Rebellion & In From The Cold Read Online Free PDF Page B

cleaning the wound and dabbing on one of Gwen’s herbal mixtures. The scent was pleasant, and made her think of the forest and flowers. Serena hardly noticed that his English blood was on her fingers.
    She reached for the bandages. He shifted. All at once they were face-to-face, as close as a man and woman can come without embracing. She felt his breath feather across her lips and was surprised by the quick flutter of her heart. She noticed his eyes were gray, darker than they had been when he’d coolly assessed her on the road. His mouth was beautiful, curved now with the beginnings of a smile that changed his sharp-featured aristocratic face into something approachable.
    She thought she felt his fingers on her hair but was certain she was mistaken. For a moment, perhaps two, her mind went blank and she could only look at him and wonder.
    “Will I live?” he murmured.
    There it was, that English voice, mocking, smug. She needed nothing else to drag her out of whatever spell his eyes had cast. She smiled at him and yanked the bandage tight enough to make him jerk.
    “Oh, pardon, my lord,” she said with a flutter of lashes. “Have I hurt you?”
    He gave her a mild look and thought it would be satisfying to throttle her. “Pray don’t regard it.”
    “I will not.” She rose to remove the bowl of bloodstained water. “Odd, isn’t it, that English blood runs so thin?”
    “I hadn’t noticed. The Scottish blood I shed today looked pale to me.”
    She whirled back. “If it was Campbell blood, you rid the world of another badger, but I won’t be grateful to you for that, or anything.”
    “You cut me to the quick, my lady, when your gratitude is what I live for.”
    She snatched up a wooden bowl—though her mother would have meant for her to use the delft or the china—and scooped out stew and slapped it down so that more than a little slopped over the sides. She poured him ale and tossed a couple of oatcakes on a platter. A pity they weren’t stale.
    “Your supper, my lord. Have a care not to choke on it.” He rose then, and for the first time she noticed that he was nearly as tall as her brother, though he carried less muscle and brawn. “Your brother warned me you were ill-tempered.”
    She set her fist on her hip, eyeing him from under lashes shades darker than her tumbled hair. “That’s fortunate for you, my lord, so you’ll know better than to cross me.”
    He stepped toward her. It couldn’t be helped, given his temper and his penchant for fighting face-to-face. She tilted her chin as if braced, even anxious, for the bout. “If you’ve a mind to chase me into the wood with your grandsire’s claymore, think again.”
    Her lips twitched even as she fought back the smile. Humor made her eyes almost as appealing as anger. “Why? Are you fast on your feet,
Sassenach
?” she asked, using the Gaelic term for the hated English invader.
    “Fast enough to knock you off yours if you were fortunate enough to catch me.” He took her hand, effectively wiping the smile from her eyes. Though her hand curled into a fist, he brought it to his lips. “My thanks, Miss MacGregor, for your so gentle touch and hospitality.”
    While he stood where he was, she stormed out, furiously wiping her knuckles against her skirts.
    * * *
    It was full dark when Ian MacGregor returned with his youngest son. After his quick meal, Brigham kept to the room he’d been given, leaving the family to themselves and giving himself time to think. Coll had described the MacGregors well enough. Fiona was lovely, with enough strength in her face and bearing to add grit to beauty. Young Gwen was sweet and quiet with shy eyes—and a steady hand when she sewed rent flesh together.
    As to Serena … Coll hadn’t mentioned that his sister was a she-wolf with a face to rival Helen’s, but Brigham was content to make his own judgments there. It might be true that she had no cause to love the English, but for himself, Brigham preferred