Rebellion

morning. Oh, women weren't supposed to know or bother themselves with plans of war and rebellions, but they knew. France would move on England, and when she did, Charles hoped to sway the French king to his cause.

The previous winter, Louis had planned to invade England with Charles in attendance as his father's representative. If the fleet had not been wrecked in a storm and the invasion abandoned… Well, that was another matter. It was clear that Louis had supported Charles because he wanted a monarch on the English throne who would be dependent on France. Just as it was clear Charles would use France or any means to gain his rightful place. But the invasion had been abandoned, and the French king was now biding his time. Just because a body had to busy herself with sewing and cleaning didn't mean she had no head for politics. So Brigham would go to London and beat the drum for the young Prince. It had become more important than ever to rally the Jacobites for the Stuarts, English and Scottish. The time for rebellion was ripe. Charles was not his father, and would not be content, as James had been, to while away his youth in foreign courts.

When the time came, Brigham would fight. But come back to the Highlands? Come back to her? No, she couldn't see it. A man didn't leave his home and country for a mistress. Desire her he might, but she already knew a man's desire was easily fanned, and easily cooled.

For her it was love. Her first. Her only. Without ever having taken her innocence, he had ruined her. There would never be another man for her. The only one she wanted was preparing even now to ride out of her life.

If he stayed, what difference would it make? she asked herself. There would always be too much between them. Had he loved her… No, even that would have changed nothing. Her beloved books had shown her time and time again that love did not necessarily conquer all. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere. Serena MacGregor was no weak-moraled Guinevere, nor was she a starry-eyed Juliet. She was a Scot, hot-blooded perhaps, but tough-minded. She knew the difference between fantasy and fact. There was one fact that could not be ignored, now or ever.

Brigham would always be tied to England, and she to Scotland.

So it was best that he was going. She wished him well. She wished him to the devil.

"Serena?"

She whipped her head around to see Brigham racing up behind her. It was then she realized there were tears in her eyes. The shame of them, the need to keep them hers alone, had her wheeling back to drive her mount yet faster. Cursing the cumbersome sidesaddle, she made for the lake in a mad dash she hoped would leave Brigham behind. She planned to pass the water and ride up into the hills, into the rougher land where he would never be able to track her. Then she was swearing at him as he thundered to her side and snatched the reins from her hands.

"Hold up, woman. What devil's in you?"

"Leave me be." She kicked her horse, nearly unseating Brigham as he struggled to hold both mounts. "Oh, damn you to hell. I hate you."

"Well you may after I take a whip to you," he said grimly. "Are you trying to kill both of us?"

"Just you." She sniffled, and despised herself for it

"Why are you crying?" He drew her mount in closer to his as he studied her face. "Has someone hurt you?"

"No." Her hysterical laugh shocked her enough to make her swallow another. "No," she repeated. "I'm not crying. It's the wind in my eyes. Go away. I rode here to be alone."

"Then you'll have to be disappointed." She was crying, however much she denied it. He wanted to gather her close and comfort her, but he knew her well enough by now to know her response would be to sink her teeth into his hand. Instead, realizing it might be just as foolish, he tried reason. "I leave at first light tomorrow, Serena. There are things I wish to say to you first."

"Say them, then." She began searching her pockets for a handkerchief. "And go away to London, or to hell for all I care." After casting his eyes to the heavens, Brigham offered her his handkerchief. "I would prefer dismounting." She snatched the cloth to dry the hated tears. "Do what you want. It doesn't matter to me." She blew her nose heartily. He did, taking care to keep her reins in his hand. After he had secured the horses, he reached up to help her down. After a last defiant sniff, she stuffed the handkerchief into her pocket. "I don't want your help."

"You'll have more than that before I'm done with you." So saying, he plucked her with more speed than style from the saddle. He'd finished with reason. "Sit."

"I will not."

"Sit," he repeated, in a tone dangerous enough to have her chin jerking up. "Or, before God, you will wish you had."

"Very well." Because his eyes warned her it was no idle threat, she chose a rock, deliberately taking her time, smoothing her skirts, folding her hands primly in her lap. Perversely, now that he was growling she was determined to be proper. "You wished to converse with me, my lord?"

"I wish to throttle you, my lady, but I trust I have enough control left to resist." She gave a mock shudder. "How terrifying. May I say, Lord Ashburn, that your visit to my home has broadened my perception of English manners."

"I've had enough of that." He moved so quickly she had only time to stare. Grasping the front of her riding jacket, he dragged her to her feet. "I am English, and not ashamed of it. The Langstons are an old and respected family." The way he held her, she was forced to stand on tiptoe, eye-to-eye with him. And his eyes were dark as onyx, with a heated fury in them only a few had seen and lived. "There is nothing in my lineage to make me blush, and much to make me proud to bear the name. I've had my fill of your slurs and insults, do you understand?"

"Aye." She thought she had understood what it was to be truly frightened. Until this moment, she hadn't known at all. Still, frightened didn't mean cowed. "It's not your family I mean to insult, my lord."

"Only me, then? Or perhaps the whole of England? Damn it, Rena, I know what your clan has suffered. I know that even now your name is so proscribed that many of you are forced to take others. It's a cruelty that's already gone on too long. But it wasn't I who brought the persecution, nor was it all of England. Insult me if you will, scratch or bite, but I'm damned if I'll take either for something that wasn't of my doing."

"Please," she said very quietly. "You're hurting me."

He let her go and curled his hands into fists at his sides. It was rare, very rare, for him to come that close to losing control of both thoughts and actions. As a result, his voice was ice.

"My apologies."

"No." She reached out tentatively, to touch his arm. "I apologize. You're right, it is wrong of me to lash out at you for many things that were done before either of us were born." She was no longer afraid, she realized, but shamed, deeply shamed. She would have done more than shout if anyone had slashed so at her family. "It's wrong to blame you because English dragoons raped my mother. Or because they put my father in prison for over a year so that even that dishonor went unavenged. And it's wrong," she continued after a long, cleansing breath, "to want to blame you because I'm afraid not to."

"Why, Rena? Why are you afraid?"

She started to shake her head and turn away, but he took her arms to hold her still. His grip wasn't fierce this time, but it was just as unbreakable.

"I hope you will forgive me, my lord. And now I would prefer to be alone."

"I shall have your answer, Serena." His voice was nearly calm again, but there was a thread of hot steel through it. "Why are you afraid?"

Raising her head, she sent him a damp, desperate look. "Because if I don't blame you I might forget who you are, what you are."

"Does it have to matter?" he demanded, shaking her a little.

"Aye." She discovered she was frightened again, but in a wholly different way. Something in his eyes told her that no matter what she said, no matter what she did, her fate was already sealed. "Aye, it has to. For both of us."

"Does it matter?" He dragged her against him. "Does it matter when we're like this?" Before she could answer, he closed his mouth over hers.

She didn't fight him. The moment his lips covered hers she knew she was through fighting him, and herself. If he was to be her first, her only, she needed to take whatever could be given. Now his mouth was hot and desperate on hers, his body taut as wire and straining against hers. Part was still temper, yes, she knew it. But there was more. It was the more she was ready to answer. If she had ever had a choice, she made it now, and caution flew to the winds.

"Does it matter?" he said again as he rained kisses over her face.

"No, no, it doesn't matter now, not today." She threw her arms around him and clung. "Oh, Brig, I don't want you to go. I don't want you to leave me."

With his face buried in her hair, he memorized her scent. "I'll come back. Three weeks, four at the most, I'll come back." When he received no response, he drew her away. Her eyes were dry now but solemn. "I will be back, Serena. Can't you trust even that?"

"I trust you more than I thought I would ever trust any man." She smiled a little and lifted a hand to his face. Oh, God, if this was love, why should it hurt so? Why couldn't it bring her the joy she saw in Maggie's eyes? "No, I don't trust you'll come back to me. But we'll not speak of that." She moved her hand to cover his lips when he would have spoken. "We'll not think of it. Only of today."

"Then we'll talk of other things."

"No." She kissed both of his hands, then stepped back. "We won't talk at all." Slowly she began to unfasten the buttons of her riding habit.

"What are you doing?"

He reached out to stop her, but she slipped the snug jacket from her shoulders, revealing a simple chemise and small, high breasts.

"Taking what both of us want."

"Rena." He managed her name, though the pulse beating at his throat made the word low and rough. "Not like this. This isn't right for you."

"How could it be more right?" But her fingers trembled slightly as she unhooked her skirt. "Here, with you."

"There are things that need to be said," he began.

"I want you," she murmured, halting his words and his thoughts. "I want you to touch me the way you touched me before. I want—I want you to touch me the way you've made me dream of." She stepped closer. "Do you not want me any longer?"

"Not want you?" He closed his eyes and dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. "There is no one and nothing I've ever wanted more than I want you at this moment. God help me, there may never be again."

"Then take me here." She reached for her laces, watching in a kind of dazed wonder as his gaze dipped down. "And give me something of yourself before you leave me." Taking his hand, she pressed her lips to his palm. "Show me what it is to be loved, Brigham."

"Rena—"

"You're leaving tomorrow," she said, suddenly desperate. "Will you leave me with nothing, then?" He let his fingers trail along her cheek. "I would not leave at all if the choice were mine."

"But you will go. I want to belong to you before you do."

Her shoulders were cool to his touch. "Are you certain?"

"Aye." With a smile, she laid his hand on her heart "Feel how fast it beats? Always when I'm close to you."

"You're cold," he said unsteadily, and pulled her closer.

"There's a plaid on the mare." With her eyes closed, she drew in his scent. As he had with her hair, she committed it to memory. "If we spread it in the sun we'll be warm enough."

"I won't hurt you." He lifted her face, and she saw that the intensity was back in his eyes. "I swear it." She trusted him for that, trusted him to be gentle. It was in his eyes as they spread the plaid on the bank of the lake and knelt upon it. It was in his lips as he lowered them to her bare white shoulder. It was in his hands as they clasped hers, communicating care as much as need.

She knew what she was about to do, what she was about to give him—the innocence a woman could give to only one man, and only once in her life. As they knelt face-to-face with the sun warm overhead and the waters cool beside them, she knew she hadn't offered the gift on impulse or in the madness of passion, but almost quietly, with a confidence that it would be accepted with tenderness. And remembered.

She had never looked more beautiful, he thought. Her eyes were brilliant, steady. Her hands didn't tremble as they locked with his, but he thought he could almost feel the nervous beating of her heart through his fingertips. Her cheeks were pale, as smooth and white as porcelain.

He thought of the shepherdess, of how he had wanted to touch it as a child but had been afraid, lest his hands grow clumsy. He brought her hands to his lips. He would not be clumsy with Serena.

He kissed her and filled himself with the flavor alone. Though their time together now would be short, he treated the moment as if it could last for hours. With slow, tortuous nibbles he had her breath quickening. His tongue moistened and traced, then lured hers into a lazy duel that made her heart swell and thunder in her breast. Tentatively at first, she ran her hands along his coat, as if making certain his body was warm and real beneath. Murmuring something against her mouth, he began to shrug out of it. Her own shyness surprised her. She fought it back as she helped him strip it off, and as she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. He found it almost unbearably arousing to have her inexperienced hands undress him. With his eyes closed he traced kisses over her brow, her temples, her jaw, while his body tensed and hardened from the hesitant movements of her fingers. It was torture of the most exquisite kind. He realized that he was moving slowly not only for Serena and her innocence but for himself. Every instant, every heartbeat they shared here would be remembered.

She tugged off his shirt, her gaze skimming down over his bare flesh as delicately as her fingertips did. Slowly, almost afraid her hand might pass through him, she reached out to touch.

They were still kneeling, their bodies swaying closer, their breath mingling as mouth was drawn to mouth. Her mind began to whirl as she stroked her hands over him. His skin was smooth, while the muscles beneath were hard. She felt awe, as well as excitement, wonder, as well as nerves. Who would have thought a man could feel beautiful?

The sun warmed his skin as it poured over the little patch of ground they had chosen. Birds trilled in the wood beyond. On the far side of the lake, deer came quietly to drink.

As he nuzzled her neck, she felt herself go weak. She thought she knew what was to follow, but the pleasure was more than she had ever dreamed it could be.

His hands were very sure as they cupped her breasts, dragging a moan out of her as the rough material shifted and rubbed over her skin. In submission, in acceptance, in demand, her back arched and her head fell back, leaving him free to plunder. She felt his mouth cover her, nipping and sucking through the material. The tingling started deep within her stomach and spread until her body seemed alive with nerves. Then what had gone before vanished from her mind as he peeled the chemise aside and found her flesh. She cried out in surprise and pleasure, her hands reaching for his shoulders and gripping for balance. Yet she felt as though she were falling still.

She shuddered against him, strained against him, confused, delighted, desperate for more. What she had offered, she had offered of her own free will. What she gave now, she gave without thought, without reason. When she tumbled back on the blanket, she was stripped of defenses and open to whatever commands he might give.

He had to fight back the first sharp-edged need to take. It was like a knife turning slowly in his gut. Her arms were wrapped around him, her breasts, small and white, shivering at each touch. He saw that her eyes were clouded, not with fear, no longer with confusion, but with newly awakened passions. If he were to take her now, as his body begged to, she would open for him. But the need in his heart beat as strong as the need in his loins. He would give her more than she had asked, perhaps more than either of them could understand.

"I've dreamed of this, Serena." His voice was low as he bent his head for the next kiss. "I've dreamed of undressing you like this." He slipped the chemise from her. Now only the breeze and Brigham caressed her. "Of touching what no man has touched." He skimmed a fingertip up her thigh and watched her mouth tremble open in speechless pleasure.

"Brigham. I want you."

"And you shall have me, my love." He circled the rigid point of her breast with his tongue, then drew it slowly, almost painfully, into his mouth. "Before you do, there is much, much more."

If she could have spoken again, she would have said it was impossible. Her body seemed sated already, sensation rolling over sensation, shudder wracked by shudder. Then he began.

The eyes that had begun to close flew open in stunned awakening. Her hips arched up, meeting his questing lips just before the first flood of terrifying pleasure poured through her. Gasping, she groped for him, only to find her damp palms sliding off his skin as he moved over her, lighting fires where he willed.

The roaring in her ears prevented her from hearing herself call his name again and again. But he heard. Nothing he had heard before or would hear again would ever sound quite so sweet. She moved under him, bucking, twisting, trembling as he found and exploited new secrets. The dark taste of passion filled his mouth, driving him to find more, to give more. Her skin was hot and damp wherever he touched, making him mad with thoughts of how she would be when he filled her. Could she know how weak she made him, how completely she satisfied him? His mind teemed with thoughts of her, memories he knew would follow him until he died. Each time he took a breath he drew in the scent of her skin, sheened now with her passion and his. No other woman would ever tempt him again, because no other woman would be Serena.

She wanted to beg him to stop. She wanted to beg him never to stop. Each breath she dragged into her lungs seemed to clog there until she feared she would die from lack of air or the surplus of it. Her eyes filled with tears, not from sorrow or regret but from the ache of a beauty so great she knew she could never describe it. Her strength ebbed and flowed, rushing into her like wildfire, then pouring out like a waterfall. But weak or strong, she had never known pleasure so huge. In some corner of her brain she wanted to know if he felt the same. But each time she began to ask, he would touch her again and send her thoughts spinning into a void of sensation. When his lips came back to hers, she tasted desperation on them. Wanting to soothe, she answered with her heart, pulling him close. He slipped into her, fighting with every fiber of his being to take her gently, struggling against every urge to plunge in to his own satisfaction. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine. The muscles in his arms quivered as he braced over her and watched, as he had dreamed of watching, her face as he made her his.

She cried out, but not in pain. Perhaps there was pain, but it was so smothered in pleasure that she couldn't feel it. Only him. She could feel only him as he moved into her, became part of her. With her eyes open and focused on his, she matched his rhythm. Slow…

beautifully, gloriously slow. The moment when they joined would be savored, like the finest of old wines, the purest of promises. He bent to take her lips again and swallowed her sigh. He could feel her pulse around him as clearly as he could feel her hands stroke down his back. When he thrust deep inside her, she arched and the sigh became a moan. Now it was she who changed the rhythm and he who followed. It no longer mattered who was rider, who was ridden, as they raced together. His last thought as his pleasure burst into her was that he had found home.

She wasn't certain she would ever move again, or that she would ever wish to. Her skin was cooling now that the heat of passion had faded into a softer glow of contentment. They lay tangled in the blanket, with the shadows growing long around them. His face was buried in her hair, his hand cupped loosely at her breast.

How much time had passed she couldn't be sure. She knew the sun was no longer high overhead, but there was a timelessness she needed to cling to for just a little longer. It was almost possible, if she kept her eyes closed and refused to think, to believe it would always be like this. With the afternoon shimmering around them, the woods quiet but for the call of birds, it was difficult to believe that politics and war could pull them apart.

She loved as she had never thought to love, in a way she hadn't known was possible. If only it could all be as simple as a blanket spread beside the water. "I love you, Rena."

She opened her eyes to see that he was watching her. "Aye. I know you do. And I love you." She traced her fingers along his face as if to memorize it. "I wish we could stay like this."

"We'll be like this again. Soon." She shifted away from him to reach for her chemise. "Can you doubt that? Now?" It was more important than ever to keep her voice steady. She loved him too much, much too much, to beg him to stay. She began to lace up her bodice. "I know that you love me, and that you wish it could be so. I know that what we shared here will never be shared with anyone else."

"You don't think I'll come back." He dragged his shirt on and wondered how any one woman could pull so many emotions from his heart. She touched his hand. She had no regrets, and she needed him to understand that. "I think if you come back, you'll come for the sake of the Prince. It's right that you should."

"I see." He began to dress methodically. "So you believe what happened here between us will be forgotten when I reach London."

"No." She stopped struggling with her own buttons and leached for him. "No, I believe what happened here will be remembered always. When I'm very old and I feel the first hint of spring I'll think of today and of you." The anger came quickly, making him dig his fingers into her arms. "Do you mink mat's enough for me? If you do, you're either very stupid or mad."

"It's all there can be—" she began, but her words slipped down her throat as he shook her.

"When I come back to Scotland, I come for you. Make no mistake Serena. And when this war is over, I'll take you with me."

"If I had only myself to think of, I would go." She clutched at his coat, willing him to understand. "Can't you see that I would die slowly with the shame to my family?"

"No, by God, I can't see that being my wife would bring your family shame."

"Your wife?" She could barely whisper the words, then jerked back as if he had slapped her. "Marriage?"

"Of course marriage. What did you think—?" Then he saw, and saw clearly, just what it was she believed he was asking her. His anger turned inward until it was a dull heat in the pit of his stomach. "Is this what you thought I meant the last time we were here?" he demanded. "Is this what you needed to think through?" His laugh was quick and humorless. "You think highly of me, Serena."

"I…" Because her legs were weak, she sank limply onto a rock. "I thought… I understood that men took mistresses, and…"

"And so they do," he said curtly. "And so I have, but only a dim-witted fool would have thought I was offering you anything but my heart and my name."

"How was I supposed to know you meant marriage?" She sprang up to face him again. "You never said so."

"I've already spoken with your father." His voice was stiff as he snatched up the plaid.

"You've spoken with my father?" she repeated, measuring each word. "You spoke with my father without ever speaking to me?"