Free Rebellion & In From The Cold by Nora Roberts

And less right than that to make her like it. With her hands wrapped around the wooden staff, Serena sent the plunger dancing. Miserable English cur. And she had patched up his hurts with her own hands, served him a meal in her own house. Not willingly, perhaps not graciously, but she had done it nonetheless.
    If she told her father what Brigham had dared to do … She paused for a moment as she dreamed of that possibility. Her father would rage and bellow and very likely whip the English dog within an inch of his miserable life. That made her smile again, the picture of the high-and-mighty earl of Ashburn groveling in the dirt, his arrogant gray eyes clouded with terror.
    She began to churn faster as her smile turned into a snarl. The picture was right enough, but she’d prefer to hold the whip herself. She would make him whimper as he sprawled at her feet.
    It was true, and perhaps sad, Serena thought, that she had such a love of violence. It concerned her mother. No doubt it was a pity she hadn’t inherited her mother’s temperament rather than her father’s, but there it was. It was rare for a day to go by when Serena didn’t lose her MacGregor temper and then suffer pangs of guilt and remorse because of it.
    She wanted to be more like her mother—calm, steady, patient. The good Lord knew she tried, but it just wasn’t in her. At times she thought God had made the tiniest mistake with her, forgetting the sugar and adding just a dab too much vinegar. But if God was entitled to a mistake, wasn’t she then entitled to her temper?
    With a sigh, she continued the monotonous chore of working the plunger up and down.
    It was true enough that her mother would have known exactly the proper way to handle Lord Ashburn and his unwanted advances. She would have become frigidly polite when he’d gotten that look in his eyes. That look, Serena thought, that told a woman instinctively that he meant mischief. By the time Fiona MacGregor had been done with him, Lord Ashburn would have been putty in her hands.
    For herself, she had no way with men. When they annoyed her, she let them know it—with a box on the ear or a sharp-tongued diatribe. And why not? she thought, scowling. Why the devil not? Just because she was a woman, did she have to act coy and pretend to be flattered when a man tried to slobber all over her?
    “You’ll be turning that butter rancid with those looks, lassie.”
    With a sniff, Serena began to work in earnest. “I was thinking of men, Mrs. Drummond.”
    The cook, a formidably built woman with graying black hair and sparkling blue eyes, cackled. She had been a widow these past ten years and had the hands of a farmer, thick fingered, wide palmed and rough as tree bark. Still, no one in the district had a better way with a joint of meat or a dainty fruit tart.
    “A woman should have a smile on her face when she thinks of men. Scowls send them off, but a smile brings them around quick enough.”
    “I don’t want them around.” Serena bared her teeth and ignored her aching shoulders. “I hate them.”
    Mrs. Drummond stirred the batter for her apple cake. “Has that young Rob MacGregor come sniffing around again?”
    “Not if he values his life.” Now she did smile as she remembered how she had dispatched the amorous Rob.
    “A likely enough lad,” Mrs. Drummond mused. “But not good enough for one of my lassies. When I see you courted, wedded and bedded, it’ll be to quality.”
    Serena began to tap her foot in time with her churning. “I don’t think I want to be courted, wedded or bedded.”
    “Whist now, of course you do. In time.” She gave a quick grin as her spoon beat a steady tattoo against the bowl. The muscles in her arms were as solid as mountain rock. “It has its merits. Especially the last.”
    “I don’t want to find myself bound to a man just because of what happens in a marriage bed.”
    Mrs. Drummond shot a quick look at the doorway to be certain Fiona wasn’t nearby. The