by Nora Roberts
“You tremble,” he murmured. Lightly he ran his fingers up her neck, kindling small fires. “I wondered if you would.”
“I’ve not given you leave to touch me.”
“I’ve not asked for leave.” He drew her closer. “Nor will I.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, dropping a soft kiss on her fingers. “Nor need I.”
She felt the room tilt and her will drain as he lowered his head toward her. She saw only his face, then only his eyes. As if in a dream, she let her own eyes close and her lips part.
“Serena?”
She jerked back, color flaming into her face at the sound of her sister’s voice. Shaken, Serena gripped her hands together as Gwen stepped into the room. “You should be resting yet. You’ve only slept a few hours.”
“It was enough. Coll?” she asked, staring toward the bed.
“His fever’s broken.”
“Ah, thank God.” Her hair more gold than red, curtained her face as she bent over him. In her pale blue night robe she looked very much like the angel Coll had described. “He sleeps well, and should for a few hours yet.” She glanced up to smile at her sister and saw Brigham by the window. “Lord Ashburn! Have you not slept?”
“He was about to retire.” Serena moved briskly to her sister’s side.
“You need rest.” Gwen’s face puckered into a frown as she thought of his shoulder. “You’ll do your wound no good else.”
“He does well enough,” Serena said impatiently.
“For your concern, I thank you.” Brigham bowed pointedly to Gwen. “As it appears I can be of no further use, I will seek my bed.” His gaze swept down Serena and up again. Beside her sister she, too, looked like an angel. An avenging one. “Your servant, madam.”
Gwen smiled after him as he strode out, her young heart fluttering a bit at the sight of his bare chest and arms. “So handsome,” she sighed.
With a sniff, Serena brushed at the bodice of her robe. “For an Englishman.”
“It was kind of him to stay with Coll.”
Serena could still feel the determined press of his fingers on the back of her neck. “He’s not kind,” she murmured.
“I don’t believe he’s kind at all.”
Chapter 3
Brigham slept until the sun was high. His shoulder was stiff, but there was no pain. He supposed he owed Serena for that. His lips curved into a grim smile as he dressed. He intended to pay her back.
After he had pulled on his breeches, he glanced at his torn riding coat. It would have to do, as he could hardly wear evening dress. Until his trunks arrived he would be roughing it. He ran a hand over his chin after shrugging into the coat. His stubble was rough and his lace far from fresh. How his valet would have cringed.
Dear, dour Parkins had been furious at being left in London while his lord traveled to the barbarous Scottish Highlands. Parkins knew, as few did, the true purpose of the trip, but that had only made him more insistent about accompanying his master.
Brigham tilted the shaving mirror. Parkins was loyal, he thought, but hardly competent to do battle. There was no finer—or more proper—gentleman’s gentleman in London, but Brigham hardly needed, or wanted, a valet during his stay in Glenroe.
With a sigh, he began to strop his razor. He might not be able to do anything about the torn jacket or the drooping lace, but he could manage to shave himself.
Once he was presentable, he made his way downstairs. Fiona was there to greet him, an apron over her simple wool gown. “Lord Ashburn, I trust you rested well.”
“Very well, Lady MacGregor.”
“If you’re a man such as I know, you’ll be wanting to break your fast.” With a smile, she laid a hand on his arm and began to walk. “Would you care to sit in the parlor? It’s warmer than the dining hall, and when I have a solitary meal I find it less lonely.”
“Thank you.”
“Molly, tell the cook that Lord Ashburn is awake and hungry.” She led him into a parlor where a table had already been set for him. “Shall I leave you now, or would you prefer company?”
“I always prefer the company of a beautiful woman, my lady.”
With a smile, she accepted the chair he held out for her. “Coll said you were a charmer.” Apron or not, she sat as gracefully as any drawing room miss Brigham had known. “I wasn’t able to thank you properly last night. I’d like to make up for that now and give you all my gratitude for delivering Coll home.”
“Would that I had delivered him under better circumstances.”
“You brought him.” She offered her hand. “I owe you a great deal.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Aye.” She squeezed his hand briefly. “So he’s told me. That doesn’t lessen the debt, but I won’t embarrass you.” Molly brought in coffee and Fiona poured, pleased by the opportunity to make use of her china. “Coll asked for you this morning. Perhaps after you’ve eaten you would go up and speak with him.”
“Of course. How does he?”
“Well enough to complain.” Fiona’s smile was maternal. “He’s like his father, impatient, impulsive and very, very dear.”
They spoke idly while his breakfast was served. There was porridge and thick slabs of ham, portions of fresh fish with eggs and oatcakes and numerous jams and jellies. Though he chose coffee over the breakfast whiskey, it occurred to him that, while remote, this Highland table could easily rival one in London. The lady sipped her coffee and encouraged Brigham to eat his fill.
He found her burr charming and her conversation direct. While he ate, he waited for her to ask him what he and her husband had discussed the night before. But the questions didn’t come.
“If you’ll give me your jacket this evening, my lord, I would mend it for you.”
He glanced at the ruined sleeve. “I fear it will never be the same.”
Her eyes were sober when they met his. “We do what we can with what we have.” She rose, bringing Brigham to his feet. Her skirts swished quietly into place. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Ashburn, I have much to see to before my husband returns.”
“The MacGregor has gone?”
“He should be home by evening. We all have much to do before Prince Charles makes his move.”
Brigham’s brow lifted as she left. He’d never known a woman to take the threat of war quite so complacently.
When he returned upstairs, he found Coll a bit pale and shadowed around the eyes but sitting up and arguing.
“I won’t touch that slop.”
“You will eat every drop,” Serena said threateningly. “Gwen made it especially for you.”
“I don’t care if the Blessed Virgin dipped her finger in it, I won’t have it.”
“Blaspheme again and you’ll wear it.”
“Good morning, children.” Brigham strolled into the room.
“Brig, thank God,” Coll said feelingly. “Send this wench on her way and get me some meat. Meat,” he repeated. “And whiskey.”
After crossing to the bed, Brigham raised a brow at the thin gruel Serena held in a bowl. “It certainly looks revolting.”
“Aye, that’s just what I said myself.” Coll fell back against the pillows, relieved to have a man on his side. “No one but a thick-skulled woman would expect anyone to eat it.”
“Had a rather nice slab of ham myself.”
“Ham?”
“Done to a turn. My compliments to your cook, Miss MacGregor.”
“Gruel’s what he needs,” she said between her teeth, “and gruel’s what he’ll have.”
After a shrug, Brigham sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve done my bit, Coll. It’s up to you.”
“Toss her out.”
Brigham fluffed his lace. “I hate to disoblige you, my dear, but the woman terrifies me.”
“Hah!” Coll set his chin and eyed his sister. “Go to the devil, Serena, and take that slop with you.”
“Fine, then, if you want to hurt little Gwen’s feelings after she nursed you a
nd took the time and trouble to make you something fit to eat. I’ll just take it down and tell her you said it was slop and you’d rather have nothing than touch it.”
She turned, bowl in hand. Before she’d taken two steps, Coll relented. “Hell and damnation, give it to me, then.”
Brigham caught her smirk as she swept aside her skirts and sat. “Well done,” he murmured.
Ignoring him, she dipped the spoon in the bowl. “Open your big mouth, Coll.”
“I won’t be fed,” he said just before she shoved in the first bit of gruel. “Curse it, Serena, I said I’ll feed myself.”
“And spill gruel all over your clean nightshirt. I’ll not be changing you again today, my lad, so open your mouth and be quiet.”
He would have sworn at her again, but he was too busy swallowing gruel.
“I’ll leave you to your breakfast, Coll.”
“For mercy’s sake.” He grabbed Brigham’s wrist. “Don’t desert me now. She’ll yap at me, nag and bluster and set me mad. I—” He glared as Serena pushed more gruel into his mouth. “She’s the devil of a female, Brig. A man’s not safe with her.”
“Is that so?” Smiling, Brigham studied Serena’s face and was rewarded by the faintest rising of color.
“I haven’t thanked you for getting me home. I’m told you were wounded,” Coll said.
“A scratch. Your sister tended it.”
“Gwen’s an angel.”
“Young Gwen had her hands full with you. Serena bound me up.”
Coll looked at his sister and grinned. “Ham-fisted.”
“You’ll be swallowing the spoon in a moment, Coll MacGregor.”
“It takes more than a hole in my side to devil me, lassie. I can still put you over my knee.”
She wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. “The last time you tried you walked with a limp for a week.”
He grinned at the memory. “Aye, right you are. Brig, the lass is a Trojan. Kicked me square in the—” he caught Serena’s furious look “—pride, so to speak.”
“I’ll remember that if I ever have occasion to wrestle with Miss MacGregor.”
“Beaned me with a pot once, too,” Coll said reminiscently. “Damn me if I didn’t see stars.” He was drowsy again, and his eyelids drooped. “Fire-eater,” he muttered. “You’ll never catch a husband that way.”
“If it was a husband I wanted to catch, so I would.”
“The prettiest girl in Glenroe.” Coll’s voice wavered as his eyes shut. “But the temper’s foul, Brig. Not like that pretty Frenchie with the gold hair.”
What pretty Frenchie? Serena wondered, sending Brigham a sidelong look. But he was only grinning and fiddling with the button of his jacket.
“I’ve had the pleasure of discovering that for myself,” Brigham murmured. “Rest now. I’ll be back.”
“Forced that gruel on me. Nasty stuff.”
“Aye, and there’s more where that came from. Ungrateful oaf.”
“I love you, Rena.”
She brushed the hair from his brow. “I know. Hush now, and sleep.” Serena tucked him up while Brigham stood back. “He’ll be quiet for a few hours now. Mother will feed him next, and he won’t argue with her.”
“I’d say the arguing did him as much good as the gruel.”
“That was the idea.” She lifted the tray with the empty bowl and started past him. Brigham had only to shift to block her way.
“Did you rest?”
“Well enough. Pardon me, Lord Ashburn, I have things to do.”
Instead of moving aside, he smiled at her. “When I spend the night with a woman, she usually calls me by my name.”
The lights of war came into her eyes, just as he’d hoped. “I’m not some golden-haired Frenchie or one of your loose London women, so keep your name, Lord Ashburn. I’ve no use for it.”
“I believe I have use for yours … Serena.” She delighted him by snarling. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
That flustered her. She knew how to handle flattery, how to accept it, evade it, discount it. Somehow it wasn’t as easy with him. “Let me pass,” she muttered.
“Would you have kissed me?” He put two fingers under her chin as he asked. Serena held the tray like a shield. “Would you have, this morning, when the need for sleep was all over your face and the light just going gold?”
“Move aside.” Because her voice was husky, she shoved the tray at him. Brigham caught it instinctively to keep it from falling. Unencumbered, Serena headed for the door with him two steps behind. The sound of running feet stopped them both.
“Malcolm, must you sound like a great elephant? Coll’s sleeping.”
“Oh.” A boy of about ten skidded to a halt. His hair was a deep red that would probably darken to mahogany with age. Unlike the other men in his family, he had fine, almost delicate features. He had, Brigham noticed immediately, the deep green eyes of his sister. “I wanted to see him.”
“You can watch him, if you’re quiet.” With a sigh, Serena shook his shoulder. “Wash first. You look like a stableboy.”
He grinned, showing a missing tooth. “I’ve been with the mare. She’ll foal in a day or two.”
“You smell like her.” She noticed from the mud in the hall that he hadn’t done a thorough job of cleaning his boots. She would sweep it up before their mother saw it. She started to speak to him about it, then noticed he was no longer attending.
Brigham found himself being studied and assessed, quite man-to-man. The boy was lean as a whippet and smudged with dirt, and there was sharp curiosity in his eyes.
“Are you the English pig?”
“Malcolm!”
Both ignored her as Brigham stepped forward. Calmly he handed the tray back to Serena. “I’m English, at any rate, though my grandmother was a MacDonald.”
Mortified, Serena stared straight ahead. “I will apologize for my brother, my lord.”
He shot her a look ripe with irony. Both of them knew where Malcolm had come by the description. “No need. You would perhaps introduce us.”
Serena’s fingers dug into the tray. “Lord Ashburn, my brother Malcolm.”
“Your servant, Master MacGregor.”
Malcolm grinned at that, and at Brigham’s formal bow. “My father likes you,” he confided. “So does my mother, and Gwen, I think, but she’s too shy to say.”
Brigham’s lips twitched. “I’m honored.”
“Coll wrote that you had the best stables in London, so I’ll like you, too.”
Because it was irresistible, Brigham ruffled the boy’s hair—and grinned wickedly at Serena. “Another conquest.”
She lifted her chin. “Go wash, Malcolm,” she ordered before she flounced away.
“They always want you to wash,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “I’m glad there’ll be more men in the house.”
* * *
Nearly two hours later, Brigham’s coach arrived, causing no little stir in the village. Lord Ashburn believed in owning the best, and his traveling equipment was no exception. The coach was well sprung, a regal black picked out with silver. The driver wore black, as well. The groom, who rode on the box with him, was enjoying the fact that people were peeking out their doors and windows at the arrival. Though he’d complained for the last day and a half about the miserable weather, the miserable roads and the miserable pace, he felt better knowing that the journey was at an end and that he’d be left to tend to his horses.
“Here, boy.” The driver pulled up the steaming horses and gestured to a boy who stood beside the road, ogling the coach and sucking his finger. “Where will I find MacGregor House?”
“Straight down this road and over the rise. You be looking for the English lord? That be his carriage?”
“You got that right.”
Pleased with himself, the boy gestured. “He’s there.”
The driver sent the horses into a trot.
Brigham was there to meet them himself. Braced aga
inst the cold, he stepped out as the coach pulled up. “You took your sweet time.”
“Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up.”
Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. “Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?”
Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. “Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace.”
Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. “I’m sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would—” He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out. “Parkins.”
Parkins bowed. “My lord.” Then he studied Brigham’s attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. “Oh, my lord.”
Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. “As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?”
“You have a need for me, as well, my lord.” Parkins drew himself up. “I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn’s room immediately.”
Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. “How did you come?”
“I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse.” A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. “I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here.”
“I don’t need a valet, man. I’m not attending any balls.”
“I served my lord’s father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back.”
Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. “Oh, come in, damn you. It’s freezing.”
Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. “I will see to my lord’s unpacking immediately.” He gave a shudder as he studied his master’s attire once more. “Immediately. If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice.”
“Later.” Brigham swung on his greatcoat. “I want to check on the horses.” He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. “Parkins, welcome to Scotland.”
