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  His grip relaxed as he stumbled back, swearing. Deciding against assessing the damage, Serena spun on her heels and dashed for her horse. Still swearing, he caught her in three strides.

  He lifted her off the ground, his arms locked firmly around her waist, while she kicked and cursed. She didn’t fight like a woman, with shrieks and scratches, but with hands knotted into fits and muttered oaths. He discovered she weighed next to nothing and could wriggle like a snake.

  “Hold still, damn you. You’ll pay for that.”

  “Let go of me!” She struggled and tossed her weight backward, hoping to unbalance him. “I’ll kill you if I get the chance.”

  “Well I believe it,” he said bitterly. Her struggles broke his grip, and his hand moved up and over her breast. The contact shocked both of them, and the combat took on a new desperation. “Be still, damn it.” Out of breath and patience, he tried to find a purchase that was less arousing. Seeing her chance, Serena sank her teeth into the back of his hand. “Bloody viper,” he managed before her heel connected with his still-tender shin and sent them both tumbling to the ground.

  He told himself it was instinct, certainly not any concern for her welfare, that had him cushioning her fall. The impact knocked the breath from both of them and left them tangled together like lovers. The moment she had recovered, Serena brought her knee up, barely missing her mark.

  They rolled over a bed of pine needles and dried leaves while she fought like a wildcat, pounding him with fists and spitting Gaelic curses. Blinded by her hair, he made a grab for her and found himself gripping her bare flesh where her shirt had loosened.

  “Name of God,” he muttered as the blood stirred in his loins. She twisted, and her breast filled his hand. It was soft as water, hot as fire. “Bloody hell.” Though it cost him, he drew his hand back and made a frantic grab for her arms.

  Her breathing was shallow. A pulse had begun to thud in her throat when he had touched her. Her breast still tingled from his fingers. More than his threats, more than his anger, the unfamiliar reaction of her body frightened her. She was furious, she hated him. But oh, if he touched her like that again, she would melt like butter in high summer.

  He scissored his legs until hers were trapped between them. Intimately, without the cushion of petticoats, they pressed center to center so that she felt for the first time the shock of a man’s desire against her vulnerable womanhood. Heat flickered, then spread, in her stomach. The muscles of her thighs went lax. For an instant her vision blurred, giving him the advantage.

  He braceleted her wrists in one hand and held them over her head. It was a movement meant as much to give him a moment for clear thinking as to allow him to protect himself. Her skin was glowing as the blood pounded hot beneath it. Tangled with leaves, her hair spread out like tongues of flame and melted gold.

  His mouth dry, Brigham swallowed and tried to speak, but she was arching beneath him. Her continued struggles for freedom kindled fires in both of them that threatened to rage out of control.

  “Rena, for God’s sake, I’m only flesh and blood. Be still.”

  Her own movements were making her ears buzz and her limbs weak. There was an excitement that had somehow become tangled with panic, making her all the more desperate to get away. In defense she twisted from side to side and pulled a moan from Brigham.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he managed, “but if you continue, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Let me go.” Her voice was steady, and arousingly husky. As she watched him, her breasts rose and fell with each agitated movement.

  “Not quite yet, I think. You’ll still rip into me.”

  “If I had had a dirk—”

  “Spare me the details. I can imagine.” He had nearly caught his breath, and he let it out now, slowly, cautiously. “My God, you’re beautiful. It tempts me to keep you on the edge of fury.” With his free hand he traced a fingertip over her lips. “It simply tempts me.”

  When he started to lower his head, her lips warmed and parted. Stunned by her own reaction, she turned her head quickly to avoid the kiss. Brigham contented himself with the tender flesh just below her ear, and the slender line of her throat.

  This was different from a kiss, she thought hazily as a moan escaped her. Less and more. It felt as though her skin were alive and yearning for him as he nuzzled and dampened and nibbled. Instinctively she lifted her hips and sent shock waves of pleasure and frustration through him. He felt her hands stiffen beneath his grip, then go limp with her shudder.

  Her hair smelled of the forest, he discovered when he buried his face in it. Earthy, seductive. Her body was as taut as a bowstring one moment, pliant as warm tallow the next. Hungry, he bit lightly at her ear, along her jaw, then slowly, almost triumphantly, at her waiting lips.

  He tasted the breath that shuddered through them as he teased the tip of her tongue into movement with his own. There was so much he could teach her. Already he knew she would be a student eager for knowledge, and skillful at applying it once she learned. Her lips softened when they merged with his, then parted with the gentlest of pressures. In the age-old rhythm, her body moved shamelessly beneath his.

  She hadn’t known there was so much to feel, not just wind and cold and heat, not simply hunger for food and fatigue. There were hundreds, thousands of sensations to be discovered by the merging of lips, the locking of bodies.

  There was the scent of a man’s skin and, she discovered as she traced her tongue along the column of his throat, the taste of it. There was the sound of her own name being murmured thickly against her own mouth. There was the feel of strong fingers on her face, tensing, stroking, the frantic beat of heart against heart. Then the feel of those same fingers caressing her breast, covering that heart and turning her muscles to jelly.

  “Brigham.” She thought she might float away, weightlessly, painlessly, if only he would continue to touch her.

  Her breast swelled in his hand. Unable to resist, he brushed his thumb over the nipple and felt it go taut. He yearned to draw the peak into his mouth, to experience the heat and the flavor. Instead he crushed his mouth to hers, desperately, almost brutally, as for the moment, just a moment, he let the wildness take him.

  Sharp points of passion replaced the languor, and she ached with it, all but wept with it. Her hands were still trapped by his. Though she pressed for freedom, she was unsure whether, if she gained it, she would use her hands to drag him closer or to thrust him aside.

  It hurt. This grinding, overwhelming need clawed through her, pounding in her center, raging through her head until she feared she would be burned alive.

  It pleasured. The sensations he brought to her, the promises he gave her glimpses of. If there was a border between heaven and hell, he had led her to it, and now he had her teetering on the edge.

  When the trembling began she fought against it, against him, against herself.

  At her muffled whimper, he lifted his head. It was there in her eyes, the fear, the confusion and the desire. The combination nearly undid him. He saw that his hand still locked her wrists where, undoubtedly, bruises would form. Cursing himself, he dragged himself from her and turned away until he could find some measure of control.

  “I have no excuses,” he managed after a moment. “Except that I want you.” He turned back to see her scramble to her feet. “God knows why.”

  She wanted to weep. Suddenly, desperately, she wanted to weep, wanted him to hold her again, to kiss her as he had at first in that gentle, that patient way. She dragged a leaf from her hair and, after crumbling it in her fingers, tossed it aside. She might not have had any dignity left, but she had pride.

  “Cows and goats mate, my lord.” Her voice was cold, as were her eyes, as she was determined to make her heart. “They do not have to like each other.”

  “Well said,” he murmured, knowing precisely how she felt about him. He only wished he could be as certain at that moment of how he felt about her. “Let us ho
pe we are a bit above the cattle. There’s something about you, Serena, that tugs on my more primitive emotions, but I assure you I can restrain them under most circumstances.”

  His stiff manner only made her want to fly at him again. With what she felt was admirable control, she inclined her head. “I’ve yet to see it.” Turning, she strode toward her horse. As she took the reins, she stiffened at the touch of Brigham’s hand in her hair.

  “You have leaves in your hair,” he murmured, and fought back an urge to gather her close again, to just hold her in his arms.

  “They’ll comb out.” When he put a hand on her arm, she braced herself to face him.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  That was almost her undoing, the regret in his eyes, the kindness in his voice. She was forced to swallow so that her answer could be steady and flat.

  “I’m not easily broken, my lord.” She shook off his offer of help and launched herself into the saddle. He stood back while she wheeled the horse and set off at a gallop.

  Chapter 5

  “If you think I’m keeping to my bed like an old man while you and my father ride out to do the Prince’s work, you’re a madman.”

  As Brigham watched, Coll pushed himself out of bed and uncertainly gained his feet. His head swam more than a little, but he braced himself against one of the bedposts and tugged off his nightshirt.

  “Where in hell’s name are my clothes?”

  “My dear Coll,” Brigham said dryly, “how should I know?”

  “You must have seen what was done with them.”

  “I regret I can’t help you there.” Brigham flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve and continued in the mildest of tones, “Nor will I carry you back to your bed after you faint and fall from your horse.”

  “The day a MacGregor falls from his horse—”

  “I hasten to remind you you’ve already done so once.” When Coll merely swore and staggered to a chest to look for his clothing, Brigham clasped his hands behind his back. “Coll,” he began, picking his way over tender ground, “I sympathize, believe me. I’m sure it’s miserable to be tied to a sickbed day and night, but the simple fact is you’re not well enough for the journey.”

  “I say I am.”

  “Gwen says not.”

  Frustrated at finding no more than linen and blankets, Coll slammed the chest shut again. “Since when does that slip of a girl run my life?”

  “Since saving it.”

  That silenced Coll, who stood naked as a newborn in the early-morning sunlight. He had allowed his beard to grow since leaving London, and the roughness it gave his face suited him.

  “I have no doubt she did,” Brigham added. “And I wouldn’t care to see all of her hard work go for nothing because you were too proud to rest until you were able to be of use.”

  “It’s a black day when a Campbell stops me from riding with my father to gather the support of the clans for the Stuarts.”

  “Oh, there will be time yet. It’s just beginning.” Brigham smiled then, knowing that Coll’s temper was easing, allowing him to see sense. He was much like his sister in the way that temper kindled as fast as dry wood. The pity was Serena’s didn’t cool as quickly. “And I’ll have you remember, we’re riding out today for nothing more than an innocent hunting party. It wouldn’t do for it to be rumored otherwise.”

  “I trust I can speak my mind in my own house,” Coll muttered, but subsided. It was a bitter pill, but he knew he was far from ready for the journey west. Worse, if he insisted on going, he would slow the rest of the party down. “You’ll meet with the MacDonalds and the Camerons?”

  “So I’m led to believe. The Drummonds and Fergusons should be represented.”

  “You’ll need to speak with the Cameron of Lochiel. He’s always been a strong supporter of the Stuarts, and his voice is listened to.” Coll dragged a hand through his mane of red hair. “Hell and damnation. I should be there, standing with my father, showing I stand for the Prince.”

  “No one will doubt it,” Brigham began, then stopped when Gwen entered with a breakfast tray. She took one look at her brother, standing naked and furious, and clucked her tongue.

  “I hope you haven’t pulled any stitches out.”

  “Damn it, Gwen.” Coll grabbed up a blanket and covered himself. “Have some respect.”

  With a gentle smile she set down the tray and curtsied to Brigham. “Good morning, Brig.”

  He touched a handkerchief to his lips in a futile effort to hide a grin. “Good morning.”

  “Brig, is it?” Coll sputtered. He knew that if he tried to stand five minutes more he’d embarrass himself. “You’ve become damn familiar with my sister, Ashburn.”

  Brigham nearly winced, thinking just how familiar he’d become with Coll’s other sister. “We dispensed with formality shortly after we mopped up your blood.” He picked up his greatcoat. “I fear you’ll have trouble with your patient today, Gwen. He’s in a foul temper.”

  Gwen smiled again and moved over to tidy Coll’s bed linen. “Coll never gives me any trouble.” She fluffed his pillows. “You may feel better after your breakfast, Coll. If you’re up to taking a short walk, I’ll go along with you. But I think you might dress first.”

  Stifling a chuckle, Brigham sketched a bow. She might not have the bite of her sister, but Coll’s little angel knew how to get her way. “Now that I see you’re in good hands, I’ll take my leave.”

  “Brig—”

  Brigham merely laid a hand on Coll’s shoulder. “We’ll be back within a week.”

  Too weak to argue, Coll let himself be led back to bed, “God go with you.”

  Brigham left them with Gwen tugging a fresh nightshirt over Coll’s shoulders. He started for the staircase, then stopped short when he saw Parkins waiting for him, stiff backed, thin lipped and carrying a valise.

  “Decided to return to England, Parkins?”

  “On the contrary, my lord, I mean to accompany you on your hunting trip.”

  Brigham gave him one brief, incredulous look. “I’m damned if you do.”

  Parkins’s pointed chin came up, the only sign of his agitation. “I will accompany your lordship.”

  “Don’t be daft, man. If I wanted to take someone along, I’d take Jem. At least he’d be of some use with the horses.”

  Though he gave an inward shudder at being compared to a lowly groom, Parkins remained resolute. “I’m convinced Lord Ashburn will have need of me.”

  “I’m convinced I won’t,” Brigham responded, and started past.

  “Nonetheless, I will accompany you, my lord.”

  Slowly, almost certain he had misunderstood, Brigham turned to see Parkins standing, a figure of righteousness, at the top of the stairs. “You are ordered to remain,” he said in a very quiet, very dangerous voice. Parkins’s stomach lining turned to ice, but he remained unbroken.

  “I regret that your orders fail to persuade me that my duties are not best carried out in your company, my lord. I will accompany you.”

  With his eyes narrowed, Brigham ascended a step. “I’m of a mind to dismiss you, Parkins.”

  The pointed chin quivered. “That is your lordship’s prerogative. That being the case, I will accompany you still.”

  “Damn your eyes, Parkins.” Exasperated, Brigham stormed down the steps. “Have it your own way then, but you won’t care for the pace or the accommodations.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Fully satisfied, Parkins smiled at Brigham’s back.

  Surly, Brigham strode out of the house and toward the stables to have a word with his groom. Barely dawn, he thought, and already he’d been engaged in two arguments. He flung on his greatcoat as he went, his long, purposeful strides eating up the frosty ground. God, it would be good to get in the saddle and ride. Away from here, he thought, glancing back and homing in unerringly on Serena’s window. Away from her, he corrected, almost savagely.

  She had managed to avoid him all through the evening. Or when she could n
ot, Brigham remembered with some fury, she had spoken to him in a voice as frigid as the ground he was treading on.

  He could hardly blame her, after his treatment of her.

  He did blame her, completely.

  It was she who had raged and ranted at him until his temper had snapped. It was she who had fought him like some kind of hellcat until his passions had torn loose. Never, never in his life had he treated a woman with any form of physical violence. In lovemaking he was known to be passionate but never harsh, thorough but never forceful.

  With Serena he had barely restrained himself from ripping the clothes from her back and plunging into her like a man gone mad.

  She was the cause. If he had managed to make it to midway through his third decade without ill-treating any woman save one, surely that woman was at fault. She goaded him, he thought viciously. She taunted him.

  She fascinated him.

  Damn her. He kicked a pebble out of his way—the mark on his lordship’s gleaming boot would distress Parkins severely—and wished Serena could be dispatched as easily as the stone.

  He would have the better part of a week away from her. When he returned, this madness that had taken hold of him would have passed. He would then treat her with cordial respect and disinterest, as befitted the sister of his closest friend.

  He would not, under any circumstances, think of the way her body had felt, melting beneath his.

  He would certainly not pause to reflect on the way her lips had tasted, warmed and swollen with his kisses.

  And he would be damned if he would allow himself to remember the way his name had sounded when she had spoken it, just once, in the depths of passion.

  No, he would do none of those things, but he might murder her if she got in his way again.

  His mood filthy, his temper uncertain, he came to the stables. Before he could pull open the door it was pushed outward. Serena, all but swaying on her feet, stepped out. Her face was pale, her eyes were exhausted, and the bodice of her dress was smeared with blood.