Rebellion & In From The Cold (22 page)

“You know damn well they have. It seems more than luck to me.”

Brigham fingered the lace at his throat. Behind them the club fell into uncomfortable silence. “Does it? Perhaps you’ll enlighten me by telling me what it seems to you.”

Standish had lost more than he could afford to, drunk more than was wise. He looked across at Brigham and hated him for being what and who he was. Aristocrats, he thought, and wanted to spit. It was for wastrels like this that soldiers fought and died.

“Enlighten everyone. Break the dice.”

The silence roared into murmurs. Someone leaned over to tug on Brigham’s sleeve. “He’s drunk, Ashburn, and not worth it.”

“Are you?” Still smiling, Brigham leaned forward. “Are you drunk, Standish?”

“I am not.” He was beyond drunk now. As he sat he felt every eye on him. Staring at him, he thought. Popinjays and fops with their titles and smooth manners. They thought him beneath them because he had taken a whip to a whore. He’d like to take a whip to all of them, he thought, tossing back the rest of his wine. “I’m sober enough to know the dice don’t fall for only one man unless they’re meant to.”

Brigham waved a hand toward the dice, but his eyes were sharp as steel. “Break them, by all means.”

There was a rush of protests, a flurry of movements. Brigham ignored both and kept his eyes on Standish. It pleased him a great deal to see the sweat begin to pearl on the colonel’s forehead.

“My lord, I pray you won’t act rashly. This isn’t necessary.” The proprietor had brought the hammer as requested, but stood casting worried glances from Brigham to Standish.

“I assure you it’s quite necessary.” When the proprietor hesitated, Brigham whipped his rapier gaze up. “Break them.”

With an unsteady hand, the proprietor did as he was bid. There was silence again as the hammer smashed down, showing the dice to be clean. Standish only stared at the pieces that lay on the green baize. Tricked, he thought. Somehow the bastards had tricked him. He wished them dead, all of them,
every one of the pale-faced, soft-voiced bastards.

“You seem to be out of wine, Colonel.” And Brigham tossed the contents of his glass in Standish’s face.

Standish leaped up, wine dripping down his cheeks like blood. Drink and humiliation had done its work well. He would have drawn his sword if others hadn’t stepped in to hold his arms. Brigham never moved from where he sat sprawled in his chair.

“You will meet me, sir.”

Brigham examined his cuff to be certain none of the wine had spattered it. “Naturally. Leighton, my dear, you will stand for me?”

Leighton took a pinch of snuff. “Of course.”

* * *

Just before dawn they stood in a meadow a few minutes’ ride from the city. There was a mist nearly ankle high, and the sky was purple and starless, as it was caught between night and day. Leighton let out a weary sigh as he watched Brigham turn back his lace.

“You have your reasons, I suppose, dear boy.”

“I have them.”

Leighton frowned at the rising sun. “I trust they are good enough to delay your trip.”

He thought of Serena, of the look on her face when she had spoken of her mother’s rape. He thought of Fiona, with her small, slender hands. “They are.”

“The man is a pig, of course.” Leighton frowned again, this time down at the moisture the dew had transferred to his gleaming boot. “Still, it hardly seems reason enough to stand about in a damp field at this hour. But if you must, you must. Do you intend to kill him?”

Brigham flexed his fingers. “I do.”

“Be quick about it, Ashburn. This business has postponed my breakfast.” So saying, he strolled off to confer with Standish’s second, a young officer who was pale with both fear and excitement at the idea of a duel. The swords were judged acceptable. Brigham took one, letting his hand mold to the hilt, weighing it as though he had a mind to purchase it rather than draw blood.

Standish stood ready, even eager. The sword was his weapon. Ashburn wouldn’t be the first he had killed with it, nor would he be the last. Though he might, Standish thought as he remembered the stares and murmurs of the night, be the most pleasurable. He had no doubt that he would cut down the young prig quickly and ride home in triumph.

They made their bows. Eyes locked. Sword touched sword in salute. Then the quiet meadow rang with the crash of steel against steel.

Brigham measured his opponent from the first thrust. Standish was no fool with a sword, had obviously been well-trained and had kept himself in fighting trim. But his style was a bit too aggressive. Brigham parried, putting Serena out of his mind. He preferred to fight emotionlessly, using that as a weapon, as well as his blade.

The ground was rich with dew, and the mist silenced the slide and fall of boots. There was only the song of metal slicing over metal as the birds quieted. Their swords slid from tip to hilt as they came in close. Their breath mingled like that of lovers through the deadly cross of blades.

“You are handy with a sword, Colonel,” Brigham said as they drew apart to circle. “My compliments.”

“Handy enough to slice your heart, Ashburn.”

“We shall see.” The blades kissed again, once, twice, three times. “But I don’t suppose you required a sword when you raped Lady MacGregor.”

Puzzlement broke Standish’s concentration, but he managed to block Brigham’s thrust before the sword could run home. His brow darkened as he realized he had been led to this duel like a mongrel on a leash.

“One doesn’t rape a whore.” He attacked, fueled by a drumming rage. “What is the Scots bitch to you?”

Brigham’s wrist whipped the sword up. “You shall die wondering.”

They fought in silence now, Brigham cold as Highland ice, Standish hot with rage and confusion. Blades hissed and rang, competing now with the sound of labored breathing. In a daring move, Standish feinted, kissed his sword off Brigham’s, sliced in
contre écart
. A red stain bloomed on Brigham’s shoulder.

A cooler head might have used the wound to his advantage. Standish saw only the blood, and with the smell of it scented victory. He came in hard, judging himself moments away from triumph. Brigham countered thrust after thrust, biding his time as the blood dripped down his arm and into the thinning mist. He pulled back a fraction, an instant, laying his chest bare. The light of victory came into Standish’s eyes as he leaped forward to open Brigham’s heart.

With a bright flash of metal, Brigham knocked the sword aside moments before it pierced him. With a speed Leighton would claim later made the blade a blur, he twisted and plunged the point into the colonel’s chest. Standish was dead before Brigham had pulled the point free.

Beside the pale-faced soldier, Leighton examined the body. “Well, you’ve killed him, Ashburn. Best be on your way while I deal with the mess.”

“My thanks.” Brigham handed Leighton the sword, hilt first.

“Shall I bind up your hurts, as well?”

With faint amusement, Brigham glanced over to his horse. Beside it, the estimable Parkins sat on another. “My valet will see to it.”

* * *

Serena awoke just before dawn. She hadn’t slept well for the past week, ever since a dream from which she had woken with her heart hammering. She had been sure then, somehow, that Brigham was in danger.

Even now, the moment of fear haunted her, adding to the ache she had lived with since he’d left. But that was foolish, she told herself. He was in London, safe. With a sigh, she sat up, knowing sleep was impossible. He was in London, she repeated. He might as well have been worlds away.

For a little while she had allowed herself to believe he would come back, as he’d said he would. Then the weeks had passed and she had stopped looking down the path at the sound of horses. Coll and Maggie had been married more than a week. It had been at their wedding that Serena had finally allowed hope to die. If he hadn’t come back for Coll’s wedding, he wasn’t coming back.

She had known it, Serena reminded herself as she washed and dressed. When she had given herself to him on the banks of the loch, she had known it. And had sworn there would be no regrets. She had known, she told herself now as she bound back her hair. She had known, and she had been given everything she could have wanted.

Except that the afternoon she had spent in Brigham’s arms hadn’t made her quicken. She had hoped, though she had known it mad, that she would find herself with Brigham’s child.

That wasn’t to be. All she had left were her memories.

Still, she had her family, her home. It helped fill the gaps. She was strong enough to live her life without him. She might never be truly happy again, but she would live and she would be content.

The morning chores eased her mind and kept it from drifting. She worked alone, or with the women of her family. For them, and for the sake of her own pride, she kept her spirits up. There would be no moping, no pining, for Serena MacGregor. Whenever she was tempted to fall into depression, she reminded herself that she had had one golden afternoon.

It was early evening when she slipped away. Her mother and Maggie were sorting thread and Gwen was visiting one of the sick in the village. Dressed in her breeches, she avoided everyone but Malcolm, whom she bribed with a piece of hard candy.

She rode for the loch. It was an indulgence, right or wrong, that occasionally she allowed herself. Whenever time allowed, she went there to sit on the bank and dream a little. And remember. It brought Brigham closer to her. As close, Serena knew, as he would ever be. He was gone. Back to London, where he belonged.

Now spring was here in all its glory. Flowers waved in the gentle breeze, trees were ripe with green, green leaves. The sunlight dappled through, making pretty patterns on the soft path. Young deer walked through the forest.

By the loch the ground was springy and warm, though the water would be frigid for weeks yet, and would carry a chill all through the summer. Content from the ride, she lay on the grassy knoll to read a little, and dream. It was solitude she had wanted, and it was serenity she found. From somewhere to the west, like mourning, came the haunting call of a greenshank.

Dog violets grew, pale blue and delicate, beside her. She plucked a few, threading them idly through her hair while she studied the glassy calm of the lake. On the rocks above, heather grew like purple stars. Its fragile scent drifted to her. Farther up, the crags had been worn sheer by rain and time. There was little that could grow there, and to Serena, their very starkness made them beautiful. They were like fortresses, guarding the eastern verge of the loch.

She wished Brigham could see this spot, this very special spot, now, when the wind was kind and the water so blue it made your eyes sting.

Pillowing her head on her arm, she closed her eyes and dreamed of him.

It felt as though a butterfly had landed on her cheek. Dozing, Serena brushed it lazily away. She didn’t want to wake, not just yet, and find herself alone. Soon enough she would have to go back and give up the hours she had stolen for herself. Not yet, she thought as she curled into her self. For just a little while longer, she would lie here and dream of what might have been.

She sighed, groggy with sleep, as she felt something—the butterfly—brush over her lips. She smiled a little, thinking how sweet that was, how it warmed her. Her body stretched against the gentle fingers of the breeze. Like a lover’s hands, she thought. Like Brigham’s. Her sigh was quiet and drowsily aroused. Her breasts tingled under it, and seemed to fill. All along her body, her blood seemed to rush to the surface. In response, her lips parted.

“Look at me, Serena. Look at me when I kiss you.”

She obeyed automatically, her mind still trapped in the dream, her body heating from it. Dazed, she saw Brigham’s eyes looking into hers as her mouth was captured in a kiss that was much too urgent, much too powerful, for any dream.

“My God, how I’ve missed you.” He dragged her closer. “Every day, I swear it, every hour.”

Could this be real? Her mind swam as fiercely as her blood as she wrapped her arms tight around him. “Brigham?” She held on, terrified to let go and find him vanished. “Is it really you? Kiss me
again,” she demanded before he could speak. “And again and again.”

He did as she asked, his hands dragging through her hair, streaming down her body until they were both shuddering. He wanted to tell her how he had felt when he had stopped his horse and had seen her sleeping, sleeping where they had first come together. No one had ever looked more beautiful than his Serena, lying in her men’s breeches with her head pillowed on her arm and flowers scattered in her hair.

But he couldn’t find the words, and if he had, she would never have let them be spoken. Her mouth was hungry as it fused to his. When he had loved her before she had been fragile, a little afraid. Now she was all passion, all demand. Her fingers pulled and dragged at his clothes as if she couldn’t bear to have anything between them. Though he murmured to her, wanting to show some gentleness on this, their first meeting in so many long weeks, she burned like a fire in his arms.

Unable to resist, he tugged the men’s clothes aside and found his woman.

It was as it had been before, she thought. And more, so much more. His hands and mouth were everywhere, torturing, delighting. Her skin was covered with a moist sheen and nothing else as he pleasured both of them. Whatever shyness she had felt when she had first given herself to him was eclipsed now by a need so sharp, so desperate, that she touched and tasted in places that made him gasp in amazement and passion. She drew him down to her, reveling in the scent of him—in some way the same as it had been on their very first meeting. Sweat, horse, blood. It spun in her head, touching off primitive urges, the darkest desires.

“Name of God, Rena.” He could barely speak. She was taking him places he had never been, places he had never known existed. No other woman had mastered him in this way, not the most experienced French courtesan, not the most worldly British flower. He was learning from the Scots wildcat more of love and lust than he had thought possible.