Chapter Ten
He had missed London, the pace of it, the look of it, the smell of it. Most of his life had been spent there or at the graceful old manor
home of his ancestors in the country. He was well-known in polite society and had no trouble finding company for a game of cards at
one of the fashionable clubs or interesting conversation over dinner. Mothers of marriageable daughters made certain to include the
wealthy earl of Ashburn on their guest lists.
He had been six weeks in town, and spring was at its best. His own garden, one of the finest in the city, boasted vistas of lush lawns
and colorful blossoms. The rain that had drummed almost incessantly as April had begun had worked its magic and was now replaced
by balmy golden days that lured pretty women in their silk dresses and feathered hats into the parks and shops.
There were balls and assemblies, card parties and levees. A man with his title, his reputation and his purse could have a comfortable life
here with little inconvenience and much pleasure.
He had indeed missed London. It was his home. It had taken him much less than six weeks to discover that it was no longer his heart
That was in Scotland now. Not a day passed that he didn't think of the hard Highland winter or of how Serena had warmed it. As he
looked out at the crowded streets and the strollers in their walking coats and hats of the latest fashion, he wondered what spring was
like in Glenroe. And whether Serena ever sat by the lake and thought of him.
He would have gone back weeks earlier, but his work for the Prince was taking longer than had been thought, and the results were less
satisfactory than anyone had foreseen.
The Jacobites in England were great in number, but the number among them who showed eagerness to raise their sword for the untried
Prince was much less. On Lord George's advice, Brigham had spoken to many groups, giving them an outline of the mood of the
Highland clans and conveying what communications he had received from the Prince himself. He had ridden as far as Manchester, and
had held a council as close as his own drawing room.
Each was as risky as the other. The government was uneasy, and the rumor of war with France louder than ever. Stuart sympathizers
would not be suffered gladly, and active supporters would be imprisoned, at best. Memories of public executions and deportations were
still fresh.
After six weeks he had the hope, but only the hope, that if Charles could act quickly, and begin his campaign, his English followers
would join him.
They had so much to lose, Brigham thought. How well he knew it Homes, lands, titles. It was a difficult thing to fight for something as
distant as a cause when you gambled your name and your fortune, as well as your life.
Turning, he studied the portrait of his grandmother. His decision had already been made. Perhaps it had been made when he had still
been a schoolboy, his head on her knee as she wove tales of exiled kings and a fight for justice.
It was dangerous to tarry much longer in London. The government had a way of uncovering rebels and dealing with them with nasty
efficiency. Thus far, Brigham's name had kept him above suspicion, but he knew rumors were flying. Now that war with France was once
more inevitable, so was talk of a new Jacobite uprising.
Brigham had never hidden his travels to France, to Italy, to Scotland. If anyone decided to shift the blocks of his last few years around,
they would come up with a very interesting pattern.
So he must leave, Brigham thought, kicking a smoldering log in the dying fire. This time, he would go alone and under the cover of night.
When he returned to London next, it would be with Serena. And they would stand where he stood now and toast the true king and his
regent.
He returned to Scotland for the Prince, as Serena had said. But he also returned to claim what was his. Rebellion aside, there was one
battle he was determined to win.
Hours later, as Brigham was preparing to leave for a quiet evening at his club, his sober-faced butler intercepted him.
"Yes, Beeton?"
"Your pardon, my lord." Beeton was so old one could almost hear the creak of his bones as he bowed. "The earl of Whitesmouth
requests a word with you. It seems to be a matter of some urgency."
"Then show him up." Brigham grimaced as Parkins fussed over his coat, looking for any sign of lint. "Leave off, man. You'll drive me to a
fit."
"I only desire my lord to show himself to his best advantage."
"Some of the female persuasion would argue that to do that I must strip." When Parkins remained stone-faced, Brigham merely sighed.
"You're a singularly humorless fellow, Parkins. God knows why I keep you."
"Brig." The earl of Whitesmouth, a small, smooth-faced man only a few years Brigham's senior, strode into the room, then pulled up
short at the sight of the valet. It only took a glance to see that Whitesmouth was highly agitated
"That will be all for this evening, Parkins." As if he had all the time in the world, Brigham crossed to the table by the bedroom fire and
poured wine into two glasses. He waited until he heard the adjoining door click quietly shut "What is it, Johnny?"
"We have trouble, Brig." He accepted the glass, and downed the contents in one swallow.
"I surmised as much. Of what nature?"
Steadier for the drink, Whitesmouth continued. "That pea-brained Miltway drank himself into a stupor with his mistress this afternoon
and opened his mouth too wide for any of us to be comfortable."
After taking a long breath, Brigham sipped and gestured to a chair. "Did he name names?"
"We can't be sure, but it seems likely he spilled at least a few. Yours being the most obvious."
"And his mistress… She's the redheaded dancer?"
"The hair on her head's red," Whitesmouth stated crudely. "She's a knowing little package, Brigham, a bit too old and too experienced
for a stripling like Miltway. Trouble is, the young idiot has more money than brains."
Miltway's romantic liaisons were the last of Brigham's concerns. "Will she keep quiet, for a bribe?"
"It's too late for that. That's why I've come. She's already passed on some of the information, enough that Miltway's been arrested."
Brigham swore viciously. "Young fool."
"The odds are keen that you'll be questioned, Brigham. If you have anything incriminating—"
"I am not that young," Brigham interrupted as he began to think ahead. "Nor such a fool." He paused a moment, wanting to be certain
his decision was made logically and not on impulse. "And you, Johnny? Will you be able to cover yourself?"
"I have urgent business on my estate." The earl of Whitesmouth grinned. "In fact, I have been en route several hours already."
"The Prince will do well with men like you."
Whitesmouth poured a second drink and toasted his friend. "And you?"
"I'm for Scotland. Tonight."
"Flight now will show your hand, Brig. Are you ready for that?"
"I'm weary of pretense. I stand for the Prince."
"Then I'll wish you a safe journey, and wait for word from you."
"God willing, I shall send it soon." He picked up his gloves again. "I know you've run a risk by coming to tell me when you could have
been on your way. I shan't forget it."
"The Prince has my pledge, as well," Whitesmouth reminded him. "I pray you won't tarry too long."
"Only long enough. Have you told anyone else about Miltway's indiscretion?"
"That's a cool way of putting it," Whitesmouth muttered. "I thought it best to come to you directly."
Brigham nodded. "I'll spend a few hours at the club as I had planned and make certain word is passed. You'd best get out of London
before someone notes that you are not indeed en route to your estate.
"On my way." Whitesmouth picked up his hat. "One warning, Brig. The elector's son, Cumberland. Don't take him lightly. It's true he's
young, but his eyes are cold and his ambition hot."
The club held many faces familiar to Brigham. Games were being played, bottles already draining. He was greeted cheerfully enough
and invited to join groups at cards or dice. Making easy excuses, he strolled over to the fire to share a bottle of burgundy with Viscount
Leighton. "No urge to try your luck tonight, Ashburn?"
"Not at cards." Behind them, someone complained bitterly about the fall of the dice. "It's a fair night," Brigham said mildly. "One well
suited for traveling."
Leighton sipped, and though his eyes met Brigham's, they gave away nothing. "Indeed. There is always talk of storms to the north."
"I have a feeling there will be a storm here sooner." The dice game grew noisier. Brigham took advantage of the noise to lean forward
and pour more wine in the glasses. "Miltway confided his political leanings to his mistress and has been arrested."
Leighton said something unflattering about Miltway under his breath, then settled back. "How loose a tongue has he?"
"I can't be sure, but there are some who should be put on guard."
Leighton toyed with the diamond pinned to the lace at his throat. He was fond of such trinkets, and was often taken for a man who
preferred a soft life. Like Brigham, he had made his decision to back the Prince coolly and without reservation.
"Consider it done, my dear. Do you wish for company on your journey?"
Brigham was tempted. Viscount Leighton, with his pink waistcoats and perfumed hands, might have looked like a self-indulgent fop, but
there was no one Brigham would have chosen over him in a fight. "Not at the moment."
"Then shall we drink to fair weather?" Leighton lifted his glass, then gave a mildly annoyed glance over Brigham's shoulder. "I believe we
should patronize another club, my dear Ashburn. This establishment has begun to open its doors to anyone."
Brigham glanced around idly to the game. He recognized the man holding the bank, and most of the others. But there was a thin man
leaning on the table, a sulky look in his eyes, a half-filled glass by his elbow. He was not taking his losses in a manner acceptable to
polite society.
"Don't know him." Brigham sipped again, thinking that he might never again sit cozily by the fire in this club and drink with a friend.
"I've had the dubious pleasure." Leighton took out a snuffbox. "An officer. I believe he's off to cross swords with the French quite soon,
which should make the ladies sigh. However, I am told that he is not in favor with our ladies any longer, despite the romantic figure he
attempts to cut."
With a laugh, Brigham prepared to take his leave. "Perhaps it has something to do with his lack of manners."
"Perhaps it has something to do with his treatment of Alice Beesley when she was unfortunate enough to be his mistress."
Brigham raised a brow, but was still only vaguely curious. The game was growing louder yet, the hour later, and he still needed Parkins
to pack his bag. "The lovely Mrs. Beesley is a dim-witted piece, but from what I'm told, quite amiable."
"Standish apparently thought she wasn't amiable enough and took a riding crop to her."
Brigham's eyes registered distaste as he glanced over again. "There is something particularly foul about a man who…" He trailed off and
his fingers tightened on his glass. "Did you say Standish?"
"I did. A colonel, I believe. He earned a particularly nasty reputation in the Porteous scandal in '35." Leighton flicked a flake, of snuff
from his sleeve. "It seems he quite enjoyed sacking and burning and looting. I believe that's why he was promoted."
"He would have been a captain in '35."
"Possibly." Interest flickered in Leighton's eyes. "Do you know him after all?"
"Yes." Brigham remembered well Coll's story of Captain Standish and the rape of his mother, the houses burned, the defenseless
crofters routed. And Serena. He rose, and though his eyes were cold, there was nothing of his temper in his voice. "I believe we should
become better acquainted. I fancy a game after all, Leighton."
"It grows late, Ashburn."
Brigham smiled. "Indeed it does."
Nothing was easier than joining the game. Within twenty minutes he had bought the bank. His luck held, and as fate or justice would
have it, so did Standish's. The colonel continued to lose and, egged on by Brigham's mild disdain, he bet heavily. By midnight, there
were only three left in the game. Brigham signaled for more wine as he sprawled easily in his chair. He had deliberately matched drink
for drink with Standish. Brigham had no intention of killing a man whose faculties were less sharp than his own.
"The dice appear to dislike you this evening, Colonel."
"Or they like others too well."
Standish's words were blurred by drink and bitterness. He was a man who required greater sums of money than his soldier's pay to
back his lust for gambling, and his equal lust for a place in society. Tonight his bitterness stemmed from a failure to achieve either. His
offer for a well-endowed—both physically and financially—young lady had been turned down only that afternoon. Standish was certain
the bitch Beesley had gone whining to whomever would listen. She'd been a whore, he thought as he swilled down more wine. A man
had a right to treat a whore however he chose.
"Get on with it," he ordered, then counted the fall of Brigham's dice. Snatching up the dice box, he threw and fell short.
"Pity." Brigham smiled and drank.
"I don't care to have the bank switched so late in the game. It spoils the luck."
"Yours seemed poor all evening, Colonel." Brigham continued to smile, but the look in his eyes had driven more than one man away
from the game. "Perhaps you consider it unpatriotic that I'm fleecing a royal dragoon, but here we are only men, after all."
"Did we come to play or to talk?" Standish demanded, signaling impatiently for more wine.
"In a gentlemen's club," Brigham replied, coloring his words with contempt, "we do both. But then Colonel, perhaps you don't often find
yourself in the company of gentlemen."
The third player decided the game was a bit too uneasy for his taste. Several of the other patrons had stopped what they were doing to
look, and to listen. Other games were abandoned as men began to loiter around the table. Stan-dish's face reddened. He wasn't certain,
but he thought he had been insulted.
"I spend most of my time fighting for the king, not lounging in clubs."
"Of course." Brigham tossed again, and again topped the colonel's roll. "Which explains why you are inept at polite games of chance."
"You seem a bit too skilled, my lord. The dice have fallen for you since you took your seat."
"Have they?" Brigham glanced up to raise a brow at Leighton, who was idly swirling a drink of his own. "Have they indeed?"
"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 centre ecart. 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
Stan-dish'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 bead 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.
The blood was hammering in his brain. There was pain, exquisite, terrifying pain. The control with which he lived his life, with which he
raised a sword or fired a pistol, was gone as if it had never existed. He dragged her against him, his fingers raking through her hair,
bruising her soft flesh,
"Now, for pity's sake." He plunged into her, going deep. Her nails dug into his back as she cried out, but she was moving with him,
driving her hips up to meet each thrust. With her head thrown back, she gasped for air. In some part of her brain she knew this was
something like dying. Then there was no thought at all. Though her eyes flew open, she saw nothing, nothing but a white flash as her
body went rigid.
The aftershocks of pleasure wracked her body even as her hands fell limply to the ground. Her vision was misted—it seemed only more
of the dream. But Brigham lay, warm and solid, over her. And he was… he was trembling, she realized with a kind of wonder. It was not
only she who was left weak and vulnerable, but he, as well.
"You came back," she murmured, and found the strength to lift her hand to his hair.
"I said I would." He shifted to kiss her again, but softly now. "I love you, Serena. Nothing could have stopped me from coming back to
you."
She framed his face with her hands to study it. He meant it, she realized. Seeing the truth only made her more uncertain of what to do.
"You were gone so long. No word."
"Sending word would have put too many at risk. The storm's coming, Rena."
"Aye. And you'll—" She broke off as she noted blood on her fingers. "Brig, you're hurt." She scrambled up to her knees to fret over the
soaked bandage on his shoulder. "What happened? You were attacked? Campbells!"
"No." He had to laugh at the way she snarled the rival clan's name. "A little business in London before I left. It's nothing, Serena."
But she was already ripping the cuff from his shirt to make a fresh bandage. Brigham sighed, knowing Parkins would make him pay, but
he sat meekly and let her tend his wound.
"A sword," she said.
"A scratch. We won't talk of it now. The sun's going down."
"Oh." She blinked, noting for the first time how much time had passed. "I have to go back. How did you find me here?"
"I could say I followed my heart, which I would have. But Malcolm told me you'd ridden out."
A few flowers clung yet to her hair, and her hair was all that covered her breasts. She looked like a witch or a queen or a goddess. He
could only be certain that she was all he needed. He grabbed her hands. The intensity was back in his eyes, dark, demanding.
"Tell me, Rena."
"I love you, Brigham." She brought his hand to her cheek. "More man I can say."
"And you'll many me." When her eyes dropped from his, he erupted. "Damn it, woman. You say you love me, you all but kill me with
passion, then you go skittish when I speak of making you my wife."
"I have told you I cannot."
"I have told you you will." He picked up his ruined shirt and slipped it gingerly over his shoulder, which was just beginning to ache. "I
shall speak with your father."
"No." Her head shot up quickly. Trying to think, she pushed the hair back from her face. How could they have come so far and be back
where they had begun? "I beg you not to."
"What choice do you leave me?" He pulled her shirt down over her head, struggling for patience when she jerked away from him to dress
herself. "I love you, Rena, and I have no intention of living my life without you."
"Then I'll ask for time." She looked at him then and knew she had to resolve what was in her heart and what was in her head. "There is
so much to be done, Brigham. So much that will be happening around us, to us. When the war begins, you'll go, and I shall only wait.
Give me time. Give us both time to deal with what has to be."
"Only so much, Serena. And only because, in the end, I'll leave you no choice."