Chapter Eight
It's going to be a beautiful ball." Maggie balanced on the rang of a ladder and polished the topmost corner of a mirror. The servants,
under Fiona's eagle eye, were turning the house inside out. Family was expected to do no less. "Everything will be perfect, Rena. You'll
see. The music, the lights—"
"And Coll," Serena added, rubbing her cloth over the arm of a chair.
"Especially Coll." Smiling, Maggie looked down over her shoulder. "He's already asked me for the first dance."
"That comes as no surprise."
"He was so sweet when he asked," Maggie murmured, peering closer to the mirror to give her face a careful study. She was terrified
that the long, sunny rides she had indulged in would bring out freckles that Coll would despise. "I wanted to tell him there was no one
else I wanted to dance with at all, but I knew that would make him go red and stutter."
"I don't remember ever hearing Coll stutter until you came to visit."
"I know." Maggie bit her lip in delight. "Isn't it wonderful?"
A sarcastic response faded from her mind when Serena looked up at Maggie's beaming face. "Aye. He's fallen in love with you, and I've
no doubt it's the finest thing that has ever happened to him."
"Not just because you're my friend?" Maggie asked anxiously.
"No, because he looks happier whenever you're in the room."
Maggie felt tears sting her eyes, then blinked them away. She didn't want them red and puffy if Coll happened in. She was still floating
in the fantasy that her love should see her as nothing less than perfect.
"Remember years ago when we promised each other we'd be sisters one day?"
"Of course. You would marry Coll and I would marry whichever of your cousins I—" With the cloth dangling from her fingers, Serena
looked up. "Oh, Maggie, never say Coll has made an offer?"
"Not yet." Maggie tucked a loose curl back in her cap. For a moment she got the stubborn line between her brows her father would have
recognized very well. "But he will. Rena, it can't just be wishful thinking. I love him so much."
"Are you certain?" Rising, Serena crossed over to lay a hand on Maggie's skirt. "We were only children when we talked that way. I know
you had your heart set on him, but you're not a child anymore, and Coll's a man."
"It is different." With a sigh, Maggie rubbed at a spot on the mirror. "When we were children I would think of him as a prince."
"Coll?" Serena couldn't prevent a sisterly snort.
"He was so tall and bonny. I imagined him fighting duels over me, sweeping me up on his horse and carrying me off." Laughing a little,
she stepped down a rung. "But now, these past few weeks, being around him has made me see him in a whole new way. He's a steady
man, dependable, gentle, even shy in his way. Oh, I know he has a temper and can be reckless, but that's the part that makes him
exciting, as well as steady. He's not a prince, Rena, and I love him more than I ever knew I could."
"Has he kissed you?" Serena asked, thinking that Brigham was more like Maggie's childhood vision of Coll. The earl of Ashburn was a
man for duels and carrying off.
"No." Maggie pouted for a moment over it, knowing it was wrong to wish he had just once taken command of her. "I think he was about
to once, but Malcolm came in." Maggie fluttered her hands. "Do you think it's wrong for me to want him to?"
"No." Serena's answer was flat and honest, but Maggie was dreaming and didn't notice the tone.
"I miss my mother more now than when she died," Maggie mused. "Not being able to talk to her about all of this. To ask her if being
with my father ever made her feel as though her heart had turned upside down. Tell me the truth, Serena, do you really think he loves
me?"
"I've never seen him act so stupid around anyone else. Stammering, going around dreamy eyed and slack mouthed. Whenever he looks
at you he either goes pale or colors up."
"Truly?" Maggie clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, but the man's slow. I'll go mad soon if he doesn't stop looking and take."
"Maggie!" Though her laughter was scandalized, Serena gave her friend a careful study. "You wouldn't, well, agree to more than a kiss?"
"I don't know." Her color was high as she stepped down another rung. "The only thing I'm sure of is, if he doesn't declare himself soon,
I'll take matters into my own hands."
Fascinated, Serena tilted her head. "How?"
"I—" Maggie stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. Her heart fluttered once, making her certain it was Coll even before he
swung into the room. On impulse, she let her foot slip off the rung and gasped in alarm as she tumbled the last few feet toward the
polished floor.
Serena reached out, but Coll took the distance in a leap and caught Maggie around the waist He had only a fleeting sensation of how
tiny she was before he was swamped with concern.
"There now, lassie, have you hurt yourself?"
"How clumsy of me," she managed over the lump in her throat as she stared up into his wide, rugged face. If Serena had asked her now
if she would agree to more than a kiss, her answer would have been yes, a hundred times yes.
"Nonsense." Overwhelmed by tenderness, he held her gently. "A little slip of a girl like you shouldn't be climbing ladders."
Suddenly afraid he might bruise her with his big, clumsy hands, he started to set her down. Drastic desires called for drastic measures,
Maggie thought, and she let out a muffled cry as her foot touched the ground. Instantly she was gathered in Coll's arms again. She
nearly swooned in earnest when she felt the rapid beat of his heart against hers.
"You have hurt yourself? Shall I call Gwen?"
"Oh, no! If I could just sit for a moment…" She fluttered her lashes and was rewarded when Coll swept her up and carried her to a chair.
It took him only six steps, but he had never felt more of a man.
"You're a bit pale, Maggie. A little water should help." He was up and striding out before she could think of an excuse to keep him.
"How badly does it hurt?" Serena had already knelt by her feet. "Oh, Maggie, it would be so unfair if you couldn't dance tomorrow."
"I'll dance. And I'll dance with Coll."
"But if you've sprained your ankle—"
"There's not a thing wrong with my ankle. Don't be silly." To prove it, she sprang up and did a quick, laughing dance step.
"Why, Margaret MacDonald, You lied to him."
"No such thing." She sat again, careful to arrange her skirts in their most flattering folds. "He assumed I'd hurt myself, I never said so.
Oh, Rena, how is my hair? It must be a mess."
"You fell on purpose."
"Aye." Maggie's face glowed with triumph. "And it worked."
Disgusted, Serena sat back on her heels. "That's nothing but a trick, and a demeaning one at that."
"It's not a trick, or only a small one, and there's nothing demeaning about it." She touched a hand to her cheek where Coll's beard had
tickled her. "It was simply a way to make him feel as though I needed tending. A man doesn't fall in love with a woman who's a
packhorse, you know. If it makes him feel good to think of me as a bit helpless and fragile, what's the harm?"
Serena chewed over that one, remembering the time Brigham had raised his sword for her when he'd thought she had been attacked If
she had acted a little more… fragile… With a shake of her head, she told herself that was for Maggie, not for her.
"None, I suppose."
"When a man's shy, he needs a bit of a push. There, he's coming back." She gripped Serena's hands and squeezed. "If you could leave
us alone for just a little while."
"I will, but… It almost seems as though he hasn't a chance."
Her smile spread. "I hope not."
"Here now." Coll knelt beside her and offered a cup. "Drink a little."
"Perhaps I'll go fetch Gwen," Serena said as she rose. Neither Maggie nor Coll spared her a glance. "And perhaps I won't," she
murmured, and left them alone.
Coll took Maggie's hand in his. It seemed so soft, so tiny. He felt like a bear hulking over a dove. "Are you in much pain, Maggie?"
"No, it's nothing." She looked at him from under her lashes, amazed to find herself as stricken with shyness as he. "You don't need to
fuss, Coll."
Looking at her, he was reminded of one of the beautiful porcelain dolls he had seen in Italy. His need to touch ha was as great as his
fear that he would bruise her. "I was afraid I wouldn't be quick enough to catch you."
"So was I." Daringly, she laid her hand on his. "Do you remember, years ago, I fell in the forest and tore my dress?"
"Aye." He had to swallow. "I laughed at you. You must have hated me."
"No, I could never hate you." Her fingers curled into his. "I must have been a dreadful nuisance." She drew together her courage and
looked up. "Am I still?"
"No." His throat was dry as dust. "You're the most beautiful woman in Scotland, and I—" Now his throat was not only dry but seemed to
have swollen to twice its size, and his collar threatened to strangle him.
"And you?" Maggie prompted.
"I should find Gwen."
She nearly screamed with frustration. "I don't need Gwen, Coll. Can't you—don't you see?"
He did, the moment he braced himself to look into those dark blue eyes. He was thunderstruck for a moment, then terrified, and then he
was lifting her out of the chair and into his arms. "You'll marry me, Maggie?"
"I've waited all my life for you to ask." She tilted her face up for his kiss.
"Coll!" Fiona stepped into the room. Her voice was ripe with warning and disapproval. "Is this how you treat a young female guest in our
home?"
"Aye." He laughed and carried Maggie forward. "When she's agreed to be my wife."
"I see." She looked from one to the other. "I won't pretend I'm surprised, but—I think you'd best refrain from carrying Maggie around until
after the wedding."
"Mother—"
"Set the lass down."
Stiff with annoyance, he complied. Maggie gripped her hands together, then relaxed when Fiona opened her arms. "Welcome to the
family, Maggie. I can only be grateful my son is finally showing good sense."
She still couldn't believe it. As she finished up the morning milking, Serena thought over Maggie's breathless announcement. Coll was
getting married.
"What do you think of that?" she asked the placid cow as milk squirted into the pail.
No one was supposed to know yet, of course. Fiona had insisted that Coll approach MacDonald with an offer first, as was proper, but
Maggie hadn't been able to hold the news inside. In fact, Serena's eyes were gritty this morning because Maggie hadn't let her sleep
until it had been nearly time to rise again.
There was little doubt that when MacDonald arrived later that day with many of the other guests he would agree to the betrothal. Maggie
was nearly delirious at the thought of announcing the engagement at the ball that night.
Ready to dance out of her shoes, Serena thought as she squeezed and pulled the last of the milk from the bored cow. Then there was
Coll, strutting around Eke a rooster with two tails. With a shake of her head, Serena set the milking stool aside and lifted her two pails:
Of course she was happy for them. As long as she could remember, Maggie had dreamed of marrying Coll. She would be a good and
loving wife to him, calming his more radical impulses, indulging the harmless ones. She would be content to spin, ply her needle and
raise a brood of raucous children. And Coll, like their father, would be devoted to his family.
For herself, she had reaffirmed her decision never to marry. She would make a poor wife. It wasn't that she minded the work, or that she
wouldn't dearly love to have children of her own, but she hadn't the patience or the biddable nature to sit and wait, to nod and obey.
In any case, how often did anyone find a mate to both love and respect? She supposed she'd been spoiled by being a part of her
parents' marriage. Settling for less would make her feel like a failure.
How could she marry anyone, she asked herself as she came out of the cow shed, when she had fallen in love with Brigham? How
could she give herself to a man when she would always wonder what it would have been like with another? Knowing she could never be
a part of Brigham's life, or he a part of hers, didn't change what was in her heart. Until she could convince herself that the love she had
for him was dead, she would remain alone.
It would be harder now, watching Coll and Maggie. Serena balanced herself with the pails as she started down the rise. The sun was
struggling to brighten the sky and melt the last of the winter's snow. The path was slick, but manageable for one who had made the trip
day after day all her life. She moved without hurry, not for caution's sake but because her mind was elsewhere.
No, she wouldn't begrudge them their happiness because she could never have the same. That would be mean-hearted, and she loved
them both too much for that. But she had to wonder at the way Maggie had claimed her heart's desire simply by tumbling off a ladder.
The way Coll had looked at Maggie! As if she were a piece of precious glass that might shatter at a touch, Serena remembered with a
quick shake of her head. How would it be to have a man look at you that way? Of course, it wasn't what she wanted, Serena reminded
herself. Still, just once it might be nice.
She heard the sound of boots ringing on rock and glanced up to see Brigham striding toward the stables. Without giving herself time to
think, she changed directions so that they would pass each other. Offering a silent apology for the spilled milk, Serena let out what she
hoped was a convincing gasp of alarm and slid to the ground.
Brigham was beside her instantly, his hands on his hips, his face already darkened by his black mood.
"Have you hurt yourself?"
It was more an accusation than a question. Serena bristled, then forced herself to play the part. She wasn't precisely sure how it was
done, but Maggie had used her lashes. "I'm not sure. I may have twisted my ankle."
"What the devil are you doing hauling milk?" Disgusted, he bent down to examine her ankle. The communication that had been brought
to him late the previous night was weighing on his mind. But for that, he might have seen the thunder come into her eyes. "Where's
Malcolm or that scatterbrained Molly or one of the others?"
"The milking's not Malcolm's job, and Molly and everyone else are busy preparing for the guests." All thoughts of being fragile and
feminine were whisked away. "There's no shame in hauling milk, Lord Ashburn. Perhaps your dainty English ladies wouldn't know a
cow's teat from a bull's—"
"This has nothing to do with my English ladies, as you call them. The paths are slippery and the pails are heavy. So it has to do with
you doing more than you're able."
"More than I'm able?" She knocked his hand away from her ankle. "I'm strong enough to do as much as you and more. And I've never in
my life slipped on this path."
He sat back on his heels and let his gaze sweep over her. "Sturdy as a mule, aren't you, Rena?"
That was it. A woman could take only so much. Serena sprang up and emptied the contents of one bucket over his head. It was done
before either of them could prevent it. She stood, swinging an empty bucket, while he swallowed a mouthful of very fresh milk.
"There's a warm milk bath for your soft English skin, my lord."
She grabbed the other bucket, but before she could toss it in his face, his hands closed over hers on the handles. His grip was very
firm, very steady, but there was smoke from a volatile fire in his eyes.
"I should thrash you for that."
She tossed her head back and watched with growing satisfaction as milk dripped down his cheeks. "You can try, Sassenach."
"Serena!"
The challenging gleam in her eyes turned to one of distress when she heard her father call her name. She braced herself as she waited
for him to rash the last few feet toward her.
"Father." There was nothing to do but hang her head before his glowering eyes and wait for the worst.
"Have you lost your mind?"
She signed. Because she was looking at the ground, she didn't notice that Brigham shifted just enough to put himself between Serena
and her father's wrath. "My temper, Father."
"There was a slight accident, Ian," Brigham began. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped milk from his face. "Serena lost her footing
while she was carrying the milk."
"It wasn't an accident." It would not have occurred to Serena to claim it as one and save herself. "I poured the pail of milk on Lord
Ashburn deliberately."
"I had eyes to see that for myself." Ian planted his feet. At that moment, with the sun rising behind his back, his plaid tossed over one
shoulder and his face hard as granite, he looked fierce and invincible. "I'll apologize for the miserable behavior of this brat, Brigham, and
promise you she'll be dealt with. Into the house, girl."
"Yes, Father."
"Please." Brigham put a hand on her shoulder before Serena could make her humiliated retreat. "I can't in good conscience allow
Serena to take the full blame. I provoked her, also deliberately. I called you a mule, I believe, did I not, Serena?"
Her eyes kindled as she lifted her head. She was careful to lower it again quickly lest her father see she was unrepentant. "Aye."
"I thought that was it." Brigham wrung out his sodden handkerchief. What Parkins would say to this, Brigham couldn't even surmise.
"The incident was as unfortunate as the insult, and as regrettable. Ian, I would take it as a favor if you would let the matter drop."
Ian said nothing for a moment, then made an impatient gesture toward Serena. "Take what's left of that milk into the house and be quick
about it."
"Yes, Father." She sent a quick look at Brigham that was a mixture of gratitude and frustration, then ran, milk slopping at the lip of the
pail.
"She deserved a whipping for that," Ian commented, though he knew he would laugh later at the memory of his little girl dumping milk all
over the young English buck.
"That was my first thought." Brigham glanced idly at the ruined sleeve of his coat. "Unfortunately, on further consideration, I'm forced to
admit I quite deserved it. Your daughter and I seem unable to maintain a polite demeanor with each other."
"So I see."
"She is stubborn, sharp-tongued, and has a temper that flares faster than a torch."
Ian rubbed a hand over his beard to hide a smile. "She's a curse to me, Brigham."
"To any man," Brigham murmured. "She makes me wonder if she was put here to complicate my life, or to brighten it."
"What do you intend to do about it?"
It was only then Brigham realized he had spoken his last thoughts aloud. He glanced back to see Serena disappear into the kitchen. "I
intend to marry her, with your permission."
Ian let out a long breath. "And without it?"
Brigham gave him a level look. "I shall marry her anyway."
It was the answer Ian wanted, but still he hedged. He would know his daughter's mind first. "I'll think on it, Brigham. When do you leave
for London?"
"The end of the week." His mind returned to the letter and his duty. "Lord George Murray believes my presence will help gain more
support from the English Jacobites."
"You'll have my answer when you return. I won't deny that you're a man I would be content to give my daughter to, but she must be
willing. And that, lad, I can't promise you."
A shadow came over Brigham's eyes as he dug his hands into his pockets. "Because I'm English."
Ian saw that this ground had been crossed before. "Aye. Some wounds run deep." Because he had a generous heart, he clapped a
hand on Brigham's damp shoulder. "Called her a mule, did you?"
"I did." Brigham flicked his sodden lace. "And should have moved more quickly."
With a rumbling laugh, Ian gave Brigham's shoulder another slap. "If you've a mind to marry her, you'd best be a fast learner."
She wished she were dead. She wished Brigham were dead. She wished fervently that he had never been born. Setting her teeth,
Serena scowled at her reflection as Maggie fussed with the curling irons.
"Your hair is so thick and soft. You'll never have to sleep in papers all night."
"As if I would," Serena mumbled. "I don't see why any woman goes to so much fuss and bother just for a man."
Maggie smiled the wise smile of a woman in love and engaged. "What other reason is there?"
"I wish I could wear mine up." Gwen scooted around to the mirror to study her own hair. "You did make it look so pretty, Maggie," she
said, afraid of seeming ungrateful. "But Mother said I couldn't pin it up until next year."
"It looks like sunbeams," Serena told her, then went immediately back to frowning.
"Yours looks more like candlelight." Gwen sighed and tried a few dance steps. This would be her first ball, and her first gown. She could
hardly wait to put it on and feel grown-up. "Do you think anyone will ask me to dance?"
"Everyone will." Maggie tested the iron.
"Perhaps someone will try to kiss me."
"If they do," Serena said grimly, "you're to tell me. I'll deal with them."
"You sound like Mother." With a light laugh, Gwen twirled in her petticoats. "It's not as though I would let anyone kiss me, but it would
be so nice to have someone try."
"Keep talking like that, my lass, and Father will lock you up for another year."
"She's just excited." Expertly Maggie threaded a green riband edged in gold through Serena's hair. "So am I. It feels like my very first
ball. There." She patted Serena's hair before she stepped back to study her handiwork. "You look beautiful. Or would, if you'd smile."
In answer, Serena bared her teeth in a grimace.
"That should send the men scurrying to the hills," Maggie commented.
"Let them run." Serena almost smiled at the thought "I'd as soon see the back of them."
"Brigham won't run away," Gwen said wisely, earning a glare from her sister.
"It's of no concern to me what Lord Ashburn does." Serena flounced away to snatch her gown from the bed. Behind her back, Gwen and
Maggie exchanged delighted grins.
"Well, he is rather stuffy, isn't he?" Maggie put her tongue in her cheek, then moved over to check her own gown for creases.
"Handsome, certainly, if one likes dark, brooding looks and cool eyes."
"He isn't stuffy at all." Serena turned on her. "He's—" She caught herself, warned by Gwen's giggle. "Rude is what he is. Rude and
annoying, and English."
Dutifully Gwen began hooking Maggie's gown. "He was kissing Rena in the kitchen."
Maggie's eyes went as round as saucers. "What?"
"Gwen!"
"Oh, it's just Maggie," Gwen said with a move of her bare shoulder. "We always tell her everything. He was kissing her right in the
kitchen," Gwen continued, turning dreamy circles as she remembered it. "It was so romantic. He looked as though he might swallow
her right up, like a sugarplum."
"That's enough." Hot and flushed, Serena struggled to step into her gown. "It wasn't romantic at all, it was infuriating and, and—" She
wanted to say unpleasant, but couldn't get her tongue around the lie. "I wish he would go to the devil."
Maggie lifted a brow. "If you wished him to the devil, why didn't you tell me he had kissed you?"
"Because I'd forgotten all about it."
Gwen started to speak, but was hushed by a quick gesture from Maggie. "Well, I daresay there wasn't anything special about it, then."
Calmly she began to hook Serena's gown. "My cousin Jamie is coming tonight, Rena. Perhaps you'll find him more to your taste."
Serena only groaned.
By the time Brigham escaped from Parkins's perfecting hands, he was frazzled and impatient. With the rumors and the unrest in both
Scotland and England he felt little like partnering a bunch of simpering girls and plump matrons at a country ball. His summons back to
London weighed on him. The support the Prince expected from his English followers wasn't as immediately forthcoming as he had
hoped. There was a chance that adding his own voice would sway those who were straddling the political fence, but it would be a
dangerous mission.
He had no way of knowing how long he would be gone, how successful he might be or, if he were found out, what would be the fate of
his lands and title.
There would be dozens of Highland chiefs under the same roof that night. Loyalties would be tested, oaths would be sworn. What he
learned here he would take with him to London in hopes of stirring fighting blood among those English loyal to the Stuarts. It was a war
that still dealt more in talk than in the sword. Like Coll, he was growing weary of it.
As he descended the steps toward the ballroom, he was the picture of the fashionable aristocrat. His lace was snowy, foaming from his
throat, falling over his wrists. His buckles gleamed, as did the emerald on his finger. A matching one winked out of the lace at his throat.
His black waistcoat was threaded with silver, topped by a silver-buttoned coat that fitted without a wrinkle over his shoulders.
At a glance, it would have appeared that he was a young, wealthy man, used to the finer things and unhampered by any care. But his
thoughts were as bright and as dangerous as his dress sword.
"Lord Ashburn." Fiona curtsied as he entered. Since that morning she had been fretting over what her husband had told her of Brigham's
feelings for her oldest daughter. More than Ian could, she understood the warring emotions Serena must be experiencing.
"Lady MacGregor. You look stunning."
She smiled, noting that his gaze was already sweeping the room. And she thought as she softened that the love in it was unmistakable.
"Thank you, my lord. I hope you will enjoy the evening."
"I shall, if you promise me a dance."
"It would be a pleasure. But all the young ladies will be angry if I monopolize your time. Please, let me introduce you."
She laid her hand on his arm and led him into the room. It was already scattered with people, dressed in their best. Satin gowns
glimmered and silk shimmered in the light of the hundreds of candles that floated in the chandeliers overhead or rose from high stands.
Jewels gleamed and winked. Men were wrapped in dress kilts, plaids of bright reds and greens and blues contrasting with doublets of
calfskin. Buckled brogues and silver buttons caught the light, vying for brilliance with the shine of women's jewels.
For the ladies' part, it was apparent that in the Highlands French fashions were watched closely. The more opulent styles were
preferred, with an abundance of tinsel and silver lace in evidence. Hoops swished and swayed like bells. Heavy brocades in vivid shades
were worn by both men and women, with thick gold ornamentation worked into dress coats and huge cuffs that covered the elbows.
Stockings were white or clocked and worn with dressy garters.
Glenroe might have been remote, with the nearest shop half a day's ride away, but the Scot's love of fashion was no less than that of the
Frenchman or the Englishman.
Brigham was introduced to the pretty and the plain by his hostess. When the music began, he would do his duty. For now, he curbed
his impatience as he continued to scan the room for the one face he wanted to see. Willing or not, he was determined to lead her out in
the first dance, and for as many others as he could manage.
"The little Macintosh lass has the grace of a bullock," Coll confided in his ear. "If you find yourself shackled with her, best to offer to
fetch her a drink and sit out the dance."
"I appreciate the warning." Brigham turned to examine his friend. "You look quite self-satisfied. Shall I take it that your interview with
MacDonald went as you wished?"
Coll's chest puffed out. "You may take it that Maggie and I will be wed by May Day."
"My felicitations," Brigham said with a bow. Then he grinned. "I shall have to find someone else to drink under the table."
Coll snorted and fought off a blush. "Not likely. I wish I could ride with you to London."
"Your place is here now. I'll be back in a matter of weeks."
"With cheering news. We'll continue to work here, but not tonight. Tonight's for celebrating." He clapped a hand on Brigham's shoulder.
"There's my Maggie now. If you want a turn with someone light on her feet, ask Serena to stand up with you. A foul temper she might
have, but the lass can dance."
Brigham could only nod as Coll strode away to claim his betrothed. Beside the demure Maggie MacDonald, Serena stood like a flame,
her hair dressed high, the rich green silk of the dress trimmed in gold and cut square at the neck to reveal the smooth swell of her
breasts. There were pearls around her throat, gleaming dully, no whiter, no creamier, than her skin. Her skirts flared out, making her
slender waist seem impossibly small.
Other women were dressed more opulently, some with their hair powdered, others with jewels glistening. They might have been hags
dressed in burlap. Serena looked up at Coll and laughed. Brigham felt as though he'd taken a stroke of the broadsword across his
knees.
As the strains of the first dance began, several young ladies cast a hopeful look in his direction. Brigham found his feet and moved
across the room to Serena.
"Miss MacGregor." He made her an elegant bow. "Might I have the honor of this dance?"
She had made up her mind to refuse him, should he ask. Now she found herself wordlessly offering her hand. The strains of a minuet
floated through the room. Skirts rustled as ladies were led to their places by their partners. Suddenly she was certain she would never
remember even the most basic steps. Then he smiled at her and bowed again.
It seemed her feet never touched the floor, and her eyes refused to leave his. She had dreamed of this once, standing in the chill air of
the forest. There had been lights there, too, and music. But it hadn't been like this. This was like floating, like feeling beautiful, like
believing in dreams.
His hand held hers lightly, fingertips to fingertips. It made her feel weak, as though she were caught up in his arms. They stepped
together sedately, moved apart. Her heart thundered as though they were wrapped together, tumbling into an intimate embrace. His lips
curved as she sank into her final curtsy. Hers warmed as if they had been kissed.
"Thank you." He didn't release her hand, as they both knew was proper, but brought her fingers to his lips. "I've wanted that dance since
I found you alone by the river. Now, when I think of it, the only difficulty will be deciding whether you look more lovely in your green gown
or in your breeches."
"It's Mother's. The gown—" she said quickly, and cursed herself for stammering. When he led her off the floor, she felt like a queen. "I
want to apologize for this morning."
"No, you don't." Boldly he kissed her hand again. More wear a dress that made her look so… delectable? Couldn't her father see that
that young rake was all but drooling on his daughter's neck? Her bare neck. Her soft, white, naked skin, just at the point where the
fragile line of her collarbone swelled into her breast.
He swore under his breath and earned a wide-eyed stare from Gwen. "I beg your pardon, Brig?"
"What?" He dragged his eyes away from Serena long enough to focus on her sister. He had no notion that his stormy looks had
prevented half a dozen young swains from approaching Gwen for a dance. "Nothing, Gwen. It was nothing." He drew a deep breath and
struggled for a casual tone. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Very much." She smiled up at him and secretly wished he would ask her to dance again. "I suppose you go to many balls and
parties."
"In London, in the season, you can barely turn around without one."
"I would love to see London and Paris."
She looked very young at that moment, and he was reminded of how devotedly she had nursed her brother back to health. Some man,
one day, he thought, and delighted her by kissing her fingers. "You, my dear, would be all the rage."
She was young enough to giggle without simpering. "Do you think so, really?"
"Without a doubt." Offering his arm, he led her onto the floor again and told her as many stories as he could recall about balls and
assemblies and routs. Even as he spoke, his eyes were locked on Serena as she danced with her skinny partner. When the dance was
over, Gwen had enough to dream on for years. Brigham had worked himself into a fine, shining, jealous rage.
He led her off the floor, watching as Serena was led in than one murmur arose because of it. "You only think you should."
"Aye." She shot him a quick, amused look. "It's the least I can do after you saved me from the threat of a beating."
"Only the threat?"
"Father only has the heart to threaten. He's never taken a strap to me in my life, which is probably why I'm unmanageable."
"Tonight, my dear, you're only beautiful."
She flushed and lowered her eyes. "I don't know what to say when you speak like that."
"Good, Rena—"
"Miss MacGregor." Both Brigham and Serena looked impatiently at the intruder, a young son of one of the neighboring Highland lairds.
"Would you honor me with this dance?"
She would have preferred honoring him with a kick in the shins, but she knew her duty too well. She laid a hand on his arm, wondering
how soon it would be proper to dance with Brigham again.
The music played on—reels, country dances, elegant minuets. Serena danced with elderly gentlemen, sons, cousins, the portly and the
dashing. Her love of dancing and her skill kept her in constant demand. She had one other set with Brigham, then was forced to watch
him lead out one after another of the pretty guests.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her. Damn it, it wasn't like him to resent watching a woman dance with another man. Did she have to
smile at them? No, by God, she didn't. And she had no business flirting with that skinny young Scot in the ugly coat. He fingered the
hilt of his dress sword and fought back temptation.
What had her mother been thinking of to allow her to a different direction by her partner. One who was wearing, in Brigham's opinion, a
particularly hideous yellow brocade. While the coat might have offended him, the possessive manner in which the man clutched
Serena's hand did a great deal more.
"Who is that Serena's talking with?"
Gwen followed the direction Brigham was scowling into. "Oh, that's only Rob, one of Serena's suitors."
"Suitors?" He said between his teeth. "Suitors, is it?" Before Gwen could elaborate, he was striding across the room. "Miss MacGregor,
a word with you?"
Her brow lifted at his tone. "Lord Ashburn, may I present Rob MacGregor, my kinsman."
"Your servant," he said stiffly. Then, taking Serena's elbow, he dragged her off toward the first convenient alcove.
"What do you think you're doing? Have you lost your senses? You'll have everyone staring."
"To hell with them." He stared down at her mutinous face. "Why was that popinjay holding your hand?"
Though she privately agreed that Rob MacGregor was a popinjay at his best, she refused to accept any slur on a kinsman. "Rob
MacGregor happens to be a fine man of good family."
"The devil take his family." He had barely enough control left to keep his voice low. "Why was he holding your hand?"
"Because he wanted to."
"Give it to me."
"I will not"
"I said give it to me." He snatched it up. "He's no right to it, do you understand?"
"No. I understand that I'm free to give my hand to whomever I choose."
The cool light of battle came into his eyes. He preferred it, much preferred it, to the grinding heat of jealousy. "If you want your fine
young man of good family to live, I wouldn't choose him again."
"Is that so?" She tugged at her hand and got nowhere. "Let me go this instant."
"So you can return to him?"
She wondered for a moment if Brigham was drunk, but decided against it. His eyes were too sharp and clear. "If I choose."
"If you choose, I promise you you will regret it. This dance is mine."
Moments before, she had longed to dance with him. Now she held her ground, equally determined not to. "I don't want to dance with
you."
"What you want and what you'll do may be different matters, my dear."
"I will remind you, Lord Ashburn, only my father can command me."
"That will change." His fingers tightened on hers. "When I return from London—"
"You're going to London?" Her anger was immediately eclipsed by distress. "When? Why?"
"In two days. I have business there."
"I see." Her hand went limp in his. "Perhaps you had planned to tell me when you saddled your horse."
"I only just received word that I was needed." His eyes lost their fire, his voice its roughness. "Would you care that I go?"
"No." She turned her head away, to stare toward the music. "Why should I?"
"But you do." With his free hand he touched her cheek.
"Go or stay," she said in a desperate whisper. "It matters nothing to me."
"I go on behalf of the Prince."
"Then Godspeed," she managed.
"Rena, I will come back."
"Will you, my lord?" She pulled her hand away from his. "I wonder." Before he could stop her, she rushed back into the ballroom and
threw herself into the dancing.