her reaction had reminded him there were servants within call, he released her with a rough wrenching shove. He straightened and twitched his narrow shoulders to right his twisted coat.
"You can count yourself lucky that you're still under your brother's roof. But remember this. You play with me to your peril. One day I promise you you'll answer for it."
Chapter 9
Morag burst through the door of Brenna's bedchamber. "The English are back."
Brenna sprang up from the ornate brass bathtub, beaded jewels of water forming rivulets that sluiced down the ivory curve of her breasts and the long slender columns of her legs.
Grimly Morag handed her a fresh towel from the stack in her arms. Shivering in the April chill, Brenna rubbed briskly at her damp body and wrapped her dressing gown quickly around her to hurry barefoot over the rush strewn floor to the window.
Early morning's steady curtain of rain had parted, and what she saw made her recoil. The Duke of Cumberland was in pursuit of Charles Stuart and the Rebel army.
Beyon d Lochmarnoch Wood on the open moor, a vast camp sprang up, not an advance party of dragoons or foot soldiers, but an army. There were regiments of horse, battalions of foot, and a company of artillery, so many men Brenna couldn't count them. But as she leaned over the rough hewn ledge of the window she knew there were thousands, along with baggage carts, a train of camp followers, hundreds of horses, and tents by the dozen being pitched and wrestled upright on the muddy earth.
A raw spring gale blew up from the loch, carrying sounds from the camp away across the moor. But even at a distance, Brenna could make out the uniforms of the British regulars and the flash of the Campbell plaid. She wanted to will the earth to open and swallow the Duke and all his men. This meant a battle would be joined soon, and Cam would be in the thick of it. And Drake Seton was with the Duke's army. A week ago, Brenna had never expected to see him again.
Brenna stepped down from the window. In Europe, the Duke of Cumberland had displayed undisputed courage in battle, but the most charitable of his admirers called George the Second's son a ruthless disciplinarian and an ill mannered womanizer. And she had no desire to match wits with the Earl again.
"How long will the Duke make camp here?"
Morag retrieved the chemise laid out on the bed next to Brenna's lace frilled stomacher. "A day or two, long enough to repair their caissons and rest the horses that pull the cannon."
Morag held out the fine lawn shift. Brenna lifted her arms to let it drift light as gauze over the tender thrust of her breasts and the swell of her hips. "Then they could be gone soon?"
"If the Almighty is in a proper frame of mind. You needn't pother over a feast to welcome His Royal Highness the Duke. His aide de camp already declined Malcolm's invitation. The Duke prefers to set an example for his men, and dine in his own tent. Your brother just rode back from his camp in a fine fit of spleen."
Brenna felt a small measure of relief. If Drake Seton took his meals with the Duke at his camp, she might not see him at all.
That afternoon the Duke extended an invitation to Malcolm to dine with him in his mess. To ignore Malcolm altogether would have have been a slap not even the heavy handed Cumberland would deal an outspoken Loyalist. No women were asked to grace such a rude and simple table, as the Duke's messenger delicately put it when he delivered the invitation. Delighted, Brenna ate alone.
But she couldn't avoid another encounter with the Earl. The following morning a party of men rode through the gate, the Earl at their head, and Malcolm's presence forced her to greet him.
Astride his gray stallion, Drake Seton made no move to dismount. His bright hair glinted like minted gold in the sun, and his hawkish visage looked even more
"You can count yourself lucky that you're still under your brother's roof. But remember this. You play with me to your peril. One day I promise you you'll answer for it."
Chapter 9
Morag burst through the door of Brenna's bedchamber. "The English are back."
Brenna sprang up from the ornate brass bathtub, beaded jewels of water forming rivulets that sluiced down the ivory curve of her breasts and the long slender columns of her legs.
Grimly Morag handed her a fresh towel from the stack in her arms. Shivering in the April chill, Brenna rubbed briskly at her damp body and wrapped her dressing gown quickly around her to hurry barefoot over the rush strewn floor to the window.
Early morning's steady curtain of rain had parted, and what she saw made her recoil. The Duke of Cumberland was in pursuit of Charles Stuart and the Rebel army.
Beyon d Lochmarnoch Wood on the open moor, a vast camp sprang up, not an advance party of dragoons or foot soldiers, but an army. There were regiments of horse, battalions of foot, and a company of artillery, so many men Brenna couldn't count them. But as she leaned over the rough hewn ledge of the window she knew there were thousands, along with baggage carts, a train of camp followers, hundreds of horses, and tents by the dozen being pitched and wrestled upright on the muddy earth.
A raw spring gale blew up from the loch, carrying sounds from the camp away across the moor. But even at a distance, Brenna could make out the uniforms of the British regulars and the flash of the Campbell plaid. She wanted to will the earth to open and swallow the Duke and all his men. This meant a battle would be joined soon, and Cam would be in the thick of it. And Drake Seton was with the Duke's army. A week ago, Brenna had never expected to see him again.
Brenna stepped down from the window. In Europe, the Duke of Cumberland had displayed undisputed courage in battle, but the most charitable of his admirers called George the Second's son a ruthless disciplinarian and an ill mannered womanizer. And she had no desire to match wits with the Earl again.
"How long will the Duke make camp here?"
Morag retrieved the chemise laid out on the bed next to Brenna's lace frilled stomacher. "A day or two, long enough to repair their caissons and rest the horses that pull the cannon."
Morag held out the fine lawn shift. Brenna lifted her arms to let it drift light as gauze over the tender thrust of her breasts and the swell of her hips. "Then they could be gone soon?"
"If the Almighty is in a proper frame of mind. You needn't pother over a feast to welcome His Royal Highness the Duke. His aide de camp already declined Malcolm's invitation. The Duke prefers to set an example for his men, and dine in his own tent. Your brother just rode back from his camp in a fine fit of spleen."
Brenna felt a small measure of relief. If Drake Seton took his meals with the Duke at his camp, she might not see him at all.
That afternoon the Duke extended an invitation to Malcolm to dine with him in his mess. To ignore Malcolm altogether would have have been a slap not even the heavy handed Cumberland would deal an outspoken Loyalist. No women were asked to grace such a rude and simple table, as the Duke's messenger delicately put it when he delivered the invitation. Delighted, Brenna ate alone.
But she couldn't avoid another encounter with the Earl. The following morning a party of men rode through the gate, the Earl at their head, and Malcolm's presence forced her to greet him.
Astride his gray stallion, Drake Seton made no move to dismount. His bright hair glinted like minted gold in the sun, and his hawkish visage looked even more
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