understand. "What are you to me but one more English nobleman who wants things his way? Do you care for the land? For the people? For the name? You know nothing of what we are," she spat out. "Nothing of the persecutions, the miseries, the degradations."
"More than you think," he said softly, guarding his own temper.
"You sit in your fine house in London or your manor in the country and dream by the fire of values and great social change. We live the fight every day, just to hold on to our own. What do you know of the terror of waiting in the dark for your men to return, or the frustration of not being able to do more than wait?"
"Do you blame me, too, for your being born a female?" He caught her arm before she could spin away. Her shawl fell away from her hair and onto her shoulders so that the evening light straggling through the doorway and the chinks in the wood glowed over it. "I might curse myself for preferring you that way." He resented bitterly his automatic response to her. "Tell me the truth, Serena, do you despise me?"
"Aye." She said it with passion, wanting it to be true.
"Because I'm English?"
"It's reason enough to hate."
"It's not, but I think I'll give you one."
To please himself, he thought as he dragged her against him. To undo the knots in his stomach, calm the thunder in his loins. She jerked back and might have landed a blow, but he was prepared for her, and very quick.
The moment his mouth came down on hers, she went still. He heard her breath suck in, then only the buzzing in his own head. She had a mouth like rose petals, soft, fragrant, crushable. With an oath, he wrapped an arm around her waist and locked her to him. He could feel her breasts yield and her body tremble. His own was rigid with the shock of the sensation that poured through him. Behind them the horses blew and shifted weight Dust motes danced in an errant sunbeam.
She couldn't move. She thought she might never move again, because all the bones in her body had dissolved. Behind her eyes was a rash of color, so vivid, so brilliant, that they would certainly blind her. If this was a kiss, then she had never experienced one before, for this was all heat, all light, all movement, in one meeting of lips.
She heard a moan, such a soft, such a sweet moan, and never recognized it as her own. Her hand was on his arm, fingers tangled in the tear of his sleeve. She might have swayed, but he held her so close.
Was she breathing?
She had to be, for she lived still. She could smell him, and the scent was much the same as it had been on their first meeting. Sweat, horses, man. And he tasted… Her lips patted, she thirsted for more. He tasted like honey warmed in whiskey. Wasn't she already drunk from him?
Her heart began to thunder, drumming in pulses she hadn't known existed. If there was more, she wanted to find it. If this was all, it was enough for a lifetime. Slowly she slid her hands up his arms, over his shoulders and into his hair. Her kiss changed from one of shock and surrender to one of demand.
He felt her teeth nip at his lip and a fire centered in his loins. Suddenly desperate, be pressed her back against a post and savaged her mouth even as it opened and invited him in. In that instant he was more her prisoner than she his. He surfaced like a man drowning, gulping in air and shaking his head to clear it. "Good God, where did you learn to do that?" Right here, right now. But shame and confusion stained her cheeks. However it had happened, she had let him kiss her and, Lord help her, she had enjoyed it. "Let me go."
"I don't know if I can." He lifted a hand to her cheek, but she jerked her head away. Struggling for patience, Brigham stood where he was and tried to catch his breath. A moment ago she had kissed him in a manner to rival the finest French courtesans. But now, right now, it was painfully clear she was innocent.
He could kill himself—if Coll didn't beat him to it. Brigham set his jaw. Seducing the sister of his friend—the daughter of his host—in the stable, as though she were a tavern wench. He cleared his throat and stepped back. When he spoke, his voice was stiff.
"I offer my deepest apologies, Miss MacGregor. That was unforgivable."
Her lashes swept up. Beneath them her eyes were not sheened with tears but bright with anger. "If I were a man, I'd kill you."
"If you were a man," he said, just as rigidly, "my apologies would hardly be necessary." He bowed and went out, hoping the cold air would clear his head.
Chapter Four
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She would have enjoyed killing him, Serena thought. With a sword. No, a sword was much too clean, much too civilized, for English vermin. Unless, of course, she used it to sever small pieces from him one at a time rather than end his worthless life with one thrust through the heart. She smiled to herself as she imagined it. A quick hack there, a slow, torturous slice here. Her thoughts might have been gruesome, but no one would have guessed by looking at her. She was the picture of quiet feminine occupation as she sat in the warm kitchen and churned butter. It was true that when her thoughts darkened she brought the plunger down with unwarranted force, but the energy, whatever its source, only made the job go faster. He'd had no right to kiss her that way, to force himself on her. And less right than that to make her like it. With her hands wrapped around the wooden staff, Serena sent the plunger dancing. Miserable English cur. And she had patched up his hurts with her own hands, served him a meal in her own house. Not willingly, perhaps not graciously, but she had done it nonetheless. If she told her father what Brigham had dared to do…
She paused for a moment as she dreamed of that possibility. Her father would rage and bellow and very likely whip the English dog within an inch of his miserable life. That made her smile again, the picture of the high-and-mighty earl of Ashburn groveling in the dirt, his arrogant gray eyes clouded with terror.
She began to churn faster as her smile turned into a snarl. The picture was right enough, but she'd prefer to hold the whip herself. She would make him whimper as he sprawled at her feet.
It was true, and perhaps sad, Serena thought, that she had such a love of violence. It concerned her mother. No doubt it was a pity she hadn't inherited her mother's temperament rather than her father's, but there it was. It was rare for a day to go by when Serena didn't lose her MacGregor temper and then suffer pangs of guilt and remorse because of it.
She wanted to be more like her mother—calm, steady, patient. The good Lord knew she tried, but it just wasn't in her. At times she thought God had made the tiniest mistake with her, forgetting the sugar and adding just a dab too much vinegar. But if God was entitled to a mistake, wasn't she then entitled to her temper?
With a sigh, she continued the monotonous chore of working the plunger up and down.
It was true enough that her mother would have known exactly the proper way to handle Lord Ashburn and his unwanted advances. She would have become frigidly polite when he'd gotten that look in his eyes. That look, Serena thought, that told a woman instinctively that he meant mischief. By the time Fiona MacGregor had been done with him, Lord Ashburn would have been putty in her hands. For herself, she had no way with men. When they annoyed her, she let them know it—with a box on the ear or a sharp-tongued diatribe. And why not? she thought, scowling. Why the devil not? Just because she was a woman, did she have to act coy and pretend to be flattered when a man tried to slobber all over her?
"You'll be turning that butter rancid with those looks, lassie."
With a sniff, Serena began to work in earnest "I was thinking of men, Mrs. Drummond." The cook, a formidably built woman with graying black hair and sparkling blue eyes, cackled. She had been a widow these past ten years and had the hands of a farmer, thick fingered, wide palmed and rough as tree bark. Still, no one in the district had a better way with a joint of meat or a dainty fruit tart.
"A woman should have a smile on her face when she thinks of men. Scowls send them off, but a smile brings them around quick enough."
"I don't want them around." Serena bared her teeth and ignored her aching shoulders. "I hate them." Mrs. Drummond stirred the batter for her apple cake. "Has that young Rob MacGregor come sniffing around again?"
"Not if he values his life." Now she did smile as she remembered how she had dispatched the amorous Rob.
"A likely enough lad," Mrs. Drummond mused. "But not good enough for one of my lassies. When I see you courted, wedded and bedded, it'll be to quality."
Serena began to tap her foot in time with her churning. "I don't think I want to be courted, wedded or bedded."
"Whist now, of course you do. In time." She gave a quick grin as her spoon beat a steady tattoo against the bowl. The muscles in her arms were as solid as mountain rock. "It has its merits. Especially the last."
"I don't want to find myself bound to a man just because of what happens in a marriage bed." Mrs. Drummond shot a quick look at the doorway to be certain Fiona wasn't nearby. The mistress was kindness itself, but she would get that pinched look on her face if she heard her cook and her daughter discussing delicate matters over the butter churn.
"A better reason is hard to find—with the right man. My Duncan, now there was a man who knew how to do his duty, and there were nights I went to sleep grateful for it. Rest his soul."
"Did he ever make you feel—" Serena paused a moment, groping for the right words "—well, like you'd been riding fast over the rocks and couldn't get your breath?"
Mrs. Drummond narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure that Rob hasn't been around?"
Serena shook her head. "Being with Rob's like riding a lame pony uphill. You think it'll never be done with." Her own eyes were bright with laughter as she looked up at the cook.
That was the way Brigham saw her when he walked in. Her long fingers were wrapped around the plunger, her skirts were kilted up and her face was alive with laughter.
Damn the woman! He couldn't keep himself from staring at her. Damn her for making him want just by looking!
He made little sound, but Serena turned her head. Their eyes locked, briefly, almost violently, before Serena lifted her chin away and went back to her churning.
The look had lasted only an instant, but that had been long enough to show Mrs. Drummond what had put Serena into a temper. Or rather who.
So that's the way of it? she mused, and couldn't prevent a small smile. Locked horns, without a doubt. It was as good a way to begin courting as she knew. She'd have to think on it, she decided. But the earl of Ashburn was certainly quality, as well as having a face and form that made even a widow's heart flutter.
"Can I serve you, my lord?"
"What?" Brigham turned to stare through Mrs. Drummond before his eyes slowly focused. "I beg your pardon. I've just come from Coll's room. He's complaining for food. Miss Gwen says a bit of your broth would do him."
Mrs. Drummond cackled and went to the pot by the fire. "I have my doubts he'd think so, but I'll spoon it up and have it sent. Would you mind me asking, my lord, how the lad does?"
He had made the mistake of looking at Serena again as she lazily stroked with the plunger. If anyone had told him that watching a woman chum butter could dry a man's mouth to dust, he would have laughed. Now he couldn't see the humor in it. He tore his eyes away, cursing himself. It would pay to remember that he had already spent one sleepless night because of her, two if he counted the one they had spent together nursing Coll.
"He seems to fare better today. Miss Gwen claims his color's good enough, though she'll have him stay in bed a while yet."
"She could do it. The good Lord knows no one else could deal as well with the lad." Mrs. Drummond tutted over the man she considered the oldest of her charges. She slanted a look at Serena and saw that she was watching Brigham from under her lashes. "Would you care for some broth yourself, my lord? Or a bit of meat pie?"
"No, thank you. I was on my way to the stables."
That had the color lifting into Serena's cheeks as she banged wood against wood. He lifted a brow. Though she set her chin and moved her bottom lip into a pout that had his stomach muscles clenching, she didn't speak. Nor did he as he gave a brisk nod and strode out.
"Now that's a man!" Mrs. Drummond exclaimed.
"He's English," Serena countered, as if that explained everything.
"Well, that's true, but a man's a man, kilt or breeches. And his fit him mighty true." Despite herself, Serena giggled. "A woman's not supposed to notice."
"A blind woman's not supposed to notice." Mrs. Drummond set the bowl of broth on a tray and then, because her heart was soft, added a gooseberry tart. "Molly! Molly, you lazy wench, come fetch this tray to the young master." She set the tray aside and went back to her stirring. "The man Lord Ashburn brought with him from London, lassie, the proper-looking gentleman?"
"Parkins." Serena flexed her cramped hands and sneered. She found it odd that her heart rate had leveled almost to normal as soon as Brigham had swept out. "His English valet. Imagine, bringing a valet here to fuss with the cut of his coat and the shine on his boots."
"Quality's used to having things done a certain way," Mrs. Drummond said wisely. "I hear Mr. Parkins is an unmarried gentlemen." Serena moved her shoulders. "Probably too busy starching Lord Ashburn's lace to have his own life." Or he hasn't met a woman with life enough for two, Mrs. Drummond mused. "Seems to me, Mr. Parkins could use a bit of fattening up." She grinned, then set the bowl aside to shout for Molly again.
Quality, Serena thought with a sniff a few hours later. Just because a man had a trace of blue blood in his veins didn't mean he was quality. It didn't make him a gentleman, either. All it made him was an aristocrat.
In any case, she wasn't going to waste her time thinking about the earl of Ashburn. For nearly two days she had been tied to the house, to the day-to-day chores, which were increased by Coll's needs. Now she had some time free. Perhaps she was stealing it, but she could make it all up later. The truth was, if she didn't get out and off by herself for just a little while she might burst. Her mother probably wouldn't approve of her taking a ride in the forest so close to mealtime. Serena shrugged that off as she saddled her mare. Her mother would approve even less of the old work breeches she wore. Hanged if she had the patience to ride sidesaddle, she thought as she led the mare out of the stables. She would take care that her mother wouldn't see her so that her mother wouldn't have to be disappointed in her behavior. With luck, no one would see her.
Swinging astride, she led her mount to the rear of the stables, then over a low hill dotted with spindly briers and lichen. Surefooted, the mare picked her way over the uneven ground until they were almost out of sight of the house. Serena veered south, sending up a brief prayer that no one in her family be looking out the window. The moment the forest swallowed her, she kicked the mare into a gallop. Oh, God, she had needed this more than food, more than drink. One wild ride through the naked trees with the wind on her face and a horse straining for speed beneath her. It might not be the proper thing, but she knew as well as she knew her name that it was the right thing for her. She didn't have to be a lady here, a daughter here, a sister here. She had only to be Serena. With a laugh, she spurred the horse on.
She startled small game and sent birds whining upward. Her breath puffed out white, then vanished. The plaid she had wrapped around her shoulders held off the bite of the wind, and the exercise, the freedom, were enough to warm her. In fact, she welcomed the tingle on her skin from the cold winter air, and the sharp clean taste of it.
She had a fleeting wish, almost instantly blotted out by guilt, that she might continue to ride and ride and ride with never another cow to be milked, never another shirt to be washed, never another pot to be scrubbed.
It was probably an evil thought, she decided. There were those in the village who worked from dawn to dusk, who never had an hour they could set aside for dreaming. She, as daughter to the MacGregor, had a fine house to live in, a good table to eat from, a feather bed to sleep on. She was ungrateful, and would no doubt have to confess to the priest—as she had when she had secretly, then not so secretly, hated the convent school in Inverness.
Six months out of her life, Serena remembered. Six months wasted before her father had seen that her mind was made up and she would have none of it. Six months away from the home she loved to live with those simpering, giggling girls whose families had wanted them to learn about being ladies.
Bah.
She could learn everything there was about running a household from her own mother. As to being a lady, there wasn't a finer one than Fiona MacGregor. She was a laird's daughter herself, after all, and had spent time in Paris and, yes, even in England, long ago. There were still times, when the chores were done and the fires burning low when Fiona played the spinet. Hadn't she taught Gwen, whose fingers were more clever and whose mind was more patient that her sister's, how to ply a fancy needle? Fiona could speak French and engage any visitor in polite conversation.
To Serena's mind, if she needed to be polished, she would be polished in her own home, where the talk was of more than hooped skirts and the latest coiffures.
Those giggling whey-faced girls were the kind of ladies Lord Ashburn preferred, she imagined. The kind who covered their faces with fans and fluttered their lashes over them. They drank fruit punch and carried vials of smelling salts and lace handkerchiefs in their reticules. Empty-headed twits. Those were the kind of women whose hands Brigham would kiss at fancy London balls. As she neared the river, she slowed the horse to a walk. It would be pleasant to sit by the water for a little while. If she had had time, she would have ridden all the way to the loch. That was her special place when she was troubled or needed time by herself. Today she wasn't troubled, Serena reminded herself as she slid from the saddle. She had only wanted to take a breath of air that was hers alone. She laid the reins loosely over a branch, then rested her cheek against the mare's. Fancy London balls, she thought again, and sighed without any idea that the sound was wistful. Her mother had told her and Gwen what they were like. The mirrors, the polished floors, the hundreds and hundreds of candles. Beautiful gowns sparkling. Men in curling white wigs. And music.
She closed her eyes and tried to see it. She'd always had a weakness for music. Over the sounds of the rushing river she imagined the strains of a minuet. There would be reels later, Serena thought. But to start, it would be a slow, lovely minuet. She began to move to the music in her head, her eyes still closed, her hand held out to an invisible partner. Lord Ashburn would give balls, she thought. All the beautiful women would come, hoping for just one dance with him. Smiling a little, Serena executed a neat turn and imagined she heard the sound of petticoats rustling. If she were there, she would wear a dress of rich green satin, with her hair piled high and powdered white so that the diamonds in it glittered like ice on snow. All the men with their foaming lace and buckled shoes would be dazzled. She would dance with them, one by one. As long as the music played she would dance, twirling, stepping, dipping into low, graceful curtsies.
Then he would be there. He would be dressed in black. It suited him. Aye, he would wear black, black and silver, just what he had worn that night he'd come into Coll's room, when there had been only candle and firelight It had made him look so tall and trim. Now the light would be blinding, flashing in the mirrors, shimmering on silver buttons and braid. As the music swelled they would look at each other. He would smile, in the way he did that softened his eyes and made her heart melt just a little. He would hold out his hand. She would lay hers on it, palm to palm. A bow from him, then her curtsy. Then… Giddy, Serena opened her eyes.
Her hand was caught in an easy grip. Her eyes were still clouded with the dream as she looked up at Brigham. The light was behind him, and as she stared up, dazed, it seemed to form a halo around his face. He was wearing black as she had imagined, but it was a simple riding coat, without the fancy silver work or the sparkle of jewels.
Slowly he raised her to her feet. Because she would have sworn she still heard music, she shook her head.
"Madam." Smiling, he lifted her hand to his lips before she could recover. "You seem to be without a partner."
"I was…" Dumbly she stared at their joined hands.
Light glittered on his signet ring and reminded her of time and place and differences. Serena snatched her hand away and clasped it with the other behind her back.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was fishing." He turned and pointed to the pole he'd propped against a tree. Beyond it, his horse grazed lazily on the turf of the bank.
"With Malcolm until a short time ago. He wanted to get back and look at Betsy." She could already feel the color sting her cheeks as she thought how ridiculous she must have looked in her partnerless minuet. "He should have been about his lessons."
"I'm assured he did his duty by them this morning." Because he couldn't resist, Brigham stepped back to take a long, thorough study.
"May I ask if you always dance alone in the wood—in breeches?"
Her eyes kindled as she chose anger over embarrassment. "You had no right spying on me."
"You quite took me by surprise, I promise you." He sat on a rock, crossed his ankles and smiled at her. "Here I was, contemplating how many more trout I might catch, when a rider comes barreling through the forest with enough noise to frighten every fish for miles." He didn't add that her wild approach had had him drawing his sword. Instead, he buffed his nails on his coat.
"If I had known you would be here," she said stiffly, "I would have ridden another way."
"No doubt. Then I would have missed the delightful sight of you in breeches."
With a sound of disgust, she whirled toward her horse.
"Such a fast retreat, Serena. One might think you were… afraid."
She spun toward him again, eyes flashing, and planted her feet. "I'm not afraid of you." Magnificent. There was no other way to describe her as she stood, her body braced as though she held a sword in her hand, her eyes molten, her hair tumbling like firelight down her back. She had ridden through the forest with a speed too great for safety and with a skill few men could have matched. However much she aggravated him, Brigham could not deny her courage or her style. Neither could he deny that the way she looked in breeches made him uncomfortable. However ill-fitting, they showed the enticing length of slim legs and the slender curve of waist and hip. With the homespun shirt tucked and cinched, he could see the gentle sweep of breasts that even now rose and fell in agitation.
"Perhaps you should be afraid," he murmured, as much to himself as to her. "As I find myself plagued with all manner of dishonorable intentions."
Her stomach quivered at that, but she held her ground. "You don't worry me, Lord Ashburn. I've dispatched better men than you."
"So I imagine." He rose and saw what he had wanted to see—the quick, and just as quickly controlled, flash of unease in her eyes.
"However, you have yet to deal with me, Serena. I doubt you'll manage to box my ears." She would have backed up a step if pride hadn't rooted her where she stood. "I'll do worse if you touch me again."
"Will you?" Why was it that the more the woman spit at him, the more he wanted her? "I've already apologized for what happened in the stables."
"The stables?" She lifted a brow, determined not to give an inch. "I fear whatever that might have been, my lord, was so unimportant as to be already