Rebellion, Page 8

  "You've kept to yourself so much the last few days. Are you feeling poorly?"

  "No, I'm just…" She let her words trail off, not certain she could explain to herself, much less her mother. "Restless. I suppose. Wanting spring." She fell silent again, staring into the fire. "When do you think Papa will be back?"

  "Tomorrow. Perhaps the day after." Fiona stroked the brush tirelessly through Serena's hair. Her daughter's pensive mood had come on the day the hunting party had left. "Do you worry about him?"

  "No." She sighed, and her hands moved nervously in her lap. "Sometimes I worry where it will all end, but I don't worry for Papa." Abruptly she linked her fingers together to still them. "I wish I were a man." The statement brought Fiona some measure of relief, as it was typical. With a little laugh, she kissed the top of Serena's head. "What foolishness is this?"

  "I do. If I were a man I wouldn't forever be forced to sit and wait." And want, she thought, want something so nebulous she could never describe it.

  "If you were a man you would rob me of one of the greatest pleasures of my life." With another sigh, Serena quieted. "I wish I were more like you—more like Gwen."

  "You are what you were born to be, love, and nothing pleases me more."

  "I wish I did please you. I wish I could."

  "What, more nonsense?"

  "There are times I know you are disappointed with me."

  "No, not disappointed, never that." For a moment, Fiona wrapped her arms around Serena and pressed cheek to cheek. "When you were born, I thanked God for giving you to me whole and safe. My heart was nearly broken from losing the two bairns between Coll and you. I feared

  I'd have no more children, then there you were, small as a minute, strong as a horse. What a time you gave me with the birthing. The midwife said you clawed your way into the world. Women don't go to war, Serena, but I tell you this, there would be no children in the world if men had to bring them into it."

  That made Serena laugh. She tucked her legs up and settled more comfortably. "I remember when Malcolm came. Papa went to the stables and got drunk."

  "So it was with all of you," Fiona said, smiling. "He's a man who would sooner face a hundred dragoons with only a dirk than set foot in a birthing room."

  "How did you know—When you met him, how did you know you loved him?"

  "I'm not sure I did." Dreaming herself, Fiona studied the fire. "The first time was at a ball. Alice MacDonald, Mary MacLeod and I were the best of friends. Alice MacDonald's parents were having a ball for her birthday. The MacDonalds of Glenfinnan. Your father's good friend Donald, as you know, is Alice's brother. Alice wore green, Mary blue, and I wore white with my grandmother's pearls. We had our hair powdered and thought we were very fashionable and beautiful."

  "I know you were."

  With a little sigh, Fiona stopped brushing to rest her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "The music was very gay, and the men so handsome. Your father had Donald introduce him, and he asked me to dance. I did, of course, but I was thinking—what do I want with this great beast of a man? He'll probably tread on my toes and ruin my new slippers."

  "Oh, Mama, never say you thought Papa couldn't dance."

  "I did, and was shown contrary, as you've witnessed time and time again. No one danced with more grace and lightness of foot than Ian MacGregor."

  It pleased Serena, the mental picture she conjured up of her parents young and sharing their first dance. "So you fell in love with him for the way he danced."

  "No, indeed. I flirted with him, I confess. Alice and Mary and myself had made a pact to flirt with all the men at the ball until we had a score of suitors. We had decided we would choose only the most handsome, the most elegant and the wealthiest for husbands." With some astonishment, Serena looked over her shoulder. "You, Mama?"

  "Aye, I was quite vain and full of myself." Fiona laughed and patted hair that was just beginning to show the first signs of graying. "My father had spoiled me miserably, you see. The next day, your father called on the MacDonalds, where I was staying. To ride out with Donald, he said, but he made certain I saw him striding around the house as if he owned it. Over the next weeks he put himself in my way more times than I could count. He wasn't the most handsome, the most elegant or the wealthiest of the men who called on me, but in the end, it was he I wanted."

  "But how did you know?" Serena insisted. "How could you be sure?"

  "When my heart spoke louder than my head," Fiona murmured, studying her daughter. So this was the problem, she realized, and wondered how she could have missed the signs. Her little one was falling in love. Rapidly Fiona ran through the names and faces of the young men who had come calling. She could not recall Serena sparing even one of them a second glance. In fact, Fiona thought with a frown, Serena had sent most of them off with their tails between their legs.

  "There has to be more than that." As confused as she was unsatisfied, Serena plucked at the folds of her skirts. "There has to be a rightness to it, a sense to it. If Papa had been different, if you hadn't had the same beliefs, the same backgrounds, your heart would never have spoken at all."

  "Love doesn't account for differences, Rena," Fiona said slowly. A sudden thought had intruded, one that made her uncertain whether to laugh or weep. Had her daughter, her fiery, headstrong daughter, fallen in love with the English lord?

  "My sweet." Fiona touched a hand to Serena's cheek. "When love happens it's most often right, but it rarely makes sense."

  "I'd rather be alone," Serena said passionately. Her eyes glowed in the firelight, showing as much confusion as determination. "I'd rather play aunt to Coll's and Gwen's and Malcolm's children than find myself pining after a man I know would make me unhappy."

  "That's your head talking, and your temper." Fiona's hand was as gentle as her voice. "Falling in love is frightening, especially for a woman who tries to fight it."

  "I don't know." She turned her cheek into her mother's hand. "Oh, Mama, why don't I know what I want?"

  "When the time's right, you will. And you, the most courageous of my children, will take it." Her fingers tightened suddenly on Serena's cheek. They both heard the rumble of horses approaching. For a moment, in the light of the fire, both remembered another time, another night.

  "Papa's back early." Serena rose to take her mother's hand.

  "Aye." Degree by degree, Fiona forced herself to relax. "He'll be wanting something hot." The men had ridden hard in their desire to sleep in their own beds. They had indeed hunted, and came home laden with fresh-killed deer and rabbit and wild duck. The house, which had been so quiet, erupted with Ian's shouts and commands. Clad in her night robe, Serena had decided to remain upstairs until she heard her father bellowing for her.

  She began smoothing her hair and skirts, then stopped herself in disgust. It hardly mattered what she looked like. She came down to see her father, his face still reddened by the bite of wind, giving Gwen a hearty kiss. Coll sat near the fire, a lap robe covering his knees and Malcolm perched laughing on the arm of his chair.

  With a full cup already in his hand, his other dug into his breeches pocket, Brigham stood in front of the hearth. His hair was ruffled by the ride, his boots splashed with mud. Despite her resolve not to, she found her eyes drawn to his. For the space of three heartbeats, there was nothing and no one else.

  Nor was there for him. He watched her enter, her dark green robe flowing down her, her hair glowing like firelight. Brigham's fingers tightened so quickly, so violently, on the pewter cup that he thought they might leave dents. Deliberately relaxing them, he sketched her a bow. Her chin shot up, making him want more than anything else to stride across the room and crush her against him.

  "There she is, my little Highland wildcat." Ian threw open his arms. "Have you got a kiss for your Papa?" She gave him a saucy smile. "I might." Crossing to him, she gave him a very demure peck on the cheek. Then, with a laugh, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a loud, smacking one. He responded by lifting
her off her feet and twirling her twice.

  "Now here's a likely lass," he told the room in general. "If a man can survive the claws, he'll have a prize worth keeping."

  "I'll not be a prize for any man." She gave his beard a hard, disrespectful tug that earned her a slap on the bottom and a grin.

  "You see I speak the truth, Brig. She's a lively one. I've a good mind to give you to Duncan MacKinnon, as he asks me nigh on every week."

  "And so you may, Father," she said mildly. "He'll be less of a nuisance once I slice him in two." He laughed again. Though all his children delighted him, Serena held the tightest grip on his heart. "Fill my cup, brat, and the rest besides. Young Duncan's not the match for you."

  She did as he bade, passing the cup to him before walking over to add to Brigham's. It was impossible to resist raising her gaze to his, or allowing the challenge to glow in her eyes. "Nor, perhaps, is any man," she responded. When a gauntlet was thrown down, Brigham was honor bound to pick it up. "It may be, my lady, that none has yet taught you to sheathe your claws."

  "In truth, my lord, none who tried have survived."

  "It would seem you're in need of a man made of tougher stuff."

  She lifted a brow as if assessing him. "Believe me, I'm not in need of a man at all." His eyes warned her he could prove her wrong, but he only smiled. "Forgive me, madam, but a high-strung mare rarely understands the need for a rider."

  "Oh, please." Coll choked on his own laughter and held up a hand. "Don't encourage him, Rena. The man can go on like that for hours, and you'll never win. Have pity and bring that jug here. My cup's empty."

  "As your head is," she muttered, and poured whiskey into the cup her brother held out

  "Easy, lass, don't flay me. I'm still a sick man."

  "Are you now?" With a smile, she snatched the cup from him. "Then you'll be wanting one of Gwen's brews and not whiskey." She tossed it off herself before he could grab it.

  "Wench." Grinning, he pulled her down in his lap. "Pour me some more and I'll keep your secrets."

  "Hah! What secrets?"

  He put his mouth to her ear and whispered only one word. "Breeches."

  Serena swore under her breath and filled the cup again. "So you haven't been so sick you couldn't spy out your window," she muttered to him.

  "A man takes what weapons he can."

  "If you children would stop your bickering…" Ian waited until all eyes were on him. "We found the MacDonalds well. Donald's brother Daniel is a grandfather again. His third, which shames me." He sent a look at his two oldest children, who forgot their annoyance with each other long enough to give their father identical smiles. "Well you should grin like a couple of simpletons while neglecting your duties to the clan. A better father would have had you both married off and breeding, willing or not."

  "There is no better father than our own," Serena said, and watched him soften.

  "We'll pass over that. I've invited Maggie MacDonald to visit."

  "Oh, good Lord," Coll moaned. "Talk of nuisances."

  The comment earned him a cuff on the ear from his sister. "She's a great friend of mine, I'll remind you. When does she come?"

  "Next week." Ian sent Coll a stern look. "And I'll remind you, my lad, that no guest in my home is a nuisance."

  "They are when they're forever underfoot so that you can't walk but trip over them." Then he relented, knowing that hospitality was a matter of honor and tradition. "No doubt she'll have outgrown that by now and be happy in Rena's and Gwen's company." The next days passed in a flurry of activity in preparation for the expected company. As was Fiona's wont, wood and silver were polished, foods prepared, floors scrubbed. Serena welcomed the diversion and was too used to work to resent the extra labor. She looked forward to the company of a girl her own age who had been her friend since childhood. Now that Coll had mended, he and Brigham rode out often, sometimes in the company of Ian and other men, sometimes alone. There were discussions nightly debating the Jacobite cause and the Prince's next move. Rumors flew from hill to glen, from burn to forest. The Prince was on his way. The Prince was in Paris. The Prince was never coming at all.

  Once, a messenger had been hustled into the drawing room with a dispatch for Brigham. The doors had remained shut on the men for hours, and the rider had left again after dark. Whatever news he had brought had not been passed on to the women, a fact Serena bitterly resented.

  In the kitchen, with the fire blazing, Serena dealt with the washing, her share and Gwen's. She had exchanged her polishing duties for Gwen's help with the laundry. It suited her. She preferred stamping on linen in the big tub to cramping her hands with beeswax. With her skirts kilted up, she waded in water up to her calves. She enjoyed the energy it took, just as now she enjoyed the solitude of the kitchen. Mrs. Drummond was visiting a neighbor for an exchange of recipes and gossip. Malcolm was about his lessons, and their mother was supervising the preparation of a guest room.

  Serena high-stepped like a pony in the cooling water, humming to herself to make the chore less monotonous and to keep the rhythm steady.

  She wondered if Brigham had found Maggie MacDonald pretty and if he had kissed her hand the way he had once kissed her own. Why should it matter? she asked herself, and began to stamp on the wash with more vigor. The man had barely spared her a glance since he had returned, and that was precisely the way she preferred it. He meant nothing to her, at least no more than any prickly thorn in her side.

  She wished he would go away. Serena began to stamp harder, until water rose to the lip of the tub. She wished he would take his cool voice and hot eyes back to London—or to hell, for that matter. She wished he would fall in the river and catch a chill, then waste slowly, painfully, away. Better yet, she wished he would come in, fall on his knees and beg her for one smile. Of course, she would sneer. She wished—

  She stopped wishing, stopped washing, stopped thinking, when he strode into the room. Brigham was brought up short, just as she was. He had thought she was busy upstairs with her mother, or in the dining hall with her sister. For days he had made a science out of avoiding her and the discomfort and pleasure being in her company brought him. Now she was here, alone in the overheated kitchen, her face flushed with exercise, her hair escaping from its pins, and her skirts—Dear God.

  Her legs were pale and wet and as shapely as any man could dream of. Before he controlled himself, he watched a drop of water slide down from her knee, along one smooth calf and into the tub. His breath hissed out softly between his teeth.

  "Well, this is an unexpected and charming domestic scene."

  "You've no business in the kitchen, Lord Ashburn."

  "Your father persuaded me to make myself at home. As everyone is occupied, I thought it would be less trouble for me to come in and charm Mrs. Drummond out of some soup."

  "It's there in the pot." She indicated the steaming kettle. "Help yourself to it and take it away. I've got too much to do to wait on you."

  "So I see." He recovered enough to walk closer. She smelled of soap and made his stomach quiver. "Madam, I assure you, I will never sleep quite the same again knowing how my bed linen was washed."

  She swallowed a chuckle and began to stamp in the water again. "It does the job, Sassenach, and does it well. Now, if you'll be about your business, I'll be about mine before the water goes cold." Inspired perhaps by the devil, she brought her foot down hard and sent water splashing over his breeches. "Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord." Unable to prevent it, she snickered. Brigham looked down at his breeches and gave a wry shake of his head. "Perhaps you think these need washing, as well."

  "Toss them in," she invited recklessly. "I've had a mind to plant my foot on your breeches before."

  "Have you?" He reached down toward the fastening and had the satisfaction of watching her eyes widen. Flushing to the roots of her hair, she stepped back and nearly tumbled down in the water.

  "Brigham—"

  He caught her before she could send herself and t
he washwater all over the kitchen. "There, I knew I would have it out of you again." He had an arm around her waist, another on her hair. The remaining pins plopped into the water and sunk. Serena stood, flustered, with her arms trapped between their bodies. "What?"

  "My name," he murmured. "Say it again."

  "I've no need to." She moistened her lips, unwittingly stirring his blood all the more. "And you've no need to hold me. I have my balance now."

  "But I do have a need, Rena. I've told myself three days running that I cannot, I should not, I shall not touch you." As he spoke he ran his hand up her back, down her hair, as if he could take as he chose. "But I have a need. The same one I see now in your eyes." She hated herself for lowering them. "You see nothing."

  "Everything," he corrected, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Oh, God, I haven't been able to get the scent of you out of my mind, the taste of you off my palate."

  "Stop." If she could have freed her hands, she would have covered her ears with them. "I won't listen."

  "Why?" The hand on her hair tightened so that she was forced to lift her head. "Because I'm English?"

  "No. Yes. I don't know." Her voice rose, roughened by the beat of her pulse. "I only know I don't want this. I don't want to feel the way you make me feel."

  He felt a moment of triumph as he dragged her closer. "How do I make you feel, Rena?"

  "Weak, afraid, angry. No, don't," she whispered as his lips hovered above hers. "Don't kiss me."

  "Then kiss me." He brushed his lips lightly over hers.

  "I won't."

  His lips curved as hers met them. "You already are."

  With a shuddering moan, she clutched at him, taking what her heart wanted and blocking out the warning in her head. He wasn't for her, could never be for her, and yet when he held her it seemed as though he had always been for her. His lips teased and retreated, seduced and tormented, until she was driven to take possession. Had she told him he made her feel weak? That was a lie, she thought dimly. She felt strong, incredibly strong, with energy coursing through her and pumping through her blood until it ran hot. A woman could fear weakness, but not power.

  She wrapped her arms around him, let her head fall back and her lips part as she all but dared him to try to sap her strength. It was like holding a lightning bolt, he thought. Full of fire and flash and dangerous power. One moment he was coaxing, the next he was bombarded with the heat that seemed to radiate from her. Murmuring her name, he lifted her from the water. He held her aloft for a moment, then slowly let her slide down his body until her feet hit the floor.

  Then her lips were racing over his face. She slipped her hands beneath his coat to run them impatiently over the linen of his shut. Her body was arched against his, begging to be touched. Her breasts yielded temptingly against his chest Knowing his only choices were to pull her to the floor and pleasure them both or stop, Brigham dragged himself away.

  "Serena." He took born of her hands and brought them to his lips. "We must talk."

  "Talk?" Thoughts couldn't surface in a head that swam so thickly.

  "Yes, and soon, before I abuse the trust of your father and my friend more than I already have." She stared at him a moment, and then her mind began to clear. Pulling her hands away, she pressed them to her cheeks. How could she have thrown herself at him in that way? "I don't want to talk, I want you to go away."

  "Want or not, we will talk." He grabbed her hands again before she could turn away. "Serena, we can't pretend that something doesn't happen between us every time we're together. I may not want this any more than you, but I'm not fool enough to say it doesn't exist."

  "It will pass," she said, desperate to believe it. "Desires come, and they go." He lifted a brow. "Such cool and worldly talk from a woman in bare feet."

  "Oh, leave me be, will you?" She shoved at him. "I was fine and happy before you came here. I'll be fine and happy when you leave."

  "The hell you will." He pulled her against him again. "If I were to leave now, you'd weep." Pride stiffened her spine. "I'll never shed a tear over you. Why should I? You're not the first man I've kissed, and you won't be the last." His eyes narrowed to slits, darkened like onyx. "You live dangerously, Serena."

  "I live as I please. Now let me go."

  "So I'm not the first you've kissed," he murmured. He had a desperate and vivid desire to know the names and faces of each one so he could murder them. "Tell me, did the others make you tremble?" He kissed her again, hard enough to make her gasp. "Did they make your skin go hot and soft?" His mouth came to hers again, and this time she could do nothing but sigh against his lips and let him have his way. "Did you look at them the way you look at me now?" he demanded. "With your eyes dark and clouded?" She clutched at his shoulders, almost afraid she would dissolve and slide through his hands. "Brigham—"

  "Did you?" he demanded, his eyes dark and bright.

  Her head was reeling, and she shook it. "No."

  "Serena, I've finished in—" Gwen pushed open the door, then stood, her mouth forming a surprised O as she stared at her sister caught in a close embrace with their guest. Serena stood on the toes of her bare feet, gripping Brigham's beautiful coat. And he—Gwen's young imagination caused her blush to deepen.

  "I beg your pardon," she managed, and continued to stand, looking from one to the other without the least idea what to do.

  "Gwen." With more force than dignity, Serena pulled out of Brigham's arms. "Lord Ashburn was just—"

  "Kissing your sister," he finished coolly.

  "Oh." Gwen watched Serena send Brigham a furious glance. "I do beg your pardon," she repeated, wondering if it would be best to go or stay.

  Amused, Brigham watched Gwen wrestle with propriety while Serena whirled to the cupboard and rattled crockery. "There's no need to beg anyone's pardon," she said testily. "Lord Ashburn wanted soup."

  "So I did, but as it happens I've had all my appetite can handle at the moment. If you ladies will excuse me…" He strolled out, wincing only slightly as a bowl hit the floor.