Rebellion & In From The Cold (7 page)

That flustered her. She knew how to handle flattery, how to accept it, evade it, discount it. Somehow it wasn’t as easy with him. “Let me pass,” she muttered.

“Would you have kissed me?” He put two fingers under her chin as he asked. Serena held the tray like a shield. “Would you have, this morning, when the need for sleep was all over your face and the light just going gold?”

“Move aside.” Because her voice was husky, she shoved the tray at him. Brigham caught it instinctively to keep it from falling. Unencumbered, Serena headed for the door with him two steps behind. The sound of running feet stopped them both.

“Malcolm, must you sound like a great elephant? Coll’s sleeping.”

“Oh.” A boy of about ten skidded to a halt. His hair was a deep red that would probably darken to mahogany with age. Unlike the other men in his family, he had fine, almost delicate features. He had, Brigham noticed immediately, the deep green eyes of his sister. “I wanted to see him.”

“You can watch him, if you’re quiet.” With a sigh, Serena shook his shoulder. “Wash first. You look like a stableboy.”

He grinned, showing a missing tooth. “I’ve been with the mare. She’ll foal in a day or two.”

“You smell like her.” She noticed from the mud in the hall that he hadn’t done a thorough job of cleaning his boots. She would sweep it up before their mother saw it. She started to speak to him about it, then noticed he was no longer attending.

Brigham found himself being studied and assessed, quite man-to-man. The boy was lean as a whippet and smudged with dirt, and there was sharp curiosity in his eyes.

“Are you the English pig?”

“Malcolm!”

Both ignored her as Brigham stepped forward. Calmly he handed the tray back to Serena. “I’m English, at any rate, though my grandmother was a MacDonald.”

Mortified, Serena stared straight ahead. “I will apologize for my brother, my lord.”

He shot her a look ripe with irony. Both of them knew where Malcolm had come by the description. “No need. You would perhaps introduce us.”

Serena’s fingers dug into the tray. “Lord Ashburn, my brother Malcolm.”

“Your servant, Master MacGregor.”

Malcolm grinned at that, and at Brigham’s formal bow. “My father likes you,” he confided. “So does my mother, and Gwen, I think, but she’s too shy to say.”

Brigham’s lips twitched. “I’m honored.”

“Coll wrote that you had the best stables in London, so I’ll like you, too.”

Because it was irresistible, Brigham ruffled the boy’s hair—and grinned wickedly at Serena. “Another conquest.”

She lifted her chin. “Go wash, Malcolm,” she ordered before she flounced away.

“They always want you to wash,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “I’m glad there’ll be more men in the house.”

* * *

Nearly two hours later, Brigham’s coach arrived, causing no little stir in the village. Lord Ashburn believed in owning the best, and his traveling equipment was no exception. The coach was well sprung, a regal black picked out with silver. The driver wore black, as well. The groom, who rode on the box with him, was enjoying the fact that people were peeking out their doors and windows at the arrival. Though he’d complained for the last day and a half about the miserable weather, the miserable roads and the miserable pace, he felt better knowing that the journey was at an end and that he’d be left to tend to his horses.

“Here, boy.” The driver pulled up the steaming horses and gestured to a boy who stood beside the road, ogling the coach and sucking his finger. “Where will I find MacGregor House?”

“Straight down this road and over the rise. You be looking for the English lord? That be his carriage?”

“You got that right.”

Pleased with himself, the boy gestured. “He’s there.”

The driver sent the horses into a trot.

Brigham was there to meet them himself. Braced against the cold, he stepped out as the coach pulled up. “You took your sweet time.”

“Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up.”

Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. “Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?”

Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. “Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace.”

Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. “I’m sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would—” He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out. “Parkins.”

Parkins bowed. “My lord.” Then he studied Brigham’s attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. “Oh, my lord.”

Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. “As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?”

“You have a need for me, as well, my lord.” Parkins drew himself up. “I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn’s room immediately.”

Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. “How did you come?”

“I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse.” A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. “I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here.”

“I don’t need a valet, man. I’m not attending any balls.”

“I served my lord’s father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back.”

Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. “Oh, come in, damn you. It’s freezing.”

Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. “I will see to my lord’s unpacking immediately.” He gave a shudder as he studied his master’s attire once more.
“Immediately.
If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice.”

“Later.” Brigham swung on his greatcoat. “I want to check on the horses.” He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. “Parkins, welcome to Scotland.”

The faintest ghost of a smile touched the thin lips. “Thank you, my lord.”

* * *

Jem the groom seemed well on the way to making himself and the horses at home. Brigham heard his cackling laughter as he pushed aside the wooden door.

“You’re a right one, ain’t you, Master MacGregor? Sure and Lord Ashburn has the best stable in London—England itself, for that matter—and it’s me who’s in charge of them.”

“Then I’ll have you look at my mare, Jem, who’ll be foaling soon.”

“Pleased to have a look at her I’ll be—after I’ve seen to my loves here.”

“Jem.”

“Eh—” He turned and saw Brigham standing in a beam of thin winter light. “Yes, sir, Lord Ashburn. I’ll have everything set to rights in a twinkle.”

Brigham knew that Jem couldn’t be faulted with horses, but he also had a free hand with the bottle and language the MacGregors might not deem proper for their youngest. So he lingered, supervising the settling of his team.

“Fine horses they are, Lord Ashburn.” Malcolm had taken a hand in the grooming. “I can drive very well, you know.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Brigham had stripped off his greatcoat and since his jacket was ruined in any case, he added his weight to the work. “Perhaps we’ll find an afternoon so you can show me?”

“Truly?” There was no quicker way to the boy’s heart. “I don’t think I could handle your coach, but we have a curricle.” He gave a manly sneer. “Though my mother won’t let me drive anything but the pony cart by myself.”

“You’ll be with me, won’t you?” Brigham swatted one of the horses’ flanks. “They seem to be in good shape, Jem. Go have a look at Master MacGregor’s mare.”

“Please, sir, would you look in on her, too? She’s a beauty.”

Brigham laid a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “I’d be delighted to meet her.”

Satisfied he’d found a kindred spirit, Malcolm took Brigham’s hand and led him through the stables. “She’s Betsy.” At the sound of her name, the mare poked her head over the stall door and waited to be rubbed.

“A lovely lady.” She was a roan, not beautifully distinguished, but dignified and trim enough. As Brigham lifted a hand to stroke her head, she pricked up her ears and fixed him with a calm, questioning eye.

“She likes you.” The fact pleased Malcolm, as if he often trusted the opinions of animals over those of people.

Inside the stall, Jem went about his business in a calm, capable way that impressed the young Malcolm. Betsy stood tolerantly, sighing occasionally so that her heavy belly shook, and switching her tail.

“She’ll be foaling soon,” Jem pronounced. “Another day or two by my guess.”

“I want to sleep in the stables, but Serena always comes and drags me back.”

“Don’t fret about it, Jem’s here now.” With that, Jem stepped out of the stall.

“But you will send word when it’s time?”

Jem looked at Brigham for affirmation, got it and grinned. “I’ll send up a shout for you, never fear.”

“Could I impose on you to show Jem to the kitchen?” Brigham asked. “He hasn’t eaten.”

“I beg your pardon.” Abruptly proper, Malcolm straightened his shoulders. “I’ll see that the cook fixes you something right away. Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Brig.”

Malcolm grinned at the man, and at the hand he was offered. He shook it formally, then skipped out, calling for Jem to follow.

“A taking little scamp. If I may say so, milord?”

“You may. Jem, try to remember he’s young and impressionable.” At Jem’s blank expression, Brigham sighed. “If he begins to swear like my English groom, the ax will fall on me. He has a sister who would love to wield it.”

“Yes, milord. I’ll be the soul of propriety, I will.” Breaking into a grin, Jem followed Malcolm out.

Brigham didn’t know why he lingered. Perhaps it was because it was quiet, and the horses were good company. It was true that he’d spent a good part of his youth in the same way as Malcolm, in the stables. He’d learned more than a few interesting phrases. He could, if necessary, have harnessed a team himself in only half again as much time as his groom. He could drive to an inch or doctor a strained tendon, and he had overseen his share of foalings.

Once it had been his dream to breed horses. That had changed when the responsibilities of his title had come to him at an early age.

But it wasn’t horses or lost dreams he thought of now. It was Serena. Perhaps because his thoughts were on her, he wasn’t surprised to see her enter the stables.

She’d been thinking of him as well, though not entirely kindly. Throughout the day she hadn’t been able to concentrate on ordinary things. Instead she concentrated, unwillingly, on that moment she had stood with him by her brother’s window.

She’d been tired, Serena assured herself as she wrapped the plaid securely around her. Almost asleep on her feet, if it came to that. Why else would she have only stood there while he touched her in that way … looked at her in that way?

And how he’d looked. Even now, something stirred in her at the memory. His eyes had gotten so dark; they’d been so close. She knew what it was to have a man look at her with interest, even to have one try to steer her into the shadows to steal a kiss. With one or two, she’d permitted it. Just to see if she might care for it. In truth, she found kissing pleasant enough, if unexciting. But nothing before had come close to this.

Her legs had gone weak, as if someone had taken out the blood and replaced it with water. Her head had spun the way it had when she’d been twelve and sampled her father’s port. And it had felt, Lord, as though her skin were on fire where his fingers had touched it. Like a sickness, she thought.

What else could it be? She shook the feeling off and straightened her shoulders. It had been fatigue, plain and simple. That, and concern for her brother, and a lack of food. She was feeling a great deal better now, and if she chanced to come across the high-and-mighty earl of Ashburn she would handle him well enough.

She shook off her thoughts and peered around the dim stable. “Malcolm, you little heathen,” she called, “I’ll have you out of those stables and into the house. It’s your job to fill the woodbox, hang you, and I’ve done it myself for the last time.”

“I regret you’ll have to hang Malcolm later.” Brigham stepped out of the shadows and was pleased to startle her. “He isn’t here. I’ve just sent him along to the kitchen with my groom.”

She tossed up her chin. “Sent him along? He’s no servant of yours.”

“My dear Miss MacGregor.” Brigham stepped closer, deciding that the dull colors in the plaid were the perfect foil for the richness of her hair. “Malcolm has formed an attachment for Jem, who is, like
your brother, a great horse lover.”

Because her heart was softest when it came to Malcolm, she subsided. “He’s forever in here. Twice this week I’ve had to bundle him up and drag him into the house past his bedtime.” She caught herself and frowned again. “If he pesters you, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. I’ll see that he doesn’t intrude.”

“No need. We deal together easily enough.” She was frowning over that as he stepped closer. She smelled of the lavender that always seemed to waft around her. “You need more rest, Serena. Your eyes are shadowed.”

She had nearly stepped back before she was able to resist the unusual urge to retreat. “I’m as strong as one of your horses, thank you. And you’re very free with my name.”

“I’ve taken a liking to it. What was it Coll called you before he fell asleep? Rena? It has a pretty sound.”

It sounded different when he said it. She turned to study his horses. “You’ve impressed Malcolm with these, I’m sure.”

“He’s more easily impressed than his sister.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “You have nothing that could impress me, my lord.”

“Don’t you find it wearying to despise all things English?”

“No, I find it fulfilling.” Because she was feeling weak-kneed again, and needful, she turned on him, letting anger replace longings she did not yet understand. “What are you to me but one more English nobleman who wants things his way? Do you care for the land? For the people? For the name? You know nothing of what we are,” she spat out. “Nothing of the persecutions, the miseries, the degradations.”