The Rebel's Secret (Ride Hard Book 3)

by Zoe Blake

  “What does it matter? Your husband is dead. You are now a rich widow, and I want my payment.”

  Michaela clutched her stomach, afraid she would retch. It was impossible not to recognize the high-pitched, nasal voice of Parcels Showalter and the flinty, angry tone of her mother. They just killed Papa. Of that she was certain. Swallowing a sob, she forced herself to think.

  “Now that my pinch-fist husband is dead and my son is off foolishly protesting the Northern Aggression, there is no one to stand in the way of my forcing my bitch of a headstrong daughter into marriage,” sneered Beulah.

  “I don’t want to wait. I want the money and the girl before the end of the week. I have a few creditors who need to get paid.”

  It was no secret Parcels was a degenerate gambler. Word of his exploits had reached even the sheltered polite parlors Michaela inhabited.

  “Yes, yes,” responded Beulah impatiently. “But remember the plan. You’re only marrying my daughter so we can get the money her father set aside for her future husband. It’s me you really want.” The cloying desperation in her voice was pathetic.

  There was a tellingly long hesitation before Parcels finally answered. “Of course, Beulah. You’re the only woman I want.”

  “Prove it.”

  Rustling of clothing and inaudible words punctuated by grunts and groans followed.

  What kind of soulless woman made love to the man who just killed her husband? Who was still covered in her husband’s blood?

  Michaela thought of her papa lying dead in the morning room. Of Brandon miles away. There was no other family. No one to turn to for help. She had never felt more alone in her life. Her knees started to buckle as her body gave in to the crushing weight of grief and despair. No! She couldn’t let this happen. Her mother would not get away with this. She would see that she paid. First, she needed to get away. With her papa dead and Brandon gone, there was no one to protect her from her mother and Parcels’ schemes. She needed to get to Brandon. He would know what to do.

  Carefully backing away, Michaela crept on silent feet back into her room. Dressing quickly, she donned her brother’s old pair of trousers and her riding boots. Sneaking into her brother’s room, she searched the back of his wardrobe till she found a worn, chestnut brown riding jacket from his childhood days. Sliding her arms in, she hoisted it onto her shoulders. It was still big, dropping just below her hips, but it would serve to hide her feminine frame. Rummaging further, she found a wide-brimmed, black felt hat. Sweeping her long, curly locks into a quick chignon, she stuffed the locks into the hat and pulled the brim low over her brow. Kneeling before the chest at the foot of his bed, she pushed aside his linen shirts and waistcoats till she found the metal box at the bottom. Cringing at the loud squeak the metal lid made when she opened it, she hastily grabbed any bills nestled inside. She also tucked his Colt into her belted waistband. She would make her way to the train station on foot. There were trains leaving for Savannah practically every hour. From there, she would hire a horse and ride to Fort Pulaski. It was a bit extreme dressing in men’s attire, but she couldn’t afford to escape as Michaela Armistead. Her mother and Parcels would probably come after her the moment they realized she was gone. They would never suspect she had escaped dressed as a boy.

  Hugging the wall, she made her way down the servants’ stairwell, taking only a moment to grab a few biscuits and a slab of smoked ham before she slid out the back door.

  Just then, there was a loud clap of thunder. The darkening skies obliterated any trace of the dawn light as an icy cold rain began to fall.

  CHAPTER 3

  FORT MCINTOSH, TEXAS, PRESENT.

  H aving spent his entire adult life in the military, Major Brice thought he had heard just about every cuss word under the sun.

  He was wrong.

  The little, feral spitfire kept up an impressive colorful commentary the entire trek back to the fort. Even tossing her over the back of his horse didn’t seem to ebb the tide of insults to him, his possible progeny, his mother, and his apparently non-existent father. Brice was even fairly certain there was a slight or two aimed at his horse and his manhood tucked in there somewhere.

  His men knew better than to question or stare at the strange sight of their commanding officer with what looked like a young confederate soldier slung over his horse as he passed through the rough picketed entrance of the fort. Making his way straight to Officer’s Row, he stopped before an isolated cabin at the end of the lane. Throwing his leg over the horse’s hindquarters, he dismounted, grabbing the squirming baggage before she had a chance to hop down and make a break for it.

  “Get your filthy hands off me, you low-down, blue-bellied Yank!” she screeched, hammering his back with her small fists as she hammered his ears with insults.

  “If you don’t quiet down, I’ll really give you something to squawk about,” he warned.

  Michaela answered by kicking him in the upper thigh, a little too close for comfort in Brice’s estimation.

  “Have it your way.”

  Brice effortlessly carried her to the back lean-to behind the cabin where he stabled his horse. Directly in front was a large, rough-hewn wooden water trough. Without ceremony, Brice dumped Michaela straight in.

  Hitting the surprisingly cold water momentarily stunned her… but only momentarily.

  Her tiny body easily fit the wide proportions of the trough. The dark water swallowing her whole till her back hit the bottom. Then her body rushed back to the surface with a whoosh. Coughing and sputtering, her fingers scrambled for purchase along the edge as she tried to hoist herself upright, only getting so far as to hook her legs over the opposite sides of the trough.

  Only then was she able to push the wet strands of hair out of her eyes to glare at the arrogant man who was the cause of all her current misery.

  “How dare you?” she stammered, her lips already twitching with cold.

  “Had to do something to cool your anger.” Brice laughed. Towering over her, hands on his hips, he looked every inch like an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.

  Michaela bit back a retort. Lowering her chin, hiding the reflection of her true emotion in her eyes, she coyly asked, “Aren’t you going to help a lady out?” as she raised one small hand in his direction.

  Raising a sardonic eyebrow at the word lady, Brice placed a booted foot against the edge of the trough and leaned over, preparing to hoist her out of the cold water. Instead of placing her hand in his offered one, Michaela reached up and grasped his upper arm, hating the fact she instinctively noticed the hard, sinewed muscle beneath his wool, uniformed coat. Pulling hard, she threw him off balance. Brice toppled into the water trough on top of her, soaking the front of his uniform coat and trousers. Only his knee landing near her hip saved him from crushing her with the full force of his weight.

  “Who’s laughing now, Yank?” she challenged.

  Staring down into her large, almond shaped eyes, their curious color bright with spirited defiance, Brice’s eyes narrowed. She could fight all she wanted, but there was something about her that called out to his primal instincts… a need to tame and protect. Decades of military training honing those instincts could not be wrong. Brice felt a shock of lust shoot straight to his cock. His whole body hummed with awareness.

  Bridle. Discipline. Defend.

  Michaela stilled, sensing the charge in the air. She followed his intense gaze from her eyes to her mouth. You didn’t spend four years following your brother around a cavalry camp without learning to recognize that look on a man. She began to shift her hips, squirming under his weight.

  “Let me up,” she demanded.

  “No.”

  Angry purple eyes clashed with determined blue.

  It was ridiculous, of course. They were lying prone in a water trough in the middle of the night. Someone would have to relent.

  “Say please,” he darkly intoned.

  “What?”

  “Ask me sweetly.”

  “Neve
r.” The word was uttered through teeth clenched as much in anger as cold.

  Despite being in the desert, Texas could become unrelentingly frigid at night. He needed to get her out of this water and wet clothes and in front of fire, but he also knew this clash of wills was important. Any sign of weakness would be pounced on by this little rebel. The chilled atmosphere had done nothing to deter his growing arousal. He decided to use it as a tactical advantage. All was fair in war.

  Rising up on his knees, Brice shifted his hips down, then up, pressing his hardened shaft against the soft juncture of her thighs. Michaela’s eye’s widened at the contact.

  “Ask. Me. Sweetly,” he ground out. “Or I won’t ask.” His dark intent clear.

  “Please, kind sir. Kindly let me out of this water trough. If you would be so kind. Sir.” The words were uttered in an exaggerated, sugary, Southern belle drawl.

  Brice rose in one fluid motion, sending water cascading over the side. Without giving her a choice, he swept Michaela into his arms. Her body gave an involuntary shudder as the cool night air hit her soaked, thread-bare clothes. Despite being in the trough with her, his body still radiated some heat. Instinctively, she leaned in closer, too worn out from the exertion to hate herself for liking the feeling of warmth and safety his arms provided.

  She felt so tiny and frail in his arms. Hard to believe this was the same girl who’d started a full-out brawl in the saloon less than an hour ago. He walked across the darkened yard to the back door of his cabin, knowing one of the enlisted men would take care of unsaddling and brushing down his horse.

  Kicking the clapboard door open, he carried her across the threshold and slammed it shut with his back.

  As the commanding officer, he was fortunate enough to occupy one of the few permanent housing structures within the garrison, although, by most standards, the living was rough. It was a simple picket cottage. A rectangular structure with the posts placed perpendicular to the ground as opposed to the more solid, parallel fashion of the settlers. The window frames and the doors themselves were fashioned out of old packing crates. The whole structure was rather crudely held together with a mixture of wood chips, mud and lime. It did, however, boast a respectable stone fireplace. He was also fortunate enough to inherit much of the furniture from the previous commander who had been married to a persnickety woman who refused to forsake her Eastern life-style despite the wilds of the West. As such, his small, two room cabin boasted a plush, upholstered chair, a polished mahogany dining table, a collection of pewter and china plates he never touched and something called a sideboard. His favorite luxury was the four poster bed with the feather-tick mattress they had left behind. After a career living in tents and sleeping on pallets, it was a welcomed indulgence.

  The cabin glowed with warmth and welcome. He employed the wife of one of the enlisted men as his housekeeper. She washed his laundry and kept the small cabin clean. Each night before leaving, she always stoked the fire to a cheery brightness. He could always count on a hearty meal with fresh bread to be waiting for him as well. Tonight, the scent of woodsmoke mixed with the sweet, earthy goodness of a sage, potato and pork stew.

  Brice’s wide strides brought him before the stone fireplace. Dropping his arm from under her knees, Michaela’s body swung down, pressing close to his own. Still, he did not release her, keeping her pressed close to his chest.

  Michaela inhaled deeply. He smelled of damp wool and sandalwood. He was so impossibly tall. Easily a hand taller than her brother had been. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. His size both intimidated and excited her. All that power and strength… contained… leashed. Reining in her own wanton thoughts, she pressed her hands against the great expanse of his chest before shoving free.

  They stood an arm’s-length apart. The only sound in the cabin was the crackle of the burning logs and the deep, harsh intake of their own breaths. She watched as his large hands flexed open, only to tighten into fists, as if he were controlling the urge to pull her back into his arms.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  The harsh command broke the silence.

  Michaela’s mouth fell open in shock. Certainly she had heard him wrong!

  Brice’s sharp gaze focused on those plump pink lips as they opened wide, as if waiting for the head of his cock to press past them to the wet promise of her mouth. Her wet hair clung to the curve of her jaw, emphasizing the heart-shape angles of her beautiful face and the cute, stubborn tilt of her chin. How could this stunning creature pass for a young soldier in the Confederate army even for a moment? Were they blind?

  Reaching up, his hands started tearing at the large brass buttons of his uniform coat. The clinging, wet wool feeling oppressively hot against his skin. Shrugging it off his shoulders, he tossed it aside. His thin, linen shirt quickly following suit.

  Michaela stared at the exposed wall of muscle. Good Lord the man was powerfully built. Impossibly wide shoulders. Strong, defined arms. A barrel chest covered in hard flesh and swirls of dark hair. A flat stomach. The water had caused his trousers to sag from the weight despite his heavy leather belt, pulling them low over his hips, exposing his lower abdomen and just a hint of… oh Lord! Michaela closed her eyes tight.

  “I… I…” she stammered.

  “You can’t stay in those wet clothes,” Brice ordered gruffly, desire lowering his voice.

  “I’m fine. They’ll dry.”

  “Yes, they will. Once they’re off your body.” He took one menacing step forward. The ominous ring of his booted footfall echoing in the small space.

  Her eyes darted about the room looking for a weapon as her right foot slid backwards, preparing to flee.

  An almost unholy light sparked in his dark blue eyes as he read her intent. This was wrong. He knew it. It certainly wasn’t behavior befitting an officer in the U.S. Cavalry. While there were mostly men within the confines of the fort, there wasn’t a complete shortage of wives and daughters. He should turn around and go find a woman to assist her… but he knew he wasn’t going to. He had plenty of justification. She was technically a prisoner. A handful. Dangerous. He couldn’t trust her alone. Deep down, he knew none of those was the true reason why he stood before her, ready to do whatever it took to bring her to heel.

  She challenged him. His little vulnerable rebel. For all her defiance and fire, he could see the exhaustion behind her eyes. Could feel the evidence of more than one missed meal as he’d held her. Not to mention the danger she’d put herself in earlier at the saloon. If those men had learned she was a woman, he didn’t like to think what could have been the result. He wasn’t sure what had led to her wandering the West alone and unprotected, but he was damn sure it ended with him tonight.

  “Not one more step,” he warned soft and low.

  Michaela looked behind her. The front door to the cabin was too far away. She would never make it. It would be foolish to try. Besides, he was the commanding officer of the fort she was trapped in. How far did she reasonably think she would get with no horse? Until her horse was delivered as had been ordered, she was truly his prisoner. His to do with as he pleased.

  Brice saw her narrow shoulders slump and knew he had won. Walking over to the corner, he rummaged through a basket of fresh laundry till he found one of his linen shirts. It would have to do. Turning, he approached her slim form.

  Michaela kept her eyes downcast. Fighting back tears, she whispered, “Please don’t.”

  Her cropped hair had started to dry in a riot of shiny, honey brown waves which curled and wisped around her cheeks and slender neck, hiding her face. Brice placed a crooked finger under her chin, raising her face to his steady gaze. Her beautiful, indigo eyes were luminous in the firelight.

  “Obey me and no harm will come to you, my little rebel. Do you understand?”

  Michaela stared back with wariness and distrust. She searched the hard planes of his face. The lowered brow. Sharp cheekbones. A defined nose with just a hint of bump at the bridge from a
previous break. Dark, blue eyes that revealed nothing. He was handsome to be sure. Arrogantly so. But could he be trusted? Of course not! He was a Yankee! For now, she had no choice but to make him believe she had acquiesced till she could plan her escape.

  Slowly nodding, she reached up with stiff fingers and tried to unclasp the cold, brass buttons of her old Confederate coat. The fabric was so damp and stiff and her fingers still so numb, to her chagrin, she couldn’t manage it.

  A large, warm hand engulfed her own. “Allow me.”

  Michaela stood there awkwardly as he easily unbuttoned her coat. Her breathing shallow. He was so close she wasn’t sure if the wave of heat she felt was from the fire or his own body. Then he stepped even closer to ease the coat off her shoulders. She choked in a shocked breath as her cold, hardened nipples brushed his naked chest. The impact of the contact was easily felt through her flimsy, damp linen shirt. Maybe he hadn’t noticed?

  Brice trapped the gray, wool material in fisted bunches at her elbows as he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Goddammit. He was barely acting the officer, was being a gentleman by only a very generous definition of the term, but if she kept tempting him with those eyes, those lips and now the brush of her breasts… he would forget both and act all man.

  Pulling the coat free and tossing it aside, he would not deny himself a look at her. The damp linen shirt left nothing to the imagination. He could see the shadowed outline of each generous curve, tipped by a dusky pink bud.

  Michaela covered herself with a start. “A gentleman would turn around!”

  “A gentleman would,” Brice responded with an unrepentant smile. “But then a gentleman would probably risk a knife or worse turning his back on the likes of you.”

  With a huff, Michaela snatched the clean linen shirt from the small table by the fire where he had placed it. Shaking its folds open, she tossed it over her head, while pulling her arms out of the sleeves of the dirty one, letting it fall past her hips. You didn’t spend four years following your brother around a cavalry camp without learning a few tricks. Although she did chastise herself for getting careless about binding her breasts. After being on the trail for several weeks and no longer being surrounded by men night and day, she had decided to forego the time-consuming ritual. Apparently, she had gotten too careless with her disguise. She would have to be more vigilant in the future.