Chapter Four
She would have enjoyed killing him, Serena thought. With a sword. No, a sword was much too clean, much too civilized, for English
vermin. Unless, of course, she used it to sever small pieces from him one at a time rather than end his worthless life with one thrust
through the heart. She smiled to herself as she imagined it. A quick hack there, a slow, torturous slice here.
Her thoughts might have been gruesome, but no one would have guessed by looking at her. She was the picture of quiet feminine
occupation as she sat in the warm kitchen and churned butter. It was true that when her thoughts darkened she brought the plunger
down with unwarranted force, but the energy, whatever its source, only made the job go faster.
He'd had no right to kiss her that way, to force himself on her. And less right than that to make her like it. With her hands wrapped
around the wooden staff, Serena sent the plunger dancing. Miserable English cur. And she had patched up his hurts with her own
hands, served him a meal in her own house. Not willingly, perhaps not graciously, but she had done it nonetheless.
If she told her father what Brigham had dared to do…
She paused for a moment as she dreamed of that possibility. Her father would rage and bellow and very likely whip the English dog
within an inch of his miserable life. That made her smile again, the picture of the high-and-mighty earl of Ashburn groveling in the dirt, his
arrogant gray eyes clouded with terror.
She began to churn faster as her smile turned into a snarl. The picture was right enough, but she'd prefer to hold the whip herself. She
would make him whimper as he sprawled at her feet.
It was true, and perhaps sad, Serena thought, that she had such a love of violence. It concerned her mother. No doubt it was a pity she
hadn't inherited her mother's temperament rather than her father's, but there it was. It was rare for a day to go by when Serena didn't
lose her MacGregor temper and then suffer pangs of guilt and remorse because of it.
She wanted to be more like her mother—calm, steady, patient. The good Lord knew she tried, but it just wasn't in her. At times she
thought God had made the tiniest mistake with her, forgetting the sugar and adding just a dab too much vinegar. But if God was entitled
to a mistake, wasn't she then entitled to her temper?
With a sigh, she continued the monotonous chore of working the plunger up and down.
It was true enough that her mother would have known exactly the proper way to handle Lord Ashburn and his unwanted advances. She
would have become frigidly polite when he'd gotten that look in his eyes. That look, Serena thought, that told a woman instinctively that
he meant mischief. By the time Fiona MacGregor had been done with him, Lord Ashburn would have been putty in her hands.
For herself, she had no way with men. When they annoyed her, she let them know it—with a box on the ear or a sharp-tongued diatribe.
And why not? she thought, scowling. Why the devil not? Just because she was a woman, did she have to act coy and pretend to be
flattered when a man tried to slobber all over her?
"You'll be turning that butter rancid with those looks, lassie."
With a sniff, Serena began to work in earnest "I was thinking of men, Mrs. Drummond."
The cook, a formidably built woman with graying black hair and sparkling blue eyes, cackled. She had been a widow these past ten
years and had the hands of a farmer, thick fingered, wide palmed and rough as tree bark. Still, no one in the district had a better way
with a joint of meat or a dainty fruit tart.
"A woman should have a smile on her face when she thinks of men. Scowls send them off, but a smile brings them around quick
enough."
"I don't want them around." Serena bared her teeth and ignored her aching shoulders. "I hate them."
Mrs. Drummond stirred the batter for her apple cake. "Has that young Rob MacGregor come sniffing around again?"
"Not if he values his life." Now she did smile as she remembered how she had dispatched the amorous Rob.
"A likely enough lad," Mrs. Drummond mused. "But not good enough for one of my lassies. When I see you courted, wedded and
bedded, it'll be to quality."
Serena began to tap her foot in time with her churning. "I don't think I want to be courted, wedded or bedded."
"Whist now, of course you do. In time." She gave a quick grin as her spoon beat a steady tattoo against the bowl. The muscles in her
arms were as solid as mountain rock. "It has its merits. Especially the last."
"I don't want to find myself bound to a man just because of what happens in a marriage bed."
Mrs. Drummond shot a quick look at the doorway to be certain Fiona wasn't nearby. The mistress was kindness itself, but she would
get that pinched look on her face if she heard her cook and her daughter discussing delicate matters over the butter churn.
"A better reason is hard to find—with the right man. My Duncan, now there was a man who knew how to do his duty, and there were
nights I went to sleep grateful for it. Rest his soul."
"Did he ever make you feel—" Serena paused a moment, groping for the right words "—well, like you'd been riding fast over the rocks
and couldn't get your breath?"
Mrs. Drummond narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure that Rob hasn't been around?"
Serena shook her head. "Being with Rob's like riding a lame pony uphill. You think it'll never be done with." Her own eyes were bright
with laughter as she looked up at the cook.
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 chum 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 gentlemen."
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 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 whining 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 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 hands 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 the 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.
His grip relaxed as he stumbled back, swearing. Deciding against assessing the damage, Serena spun on her heels and dashed for her
horse. Still swearing, he caught her in three strides.
He lifted her off the ground, his arms locked firmly around her waist, while she kicked and cursed. She didn't fight like a woman, with
shrieks and scratches, but with hands knotted into fits and muttered oaths. He discovered she weighed next to nothing and could
wriggle like a snake.
"Hold still, damn you. You'll pay for that."
"Let go of me!" She struggled and tossed her weight backward, hoping to unbalance him. "I'll kill you if I get the chance."
"Well I believe it," he said bitterly. Her struggles broke his grip, and his hand moved up and over her breast. The contact shocked both of
them, and the combat took on a new desperation. "Be still, damn it" Out of breath and patience, he tried to find a purchase that was
less arousing. Seeing her chance, Serena sank her teeth into the back of his hand. "Bloody viper," he managed before her heel
connected with his still-tender shin and sent them both tumbling to the ground.
He told himself it was instinct, certainly not any concern for her welfare, that had him cushioning her fall. The impact knocked the breath
from both of them and left them tangled together like lovers. The moment she had recovered, Serena brought her knee up, barely
missing her mark.
They rolled over a bed of pine needles and dried leaves while she fought like a wildcat, pounding him with fists and spitting Gaelic
curses. Blinded by her hair, he made a grab for her and found himself gripping her bare flesh where her shirt had loosened.
"Name of God," he muttered as the blood stirred in his loins. She twisted, and her breast filled his hand. It was soft as water, hot as fire.
"Bloody hell." Though it cost him, he drew his hand back and made a frantic grab for her arms.
Her breathing was shallow. A pulse had begun to thud in her throat when he had touched her. Her breast still tingled from his fingers.
More than his threats, more than his anger, the unfamiliar reaction of her body frightened her. She was furious, she hated him. But oh, if
he touched her like that again, she would melt like butter in high summer.
He scissored his legs until hers were trapped between them. Intimately, without the cushion of petticoats, they pressed center to center
so that she felt for the first time the shock of a man's desire against her vulnerable womanhood. Heat flickered, then spread, in her
stomach. The muscles of her thighs went lax. For an instant her vision blurred, giving him the advantage.
He braceleted her wrists in one hand and held them over her head. It was a movement meant as much to give him a moment for clear
thinking as to allow him to protect himself. Her skin was glowing as the blood pounded hot beneath it. Tangled with leaves, her hair
spread out like tongues of flame and melted gold.
His mouth dry, Brigham swallowed and tried to speak, but she was arching beneath him. Her continued struggles for freedom kindled
fires in both of them that threatened to rage out of control.
"Rena, for God's sake, I'm only flesh and blood. Be still."
Her own movements were making her ears buzz and her limbs weak. There was an excitement that had somehow become tangled with
panic, making her all the more desperate to get away. In defense she twisted from side to side and pulled a moan from Brigham.
"You don't know what you're doing," he managed, "but if you continue, you'll find out soon enough."
"Let me go." Her voice was steady, and arousingly husky. As she watched him, her breasts rose and fell with each agitated movement.
"Not quite yet, I think. You'll still rip into me."
"If I had had a dirk—"
"Spare me the details. I can imagine." He had nearly caught his breath, and he let it out now, slowly, cautiously. "My God, you're
beautiful. It tempts me to keep you on the edge of fury." With his free hand he traced a fingertip over her lips. "It simply tempts me."
When he started to lower his head, her lips warmed and parted. Stunned by her own reaction, she turned her head quickly to avoid the
kiss. Brigham contented himself with the tender flesh just below her ear, and the slender line of her throat.
This was different from a kiss, she thought hazily as a moan escaped her. Less and more. It felt as though her skin were alive and
yearning for him as he nuzzled and dampened and nibbled. Instinctively she lifted her hips and sent shock waves of pleasure and
frustration through him. He felt her hands stiffen beneath his grip, then go limp with her shudder.
Her hair smelled of the forest, he discovered when he buried his face in it. Earthy, seductive. Her body was as taut as a bowstring one
moment, pliant as warm tallow the next. Hungry, he bit lightly at her ear, along her jaw, then slowly, almost triumphantly, at her waiting
lips.
He tasted the breath that shuddered through them as he teased the tip of her tongue into movement with his own. There was so much
he could teach her. Already he knew she would be a student eager for knowledge, and skillful at applying it once she learned. Her lips
softened when they merged with his, then parted with the gentlest of pressures. In the age-old rhythm, her body moved shamelessly
beneath his.
She hadn't known there was so much to feel, not just wind and cold and heat, not simply hunger for food and fatigue. There were
hundreds, thousands of sensations to be discovered by the merging of lips, the locking of bodies.
There was the scent of a man's skin and, she discovered as she traced her tongue along the column of his throat, the taste of it. There
was the sound of her own name being murmured thickly against her own mouth. There was the feel of strong fingers on her face,
tensing, stroking, the frantic beat of heart against heart. Then the feel of those same fingers caressing her breast, covering that heart
and turning her muscles to jelly.
"Brigham." She thought she might float away, weightlessly, painlessly, if only he would continue to touch her.
Her breast swelled in his hand. Unable to resist, he brushed his thumb over the nipple and felt it go taut. He yearned to draw the peak
into his mouth, to experience the heat and the flavor. Instead he crushed his mouth to hers, desperately, almost brutally, as for the
moment, just a moment, he let the wildness take him.
Sharp points of passion replaced the languor, and she ached with it, all but wept with it. Her hands were still trapped by his. Though she
pressed for freedom, she was unsure whether, if she gained it, she would use her hands to drag him closer or to thrust him aside.
It hurt. This grinding, overwhelming need clawed through her, pounding in her center, raging through her head until she feared she would
be burned alive.
It pleasured. The sensations he brought to her, the promises he gave her glimpses of. If there was a border between heaven and hell, he
had led her to it, and now he had her teetering on the edge.
When the trembling began she fought against it, against him, against herself.
At her muffled whimper, he lifted his head. It was there in her eyes, the fear, the confusion and the desire. The combination nearly undid
him. He saw that his hand still locked her wrists where, undoubtedly, bruises would form. Cursing himself, he dragged himself from her
and turned away until he could find some measure of control.
"I have no excuses," he managed after a moment. "Except that I want you." He turned back to see her scramble to her feet. "God
knows why."
She wanted to weep. Suddenly, desperately, she wanted to weep, wanted him to hold her again, to kiss her as he had at first in that
gentle, that patient way. She dragged a leaf from her hair and, after crumbling it in her fingers, tossed it aside. She might not have had
any dignity left, but she had pride.
"Cows and goats mate, my lord." Her voice was cold, as were her eyes, as she was determined to make her heart. "They do not have to
like each other."
"Well said," he murmured, knowing precisely how she felt about him. He only wished he could be as certain at that moment of how he
felt about her. "Let us hope we are a bit above the cattle. There's something about you, Serena, that tugs on my more primitive
emotions, but I assure you I can restrain them under most circumstances."
His stiff manner only made her want to fly at him again. With what she felt was admirable control, she inclined her head. "I've yet to see
it." Turning, she strode toward her horse. As she took the reins, she stiffened at the touch of Brigham's hand in her hair.
"You have leaves in your hair," he murmured, and fought back an urge to gather her close again, to just hold her in his arms.
"They'll comb out." When he put a hand on her arm, she braced herself to face him.
"Did I hurt you?"
That was almost her undoing, the regret in his eyes, the kindness in his voice. She was forced to swallow so that her answer could be
steady and flat.
"I'm not easily broken, my lord." She shook off his offer of help and launched herself into the saddle. He stood back while she wheeled
the horse and set off at a gallop.