DARE THE WILD WIND Read Online Free PDF Page A

decolletage of the gown, their enticing creamy swell revealed almost to the rosy aureoles of her nipples, just concealed by a wisp of gauze the French called the modestie .
    Tonight Brenna wished the effect was a little more modest.  She tugged the filmy froth of gauze a little higher on her bosom, prompting the surprised lift of one of Morag's pale brows.
    "What possesses the women at the French court?" Brenna said to cover her sudden case of nerves.  "No decent Scotswoman would have invented such a fashion."
    Morag gave one of her snorts.  "You wore it happily enough when Cameron MacCavan called at Lochmarnoch Castle."      
    Brenna bit back the retort that she would wear her best proudly tomorrow, when Cam rode through the gates.  She could say nothing now, even to her maid and most steadfast friend.
    "I'd rather wear sackcloth and ashes to greet an Englishman at my father's table."
    Morag's plain face cracked into laughter.  "That should please Lord Malcolm right mightily," she said in a choked voice. 
    Brenna knew Morag despised Malcolm as much as she did, in spite of all her homilies about obedience.
    "Then I'll wear a long face in its stead," Brenna amended, briefly joining in Morag's laughter though she knew her disgrace could quickly follow.  Malcolm would swell with fury if he learned she had disobeyed his order to stay inside the castle.  Very likely he would exile her from the table.
    But surely he wouldn't confine her to her chamber in the morning.  Fear squeezed her chest for a second.  She had to see Cam.  Then she realized Malcolm would need her to greet the gathered chiefs loyal to the English king.  He had taken no wife, and it fell to Brenna to preside at his table and the fête afterward.  Unless the Earl's aide denounced her as a traitor trafficking with the Rebels, Malcolm would hesitate to banish her even tonight.
    But Brenna could by no means be sure the man who had pursued her wouldn't.  For a wild moment, Brenna thought of unhooking her wide skirted gown and sending a message below stairs to her brother that she lay abed and ill.  Then the party of English nobles would have no chance to see her face until tomorrow, when it would be too late to forbid her at least the sight of Cam.
    But she had encountered Malcolm early that afternoon.  He would be loath to believe she had fallen so ill she couldn't discharge her duties tonight.  He might mount the stairs to judge for himself.  And Brenna's reflection in her gilded oval mirror told her she looked far too healthy to deceive him.
    She had no choice but to face the Earl of Stratford and his escort of men.  She would have to pray that the man who posed a threat to her would fear both the anger of her brother and the Earl if he was forced to admit he had meant to dishonor her that afternoon.
    Reluctantly, Brenna allowed Morag to work her witchcraft with her still damp hair, pulling its thick, glossy mass back from her face and up, though a few stubborn, coppery tendrils escaped to curl at her temples and the nape of her neck.  Finally, Brenna grew restless with Morag's efforts at perfection.
    "Have done, Morag," she said, chafing to put an end to her suspense.  "It won't do to try Malcolm's patience tonight."
    The stones of Lochmarnoch Castle had been laid in the Twelfth Century, before such an extravagance as basket skirts, and the arched door to Brenna's bedchamber was narrow.  Gathering yards of swaying blue satin, she tilted her hoops to pass through, and started down the corridor to the main staircase.   Shoes of embroidered kid with jeweled buckles had replaced the riding boots she had worn when she clattered up the tower's back stair.  But Brenna took the wide stone steps in equal haste until she heard voices in the great hall below.
    Slowing, she summoned a dignity she didn't feel, and rounded the curve of the staircase with a gliding grace even Morag would approve.  But Brenna wasn't prepared for the eyes that bored