Chapter Twelve
Prince Charles set his royal feet on the thin soil of Scotland in high summer, but not, as he and many others had hoped, in triumph. He
was advised by MacDonald of Boisdale as he landed on the island of Eriskay to go home. His reply was terse, and telling.
"I am come home."
From Eriskay, he and the seven men who had sailed with him traveled to the mainland. There, too, the Jacobites were filled more with
concern than enthusiasm. Support was slow in coming, but Charles sent out letters to the Highland chiefs. Cameron of Lochiel was
among them, and though his support was given reluctantly, and perhaps with a heavy heart, it was given.
So it passed that on August 19, in the year 1745, before some nine hundred loyal men, the standard was raised at Glenfinnan.
Charles's father was proclaimed James VIII of Scotland and James III of England, with the young Prince as regent.
The small force moved eastward, gathering strength. The clans rallied, words were pledged, and men bade goodbye to their women and
joined the march.
Brigham's journeys through Scotland with Ian and with
Coll had given him a knowledge of the land. They were able to make good time, ironically enough on one of the roads built to discourage
Highland rebellion. Using this, and the rugged hills for cover, they avoided the government garrisons at Fort William and Fort Augustus.
Spirits were high, the men as rough and ready as their land. It had only taken, as Brigham had always imagined, the energy and force of
the young Prince to bind them together. When men thought of the battles ahead, they thought not of their mortality but of victory, and of
a justice that had been denied them too long.
Some were young; Brigham saw the future in their eager faces, in the way they laughed and looked at the Prince, who wore the dress of
the Highlands and had fastened a white cockade, the symbol of his house, on his blue bonnet.
Some were old, and there the past could be seen, the ageless pride, the battles already lost and won. They looked to the Prince, with
his fresh Stuart blood, as the glue that would hold the clans together.
But old or young, eager or heavyhearted, Charles swept them along by the force of his personality alone. This was his time, and his
place. He meant to make his mark.
The weather held fine, the breezes warm. It was said by some that God Himself had blessed the rebellion. For a time, it seemed so.
The men and weapons that had been lost to the Jacobites when the Elizabeth had turned back were forgotten. Peat was plentiful for
fires, and the water was fresh from icy mountain streams. The pipes were played, whiskey was drunk, and by night the men slept the
good sleep men do when they begin an adventure.
It was to Brigham that word came that a government army had been dispatched north, headed by General Sir John Cope. Brigham took
the news directly to the Prince as the men broke camp and prepared for the day's march.
Brigham watched the full, almost girlish mouth curve up into a smile that was very much a man's. "So we shall fight, at last."
"It appears so, Your Highness." The morning was warm, with the soft, watery light of Scotland gaming strength. The camp carried the
scent of horses and soldiers and smoke. The rugged hills were softened now by a springy spread of heather. A golden eagle, early to
the hunt, crested overhead.
"It seems a good day to fight," Charles murmured as he studied Brigham's face. "You would prefer we had Lord George with us."
"Lord George is an excellent field commander, your Highness."
"Indeed. But we have O'Sullivan." Charles gestured toward the Irish soldier of fortune who was organizing the men for the day's journey.
Brigham already had doubts in that quarter. He didn't question the Irishman's loyalty to the Prince, but he felt there was more flash than
caution. "If we are engaged, we shall fight"
"I look forward to it." Charles fingered the hilt of his sword as he gazed around him. He felt something for this land, something deep and
true. When he was king, he would see that Scotland and her people were rewarded. "It's been a long journey, Brigham, a far distance
from Louis's court and all those pretty faces."
"A long journey, Your Highness," Brigham agreed "But one well worth the making."
"I should tell you that there were tears on some of those pretty faces when you left. Have you taken time to break hearts in Scotland, as
well?"
"There is only one face for me now, sire, and one heart I will take great care not to break."
The prince's dark eyes were alight with amusement. "Well, well, it appears the dashing Lord Ashburn has fallen for a Highland lassie.
Tell me, mon ami, is she as pretty as the luscious Anne-Marie?"
Brigham managed a wry grin. "I would beg Your Highness to make no comparisons, particularly in front of the Highland lassie. She has
a rare temper."
"Does she?" With a delighted laugh, Charles signaled for his mount. "I am most anxious to meet her and see what manner of woman
snared the most sought-after man at the French court."
The pipes sounded along the road, but Cope's troops were never seen. Word came that he had detoured to Inverness. The road to
Edinburgh lay open to the rebels. Three thousand strong, they captured Perth after a short, vicious battle. Victorious, they continued
their drive south, engaging and routing two regiments of dragoons.
The fighting seemed to fuel the rebels. Here at last was action instead of talk, deeds instead of plans. With sword and pipe, shield and
ax, they were like a fury. Survivors would spread tales of their maniacal skill and daring that themselves would serve as a weapon.
Joined by Lord George Murray at Perth, they entered Edinburgh and took it for their own.
The city was in a panic. News of the invasion had preceded the Highland forces, and rumors flew about barbarians, cannibals and
butchers. The city guard had fled, and while Edinburgh slept a party of Camerons rushed the sentries, and control was gained.
Under the Prince's command, there was no looting, no pillaging. The people of Edinburgh were given justice and compassion, as was
due the subjects of the true king.
It was only a month after the standard had been raised at Glenfinnan and James had been proclaimed king, and his son and regent was
preparing to open a royal court at Holyrood House.
Coll was beside Brigham when the Prince rode his gray gelding into Holyrood Park. A crowd had gathered to watch him. Shouts and
cheers followed them, for the people saw their heart's delight in the young man in his tartan shortcoat and blue bonnet. Perhaps he was
not yet England's Prince, but he was theirs.
"Listen to them." Coll leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. "Here is our first real victory, Brigham, and by God, it has a good feel."
Brigham steadied his mount as he maneuvered through the narrow, crowded streets. "I'll swear he could drive them to London now with
only a word. I can only hope the supplies and men we need will arrive before it comes time."
"We could be outnumbered ten to one today and never taste defeat. It would be as it was at Perth and, aye, at Coltbridge." The
early-autumn breeze drifted, making Coll grimace. "But in God's name, this place is filthy. Give me the open Highlands and the hills.
How does a man breathe," he wondered, "without the room to draw air?" Edinburgh was packed with houses and shops, some still
fashioned of mud and wood. The stone buildings rose high, like aeries, with the fronts four or five stories high, and the backs often
stretching nine or ten stories down the perilously steep hills.
"Worse than Paris," Brigham agreed. The stench drifted out from crowded lanes, and waste and garbage clogged the alleys, but the
people, cheering the Prince, seemed oblivious to it all.
Above the slums, the filth of the alleys and the dirt of the streets was the Royal Mile. Edinburgh Castle, majestic, already glamorous
with age and history, guarded one end of that great street. Where its slope ended was Holyrood House, where palace and abbey stood
together elegantly poised before the rough crags. It had already been the scene, time after time, of turbulence and passion. Mary,
Queen of Scots, had been its most famous and doomed inhabitant. She had lived there, marrying her cousin Henry Stewart of Darnley
in Holyrood Abbey, and seeing her lover Rizzio murdered by him in the little supper room of her apartments. Her son James had been
born in the castle, and had survived a troubled and turbulent boyhood to become king of England, as well as Scotland.
It was here, at this site of pomp and intrigue that James's great-great grandson Charles would hold his court, bringing Holyrood House to
life once more.
He rode toward the palace that had once housed his ancestors. Dismounting, he walked slowly under the archway, to appear moments
later in the window of his new apartments, waving to the shouts of the crowd.
Edinburgh held the Prince, and he held Edinburgh.
He was to prove this only days later, when Cope moved his troops south.
Primed, even eager, the Jacobites met the government army east of the city at Prestonpans. Red-coated dragoons faced the
Highlanders, who were dressed for battle in kilts or close-fitting trews. Brigham, with a leather shield in one hand and his sword in the
other, joined the MacGregors. For a moment the field was eerily silent, with only the hollow sound of the pipes rising into the misty air.
Like the heartbeats of men, Brigham thought, men who were willing to die. Opposing standards waved, caught by the early breeze.
The first charge sent birds wheeling and screaming up the sky. Men on foot met with a thunderous crash of sword and ax. Here, as they
had on the route south, the Scots fought like demons, hacking with blades, pressing on even when bloody. As had happened before, the
English infantry couldn't withstand the violence of the Highland charge. The red line wavered and broke.
The cavalry surged forward, vicious hooves striking, claymores glinting. Brigham ignored the cries and curses around him as he met his
man. A shot rang whistling past his ear, but his eyes never lost their icy determination. The Campbell on the road from London would
have recognized it. Brigham was a man who was willing to die but confident he would not.
Smoke from cannon and mortar grew thick, so that men on both sides fought in a fog. The heat of battle set sweat pouring as freely as
blood so that the stench of both stung the air. Already carrion birds circled overhead, lured by the battle sounds.
As Brigham maneuvered his mount through what was left of the English lines, he could see the white cockades of the Jacobites and the
plaids of MacGregors, MacDonalds, Camerons. Some fell around him, victims of bayonets or swords. Again and again the ground
exploded where mortars struck, flinging out rock and dirt and deadly metal. Men screamed as they were struck down. Others died in
silence.
Within ten minutes, the battle was over. Dragoons sought safety in flight and raced to the concealing hills on horse or on foot. Blood
streaked the thin grass and stained the gray rock. The bodies of the dead and wounded lay sprawled on the ground. That day the pipes
played in victory, and the standard of the House of Stuart was held high.
"Why do we stay snug in Edinburgh when we should be marching toward London?" Coll demanded as he strode out into the courtyard
at Holyrood, a plaid wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chilly dusk.
For once Brigham could only agree with Coll's impatience to be doing. They had been nearly three weeks at Charles's newly established
court. The court itself was very glamorous, with levees and councils in the palace, but the Prince had not forgotten his men and so
divided his time between Holyrood and the camp at Duddingston. Morale was good, though there was more than one man among them
who would have agreed with Coll's sentiments.
Balls and receptions could wait. "Victory at Prestonpans earned us more support." Brigham flicked his cloak back, welcoming the damp
evening air. "I doubt we tarry here much longer."
"Councils," Coll grumbled. "Every blessed day we have another council. If there's a problem here, my lad, it's between Lord George and
O'Sullivan. I'll swear, if one says black, the other before God will vow it to be white."
"I know." It was a matter that caused Brigham no little concern. "I'll tell you true, Coll, O'Sullivan worries me. I prefer a commander a bit
steadier, one who is less interested in routs than in overall victory."
"We can have neither if we dally here in court."
Brigham smiled, but he was looking out into the lowering night "You miss your Highlands, Coll, and your wife."
"Aye. It's been barely two months since we left Glenroe, but we had little time together. With the bairn coming, I worry."
"A man's entitled to worry about the ones he loves."
"There's many a man with us who knows once the march south begins it could be a year before we see our homes and families again."
Because he had no wish to fall into a black mood, Coll slapped Brigham on the shoulder.
"At least there's plenty here for you to enjoy. The women are bonny. I wonder that you don't pick out a wench to charm. I'd swear you've
broken a dozen hearts with your indifference these past few weeks."
"You could say I've something on my mind." Someone, Brigham thought. The only one. "What do you say we crack a bottle and find a
game?" He turned at Coll's nod of assent, and together they started back across the courtyard.
Brigham noticed the woman step through the shadowy archway, but his gaze skimmed over her and passed without interest. He had
taken only three steps when he stopped, turning slowly, deliberately, to stare. The light was fading quickly, and he could see only that
she was tall and very slender. A plaid was draped over her head and shoulders. She might have been a servant, or one of the ladies of
the court taking the air. He wondered why a stranger should remind him so achingly of his porcelain shepherdess.
And though he couldn't see her face, he was certain she was staring at him as intently as he stared at her.
The leap of attraction was unexpected. Annoyed with himself, Brigham turned again and continued on. Inexplicably, he was compelled
to stop, to turn yet again. She was still there, standing in the fading light, her hands folded, her head held high.
"What the devil's wrong with you?" Coll stopped and turned himself. Spotting the figure in the archway, he grinned. "Well, if that's all. I
don't suppose you'll want to dice with me now."
"No, I…" Brigham let his words trail off as the woman lifted her hands to slip the plaid from her head. The last of the light fell over her
hair. Like sunset, it gleamed.
"Serena?" He could only stare. She took a step toward him, and he saw her face, and that she was smiling. His boots rang against
stone as he strode across the courtyard. Before she could say his name, he swept her up into his arms, then around and around in
dizzying circles.
"So that's the way of it," Coll murmured as he watched his friend drag his sister close for a long, bruising kiss.
"Why are you here? How did you come?" Then Brigham kissed her again and swallowed her answer.
"Give way, man." Coll plucked Serena from Brigham's arms, kissed her hard, then set her on her feet. "What are you doing in
Edinburgh, and where's Maggie?"
"She's here." Breathless, Serena found herself swung back against Brigham's side. "And Mother and Gwen and Malcolm, as well." She
reached out to give Coll's beard a sisterly tug. "The Prince invited us to court. We arrived almost an hour ago, but didn't know where to
find you."
"Maggie's here? Is she well? Where is she?" With his usual impatience, Coll turned on his heel and strode off to see for himself.
"Brigham—"
"Say nothing." He combed his hands through her hair, delighted with the feel of it, the scent of it. "Say nothing," he repeated, and
lowered his head.
He held her like that, mouth to mouth, body to body, while the shadows deepened. The weeks of separation melted away. Restless, his
hands moved down her back, over her hips, up to her face, while his lips, heated with desire, had her moaning and straining against him.
"Beautiful, always more beautiful, Serena. A man could die from missing you."
"I thought of you every day, and prayed. When we heard of the battles, I nearly went mad waiting for your letters telling me you were
safe." At last she drew away to look at him. Because he and Coll had ridden in from camp, he had yet to change to his court dress.
With some relief, Serena noted that he was the same man who had ridden away from Glenroe nearly three months before.
"I was afraid you'd change somehow, being here." She moistened her lips as she looked back toward the buildings. Nothing she had
ever seen was more magnificent than the palace, with its towers and steeples with lights flickering behind its tall windows. "Everything
here is so splendid. The palace, the abbey."
"Wherever I am, nothing changes between us, Rena."
She moved back into his arms to rest her head on his shoulder. "I was afraid it would. I prayed every day for you to be safe. And I
prayed every day that you wouldn't seek comfort in the arms of another woman."
He laughed and kissed her hair. "I shan't ask which you prayed for with more fervor. My love, there is no one else. Can be no one else.
Tonight I shall find more than comfort in your arms."
She smiled as she turned her lips to his cheek. "Would that we could. In truth, next to finding you safe, my dearest desire was to spend
a night loving you."
"Then I shall see to it that you have both your desires."
She kissed him again and chuckled. "I'm to share a chamber with Gwen. It would be as unseemly, my lord, for you to come to my bed
as it would for me to search the corridors for yours."
"Tonight you share my chamber, as my wife."
Her mouth opened in surprise as she stepped out of his arms. "That's impossible."
"It is very possible," he corrected. "And it shall be." Without giving her a chance to speak, he pulled her through the archway.
The Prince was in his apartments, preparing for that evening's entertainment. Though Brigham's request for an audience at that hour
surprised him, he granted it
"Your Highness." Brigham bowed as he entered Charles's sitting room.
"Good evening, Brigham. Madam," he said as Serena sank into a curtsy. She would kill Brigham, she thought, for dragging her before
the Prince without even a chance to wash off the travel dirt or take a comb to her hair. "You would be Miss MacGregor." Charles drew
Serena to her feet and kissed her hand. "It is easy to see why Lord Ash-burn no longer notices the ladies at court."
"Your Highness. It was good of you to allow me and my family to come."
"I owe the MacGregors a great deal. They have stood behind my father, and behind me. Such loyalty is priceless. Will you sit?" He led
her to a chair himself.
She had never seen a room like this one. The high ceiling was festooned with swirls and clusters of fruits and flowers, and from its
center hung a dripping chandelier. Murals ran along the walls depicting Stuart victories in battle. A fire crackled in me hearth beside her
chair. Music lay open on a harpsichord in the center of the room.
"Sire, I have a favor I would ask."
Charles sat, then gestured Brigham to a chair. "I am sure I owe you more than one."
"There is no debt for loyalty, Your Highness."
Charles's eyes softened. Serena saw then why he was called the Bonnie Prince. It wasn't just his face and form, it was his heart. "No,
but there can be gratitude. What would you ask of me?"
"I would wed Miss MacGregor."
Charles's smile spread as he tapped his fingertips on his knee. "I had already surmised as much. Shall I tell you, Miss MacGregor, that
in Paris Lord Ashburn was very generous with the ladies at court? At Holyrood House he has proved most selfish."
Serena kept her hands folded primly in her lap. "I believe Lord Ashburn is a wise warrior, sir. He has some knowledge of the fierce and
terrible temper of Clan MacGregor."
Highly entertained, Charles laughed. "So, I shall wish you well. Perhaps you would care to be married here, at court."
"Yes, sir, and tonight," Brigham said.
Now Charles's pale brows rose. "Tonight, Brigham? Such haste is…" He let his words trail off as he glanced at Serena again. The
firelight played seductively over her hair, "…understandable," he decided. "Do you have the MacGregor's permission?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then. You are both Catholic?" Receiving nods, he thought it through. "The abbey is convenient. There is a matter of the banns
and so forth, but I believe if a man cannot deal with such matters, he can hardly hope to win a throne." He rose, bringing both Serena
and Brigham to their feet. "I will see you wed tonight."
Pale, not at all certain she wasn't dreaming, Serena found her parents in their chamber.
"Serena." Fiona sighed over the fact that her daughter still wore her traveling suit. "You must change. The Prince's court is no place for
muddy boots and soiled skirts."
"Mama, I am to be wed."
"Devil, lass." Ian kissed her tumbled hair. "We're aware of that."
"Tonight."
"Tonight?" Fiona rose from her chair. "But how—?"
"Brigham went to the Prince. He took me, like this." Serena spread her muddy skirts, knowing her mother would understand her feelings
on the matter.
"I see," Fiona murmured.
"And he, they…" She looked from her mother to her father, then back again. "Mama."
"Is it your wish to marry him?"
She hesitated, feeling the old doubts well up. Instinctively she lifted a hand to her breast. On a heavy chain under her bodice was the
emerald Brigham had given her. "Aye," she managed. "But it has all happened so fast." He would be leaving again, she thought. Leaving
to fight. "Aye," she said, her voice stronger. "There is nothing I want more than to belong to him."
Fiona slipped an arm around Serena's shoulders. "Then we have much to do. Leave us, please, Ian, and send a servant for Maggie and
Gwen."
"Tossing me out, are you, my lady?"
Fiona held out a hand to him, even as Serena reached for his other. "I fear you would have a strong dislike for the woman's work that
must be done in the next few hours."
"Aye, I'll go willingly." He paused a moment to draw Serena close. "You have always made me proud. Tonight I give you to another man,
and you will take his name. But you will always be a MacGregor." He kissed her. "Royal is our race, Serena, and rightly."
There was no time to think, and certainly no time to dwell on the enormity of what she would do before the night was over. Servants
rushed in and out of the chambers with jugs of hot water that Fiona scented delicately for her daughter's bath. Gwen and Maggie
chattered as they took out seams and sewed new ones on the dress Serena would wear to be married.
"It's romantic," Gwen said as she scanned her stitches with a critical eye.
"It's madness." Maggie glanced over, knowing Serena was soaking behind the screen. "Rena must have woven strong magic to make
Brigham hurry so. He must not be so stuffy as I once thought."
"Imagine." Gwen shifted the ivory satin delicately. "Going to the Prince. We never had a chance to unpack from the journey before we're
changing Mother's ball gown into Serena's wedding gown."
Maggie sat back, touching a hand to the mound of her belly. The baby she carried always became more active at night. The unpacking
would have to wait, she thought, just as she and Coll would have to wait to have a proper reunion. She stifled a giggle as she
remembered how he had roared when they had been interrupted just as they had started to become reacquainted. She looked over as
Serena emerged, wrapped in towels, her skin and hair dripping.
"The dress will be beautiful," Maggie told her, blinking back tears at the thought of the wedding. "And so will you."
"By the fire," Fiona ordered, armed with a brush. Knowing the trembles had nothing to do with a chill, Fiona began to soothe her
daughter as she dried her hair. "A woman's wedding is one of her most precious memories. Years from now, when you look back, what
seems now like a dream will be very clear."
"Should I be so afraid?"
Fiona reached over Serena's shoulder to take her hand. "I almost think the more you love, the sharper the fear."
Serena gave a weak laugh. "Then I must love him more man I knew."
"I could not wish a better man for you, Rena. When the fighting is done, you will have a good life together."
"In England," Serena managed.
Fiona began to stroke with the brush as she had so many times before. Her hands were gentle as she thought of this small pleasure
that would soon be denied her.
"When I married your father, I left my family and my home. I had grown up with the sound of the sea, the smell of it. As a girl I would
climb the cliffs and watch the waves break on the rocks below. The forest of Glenroe was foreign to me, and frightening. I wasn't sure I
could bear being so far away from everything I had known and loved."
"How did you?"
"By loving your father more."
They left her hair loose so that it streamed like candlelight down her back. The bodice of the gown was snug, skimming her breasts,
leaving them to rise softly above as a resting place for a rope of pearls. The sleeves belled out, sheening down to her wrists. There was
a glimmer of pearls on the skirt where it flared over hoops and petticoats. At the waist was a sash gathered up with a clutch of the
palest pink wild roses. With her heart hammering, Serena stepped into the abbey.
It was a place of legends, of joy and despair, and of miracles. There she would be wed.
He was waiting for her. In the wavering light of lamps and candles, she walked to him. She had always thought he was at his most
elegant in black, but she had never seen him look more handsome. Silver buttons glinted, adding richness to the severe cut of his coat.
For the first time since she had known him, he wore a wig. The soft white added romance to his face, contrasting royally with the dark
gray of his eyes.
She didn't see the Prince, or the pews filled with the lords and ladies who had come to watch the ceremony. She only saw Brigham.
When her hand touched his, it stopped trembling. Together, they faced the priest and pledged.
The clock struck midnight.
The Prince had decided that a wedding, however hurried, deserved a celebration. Within minutes after becoming Lady Ashburn, Serena
found herself being led to the picture gallery of the palace, where Charles had given his first grand ball on the night he had taken the
city.
The long, wide room was already filled with music. Serena was kissed and congratulated by strangers, envied by the ladies, studied by
the men. Her head was reeling by the time she was handed her first glass of champagne. She sipped and felt the bubbles burst on her
tongue.
Exercising his privilege, Charles claimed her for a dance. "You make a lovely bride, Lady Ashburn." Lady Ashburn.
"Thank you, Your Highness. How can I thank you for making this possible?"
"Your husband is of great value to me, my lady, as a soldier and as a friend." Her husband.
"You have his loyalty, sir, and mine, both as a Langston and as a MacGregor."
Brigham claimed her when the dance had ended, fending off complaints by others who would have partnered the new bride.
"You are enjoying yourself, my love?"
"Aye." Ridiculous to be shy, she thought, but she felt herself color as she smiled at him. He looked different in the wig, with the flash of
jewels, she thought. Not at all like a man who would toss her over his shoulder and threaten to dump her in a loch. He looked as
glamorous as the Prince himself. And nearly as much a stranger. "It's a beautiful room."
"You see the portraits?" he asked, leading her gently by the elbow for a closer look. "There are eighty-nine, Scottish monarchs all. I'm
told they were commissioned by Charles II, though he never once entered Holyrood House, in fact never returned to Scotland after the
Restoration."
She knew her history, she thought irritably, but tried to show an interest. "Aye. This is Robert the Bruce, a fierce soldier and well-loved
king."
"I should have known a woman as well-read as you would know her history and her politics." He leaned close to her ear. "What do you
know about military strategy?"
"Military strategy?"
"Ah, so there is something yet I might teach you." Before she could answer, he pulled her roughly through a doorway. She had only
time for a muffled squeal before he swept her into his arms and began to race along a corridor.
"What are you doing? You've gone mad again."
"I'm escaping." As the music faded behind them, he slowed his pace. "And I went mad from the moment you walked into the abbey. Let
them dance and drink. I'm taking my wife to bed."
He mounted a staircase, not even bothering to nod at a servant who, wide-eyed, bowed himself out of the way. With Serena still in his
arms, he kicked the door to his chamber open, then kicked it closed again behind them. Without ceremony, he dropped Serena on the
bed.
She tried to look indignant. "Is that a way to treat your new bride, my lord?"
"I haven't even begun." Turning he shot the bolt on the door.
"I might have wanted another dance or two," she said, smoothing her palm over the bed.
"Oh, I intend to dance with you, be sure of it. From now till dawn and after."
She gave him a cheeky grin. "There's dancing, Sassenach, and there's dancing."
"Aye," he said, mocking her. "It's not the minuet I have in mind."
She smoothed the rumpled skirt of her gown. "What is it you have in mind, then?" She lifted her brow as she assessed him and
wondered that he didn't hear how fast and loud her heart was beating. "Gwen dunks you're romantic. I doubt she'll continue to think so
when I tell her how you dropped me on the bed like a sack of meal."
"Romance?" He lighted the candles that stood beside the bed. "Is that what you want, Rena?"
She moved a nearly bare shoulder. "It's what Gwen dreams of."
"But not you?" With a little laugh, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a chair in a manner that would have made Parkins
shudder. "A woman's entitled to romance on her wedding night." He surprised her by kneeling on the bed and slipping off her shoes. "I
had no chance to tell you how magnificent you looked standing beside me in the lamplight of the abbey. Or of how, when I saw you
there, every dream I have ever had came true."
"I thought you looked like a prince," she murmured, then shivered when he ran his fingertips along the arch of her foot.
"Tonight I'm only a man in love with his wife." He brushed his lips over her ankle. The scent of her bath clung to it and spun seductively
in his head. "Bewitched by her." Slowly he skimmed his mouth along her calf to trace the pulse at the back of her knee. "Enslaved by
her."
"I was afraid." She reached for him, gathering him close. "From the moment I stepped inside the nave I was afraid." Then she sighed as
he ran kisses along the edge of her bodice, moistening and heating her skin.
"Are you still?" With sure fingers he unfastened her gown, then watched as it dropped silently to her waist.
"No. I stopped being afraid when you picked me up and ran with me through the corridors." She smiled, and her hands were as
confident as his as she pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders. "That was when I knew you were my Brigham again."
"I am always yours, Rena." He lowered her gently to the bed and showed her how true his words were.