Rebellion & In From The Cold by Nora Roberts Page A

not, Brigham remembered with some fury, she had spoken to him in a voice as frigid as the ground he was treading on.
    He could hardly blame her, after his treatment of her.
    He did blame her, completely.
    It was she who had raged and ranted at him until his temper had snapped. It was she who had fought him like some kind of hellcat until his passions had torn loose. Never, never in his life had he treated a woman with any form of physical violence. In lovemaking he was known to be passionate but never harsh, thorough but never forceful.
    With Serena he had barely restrained himself from ripping the clothes from her back and plunging into her like a man gone mad.
    She was the cause. If he had managed to make it to midway through his third decade without ill-treating any woman save one, surely that woman was at fault. She goaded him, he thought viciously. She taunted him.
    She fascinated him.
    Damn her. He kicked a pebble out of his way—the mark on his lordship’s gleaming boot would distress Parkins severely—and wished Serena could be dispatched as easily as the stone.
    He would have the better part of a week away from her. When he returned, this madness that had taken hold of him would have passed. He would then treat her with cordial respect and disinterest, as befitted the sister of his closest friend.
    He would not, under any circumstances, think of the way her body had felt, melting beneath his.
    He would certainly not pause to reflect on the way her lips had tasted, warmed and swollen with his kisses.
    And he would be damned if he would allow himself to remember the way his name had sounded when she had spoken it, just once, in the depths of passion.
    No, he would do none of those things, but he might murder her if she got in his way again.
    His mood filthy, his temper uncertain, he came to the stables. Before he could pull open the door it was pushed outward. Serena, all but swaying on her feet, stepped out. Her face was pale, her eyes were exhausted, and the bodice of her dress was smeared with blood.
    “Rena, my God.” He gripped her by the shoulders hard enough to make her cry out. Then he was gathering her tight against him. “What happened? Where are you hurt? Who did this to you?”
    “What? What?” She found her face pressed into the folds of his greatcoat, and the hand that stroked her hair was trembling. “Brig—Lord Ashburn …” But it was difficult to think when she was being held as though he would never let her go. When she was being held, Serena realized dimly, as though she was someone to be protected and cherished. She fought back an urge to snuggle into him. “My lord—”
    “Where is he?” he demanded, dragging her away again, one hand supporting her waist as he drew out his sword. “By God, he won’t live longer than it takes me to kill him. How badly are you hurt, my love?”
    Her mouth simply hung open. He was holding her gently, as though she might break, even as murder kindled in his eyes. “Are you mad?” she managed. “Who do you want to kill? Why?”
    “Why? Why? You’re covered with blood and you ask me why?”
    Confused, Serena looked down at her dress. “Of course there’s blood. There’s always blood at a foaling. Jem and I have been working half the night with Betsy. She had twins, and the second didn’t come as easily as the first. Malcolm is nearly beside himself with delight.”
    “Foaling,” he said blankly while she stared at him.
    Serena moistened her lips and wondered if he needed one of Gwen’s potions. “Are you feverish?”
    “I’m quite well.” His voice was stiff as he stepped back and sheathed his sword. “I beg your pardon. I mistook the blood for your own.”
    “Oh.” She looked foolishly down at her dress again, both warmed and confused by his explanation. So far as she knew, no one had ever raised a sword in her name before. She could think of nothing to say. He had leaped to her defense as though he would have fought an army for her.