DARE THE WILD WIND (4 page)

Fastened, the dress fell in loose folds from her shoulders in the back, but the tight bodice clung provocatively to the slender lines of her body and the full curve of her breasts.  They rose above the low 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 into her from its foot.  In spite of all her resolve, she halted on the steps.

Below his hawkish nose, his strongly
molded mouth twitched first with shock and then icy, implacable anger. 

Tonight he was elegantly dressed in a wide
cuffed
habit a la francaise
and matching silk breeches that bore none of the stains of travel, a fine lace jabot spilling below a black ribboned cravat at his throat.  His stockings were silk and clocked in gold, and his shoes were exquisitely made, the red worn only by ranking nobles at court. 

It was the man she had confronted at the abbey.  And, with a sinking inside her, Brenna knew past all doubt he was not a part of the royal emissary's escort, but the Earl of Stratford.

Chapter 4

"My lord, allow me to present my sister, Lady Brenna."

Malcolm's voice rang oddly in Brenna's ears, faraway though he stood just below her at the foot of the staircas
e, in the company of four richly dressed Englishmen in powdered wigs.  But the severe
ramillie
wig the tallest man wore did little to alter his appearance, and surprise hadn't shaken his arrogant stance.

"Brenna, the Earl of
Stratford, Drake Seton."

Dread knotting her stomach, she managed to descend the last steps to the great hall and drop a reluctant curtsy to the Earl.  He took her extended hand and grazed it with his lips.

"What remarkable hair," he said, a dangerous glitter in his gold
flecked eyes.  "I'm astonished to find it so commonplace in this wild country." 

Did he mean to toy with her?  Brenna knew she could ill afford to provoke him, but she wouldn't show fear.

"Alas, my lord, we're rustics here.  We're far from court, and we've never taken to powdering our hair."

She saw the other men in the Earl's party exchange glances.  The corners of Drake Seton's mouth twitched at her discomfort.

"
Scotland is a bewitching place."  His eyes traveled down the curve of her throat to the nearly  bare thrust of her breasts.  "The beauty of its women beggars praise.  Even a simple country maid can cast a spell, though none quite the match of yours."

Brenna heard a c
ough behind him and an uneasily cleared throat.  None of his companions would risk interrupting his game.  He meant to torment her, to draw out his revenge.  But she wouldn't give him the pleasure of stammering and quaking before him. 

"Our clan shares the same blood, my lord."  She met his gaze defiantly.  "And many a lass in the
Highlands could catch an Englishman's eye."

She saw his flicker of reaction.  Their encounter below the abbey was proof of the perils any unprotected woman faced at the hands of English soldiers. 

"Not quite in the fashion this one did," he said in a low voice.

"Then I envy the mark she made on your memory," Brenna responded with tart irony.

His eyes met hers.  "I haven't done with her yet."

For a second, he allowed his words to regi
ster.  Then, to Brenna's surprise, he turned back to her brother. 

"I suggest you finish your introductions, Lord Dalmoral.  My companions will take it ill if you neglect to present them to your sister."

Malcolm jumped to oblige.  One by one the English nobles stepped forward to bend over her hand.  Though Brenna murmured them in turn, their names were a tangle.  Her fear of the Earl eclipsed her worry about Malcolm.  Drake Seton was far more dangerous.  He could believe she had acted as a lure in a
n ambush laid for his men. If he did, why had he failed to speak?  Lightheaded and wary, she knew she would have to play out their charade.

The announcement that dinner was served saved Brenna from the stiff gallantries of the other men.  With icy courtesy, the Earl offered her his arm to escort her.  Brenna would as soon have put out her hand to touch a snake.  With distaste, she laid her slender fingers lightly on Drake Seton's wrist.

Immediately, his sinewy hand tensed, and she all but felt his anger.  So close to him, Brenna was uncomfortably conscious how lethal his displeasure could be.  Taller even than
Cam, he was leaner, but as powerfully built.  If she had been afoot in the meadow or fool enough to stray within his reach, she would never have escaped him. 

"You've crowned your day with new conquests," he said in a voice only Brenna could hear.  "My friends look as if they've forgotten where we first encountered you."

Brenna's eyes challenged his.  "Perhaps they remember that they're gentlemen."

He whitened under his tan.

"And I don't?" he shot back.  "You tread risky ground, madam."

Chilled, she saw her insult had struck closer to home than she intended.  She could push him too far.  But Brenna would never plead with him, least of all here.

"I'm accustomed to rocky footing.  And your m
en only follow your lead."   

His color returned, and his control with it.  Grudging admiration surfaced in his eyes.  "So you have wit in the bargain.  You'd do well at court."

"I have no ambition to waste my days at court."

Disbelief registered for a second in his face.  Then his expression turned cynical.  "Perhaps your indifference is only to King George's court." 

They had reached the long oaken table in the dining hall.

Brenna faced him.  "I don't want a place at any court.  I only want to live in peace in the
Highlands."

Malcolm had drawn close enough to hear the last.  "The wish of all at
Lochmarnoch Castle," he said, openly toadying to the Earl.  "And all the clans who gather here on the morrow."

Drake Seton's gaze swept briefly to her brother.  "What a pity every Scot doesn't share your sentiments.  As it is, my men are shot down on the road to your gates."

"You have my word, my lord, that the man who laid in ambush will be run to earth.  I don't countenance rebels on Dalmoral land.  If he is my tenant, I'll hand him over to your men and turn his family out after him."

Drake Seton sent Brenna a quick ironic glance.  "I incline to think none of your tenants would defy you," he said dryly. 

"Talk of blood and vengeance does very little to whet the appetite.  My men and I have spent a long afternoon scouring Lochmarnoch Wood.  I suggest we dine in civilized fashion."         

Brenna allowed the footman to seat her at the banquet table in the center of the refectory.  Though their attempts at grandeur might seem paltry to an English peer, Brenna loved this room.  The carved oak of the table and the cabinets lining the tapestry
hung walls had darkened with age, but below the high vaulted ceiling, the furnishings still had a massive grace in keeping with the gothic scale of the hall.
 

The table was covered in snowy Irish linen, discreetly mended, and they raised antique spiral
stemmed goblets of Venetian glass to toast the King.  Only the old fashioned, highbacked chairs lacked cushions to soften them.  By the third course, Brenna saw two of their guests begin to shift inconspicuously in their seats.  But Drake Seton gave no outward sign he noticed the unyielding surface of his chair despite a day spent in the saddle.

Their English guests might find the chairs hard, but they dined off fine plate.  Light from candles on the table and sconces on the wall played on the smooth curve of old silver.  Crafted in Queen Anne's reign, it was simple and elegant, part of the dowry Brenna's mother had brought to Lochmarnoch.  Long ago, her mother had said one day it would be hers.  But Brenna knew her brother too well ever to think that he would add it to her dowry.

Brenna ached to see Cam.  Despite her own peril with the Earl, her greatest fear was for Cam.  He would take a far bigger risk tomorrow if he rode through the castle gates.  But if he confronted Malcolm and tried to sway their gathered neighbors, Brenna made herself one promise.  She would leave Lochmarnoch with him.

The Earl had left off baiting her when they sat down to dinner, but Brenna ate very little of the soup and game and salmon set before her.  Quickly the conversation turned to the battle fought at
Falkirk.  It had been a victory for Charles Stuart and the Rebels, but they were still in retreat from the Duke of Cumberland's army.  And Brenna knew the last was almost certain to spur Cam to ignore her warning about tomorrow.

Malcolm questioned the Earl and other nobles for details he would parrot the next day to impress his guests.  What they told him was common knowledge, and Brenna ceased to listen.  When the footman brought the port, she rose, glad to withdraw.  Drake Seton's eyes pinned her for a second before he got to his feet. 

"My men and I part with you with regret, Lady Brenna.  Is it the arrival of the port that chases you away, or our talk of war?"

"Both, my lord," Brenna said with a glance at Malcolm.  "My brother has charged me with preparations for tomorrow, and too much is left undone."