Rebellion & In From The Cold by Nora Roberts Page B

sputter. “No gentleman would speak to me so.”
    “Perhaps not. But no lady wears breeches.”
    That stung. It was true, she was not a lady, would never be one, though she wished constantly to find the way within her, to please her mother. “Whatever I choose to wear, I won’t have you insult me.”
    “Won’t you? By God, that’s rich. You’ve done nothing but insult me since you first clapped eyes on me.” Goaded past caution, he grabbed her arm. “Do you think because you’re female I should tolerate your sneering comments about myself, my lineage, my nationality? Damn me if you can have it both ways, Serena. You dress like a man, talk like a man, then choose to hide behind your petticoats when it suits you.”
    “I hide behind nothing.” She tossed back her head and glared at him. Through the bare branches of the ash trees the sunlight poured, turning her hair to molten gold. “If I insult you, it’s no more than you deserve. You may have charmed my family, but not me.”
    “Charming you,” he said between his teeth, “is the least of my concerns.”
    “Aye, your concern lies with the fall of your lace and the shine of your boots. You ride into my home with your talk of war and justice, but you do nothing.”
    “What I do, what I mean to do, is no business of yours.”
    “You sleep under my roof, eat at my table. Where were you when the English came to build their forts, to take our men off to their prisons and their gallows?”
    “I can’t change history, Serena.”
    “You can change nothing, nothing that has gone before, nothing that is yet to come.”
    His fingers tightened on her arm. “I won’t discuss my plans with you, but I will tell you this—when the time comes, a change will be made.”
    “To benefit whom?”
    He yanked her toward him. “Which means?”
    “What does the fate of Scotland mean to you or any English nobleman? You came from England on a whim and can return as easily, depending on the way the wind blows.”
    His face paled with rage. “This time, my dear, you go too far.”
    “I’ll say what I choose.” She tried to wrench away but found her arm caught in viselike fingers. “You give me no reason why you align yourself with our cause, why you choose to raise your sword. Therefore I am free to think what I like.”
    “You may think as you choose, but words require payment.”
    She hadn’t seen him truly angry before. She hadn’t known his eyes could blaze or that his mouth could harden until it seemed as though his face were carved from granite. She nearly yelped when his fingers dug still more deeply into the tender flesh of her arm.
    “What will you do,” she managed, coolly enough, “run me through?”
    “As you’re unarmed, that pleasure is denied me. But I have a mind to throttle you.” Whether the gesture was made in earnest or merely to frighten, Serena couldn’t be sure. He lifted his free hand and circled her throat. His fingers pressed, not gently but not quite hard enough to cut off her air, and his eyes stayed on hers, dark and hard. “You have a very slender neck, Serena,” he said silkily. “Very white, very easily snapped.”
    For a moment she froze, as a hare does when a hawk makes its killing dive. Her hand fluttered helplessly at her side, and her eyes widened. Her breath, when she managed to draw it in, was shallow.
    Because her reaction was no more or less than what he had looked for, Brigham smiled. The wench needed to be taught her manners, and it pleased him very much to be her instructor. Then it was he who sucked in his breath as her boot caught him hard on the shin.
    His grip relaxed as he stumbled back, swearing. Deciding against assessing the damage, Serena spun on her heels and dashed for her horse. Still swearing, he caught her in three strides.
    He lifted her off the ground, his arms locked firmly around her waist, while she kicked and cursed. She didn’t fight like a woman, with shrieks and scratches, but with hands