by Nora Roberts
He led her off the floor, watching as Serena was led in a different direction by her partner. One who was wearing, in Brigham’s opinion, a particularly hideous yellow brocade. While the coat might have offended him, the possessive manner in which the man clutched Serena’s hand did a great deal more.
“Who is that Serena’s talking with?”
Gwen followed the direction Brigham was scowling into. “Oh, that’s only Rob, one of Serena’s suitors.”
“Suitors?” He said between his teeth. “Suitors, is it?” Before Gwen could elaborate, he was striding across the room. “Miss MacGregor, a word with you?”
Her brow lifted at his tone. “Lord Ashburn, may I present Rob MacGregor, my kinsman.”
“Your servant,” he said stiffly. Then, taking Serena’s elbow, he dragged her off toward the first convenient alcove.
“What do you think you’re doing? Have you lost your senses? You’ll have everyone staring.”
“To hell with them.” He stared down at her mutinous face. “Why was that popinjay holding your hand?”
Though she privately agreed that Rob MacGregor was a popinjay at his best, she refused to accept any slur on a kinsman. “Rob MacGregor happens to be a fine man of good family.”
“The devil take his family.” He had barely enough control left to keep his voice low. “Why was he holding your hand?”
“Because he wanted to.”
“Give it to me.”
“I will not.”
“I said give it to me.” He snatched it up. “He’s no right to it, do you understand?”
“No. I understand that I’m free to give my hand to whomever I choose.”
The cool light of battle came into his eyes. He preferred it, much preferred it, to the grinding heat of jealousy. “If you want your fine young man of good family to live, I wouldn’t choose him again.”
“Is that so?” She tugged at her hand and got nowhere. “Let me go this instant.”
“So you can return to him?”
She wondered for a moment if Brigham was drunk, but decided against it. His eyes were too sharp and clear. “If I choose.”
“If you choose, I promise you you will regret it. This dance is mine.”
Moments before, she had longed to dance with him. Now she held her ground, equally determined not to. “I don’t want to dance with you.”
“What you want and what you’ll do may be different matters, my dear.”
“I will remind you, Lord Ashburn, only my father can command me.”
“That will change.” His fingers tightened on hers. “When I return from London—”
“You’re going to London?” Her anger was immediately eclipsed by distress. “When? Why?”
“In two days. I have business there.”
“I see.” Her hand went limp in his. “Perhaps you had planned to tell me when you saddled your horse.”
“I only just received word that I was needed.” His eyes lost their fire, his voice its roughness. “Would you care that I go?”
“No.” She turned her head away, to stare toward the music. “Why should I?”
“But you do.” With his free hand he touched her cheek.
“Go or stay,” she said in a desperate whisper. “It matters nothing to me.”
“I go on behalf of the Prince.”
“Then Godspeed,” she managed.
“Rena, I will come back.”
“Will you, my lord?” She pulled her hand away from his. “I wonder.” Before he could stop her, she rushed back into the ballroom and threw herself into the dancing.
Chapter 9
Perhaps she had been more unhappy in her life. But she couldn’t remember when tears had seemed so miserably and inescapably close. Perhaps she had been angrier. But she could think of no time in her life when fury had raged quite so high or burned so hot.
And the fury and misery were all with herself, Serena thought as she kicked the mare into a gallop. With herself, for dreaming, even for a moment, that there could be something real, something lovely, between herself and Brigham.
He was going back to London. Aye, and London was where he belonged. In London he was a man of wealth and means and lineage. He was a man with parties to attend, ladies to call on. A line to continue. Swearing, she pushed the horse harder.
He might stand behind the Prince. She was coming to believe he was dedicated to the cause and would fight for it. But he would fight in England, for England. Why should he not? Why should a man like the earl of Ashburn waste a thought on her once he was back in his own world?
Just as she would waste no thought on him, she promised herself, once he was gone.
She knew he had met with her father and many of the other chiefs early that 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 nothi
ng, 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.
