by Nora Roberts
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 churn 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 gentleman.”
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 would 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 whirring 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 in 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 hand
s 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 forgotten.”
“Cat,” he said mildly, though not without admiration. “If you continue to sharpen your claws on me, you’re bound to break them.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Then let me refresh your memory.” He stepped closer. “You were as hot as I, as pleasured as I. It wasn’t a swooning girl I held in my arms but a woman, ripe for loving, damned anxious for it.”
“How dare you?” The words came out in a sputter. “No gentleman would speak to me so.”
“Perhaps not. But no lady wears breeches.”
That stung. It was true, she was not a lady, would never be one, though she wished constantly to find the way within her, to please her mother. “Whatever I choose to wear, I won’t have you insult me.”
“Won’t you? By God, that’s rich. You’ve done nothing but insult me since you first clapped eyes on me.” Goaded past caution, he grabbed her arm. “Do you think because you’re female I should tolerate your sneering comments about myself, my lineage, my nationality? Damn me if you can have it both ways, Serena. You dress like a man, talk like a man, then choose to hide behind your petticoats when it suits you.”
“I hide behind nothing.” She tossed back her head and glared at him. Through the bare branches of the ash trees the sunlight poured, turning her hair to molten gold. “If I insult you, it’s no more than you deserve. You may have charmed my family, but not me.”
“Charming you,” he said between his teeth, “is the least of my concerns.”
“Aye, your concern lies with the fall of your lace and the shine of your boots. You ride into my home with your talk of war and justice, but you do nothing.”
“What I do, what I mean to do, is no business of yours.”
“You sleep under my roof, eat at my table. Where were you when t
he English came to build their forts, to take our men off to their prisons and their gallows?”
“I can’t change history, Serena.”
“You can change nothing, nothing that has gone before, nothing that is yet to come.”
His fingers tightened on her arm. “I won’t discuss my plans with you, but I will tell you this—when the time comes, a change will be made.”
“To benefit whom?”
He yanked her toward him. “Which means?”
“What does the fate of Scotland mean to you or any English nobleman? You came from England on a whim and can return as easily, depending on the way the wind blows.”
His face paled with rage. “This time, my dear, you go too far.”
“I’ll say what I choose.” She tried to wrench away but found her arm caught in viselike fingers. “You give me no reason why you align yourself with our cause, why you choose to raise your sword. Therefore I am free to think what I like.”
“You may think as you choose, but words require payment.”
She hadn’t seen him truly angry before. She hadn’t known his eyes could blaze or that his mouth could harden until it seemed as though his face were carved from granite. She nearly yelped when his fingers dug still more deeply into the tender flesh of her arm.
“What will you do,” she managed, coolly enough, “run me through?”
“As you’re unarmed, that pleasure is denied me. But I have a mind to throttle you.” Whether the gesture was made in earnest or merely to frighten, Serena couldn’t be sure. He lifted his free hand and circled her throat. His fingers pressed, not gently but not quite hard enough to cut off her air, and his eyes stayed on hers, dark and hard. “You have a very slender neck, Serena,” he said silkily. “Very white, very easily snapped.”
For a moment she froze, as a hare does when a hawk makes its killing dive. Her hand fluttered helplessly at her side, and her eyes widened. Her breath, when she managed to draw it in, was shallow.
Because her reaction was no more or less than what he had looked for, Brigham smiled. The wench needed to be taught her manners, and it pleased him very much to be her instructor. Then it was he who sucked in his breath as her boot caught him hard on the shin.