by Nora Roberts
"You know he has asked your father for your hand?"
"Aye."
"And that your father, after long thought and consideration, has given his consent." This she hadn't known. Serena lifted her head, and her cheeks were pale. "But I can't many him. Don't you see? I can't." With a frown in her eyes, Fiona caught Serena's face in her hands. From what source did this fear written so plainly on her daughter's face spring? "No, I don't see, Rena. You know well your father would never force you to marry a man you didn't want. But did you not just tell me you loved Brigham and that your love is returned?"
"I do love him, too much to marry him, too much not to. Oh, Mama, how much I would give him frightens me." Fiona saw a bit clearer now, and she smiled. "Poor wee lamb. You're not the first to have these fears, nor will you be the last. I understand when you say you love him too much not to marry him. But how can you love him too much to marry him?"
"I don't want to be Lady Ashburn."
Fiona blinked, surprised by the vehemence in her daughter's words. "Because he's English?"
"Aye—No. No, because I don't want to be a countess."
"It's a good family. An honorable one."
"It's the title, Mama. Even the sound of it frightens me. Lady Ashburn would live in England, grandly. She would know how to dress fashionably, how to behave with dignity, how to serve beautiful dinners and laugh at the cleverest wits."
"Well. I never thought to see the day that Ian MacGregor's wildcat cowered in a corner and whined." The color rose sharply in Serena's cheeks. "I am afraid, I'll admit it." She rose, locking her fingers tightly together. "But I'm not only afraid for my own sake. I would go, I would try, I would be determined to be the kind of wife Brigham needs, to be the best Lady Ashburn ever to rule in Ashburn Manor. And I would hate it. Never to be free, never to have a moment with the space to breathe. But there's more." She paused a moment, wanting to choose her words so that she would be understood. "If Brigham loves me, he loves me, as I am. Would he love the woman I would have to become to be his wife?"
Fiona was silent for a long moment. The girl had surely become a woman, with a woman's mind, a woman's heart and a woman's fears.
"You've given this a great deal of thought."
"I've hardly thought of anything else for weeks. He will have his way, of that I'm sure. But I've come to wonder if we might not both be sorry for it."
"Think of this. If he loves you, for yourself, then he would not want you to pretend to be what you are not, nor would he ask you to."
"I would rather lose him than shame him."
"I could tell you you will do neither," Fiona said wearily as she rose. "But you must learn it for yourself. But I want to tell you one more thing." Now it was Fiona who linked her hands together. "There's been gossip in the kitchen." Her mouth twitched lightly at Serena's expression. "Aye, Parkins and Mrs. Drummond. I chanced to overhear while working in the kitchen garden."
"Aye, Mother?" Serena managed, barely able to smother a giggle. The idea of her mother eavesdropping on the valet and the cook was almost too ludicrous.
"It seems on the morning he left London, Brigham fought a duel with an officer of the government army. An officer called Standish." At this, all humor drained from Serena's face, along with all her color. "Brigham." She remembered the wound on his shoulder, the one he had steadfastly refused to discuss. "Standish," she said in a whisper as the name came home. She saw him, as she had seen him almost ten years before, bringing his hand against her mother's face. "Dear God, how did it happen? Why did it happen?"
"I know only that the duel was fought and Standish is dead. God help me, I'm glad of it. The man you love avenged my honor, and I will never forget it."
"Nor will I," Serena murmured.
She went to him that night. The hour was late, the house quiet. After pushing open his door, she saw him with the moonlight and the candlelight tangled around him while he sat at the desk by the window penning a letter. The air coming through the open window was hot and still, so he had stripped to his breeches, leaving his shirt hung casually over the back of the chair. It was only an instant before he glanced up and saw her, only an instant that she could look at him unobserved. But the instant flashed into her mind and was seated there to make a memory as precious as a kiss.
The light fell over his skin, making her think of the marble statues Coll had described from his trip to Italy. Statues of gods and warriors. His hair, thick and dark, was tied back from his face and mussed a bit, as though he had worried it with his hand. His eyes were dark, as well, holding a combination she recognized as concentration and concern.
Her heart began to dance in her breast as she stood in the doorway. This was the man she loved, a man of action and loyalty. A man both reckless and deliberate, a man of arrogance and of compassion. A man of honor.
He looked up, and saw her. In the woods beyond an owl hooted, the sound rising on the air and fading like a ghost He set the quill down and rose even as she shut the door at her back. The movement stirred the air and sent the flame and its shadow wavering.
"Serena?"
"I needed to see you alone."
He released a difficult knot of bream. It took great care and great restraint not to cross to her and gather her up. She wore only a thin white linen nightdress, and had left her hair unbound to fall in a wild mass over her shoulders and down her back. "You should not have come here like this."
"I know." She moistened her lips. "I tried to sleep, but couldn't. You are leaving tomorrow."
"Yes." The intensity in his eyes softened, as did his voice. "My love, do I have to tell you again that I'll come back?" Tears threatened, but she willed them away. She would not leave him with the image of a weak, weeping woman. "No, but I have a need to tell you that I will wait. And I would be proud to be your wife when you come back to me." For a moment he said nothing, only stared, as if trying to read her face and be certain he had not misheard her. She stood, her hands folded. But she wasn't meek. Her eyes held fire, her chin was up. Now he crossed to her to take one of her hands in his.
"Has your father commanded you?"
"No, the decision is mine, only mine."
It was the answer he wanted, the one he had hoped for. Gently he brushed his lips over her knuckles. "I will make you happy, Rena. On my honor."
"I will be the wife you need." Somehow, she thought within her heart. "I swear it." He bent to kiss her brow. "You are the wife I need, my love. And the woman." Stepping back, he drew the emerald from his finger. "This ring has been worn by a Langston for more than a hundred years. I ask you to keep it for me until I return and give you another." He slipped it onto her finger. Serena curled her hand automatically to keep it there. "I shall give you another ring as soon as God allows, and my name, as well."
"Oh, Brigham, be safe." She threw herself into his arms. It was harder, much harder, to fight these tears than any others she had known. "If I lost you now, I couldn't bear to live. Know that if you bleed, I bleed, and take care."
"What's this?" With a light laugh he caressed her hair, but it was difficult to ignore the press of her thinly clad body against his. "Never say you worry about me, Rena."
"I will say it," she murmured against his shoulder. "If you allow yourself to be killed, I shall hate you forever."
"Then I will take great care to stay alive. Go now, before you make me feel too much alive." She gave a weak laugh. "I fear I have done that already, my lord." She shifted wantonly to prove there were no secrets between them. She had only to rise to her toes to fit herself unerringly against him. Desire to desire. "Does being near me do that to you?"
"All too often." His own laugh was strained as he fought off the drugging power of her scent, of her shape.
"I'm glad." She lifted her head to look up at him, and her smile was wicked. "Very glad." She made him laugh again. "You've flowered in front of my eyes, Rena. Under my hands." He kissed her, gently, though her lips tempted him. "I wonder if there is a more preci
ous gift a woman can give a man."
"I would give you another tonight." She drew his head down to hers. Her kiss was not so gentle. With it, she felt his body tense. "I would share your bed, Brig, your love and your sleep. No," she murmured against his lips before he could speak. "Don't tell me why it should not be, only show me why it must." She dragged her hands up his back to tangle her fingers in his hair while her lips moved restlessly on his. "Love me, Brigham. Love me so that I can live on it in all the empty days to come." He couldn't deny her. He could no longer deny himself. Her body trembled against his, no longer from fear, no longer from doubt, but only from need. With a muffled oath, he swept her into his arms. He would be leaving at dawn. Between then and now he could give her, give them, a few perfect hours.
Her body was fluid in his arms, cool, soft, languid. Her eyes were as rich, as hot, as the flash of emerald that had passed from his finger to hers. She kept her arms around his neck as he lowered her to the bed, so that he came down with her. Then, with his hands braced on either side of her head, he began to make love to her face with his mouth alone.
She thought she could float away on this kind of sweetness. It was like a cloud, delicate and dreamy. Her body felt light and free as her lips met his again and again in a slow, luxurious dance. Another minuet, she thought. Elegant, harmonious and beautiful. With a sigh she felt him slip the nightdress from her, then heard his quick intake of breath as he discovered for himself that she wore nothing beneath it.
"You are so lovely." He touched his lips to the pulse of her throat. "Here," he murmured as his fingertips brushed her breasts. "Here." And again, as his light, clever hands moved over her: "Here."
Giddiness speared through the languor. Giddiness and delight. "Is that why you fell in love with me, Sassenach? For my body?" He drew himself up far enough for a long, lazy study. "It was a great influence." Flushed, she laughed and pinched him. Then her laughter turned into a moan as he dipped his head and streaked his tongue over a hardening nipple.
"I love all of you, Serena. Your temper, your mind, your heart, and oh, yes…" His teeth closed teasingly over the peak. "Your body."
"Show me," she demanded breathlessly.
He showed her, with tenderness, with ardor, with restraint and with desperation. Every emotion they had shared became part of that endless night of loving. There were new ways. He guided her, delighted by the eagerness with which she learned, the passion with which she gave and received. There was no shyness in her. She came to him with a trust so complete that that alone nearly dragged him over the edge.
Skin grew slick in the airless night. Not a breeze stirred through the window. High above the bills, thunder rumbled. Closer, in the forest, the owl hunted. Its scream of triumph melded with the scream of its prey. The candle flickered and guttered out. They were aware of nothing but each other, nothing but the world they made on the soft mattress. She made him weak, and then she made him strong. She made him laugh, and then she made him groan. He was breathless, sated, then as eager to devour her as a man starving.
In the deepest part of the night they slept briefly, only to wake with the need spiraling high once more. There was no part of her he couldn't make ache or tremble. She could only hear her skin sing as he touched. Her body grew heavy with pleasure as it built and built to roll through her like the thunder in the distant bills. Then she was light, weightless, agilely skimming over him like a fantasy. Energy poured through her, molten.
She rose over him, her hair silvered with dying moon-tight, her skin sheened with damp, her face pate with an exhaustion she had yet to feel. She took him into her, arching her back as pleasure raced through her like delirium. The fever of it boiled under her skin until her hips moved like lightning. His name sobbed through her lips as she drove them both higher. Lost, she dragged her hands up her body, over her trembling stomach, up to her breasts, then down again until they met his.
At last she slid bonelessly down, her breath shuddering out, to lie in his arms.
"I wonder," she said when she could speak again, "if it is always like this. It makes me see how one might kill for love."
"For love." He shifted so that he could hold her yet closer. "It is not always like this. For me, it has only been like this with you." She turned her head so that she could see his face. The light was nearly gone in that hour before day begins to break through. "Truly?" He brought their joined hands to his lips. "Truly." She smiled a little, pleased. "If you take a mistress after we wed, I will kill her. Then you. But I will kill you more horribly."
He laughed, then took a quick bite at her lower lip. "Well I believe it. Even if I were tempted, you leave me too exhausted for a mistress."
"If I believed you were too tempted, I would leave you inadequate for a mistress." She slid a hand up his thigh meaningfully. He started to laugh again, but her bland expression had him lifting a brow. "By God, I think you would. Should I remind you that your pleasure would be, ah, cut off, as well?"
"The sacrifice would be great." She trailed her fingers over him, delighted when he shuddered. "The satisfaction is greater."
"Perhaps I should think twice about taking a jealous hellcat to wife."
The humor fled from her eyes. "You should. But I have come to know you will not"
"No. There is only one woman for me." He kissed her again before shifting her comfortably into the crook of his arm. "One day I will take you to Ashburn Manor and show you what is mine, what is ours, what shall be our children's. It's beautiful, Rena, graceful, timeless. Already I can picture you in the bed where I was born."
She started to protest, but her fingers grazed over the pucker of skin on his shoulder where his wound was still healing. "Then our first child will be born there." She turned her face into his throat "Oh, Brigham, I want your child inside me soon." Stunned, and deeply moved, he lifted her face to his again. "My God, you humble me. We shall have a dozen children if you like, be they all as bad-tempered as their mother."
That made her smile again. "Or as arrogant as their father." She relaxed against him again. Their time was nearly at an end. Already she could sense a faint lessening of the darkness. There had been a time for loving. Now was the time for truths.
"Brigham, there is something I need to ask you."
"At this moment, you could ask me anything."
"Why did you fight the English soldier, the one called Standish?"
The surprise came first, then the quick realization that Parkins and Mrs. Drummond gossiped as well as courted. "It was a matter of honor… He accused me of using weighted dice."
She said nothing for a moment then braced herself on her elbow to watch his face. "Why do you lie to me?"
"I don't lie. He lost, lost more, then decided there must have been a reason for it other than his lack of luck."
"Are you telling me you didn't know who he was? What he was… to me?"
"I knew who he was." He had hoped to keep the matter to himself. Since that was not to be, he decided to make his explanations quickly and be done with it. "One might say I encouraged him to make an accusation so that a duel would be fought." Her eyes were very intense. "Why?"
"It was also a matter of honor." Serena closed her eyes. Then, lifting his sword hand, she kissed it, almost reverently. "Thank you."
"Thanks are not necessary for killing a vicious dog." But he tensed even as she held his hand against her cheek. "You knew of this. Is that why you came to me tonight, why you agreed to be my wife?"
"Aye." When he started to pull away, she held him only tighter. "Don't. Let me say it all. It wasn't for gratitude that I came, though I am grateful. It wasn't for obligation, though I owe you a debt that can never be paid."
"You owe me nothing."
"Everything," she said passionately. "When I dream now of that night, when I see my mother's eyes after he had done with her, when I hear in my mind the way she wept, I will know that he is dead, and that he died by your hand. Knowing that, there is nothing I would deny you."
"I didn't kill him for your gratitude or to put you under obligation." His voice was stiff. "I want you as my wife, Serena, intend to have you, but not because you feel you owe a debt"
"I know that" She knelt beside him and putting her arms around him, buried her face in his neck. "Did I not tell you already that I come to you willingly? Can you doubt it after what we've shared?" She pressed her lips against his skin, then skimmed them up to his. "When I was told of the duel, of his death, I was glad, afraid, confused. Tonight, I lay in bed and it all came so clear. It was not your fight, my love, not your family, not your mother. But you made it so. He might have killed you."
"You have a poor opinion of my skill with a sword."
Shaking her head, she drew back a little. He could see by her face that she would not be put off lightly. "I bound your wound. Your blood was on my hand, as my mother's was that night so many years ago." She held it, palm out. "You bled for my family. I will remember that until the day I die. I loved you before, Brigham. I had already accepted I would love no other. But tonight I came to see that you had honored my family as a man honors his own. I shall honor yours, if you'll let me."
He took the hand she held out to him and turned it over so that the emerald lay dark upon her finger. "I leave you with my heart, Serena. When I return, I'll give you my name, as well."
She opened her arms to him. "For tonight, give me your love once more."
Chapter Twelve
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Prince Charles set his royal feet on the thin soil of Scotland in high summer, but not, as he and many others had hoped, in triumph. He was advised by MacDonald of Boisdale as he landed on the island of Eriskay to go home. His reply was terse, and telling.
"I am come home."
From Eriskay, he and the seven men who had sailed with him traveled to the mainland. There, too, the Jacobites were filled more with concern than enthusiasm. Support was slow in coming, but Charles sent out letters to the Highland chiefs. Cameron of Lochiel was among them, and though his support was given reluctantly, and perhaps with a heavy heart, it was given. So it passed that on August 19, in the year 1745, before some nine hundred loyal men, the standard was raised at Glenfinnan. Charles's father was proclaimed James VIII of Scotland and James III of England, with the young Prince as regent. The small force moved eastward, gathering strength. The clans rallied, words were pledged, and men bade goodbye to their women and joined the march.
Brigham's journeys through Scotland with Ian and with
Coll had given him a knowledge of the land. They were able to make good time, ironically enough on one of the roads built to discourage Highland rebellion. Using this, and the rugged hills for cover, they avoided the government garrisons at Fort William and Fort Augustus. Spirits were high, the men as rough and ready as their land. It had only taken, as Brigham had always imagined, the energy and force of the young Prince to bind them together. When men thought of the battles ahead, they thought not of their mortality but of victory, and of a justice that had been denied them too long.
Some were young; Brigham saw the future in their eager faces, in the way they laughed and looked at the Prince, who wore the dress of the Highlands and had fastened a white cockade, the symbol of his house, on his blue bonnet. Some were old, and there the past could be seen, the ageless pride, the battles already lost and won. They looked to the Prince, with his fresh Stuart blood, as the glue that would hold the clans together.
But old or young, eager or heavyhearted, Charles swept them along by the force of his personality alone. This was his time, and his place. He meant to make his mark.
The weather held fine, the breezes warm. It was said by some that God Himself had blessed the rebellion. For a time, it seemed so. The men and weapons that had been lost to the Jacobites when the Elizabeth had turned back were forgotten. Peat was plentiful for fires, and the water was fresh from icy mountain streams. The pipes were played, whiskey was drunk, and by night the men slept the good sleep men do when they begin an adventure.
It was to Brigham that word came that a government army had been dispatched north, headed by General Sir John Cope. Brigham took the news directly to the Prince as the men broke camp and prepared for the day's march.
Brigham watched the full, almost girlish mouth curve up into a smile that was very much a man's. "So we shall fight, at last."
"It appears so, Your Highness." The morning was warm, with the soft, watery light of Scotland gaming strength. The camp carried the scent of horses and soldiers and smoke. The rugged hills were softened now by a springy spread of heather. A golden eagle, early to the hunt, crested overhead.
"It seems a good day to fight," Charles murmured as he studied Brigham's face. "You would prefer we had Lord George with us."
"Lord George is an excellent field commander, your Highness."
"Indeed. But we have O'Sullivan." Charles gestured toward the Irish soldier of fortune who was organizing the men for the day's journey. Brigham already had doubts in that quarter. He didn't question the Irishman's loyalty to the Prince, but he felt there was more flash than caution. "If we are engaged, we shall fight"
"I look forward to it." Charles fingered the hilt of his sword as he gazed around him. He felt something for this land, something deep and true. When he was king, he would see that Scotland and her people were rewarded. "It's been a long journey, Brigham, a far distance from Louis's court and all those pretty faces."
"A long journey, Your Highness," Brigham agreed "But one well worth the making."
"I should tell you that there were tears on some of those pretty faces when you left. Have you taken time to break hearts in Scotland, as well?"
"There is only one face for me now, sire, and one heart I will take great care not to break." The prince's dark eyes were alight with amusement. "Well, well, it appears the dashing Lord Ashburn has fallen for a Highland lassie. Tell me, mon ami, is she as pretty as the luscious Anne-Marie?"
Brigham managed a wry grin. "I would beg Your Highness to make no comparisons, particularly in front of the Highland lassie. She has a rare temper."
"Does she?" With a delighted laugh, Charles signaled for his mount. "I am most anxious to meet her and see what manner of woman snared the most sought-after man at the French court."
The pipes sounded along the road, but Cope's troops were never seen. Word came that he had detoured to Inverness. The road to Edinburgh lay open to the rebels. Three thousand strong, they captured Perth after a short, vicious battle.