Chapter Nine
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 nothing, 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.
He found it almost unbearably arousing to have her inexperienced hands undress him. With his eyes closed he traced kisses over her
brow, her temples, her jaw, while his body tensed and hardened from the hesitant movements of her fingers. It was torture of the most
exquisite kind. He realized that he was moving slowly not only for Serena and her innocence but for himself. Every instant, every
heartbeat they shared here would be remembered.
She tugged off his shirt, her gaze skimming down over his bare flesh as delicately as her fingertips did. Slowly, almost afraid her hand
might pass through him, she reached out to touch.
They were still kneeling, their bodies swaying closer, their breath mingling as mouth was drawn to mouth. Her mind began to whirl as
she stroked her hands over him. His skin was smooth, while the muscles beneath were hard. She felt awe, as well as excitement,
wonder, as well as nerves. Who would have thought a man could feel beautiful?
The sun warmed his skin as it poured over the little patch of ground they had chosen. Birds trilled in the wood beyond. On the far side of
the lake, deer came quietly to drink.
As he nuzzled her neck, she felt herself go weak. She thought she knew what was to follow, but the pleasure was more than she had
ever dreamed it could be.
His hands were very sure as they cupped her breasts, dragging a moan out of her as the rough material shifted and rubbed over her
skin. In submission, in acceptance, in demand, her back arched and her head fell back, leaving him free to plunder. She felt his mouth
cover her, nipping and sucking through the material. The tingling started deep within her stomach and spread until her body seemed
alive with nerves. Then what had gone before vanished from her mind as he peeled the chemise aside and found her flesh.
She cried out in surprise and pleasure, her hands reaching for his shoulders and gripping for balance. Yet she felt as though she were
falling still.
She shuddered against him, strained against him, confused, delighted, desperate for more. What she had offered, she had offered of her
own free will. What she gave now, she gave without thought, without reason. When she tumbled back on the blanket, she was stripped
of defenses and open to whatever commands he might give.
He had to fight back the first sharp-edged need to take. It was like a knife turning slowly in his gut. Her arms were wrapped around him,
her breasts, small and white, shivering at each touch. He saw that her eyes were clouded, not with fear, no longer with confusion, but
with newly awakened passions. If he were to take her now, as his body begged to, she would open for him.
But the need in his heart beat as strong as the need in his loins. He would give her more than she had asked, perhaps more than either
of them could understand.
"I've dreamed of this, Serena." His voice was low as he bent his head for the next kiss. "I've dreamed of undressing you like this." He
slipped the chemise from her. Now only the breeze and Brigham caressed her. "Of touching what no man has touched." He skimmed a
fingertip up her thigh and watched her mouth tremble open in speechless pleasure.
"Brigham. I want you."
"And you shall have me, my love." He circled the rigid point of her breast with his tongue, then drew it slowly, almost painfully, into his
mouth. "Before you do, there is much, much more."
If she could have spoken again, she would have said it was impossible. Her body seemed sated already, sensation rolling over
sensation, shudder wracked by shudder. Then he began.
The eyes that had begun to close flew open in stunned awakening. Her hips arched up, meeting his questing lips just before the first
flood of terrifying pleasure poured through her. Gasping, she groped for him, only to find her damp palms sliding off his skin as he moved
over her, lighting fires where he willed.
The roaring in her ears prevented her from hearing herself call his name again and again. But he heard. Nothing he had heard before or
would hear again would ever sound quite so sweet. She moved under him, bucking, twisting, trembling as he found and exploited new
secrets. The dark taste of passion filled his mouth, driving him to find more, to give more.
Her skin was hot and damp wherever he touched, making him mad with thoughts of how she would be when he filled her. Could she
know how weak she made him, how completely she satisfied him? His mind teemed with thoughts of her, memories he knew would
follow him until he died. Each time he took a breath he drew in the scent of her skin, sheened now with her passion and his. No other
woman would ever tempt him again, because no other woman would be Serena.
She wanted to beg him to stop. She wanted to beg him never to stop. Each breath she dragged into her lungs seemed to clog there
until she feared she would die from lack of air or the surplus of it. Her eyes filled with tears, not from sorrow or regret but from the ache
of a beauty so great she knew she could never describe it. Her strength ebbed and flowed, rushing into her like wildfire, then pouring out
like a waterfall. But weak or strong, she had never known pleasure so huge. In some corner of her brain she wanted to know if he felt the
same. But each time she began to ask, he would touch her again and send her thoughts spinning into a void of sensation.
When his lips came back to hers, she tasted desperation on them. Wanting to soothe, she answered with her heart, pulling him close.
He slipped into her, fighting with every fiber of his being to take her gently, struggling against every urge to plunge in to his own
satisfaction. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine. The muscles in his arms quivered as he braced over her and watched, as he had
dreamed of watching, her face as he made her his.
She cried out, but not in pain. Perhaps there was pain, but it was so smothered in pleasure that she couldn't feel it. Only him. She
could feel only him as he moved into her, became part of her. With her eyes open and focused on his, she matched his rhythm. Slow…
beautifully, gloriously slow. The moment when they joined would be savored, like the finest of old wines, the purest of promises.
He bent to take her lips again and swallowed her sigh. He could feel her pulse around him as clearly as he could feel her hands stroke
down his back. When he thrust deep inside her, she arched and the sigh became a moan. Now it was she who changed the rhythm and
he who followed. It no longer mattered who was rider, who was ridden, as they raced together. His last thought as his pleasure burst
into her was that he had found home.
She wasn't certain she would ever move again, or that she would ever wish to. Her skin was cooling now that the heat of passion had
faded into a softer glow of contentment. They lay tangled in the blanket, with the shadows growing long around them. His face was
buried in her hair, his hand cupped loosely at her breast.
How much time had passed she couldn't be sure. She knew the sun was no longer high overhead, but there was a timelessness she
needed to cling to for just a little longer. It was almost possible, if she kept her eyes closed and refused to think, to believe it would
always be like this. With the afternoon shimmering around them, the woods quiet but for the call of birds, it was difficult to believe that
politics and war could pull them apart.
She loved as she had never thought to love, in a way she hadn't known was possible. If only it could all be as simple as a blanket
spread beside the water. "I love you, Rena."
She opened her eyes to see that he was watching her. "Aye. I know you do. And I love you." She traced her fingers along his face as if
to memorize it. "I wish we could stay like this."
"We'll be like this again. Soon." She shifted away from him to reach for her chemise. "Can you doubt that? Now?"
It was more important than ever to keep her voice steady. She loved him too much, much too much, to beg him to stay. She began to
lace up her bodice. "I know that you love me, and that you wish it could be so. I know that what we shared here will never be shared
with anyone else."
"You don't think I'll come back." He dragged his shirt on and wondered how any one woman could pull so many emotions from his heart.
She touched his hand. She had no regrets, and she needed him to understand that. "I think if you come back, you'll come for the sake
of the Prince. It's right that you should."
"I see." He began to dress methodically. "So you believe what happened here between us will be forgotten when I reach London."
"No." She stopped struggling with her own buttons and leached for him. "No, I believe what happened here will be remembered always.
When I'm very old and I feel the first hint of spring I'll think of today and of you."
The anger came quickly, making him dig his fingers into her arms. "Do you mink mat's enough for me? If you do, you're either very
stupid or mad."
"It's all there can be—" she began, but her words slipped down her throat as he shook her.
"When I come back to Scotland, I come for you. Make no mistake Serena. And when this war is over, I'll take you with me."
"If I had only myself to think of, I would go." She clutched at his coat, willing him to understand. "Can't you see that I would die slowly
with the shame to my family?"
"No, by God, I can't see that being my wife would bring your family shame."
"Your wife?" She could barely whisper the words, then jerked back as if he had slapped her. "Marriage?"
"Of course marriage. What did you think—?" Then he saw, and saw clearly, just what it was she believed he was asking her. His anger
turned inward until it was a dull heat in the pit of his stomach. "Is this what you thought I meant the last time we were here?" he
demanded. "Is this what you needed to think through?" His laugh was quick and humorless. "You think highly of me, Serena."
"I…" Because her legs were weak, she sank limply onto a rock. "I thought… I understood that men took mistresses, and…"
"And so they do," he said curtly. "And so I have, but only a dim-witted fool would have thought I was offering you anything but my heart
and my name."
"How was I supposed to know you meant marriage?" She sprang up to face him again. "You never said so."
"I've already spoken with your father." His voice was stiff as he snatched up the plaid.
"You've spoken with my father?" she repeated, measuring each word. "You spoke with my father without ever speaking to me?"
"It's proper to ask your father's permission."
"The devil with proper." She grabbed the blanket from him. "You had no right going behind my back to him without ever saying a word to
me."
He took a long look at her tumbled hair, at her lips still swollen from his. "I believe I did more than say a word to you, Serena."
She flushed, then marched over to toss the blanket over her horse. "I'm not so green that I think what has passed here always leads to
marriage." She might have struggled into the saddle if Brigham hadn't whirled her around.
"Do you think I'm in the habit of seducing virgins and then making them my mistresses?"
"I don't know your habits."
"Then know this," he began as the horse danced skittishly aside. "I intend you for my wife."
"You intend. You intend." She shoved him away. "Perhaps in England you can bully, my lord, but here I have some say in my life. And I
say I won't marry you, and you must be mad to think it."
"Did you lie when you said you love me?" he demanded.
"No. No, but—" The words were lost as his lips crushed down on hers.
"Then you lie when you say you won't be my wife."
"I can't be," she said desperately. "How can I leave here and go with you to England?"
His fingers tensed on her arms. "So, it comes down to that once more."
"You must see, you must, how it would be." She began to speak very fast, taking his arms, as well, willing him to understand. "I would
live there because I loved you, because you asked it of me, and end by bringing shame on both of us. You would hate me before a year
had passed. I'm not meant to be an earl's wife, Brigham."
"An English earl," he corrected.
She took the time to draw a deep breath. "I'm a laird's daughter, it's true, but I'm not fool enough to believe that's enough. I would hate
being trapped in London when I want to ride through the hills. You yourself have told me more than once that I'm not a lady. I'll never be
one. I would make a poor wife for the earl of Ashburn."
"Then you will make a poor one, but you will be my wife."
"No." She dried her cheeks with her knuckles. "I will not."
"You'll have no choice, Rena, when I go to your father and tell him I've compromised you."
The tears stopped, to be replaced by shock, then fury. "You wouldn't dare."
"I would," he said grimly.
"He would kill you."
Brigham only raised a brow. Beneath them, his eyes were dark and growing cold. Men he had faced in battle would have recognized the
look. "I believe the father is not quite so bloodthirsty as the daughter." Before she could speak again, he lifted her into the saddle. "If you
refuse to marry me because you love me, then you will marry me because you are commanded."
"I would rather marry a two-headed toad."
He launched himself into his saddle beside her. "But you will marry me, my dear, smiling or weeping. My journey to London should give
you time to think sensibly. I will speak with your father and make arrangements when I return."
After sending him a furious look, Serena kicked her heels. She hoped he broke his neck on the ride to London.
And when he left the following morning, she wept her own broken heart into her pillow.