UNDRESSED
The third book in the Ashton/Rosemoor series

The breeze stirred, balmy and velvety against her much-too-bare skin, and Brenna shivered despite the warmth. She glanced down at her gown in irritation. Why, she might as well be out in her nightclothes. She knew she'd been gone far too long; that she should force herself to return to the party. Yet she was loath to leave this peaceful spot where the moon and stars kept her company, as they always had.

The sharp crack of a snapping twig startled her, and she sprang to her feet. Pounding footsteps seemed to appear from nowhere, gaining speed, and Brenna took two long strides toward the house before slamming into something solid. The breath knocked from her lungs, she tumbled to the lawn with a yelp.

"Oof, what the devil?" a decidedly male voice ground out beside her.

Brenna blinked hard, attempting to regain her equilibrium.

"Dear Lord, it's you again," the voice said.

Brenna raised her gaze to find the very same tall, blond man she'd encountered earlier that day in the parlor, now standing before her in the moonlight.

"I say, miss, are you hurt?" He crouched down beside her, his brows drawn in obvious concern. "You must forgive me. I didn't see you there in the shadows."

She shook her head. "Nay, I'm not hurt. Just a bit winded, is all."

"Thank God." His gaze drifted down, toward the broad expanse of her d'ecolletage.

With a gasp, she tugged up the neckline, fearing she'd exposed far more than decorum allowed. Ridiculous frock.

Mercifully, he lifted his gaze. "Here," he said, reaching for her hand, "let me help you to that bench over there." He tipped his head toward the same bench she'd occupied only moments before.

Gaining her feet a bit unsteadily, Brenna swayed against him.

He put one arm about her shoulders, steadying her. "You must sit. No use fainting here among the roses. Thorns, you know. Messy business, thorns."

Brenna couldn't help but laugh. "I assure you, 'tis no chance of my fainting. I'm not so delicate as that, Mister...ahem...I seem to have forgotten your name, sir. What was it? Rosewood? Rosemont?"

"Rosemoor," he supplied. "The Honorable Colin Rosemoor, at your service, Lady Brenna Maclachlan. As you can see, I have not forgotten yours."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "You've quite a memory, then, haven't ye? After all, it has been what? Seven, perhaps eight, hours since our last encounter? Surely no more than that."

"Ah, you jest. You must be well recovered, then. Here, sit." He led her to the bench, where she plopped herself down rather inelegantly. His gaze raked over her, his eyes full of unmasked curiosity. "You truly are his sister, aren't you? Hugh Ballard's, I mean."

Brenna nodded. "Aye, it would seem so."

"Tell me, what proof have they? Besides the striking resemblance, that is?"

"Proof enough." Brenna's hand involuntarily moved to her thigh.

"An eyewitness?" he pressed. "A confession? I don't understand how anyone could identify a woman they hadn't seen since infancy."

"Nay, I don't suppose they could. Yet circumstances seem to prove I am indeed their daughter." The birthmark, of course. How many girls born on the ninth of October in any given year had a birthmark in the shape of a Fleur-de-lis on their right thigh? Aye, it was proof enough.

"Your limb--is it injured?" He knelt down beside her, peering at her with knitted brows.

"Whatever do ye mean?" Her whole body tensed. He was only inches away from her; so close she could smell his masculine scent above the floral notes clinging to the breeze. Tobacco and brandy mingling with sandalwood and leather. Pure male, and it made her a little dizzy.

"There," he said, indicating her right thigh.

Had she been touching her birthmark?

"Are you certain you didn't injure yourself? Perhaps I should carry you back inside." He rose to tower above her, reaching for her elbow.

"Nay, I assure ye I am unhurt. I..." She swallowed hard. "'Tis just a twinge, is all. Perhaps ye should return to the house, Mr. Rosemoor."

"Colin," he corrected. "And not till I'm certain of your well-being, Lady..." He trailed off, rubbing his chin. "What shall I call you? Is it Lady Maclachlan? Lady Brenna? Lady Margaret?"

"I suppose it depends upon who ye ask. I would say Brenna, Lady Maclachlan, as I supplied ye earlier. But if ye were to ask Lord and Lady Danville, they would insist on Lady Margaret, I suppose."

"But if you aren't yet wed, how can you be Lady Maclachlan? Wouldn't you be Lady Brenna, just as you would be Lady Margaret?"

"For barbarians, the Scots' laws are much more favorable to women than the English. My father--or the man I always supposed was my father--died without a male heir. He was a younger son, and our land--our estate--is unentailed. When he died, he willed his entire property to me. I am the Maclachlan of Glenbroch now, a position I was raised to."

"You mean to say that your father raised you to inherit his estate? He instructed you in its management?"

"'Tis exactly what I'm telling ye, Mr. Rosemoor. Must ye sound so shocked? Ye canna believe a woman can run an estate as well as a man?"

He shook his head. "I didn't say that."

"But ye thought it, did ye not?"

"Perhaps I did." He leaned indolently against the tree, one boot resting against the trunk. "It isn't a woman's place," he said, carelessly brushing a blade of grass from his trousers.

"What, then, is a woman's place? If ye don't mind my asking, Mr. Rosemoor."

He shrugged. "Well, to run a household, I suppose. To serve as a hostess. And, well..."

"Aye, go on. To serve as a decoration? An accessory? A woman should serve no more useful a purpose than that?"

"I didn't say that." He arched one brow, and Brenna saw a muscle in his jaw flicker.

"But ye thought it, no doubt."

"That's an unfair conclusion, based on our limited acquaintance. In fact, I thought no such thing. I can think of several ladies who have earned my esteem and admiration for their intelligence and competency alone, my sister Jane being one of them."

"Then I must apologize, sir." She shook her head, feeling foolish. "Ye must forgive me, as tonight has been rather trying, to say the least. I seem to be a source of disapproval for Lady Brandon, and--"

"Is that why you are out here, all alone? Has that dragon breathed her venomous fire on you already?"

Brenna laughed; the image was fitting, indeed. "'Tis safe to say she does not see me as fit company for her lovely guests. And what of ye? What brings ye out here, seeking naught but the moon for company?"

"It's rather bright tonight, isn't it, for a half-moon?"

"'Tis bright indeed, but it's not yet a half-moon. Give it two days' time."

"Really?" He turned and looked up at the sky beyond the linden branches. "I say, you're right. There, near the bottom half--"

"The lower quadrant. Precisely." She rose to stand beside him. "'Tis beautiful, isn't it? On such a clear night as this."

"It is. Look at that brilliant star above it."

"'Tis a planet. Jupiter."

"Is that so?" he asked, squinting at the sky. "A planet? Fascinating." He shifted his weight, his forearm just barely grazing her shoulder. "Anyway, it would appear that you and I are out here for much the same reason. But instead of the disapproval of one dragon, I've the disapproval of the entire ton. In the course of a day, I seem to have lost everything--my reputation, my standing in society, my club affiliation, and the affections of the woman I'd planned to marry." His mouth curved into a frown. "What do you say to that?"

"I say ye must exaggerate. It canna be as bad as all that, I should think."

"I'm afraid it is as bad as all that," he answered with a shrug.

She peered up at him curiously. If it were true, his misdeeds must be egregious, indeed. Yet her instincts told her that he was an honorable man, a trustworthy man. Something about his eyes... Yes, she felt safe in his company. Were her instincts so clouded, so marred?

"Whatever have ye done to earn such misfortune, then?" she asked at last.

"I assure you I've done nothing to earn it. Nothing but win a few hands of cards, that is," he added a bit mysteriously, then pointed to the sky. "Look, what of that star, there? Seems to be the brightest of all."

Brenna nodded; he had a good eye. "'Tis Vega, in the constellation Lyra. The Harp. See, 'tis a bit like a lopsided box? And look." She drew a right angle with her finger against the sky. "Over here, Vega. Then here," she said, pointing to the tail of Cygnus, "Deneb. And down here." She moved her hand down toward Aquila. "Altair. They form a triangle, always visible in the summer sky."

"A constellation?" he asked.

"Nay, an asterism." She tilted her head to one side. "You canna even see it in the sky over Glenbroch, the summer nights are so bright." She shook her head and felt a curl escape its arrangement to caress her cheek. "'Tis lovely, though, is it not?" She turned to face him, to gauge his appreciation of the wondrous sight that filled her with awe and amazement.

But he wasn't looking at the sky--he was looking at her. She held her breath as he reached up to brush back the errant lock of hair, his fingertips softly stroking her burning cheek.

"Lovely," came his reply, spoken so softly that she wondered briefly if she'd imagined it.