The Rebel's Secret (Ride Hard Book 3)

by Zoe Blake

  While his controlling manner and rough treatment would never be mistaken for the manners of a Southern gentleman, there was no doubt Major Brice embodied the warmly-held ideas of chivalry. Rescuing her from the saloon fight, seeing that she was fed and clothed properly, saving her from herself yesterday, all bespoke of a man bent on care and protection.

  Care?

  Did he care for her? Perhaps a better question was, did she care for him?

  He had taken a husband’s rights from her body, but given all that she had seen of the actions of men and the women camp followers during the war, that was no indication of a tender heart. Goodness, the things the war had changed both little and big. That she would be so cavalier about losing the one thing that before the war gave her worth! Yet, it was hard to recriminate or regret such an intense experience. Never in all her musings had she imagined you could achieve such a connection with another human being. Certainly her parents’ marriage had never given any indication that such feelings of longing and pleasure could be achieved!

  Brice watched her closely. Awaking this morning to her soft and warm form lying next to him in bed had been one of the greatest pleasures of his life. Feeling her underneath him, thrusting inside her tight body, hearing her moan as her legs wrapped about his waist… there was no denying that was also an amazing experience. But somehow, the simple domesticity of having her head on his shoulders, of the sound of her quiet breath as she slept, the feel of her leg as it brushed his under the covers, that eclipsed the activities of the night before. Never in his life had he lain all night with a woman. Usually a coupling was a quick affair. Once accomplished, he would take his leave. Now, he found himself wanting—no needing—to go to bed each night with her in his arms, and awake each morning with her nestled close to his side. This was going far beyond his hunger to control her wayward actions for her own safety. Beyond his military training to keep order. He was honest enough with himself to recognize this was not only desire, and far beyond simply caring for the girl.

  “How much did you overhear?” he asked gently, still toying with the fabric of the quilt as if any moment he would take it into his fist and cast it away, exposing her to his gaze.

  “Enough to know you’re helping me go after Parcels,” she said somewhat petulantly. Michaela may have come to terms with needing his help in seeking her revenge, but he did not need to know it.

  “No,” he responded firmly.

  “No?” countered Michaela confused. Then what had she overheard?

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Brice captured her chin, stroking her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, his tone when he spoke rang with confident authority. “I am going after Parcels. You are to have no part in it. I mean it, Michaela. I will have no more of you putting yourself in danger. This is a matter for the law.”

  She watched as his dark blue eyes searched her face for acceptance and obedience.

  “You will see that he pays? For my father’s murder?”

  Those same eyes sparked with anger. “I will see that he pays for harming you. That he shall pay for the damage he has done to your family will just be the honey on the deed.”

  Clearing his throat as he rose, Brice took a few steps away from the bed, worried he may have revealed too much of his intentions too soon. Knowing his little feral minx was still skittish and prone to flee, he had no desire to have to chase her down… again.

  Pointing to a plain brown paper-wrapped package, he said gruffly. “This is for you. The sutler’s store on base was somewhat limited, but it should contain all that you need for now until I can take you shopping in a proper city. I am needed on the parade grounds. Do I need to tell you the punishment if you should try to leave the fort again?”

  Michaela vigorously shook her head no, her cheeks burning from the memory of his last punishment.

  Brice gave a nod of approval, then left.

  She waited till she could hear the crunch of gravel under his boot outside before venturing from the bed with the quilt wrapped securely about her.

  Carefully pulling on the twine, she opened the package. It contained a cotton blouse with leg-o-mutton sleeves in a pretty, cornflower blue. There was also a fawn-colored, brushed twill skirt. Shaking it out and holding the item to her waist to check the length, Michaela gave a cry of delight when the skirt fell several inches short of her ankles. Examining it more closely, she realized Brice had purchased a beautiful, split riding skirt for her. Tears spiked her lashes as she contemplated the thoughtful gesture. Given her recent escape, she would not have blamed him if the only clothing he had provided for her to wear trussed her up in a tight, whalebone corset with long, hampering skirts that required a hoop and bustle. It would had been almost as effective as wrist cuffs in curtailing her movements.

  The thoughtfulness of the gift, and the trust it implied, touched her deeply. She had an answer to her question. Yes, she was definitely starting to care for the stubborn, authoritative Yankee. Lord help her poor Southern belle heart!

  THE NEXT WEEK saw a truce in Major Brice’s cabin.

  He rose with each dawn before the morning reveille to begin his work. As post commander, his days were filled with constant activity; inspecting sentry mounts, daily drills, touring post facilities, meeting with the medical officer to discuss sanitary conditions and the recent wounded or sick, overseeing the junior officers… the list went on. He commanded respect wherever he went. Michaela could see it in the eyes of the enlisted men. Once she overheard a group of them speaking of ‘the Major.’ They liked the fact he didn’t spend his days cooped up in his office merely issuing orders. The major could be found in shirtsleeves right next to the enlisted men helping to hoist the wooden frame of a new building for the fort, running a target drill, or seeing to the care and feeding of his own horse. At night, he sat by the fire to complete the piles of paperwork required of his position. Muster calls, ration rosters, inventories, supply requisitions, letters to superior offices and the war department.

  One evening, he returned to his cabin earlier than usual to find Michaela reading his copy of Patten’s Army Manual Containing Instructions for Officers in the Preparation of Rolls, Returns and Reports. She claimed it was only out of desperation for reading material to relieve her boredom, but when the several penny novels he had purchased for her the next day went unread, he began to have his suspicions. They were affirmed when the next evening as he sat to tackle his pile of paperwork, he realized she had organized the stack of papers into neat little piles. Without saying a word, she sat beside him and began to write out a roster for the upcoming week which mimicked the previous one.

  Handing him her finished roster for inspection, she stuck her chin out at his amused expression. “What?” she asked defensively.

  “I’m touched at your offer of assistance. I do believe you are starting to warm to me, Michaela Armistead,” he teased with a seductive twist of his full lips.

  “Don’t be absurd. I am merely taking pity on the poor person who has to read the pitiful scrawl you call penmanship,” she fired back. “Yankee,” she added, just for full measure.

  Brice stroked the smooth arch of her cheek. “I am grateful nonetheless, my little rebel.”

  Michaela felt a fluttering in her stomach at both his touch and the tenderness it implied. Despite insisting she lay next to him each night, he had not touched her; not since the evening he’d taken her maidenhead after her punishment. Every time he brushed past her in the small confines of the cabin, or handed something to her, or even when she caught him staring at her, she expected him to renew his attentions. But he did not. Much to her own consternation, it was actually bothering her that he did not wish to well… accost… her in any way.

  He was acting like a perfect gentleman… and it was frustrating her to no end!

  BRICE COULD SENSE her presence the moment she neared the paddock. Like a beast sensing his mate near. It had been six days. Six long, frustrating, ball-aching days. He did not regret claiming her as h
is own, would never regret it. He was just trying to give her a little time and space. There was no doubt in his mind the moment that booze-blind chaplain finally stumbled back into the fort after a jaunt to Cheyenne, he was going to get hitched. He was certain she was the woman for him. Problem was, he was just as certain she did not believe the same about him. The war had changed a lot about her future prospects, but he was sure they still didn’t include marrying a Yankee in her mind.

  Well, he planned on changing her mind, by any means necessary. He was not below seduction, or hell, even romance. First, he wanted her to see just a small taste of normalcy. To get to know the rhythm of fort life. To get to know him—as just him—not as a protector, or lover or the blue belly who forced her to give up her dreams of revenge. Just him.

  Unfortunately, the effort to be a gentleman was damn near killing him.

  Her scent. The way the sunlight made her chin-length hair appear more golden than tawny. How her eyes turned different shades of purple with her moods. The feel of her skin when they accidentally brushed hands. Evening was the most torturous. He found himself leaving his duties behind earlier and earlier just to be with her. He actually enjoyed doing the mess of paperwork required of him as long as she sat by his side. Watching her head bent over a task. How the tip of her tongue would dart out to lick her pink lips anytime she needed to check Patten’s book over a proper procedure or form to use. His only respite came when she was asleep. He would pull her more fully into his arms and just hold her close, taking comfort from her soft warmth. Of course, that was cold comfort for his cock which seemed to be perpetually at attention whenever she was near… as it was now.

  He was training some new recruits on horsemanship. Most men entered into the cavalry having never actually ridden a horse. It wasn’t so odd. The stabling of horses was an expensive business, and many entered the service because they had no money or prospects. So it was his and his fellow officers’ duty to train them on how to care for, ride and break in a horse.

  Watching as yet another recruit was dusted by a particularly randy Pinto, Brice called out. “That’s all right. No shame in a dirtied shirt, boy. What you going to do now?”

  The new recruit dusted off his uniform, and with a determined slant to his mouth, said, “I’m gettin back on, sir!”

  “That’s the spirit. Careful now. This one is a cinch binder for sure!” replied Brice. At the recruit’s questioning look, he elaborated, “A horse who favors rearing up to throw its rider, but usually winds up falling backwards itself.”

  After watching several more recruits get thrown and sensing their growing weariness, Brice changed tactics. “Time to learn how to break in a new horse.”

  Brice slowly approached a new Quarter Horse which had just arrived at the fort from one of the local settlements. Tall and at least fifteen hands, with smooth muscles and a shiny tawny coat with a jet black mane, she was a beautiful horse. With the proper training, she would make a fine sprinter.

  Brice removed his uniform coat, leaving him in only his white linen shirt. Rolling up the sleeves as he spoke, he addressed the new recruits. “Horses can be nervous creatures, spooking easily. The trick to breaking them in is teaching them to both trust you and respect that you are the one in control. You need a soft voice and a firm hand.”

  Michaela’s ears pricked at his words. She had been strolling back to the cabin after purchasing a few items for them both at the sutler’s store when she was drawn to the sound of his voice. Watching him from the rail of the paddock, she could not help but think how fine he looked in his uniform. Despite the fact it was Yankee blue. So tall and authoritative. She became even more interested in what he was doing when he took off his coat. His broad chest and strong shoulders and arms on display, regardless of the sheer linen covering. The first few buttons were undone, so she could just make out a few swirls of dark chest hair. The thought of sinking her fingers into the silky curls and pulling hard as he was pressed between her thighs came unbidden into her wayward mind. So lost in her scandalous thoughts, she thought she had heard him wrong at first.

  “Always approach a horse from the left. They can better see you that way. Stroke their muzzle. Give them long, soothing stokes along their back,” he instructed in low, dark tones as he scratched behind the horse’s ear. “Do you see how she responds to my hand? The sound of my voice? She’ll even begin to crave my touch. Watch as I try to step away. You see how she follows, nuzzling me with her snout… wanting more of my caresses?”

  Michaela’s cheeks started to burn as she glanced about, certain the other people watching knew he was talking about her, not the horse.

  “Don’t forget to always reward good behavior,” continued Brice as he fed the horse a small slice of apple. “I prefer giving them something sweet.”

  Michaela felt dizzy. Thinking of the apple doughnuts he had brought back to the cabin the night before as a thank you for the help she had been giving him with his paperwork, her blood began to boil as her fist clenched around the basket handle she held. She continued to watch in horror as Brice retrieved a leather halter.

  “Never let the horse forget you are in charge. When putting on the halter, be sure they see it first. Stroke the leather down their muzzle. Let her catch the scent of the leather. But always be firm. Leave no doubt the horse will be feeling the leather against their hide.”

  Michaela made a strangled gasping sound which quickly drew his gaze across the paddock. Even without her scorching look, he would have known something was wrong. The rigid set of her shoulders. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The flush on her cheek. Everything about his little rebel screamed anger.

  Dropping her basket in the dirt, Michaela took off at a run towards his cabin.

  “Dammit! Corporal, take over for me,” barked Brice as he vaulted over the wooden paddock fence and charged after her.

  The truce was broken. A battle loomed.

  CHAPTER 9

  M ichaela skirted around the cabin and raced to the makeshift stable in the yard behind. Entering the dark interior, she pulled the two old plank doors shut, lowering the iron latch. The stable felt cool compared to the arid heat of outside. The air was heavy with the scent of sweet hay and sawdust. One of the horses gave a snort as they both shifted. Despite there being two stalls, the horses shared the larger one. Michaela could see Brice’s Morgan nuzzling her Pinto. With its height, large hindquarters and strong shoulders, the stallion dominated over her smaller mare. The thought only increased her ire.

  Rushing over to the tack shelf, she grabbed a saddle and a blanket and headed towards her horse.

  The old wooden doors rattled loudly on their rusted hinges.

  “Goddammit, Michaela! Unlatch this door immediately!” thundered Brice.

  “Go to hell!”

  Quickly tossing the saddle blanket over her horse’s back, she hefted the saddle on next. If she were fast enough, by the time he got into the stable, she would already be astride the horse. She would race by him. Refusing to think how she would actually get out of the fort if he gave a cry of alarm, Michaela focused on cinching the billet strap.

  A deafening pounding resounded in the tiny, dark space.

  Brice’s boot connected with the door a third time. The wood splintered away from the heavy iron latch. It fell to the dirt packed floor with a loud clang. The doors sprang open, flooding the shady interior with a shaft of bright sunlight.

  He was only a shadowed outline against the sunshine but no less terrifying. If anything, it emphasized the massive spread of his shoulders and his towering height. His shadow stretched across the floor to cover Michaela. Without taking his stormy eyes off her, Brice reached behind him to slam the broken doors shut. Still without speaking, he reached for a large pitchfork. Michaela inhaled, uncertain of his plan. Brice placed the pitchfork through the now broken handle brackets and across both doors… locking them.

  The silence was deafening.

  After the space of a few heart beats, Michaela too
k a tentative step backward toward her horse.

  Brice closed both hands into fists. “Take one more step. I dare you.”

  The air between them was charged with restless energy.

  In his haste to chase after her, he had not put his coat back on. His thin linen shirt hung limp and open, exposing even more of his solid chest which heaved with each deep breath. Even in the fractured light, she could see the determined set of his jaw. The thick press of his large cock against the soft wool of his trousers.

  God help her. She wanted his anger. Wanted this intensity. The fight. She craved it. After so many years feeling almost dead inside after the death of her father and brother… it made her feel alive again. She could feel her blood pulse through each limb. Everything about her buzzed with life and light. And it was all because of him.

  Matching the sharpness of his gaze with her own, Michaela raised an eyebrow at his commanding tone. Challenging him.

  She took another deliberate step backward.

  He pounced.

  Michaela had barely turned to run when she was snatched against his hard body by his unrelenting grip on her upper arm.

  “Apparently you haven’t learned not to run from me yet, little girl,” he growled, soft and low in her ear.

  Spinning her around till her back hit the wooden divider between the stalls, Brice placed both hands over her head, caging her in with his body. His anger potent.

  “You can’t tame me like you tame your horse!” She seethed with defiance.

  Brice stared down at her as if she had gone mad. Then realization dawned on him.

  Pressing his lower hips against her own, he ground his shaft into her softness. Michaela stiffened then groaned at the shamefully intimate contact.

  “You are already tamed, my feral minx. Tamed by the stroke of my leather belt and the thrust of my cock.”

  His mouth swooped down to capture her own. It was a dominating kiss, showing no quarter as his tongue plundered her mouth.