Rebellion & In From The Cold (41 page)

She shook her head and touched a finger to his lips. “I am not an untried girl. I come to you already a woman, and I ask that you take me as one. I need you to love me, Ian. Tonight, this Christmas night, I need that.” This time it was she who captured his hands and brought them to her lips. It was reckless, she knew. But it was right. “And I need to love you.”

Never before had he felt so clumsy. His hands seemed too big, too rough, his need too deep and intense. He swore that if he accomplished nothing else in his life he would love her gently and show her what was written in his heart.

With care, he lowered her onto the hay. It was not the feather bed he wished for her, but her arms came willingly around him, and she smiled as she brought his mouth to hers. With a sound of wonder, he sank into her.

It was more than she’d ever dreamed, the touch of her love’s hands in her hair, on her face. With such patience, with such sweetness, he kissed her until the sorrows she held in her heart melted away. When he had unbuttoned her frock, he slipped it from her shoulder to kiss the skin there, to marvel at the milky whiteness and to murmur such foolish things that made her want to smile and weep at once.

He felt her strong, capable fingers push aside his doublet, unfasten his shirt, then stroke along his chest.

With care he undressed her, pausing, lingering, to give pleasure and to take it. With each touch, each taste, her response grew. He heard her quick, unsteady breath at his ear, then felt the nip of her teeth as he gave himself over to the delights of her body.

Soft, lavender scent twining with the fragrance of hay. Smooth, pale skin glowing in the shadowed lamplight. Quiet, drifting sighs, merging with his own murmurs. The rich shine of her hair as he gathered fistfuls in his hands.

She was shuddering. But with heat. Such heat. She tried to say his name but managed only to dig
her nails into his broad shoulders. From where had come this churning, this wild river that flowed inside her? And where would it end? Dazzled, desperate, she arched against him while his hands traveled like lightning over points of pleasure she hadn’t known she possessed.

Her mouth was on his, avid, thirsty, as he pushed her to the first brink, then beyond. Her stunned cry was muffled against his lips and his own groan of satisfaction.

Then he was inside her, deep. At the glory of it, her eyes flew open. She saw his face above her, the fire of his hair glinting in the lamplight.

“Now we are one.” His voice was low and harsh with passion. “Now you are mine.”

And he lowered his mouth to hers as they gave each other the gift of self.

They dozed, turned to each other, her cloak carelessly tossed over their tangled forms, their bodies warmed and replete from loving.

He murmured her name.

She woke.

Midnight had come and gone, she thought. And her time was over. Still, she stole a bit more, studying his face as he slept, learning each plane, each angle. Though she knew his face was already etched in her head, and on her heart.

One last kiss, she told herself as she brushed her lips to his. One last moment.

When she shifted, he mumbled and reached out.

“You don’t escape that easily, Mrs. Flynn.”

Her heart suffered a new blow at the wicked way he said her name. “’Tis almost dawn. We can’t stay any longer.”

“Very well then.” He sat up as she began to dress. “I suppose even under the circumstances, your father might pull his knife again if he found me naked in the hay with his daughter.” With some regret he tugged on his breeches. He wished he had the words to tell her what the night had meant to him. What her love meant to him. With his shirt unbuttoned, he rose to kiss the back of her neck. “You’ve hay in your hair, sweetheart.”

She sidestepped him and began to pluck it out. “I’ve lost my pins.”

“I like it down.” He swallowed and took a step forward to clutch handfuls of it. “By God, I like it down.”

She nearly swayed toward him before she caught herself. “I need my cap.”

“If you must.” Obliging, he began to search for it. “In truth, I don’t remember a better Christmas. I thought I’d reached the peak when I was eight and was given a bay gelding. Fourteen hands he was, with a temper like a mule.” He found her cap under scattered hay. With a grin, he offered it. “But, though it’s close in the running, you win over the gelding.”

She managed to smile. “It’s flattered I am, to be sure, MacGregor. Now I’ve breakfast to fix.”

“Fine. We can tell your family over the meal that we’re to be married.”

She took a deep breath. “No.”

“There’s no reason to wait, Alanna.”

“No,” she repeated. “I’m not going to marry you.”

For a moment he stared, then he laughed. “What nonsense is this?”

“It isn’t nonsense at all. I’m not going to marry you.”

“The bloody hell you aren’t!” he exploded, and grabbed both her shoulders. “I won’t have games when it comes to this.”

“It’s not a game, Ian.” Though her teeth had snapped together, she spoke calmly. “I don’t want to marry you.”

If she had still had the knife in her hand and had plunged it into him, she would have caused him less pain. “You lie. You look me in the face and he. You could not have loved me as you did through the night and not want to belong to me.”

Her eyes remained dry, so dry they burned. “I love you, but I will not marry you.” She shook her head before he could protest. “My feelings have not changed. Nor have yours—nor can yours. Understand me, Ian, I am a simple woman with simple hopes. You’ll make your war and won’t be content until it comes to pass. You’ll fight in your war, if it takes a year or ten. I cannot lose another I love, when I have already lost so many. I will not take your name and give you my heart only to see you die.”

“So you bargain with me?” Incensed, he paced away from her. “You won’t share my life unless I’m content to live it ignoring all I believe in? To have you, I must turn my back on my country, my honor and my conscience?”

“No.” She gripped her hands together tightly and fought not to twist them. “I offer you no bargain. I give you your freedom with an open heart and with no regrets for what passed between us. I cannot live in the world you want, Ian. And you cannot live in mine. All I ask is for you to give me the same freedom I give you.”

“Damn you, I won’t.” He grabbed her again, fingers that had been so gentle the night before, bruising. “How can you think that a difference in politics could possibly keep me from taking you with me? You belong with me, Alanna. There is nothing beyond that.”

“It is not just a difference in politics.” Because she knew she would weep in a moment, she made her voice flat and cold. “It is a difference in hopes and in dreams. All of mine, and all of yours. I do not ask you to sacrifice yours, Ian. I will not sacrifice mine.” She pulled away to stand rigid as a spear. “I do not want you. I do not want to live my life with you. And as a woman free to take or reject as she pleases, I will not. There is nothing you can say or do to change that. If in truth you do care for me, you won’t try.”

She snatched up her cape and held it balled in her hands. “Your wounds are healed, MacGregor. It’s time you took your leave. I will not see you again.”

With this, she turned and fled.

An hour later, from the safety of her room, she heard him ride off. It was then, and only then, that she allowed herself to lie on the bed and weep. Only when her tears wet the gold on her finger did she realize she had not given him back his ring. Nor had he asked for it.

* * *

It took him three weeks to reach Virginia, and another week before he would speak more than a few clipped sentences to anyone. In his uncle’s library he would unbend enough to discuss the happenings in Boston and other parts of the Colonies and Parliament’s reactions. Though Brigham Langston, the fourth earl of Ashburn, had lived in America for almost thirty years, he still had high connections in England. And as he had fought for his beliefs in the Stuart Rebellion, so would he fight his native country again for freedom and justice in his home.

“All right, that’s enough plotting and secrets for tonight.” Never one to pay attention to sanctified male ground, Serena MacGregor Langston swept into the library. Her hair was still fiery red as it had been in her youth. The few strands of gray didn’t concern a woman who felt she had earned them.

Though Ian rose to bow to his aunt, the woman’s husband continued to lean against the mantel. He was, Serena thought, as handsome as ever. More perhaps. Though his hair was silver, the southern sun
had tanned his face so that it reminded her of oak. And his body was as lean and muscular as she remembered it from nearly thirty years before. She smiled as her eldest son, Daniel, poured her brandy and kissed her.

“You know we always welcome your delightful company, Mama.”

“You’ve a tongue like your father’s.” She smiled, well pleased that he had inherited Brigham’s looks, as well. “You know very well you wish me to the devil. I’ll have to remind you again that I’ve already fought in one rebellion. Isn’t that so,
Sassenach
?”

Brigham grinned at her. She had called him by the uncomplimentary Scottish term for the English since the first moment they had met. “Have I ever tried to change you?”

“You’re not a man who tries when he knows he must fail.” And she kissed him full on the mouth. “Ian, you’re losing weight.” Serena had already decided she’d given the lad enough time to stew over whatever was troubling him. As long as his mother was an ocean away, she would tend to him herself. “Do you have a complaint for cook?”

“Your table, as always, is superb, Aunt Serena.”

“Ah.” She sipped her brandy. “Your cousin Fiona tells me you’ve yet to go out riding with her.” She spoke of her youngest daughter. “I hope she hasn’t done anything to annoy you.”

“No.” He caught himself before he shifted from foot to foot. “No, I’ve just been a bit, ah, distracted. I’ll be sure to go out with her in the next day or so.”

“Good.” She smiled, deciding to wait until they were alone to move in for the kill. “Brig, Amanda would like you to help her pick out a proper pony for young Colin. I thought I raised my eldest daughter well, but she apparently thinks you’ve a better eye for horseflesh than her mama. Oh, and, Daniel, your brother is out at the stables. He asked me to send for you.”

“The lad thinks of little but horses,” Brigham commented. “He takes after Malcolm.”

“I’d remind you my younger brother has done well enough for himself with his horses.”

Brigham tipped his glass toward his wife. “No need to remind me.”

“I’ll go.” Daniel set down his snifter. “If I know Kit, he’s probably working up some wild scheme about breeding again.”

“Oh, and, Brig. Parkins is in a lather over something. The state of your riding jacket, I believe. I left him up in your dressing room.”

“He’s always in a lather,” Brigham muttered, referring to his longtime valet. Then he caught his wife’s eye, and her meaning. “I’ll just go along and see if I can calm him down.”

“You won’t desert me, will you, Ian?” Spreading her hooped skirts, she sat, satisfied that she’d cleared the room. “We haven’t had much time to talk since you came to visit. Have some more brandy and keep me company for a while.” She smiled, disarmingly. It was another way she had learned—other than shouting and swearing—to get what she wanted. “And tell me about your adventures in Boston.”

Because her feet were bare, as she had always preferred them, she tucked her legs up, managing in the wide plum-colored skirts to look both ladylike and ridiculously young. Despite the foul mood that haunted him, Ian found himself smiling at her.

“Aunt Serena, you are beautiful.”

“And you are trying to distract me.” She tossed her head so that her hair, never quite tamed, flowed over her shoulders. “I know all about your little tea party, my lad.” She toasted him with her snifter. “As one MacGregor to another, I salute you. And,” she continued, “I know that the English are already grumbling. Would that they would choke on their own cursed tea.” She held up a hand. “But don’t get me started on that. It’s true enough that I want to hear what you have to say about the feelings of those in New England and other parts of America, but for now I want to know about you.”

“About me?” He shrugged and swirled his drink. “It’s hardly worth the trouble to pretend you don’t know all about my activities, my allegiance to Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty. Our plans move slowly, but they move.”

She was nearly distracted enough to inquire further along these lines, but Brigham, and her own sources, could feed her all the information she needed. “On a more personal level, Ian.” More serious, she leaned forward to touch his hand. “You are my brother’s first child and my own godchild. I helped bring you into this world. And I know as truly as I sit here that you’re troubled by something that has nothing to do with politics or revolutions.”

“And everything to do with it,” he muttered, and drank.

“Tell me about her.”

He gave his aunt a sharp look. “I have mentioned no ‘her.’”

“You have mentioned her a thousand times by your silence.” She smiled and kept his hand in hers. “’Tis no use trying to keep things from me, my lad. We’re blood. What is her name?”

“Alanna,” he heard himself saying. “Damn her to hell and back.”

With a lusty laugh, Serena sat back. “I like the sound of that. Tell me.”

And he did. Though he had had no intention of doing so. Within thirty minutes he had told Serena everything from his first moment of regaining hazy consciousness in the barn to his furious and frustrated leave-taking.

“She loves you very much,” Serena murmured.

As he told his tale, Ian had risen to pace to the fire and back, to the window and back and to the fire again. Though he was dressed like a gentleman, he moved like a warrior. He stood before the fire now, the flames snapping at his back. She was reminded so completely of her brother Coll that her heart broke a little.

“What kind of love is it that pushes a man away and leaves him with half a heart?”