Free Rebellion & In From The Cold by Nora Roberts Page A

mistress was kindness itself, but she would get that pinched look on her face if she heard her cook and her daughter discussing delicate matters over the butter churn.
    “A better reason is hard to find—with the right man. My Duncan, now there was a man who knew how to do his duty, and there were nights I went to sleep grateful for it. Rest his soul.”
    “Did he ever make you feel”—Serena paused a moment, groping for the right words—“well, like you’d been riding fast over the rocks and couldn’t get your breath?”
    Mrs. Drummond narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure that Rob hasn’t been around?”
    Serena shook her head. “Being with Rob’s like riding a lame pony uphill. You think it’ll never be done with.” Her own eyes were bright with laughter as she looked up at the cook.
    That was the way Brigham saw her when he walked in. Her long fingers were wrapped around the plunger, her skirts were kilted up and her face was alive with laughter.
    Damn the woman! He couldn’t keep himself from staring at her. Damn her for making him want just by looking!
    He made little sound, but Serena turned her head. Their eyes locked, briefly, almost violently, before Serena lifted her chin away and went back to her churning.
    The look had lasted only an instant, but that had been long enough to show Mrs. Drummond what had put Serena into a temper. Or rather, who.
    So that’s the way of it? she mused, and couldn’t prevent a small smile. Locked horns, without a doubt. It was as good a way to begin courting as she knew. She’d have to think on it, she decided. But the earl of Ashburn was certainly quality, as well as having a face and form that made even a widow’s heart flutter.
    “Can I serve you, my lord?”
    “What?” Brigham turned to stare through Mrs. Drummond before his eyes slowly focused. “I beg your pardon. I’ve just come from Coll’s room. He’s complaining for food. Miss Gwen says a bit of yourbroth would do him.”
    Mrs. Drummond cackled and went to the pot by the fire. “I have my doubts he’d think so, but I’ll spoon it up and have it sent. Would you mind me asking, my lord, how the lad does?”
    He had made the mistake of looking at Serena again as she lazily stroked with the plunger. If anyone had told him that watching a woman churn butter could dry a man’s mouth to dust, he would have laughed. Now he couldn’t see the humor in it. He tore his eyes away, cursing himself. It would pay to remember that he had already spent one sleepless night because of her, two if he counted the one they had spent together nursing Coll.
    “He seems to fare better today. Miss Gwen claims his color’s good enough, though she’ll have him stay in bed a while yet.”
    “She could do it. The good Lord knows no one else could deal as well with the lad.” Mrs. Drummond tutted over the man she considered the oldest of her charges. She slanted a look at Serena and saw that she was watching Brigham from under her lashes. “Would you care for some broth yourself, my lord? Or a bit of meat pie?”
    “No, thank you. I was on my way to the stables.”
    That had the color lifting into Serena’s cheeks as she banged wood against wood. He lifted a brow. Though she set her chin and moved her bottom lip into a pout that had his stomach muscles clenching, she didn’t speak. Nor did he as he gave a brisk nod and strode out.
    “Now that’s a man!” Mrs. Drummond exclaimed.
    “He’s English,” Serena countered, as if that explained everything.
    “Well, that’s true, but a man’s a man, kilt or breeches. And his fit him mighty true.”
    Despite herself, Serena giggled. “A woman’s not supposed to notice.”
    “A blind woman’s not supposed to notice.” Mrs. Drummond set the bowl of broth on a tray and then, because her heart was soft, added a gooseberry tart. “Molly! Molly, you lazy wench, come fetch this tray to the young master.” She set the tray aside and went back to her stirring. “The man