possibly stop me—”

“Oh, but I can.”

Risa froze, a renewed sense of alarm and deepening dismay arising in her. “You can’t mean to keep me prisoner—”

“I’m afraid that I can and I do. You are a grave risk to national security, Miss Magee. Besides, just what do you think you’re going to do? Survive the swamps?”

“Do you know, Mr. McKenzie—”

“Captain McKenzie, if you please. Confederate States Navy.”

“Well, my father is a general—United States of America—and he’ll hunt you down and annihilate you on the seas—”