by Nora Roberts
“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. And he had called her his love. Serena pressed her lips together to moisten them. Perhaps he was feverish. “I should wash.”
He cleared his throat and felt ten times the fool. “Do the mare and the foals do well?”
“Very well, though everyone but Malcolm is exhausted.” She tucked her hands into the folds of her skirts, not knowing what to do next. Oddly enough, she wanted to laugh. It was laughable, after all—Brigham drawing his sword like an avenging angel. Or devil. And herself smeared with dirt and sweat and birthing blood. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she managed as a giggle escaped her. She might enjoy fighting him, but not for the world would she embarrass him deliberately.
“This amuses you, madam?” His voice was cold, cracking like ice on a pond.
“No. Yes.” With a sigh, she wiped at her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry for laughing. I’m tired.”
“Then I will leave you to find your bed.”
She couldn’t let him go that way, she thought as he put his hand on the door. If their parting words had been a shout, it would have contented her. But to have made him cringe when he had tried to protect her would keep her awake at night.
“My lord.”
He turned back. His eyes were calm again and very cool. “Yes?”
Her tongue tied itself into knots. This wasn’t the kind of man you could thank with a smile and a quick word. The other man would have understood—the one who had held her so gently. But not this one. “You, ah, ride with my father and his men today.”
“Yes.” The reply was curt as he drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword.
“I will wish you luck … with your hunting.”
He lifted a brow. So she knew, he thought. Then, that she would of course know, and being a MacGregor, would go to the grave with the knowledge if need be. “Thank you, madam. I shan’t keep you longer.”
She started to leave, then turned, the passion in her eyes again. “I would give so much to go with you today.” Gathering up her skirts, she raced toward the house.
Brigham stood where he was, in the chill air of early morning, the light breeze ruffling his hair. It had to be madness. It had to be the gravest error of judgment, the sharpest of ironies.
He was in love with her.
Letting out a long breath, he watched her until she had scrambled over the rise. He was in love with her, he thought again, and she would sooner plunge a dagger into his heart than give hers to him.
It was a long, rough ride over land wilder than that he and Coll had traveled through on their way north. There were echoing hills and naked rock thrust like deeply gouged teeth from the bare ground. Gray peaks and crags glittered with snow and ice. For miles they would see hardly a hovel. Then they would come across a village where peat smoke rose thick and people clamored out for greetings and news.
It was very much the Scotland his grandmother had spoken of: hard, often barren, but always fanatically hospitable. They stopped at midday and were pressed into a meal by a shepherd and his family. There was soup, the makings of which Brigham didn’t care to know, and bannock and black pudding. He might have preferred the supplies they had brought with them, but he ate what was offered, knowing it was as gracious a feast as could be afforded in the lonely hills. It was washed down with Ian’s own ale.
There were half a dozen children, all but naked, though happy enough, and the shepherd’s wife, who sat near the fire working a spindle. The turf house smelled of the compost heap that lay just outside the door and of the cattle that were housed in the room beyond.
If the family considered their fate bitter, they didn’t show it. The shepherd drank with gusto and pledged his loyalty to the Stuart king.
All the men were welcomed, and food was pressed on each, though the portions were meager. Brigham couldn’t resist a grin at the sight of the proper Parkins struggling to swallow the mysterious soup while removing a pair of small, grimy hands from his spotless sleeve.
Dozens of excuses had to be made before the travelers could convince their hosts that business prevented them from remaining overnight. When they set out again the wind was rising, bringing with it the taste and the scent of snow.
“I feel as though we’ve caused them to starve for the next week,” Brigham commented as they continued west.
“They’ll do well enough. Their laird will see them provided for. That’s the way of the clans.” Ian rode like a man half his age, straight in the saddle, light wristed, tireless. “It’s men like him darlin’ Charlie will need to make Scotland thrive.”
“And the Camerons?”
“Good fighters and true men.” Ian settled into an easy, ground eating lope. “When we meet at Glenfinnan you’ll judge for yourself.”
“The Jacobites will need good fighters, and good generals, as well. The rebellion will only be as successful as the Prince’s advisers.”
Ian shot him a glittering look. “So you’ve thought of that.”
“Yes.” Brigham looked around him as they rode. The rocky, tumbled ground was a perfect field of war for the Highlanders. The men who rode behind them, the men who lived in it, would know its advantages and hardships well.
“If we bring the battle here, we’ll win. Britain will be united.”
“It’s my wish to see a Stuart on the throne,” Ian mused. “But I’ll tell you I’ve seen wars before. In ‘15, in ‘19. I’ve seen hopes raised and hopes dashed. I’m not so old that my blood doesn’t warm at the thought of battle, at the hope of putting old wrongs right. But this will be the last.”
“You’ll live to see others, Ian.”
“This will be the last,” he said again. “Not just for me, lad, for all of us.”
Brigham thought of those words as they neared Glenfinnan.
The waters of Loch nan Uamh were a dark, violent blue. As they arrived at the great stone fortress, the snow was just beginning. Overhead the sky had turned to a thick steel gray, and the wind whipped the waters of the lake into fury.
Their coming had been heralded by the playing of pipes, and the high, eerie music lifted into the thin air. Such music was used to ce
lebrate, to mourn and to lead soldiers to battle. As he stood with the snow swirling about his feet, Brigham understood how a man could weep, or fight, to the sound of such notes.
Inside, servants were dispatched with what luggage had been carried on the journey west, fires blazed high and whiskey was pressed into every waiting hand.
“Welcome to Glenfinnan.” Donald MacDonald held up his cup of whiskey. “Your health, Ian MacGregor.”
Ian drank, and his eyes approved the caliber of MacDonald’s whiskey. “And to yours.”
“Lord Ashburn.” MacDonald signaled for more whiskey to be poured. “I trust my old friend has made you comfortable?”
“Very. Thank you.”
“To your successful stay at Glenfinnan.” MacDonald toasted and drank again. Not for the first time, Brigham was grateful for his head for whiskey. When he noted how easily it was downed by his companions, he decided that he had inherited it from his grandmother. “So you’re kin to Mary MacDonald of Sleat in Skye.”
“Her grandson.”
MacDonald was then compelled to offer a toast to her. “I remember her. She was a bonny lass, though I was hardly whelped when I visited her family. She reared you?”
“From the time my parents died. I would have been nearly ten.”
“Since you’re here, I can’t doubt but she did a good job of it. You’ll be wanting food, gentlemen. We have a late supper for you.”
“And the others?” Ian asked.
“Expected tomorrow.” MacDonald glanced at the doorway, and his rather doughy face creased into a smile. “Ah, my daughter. Ian, you remember my Margaret.”
Brigham turned and saw a small, dark-haired woman of about eighteen. She was dressed in a wide hooped gown of midnight blue that matched her eyes. She dropped into a curtsy, then came forward, hands extended to Ian, with a smile that brought out dimples in her cheeks.
“Why, here’s a lass.” With a great laugh, he kissed both of her cheeks. “You’ve grown up, Maggie.”
“It has been two years.” Her voice was soft, with a lilt.
“She’s the image of her mother, Donald. Thank the Lord she didn’t take her looks from you.”
“Have a care when you insult me in my own home.” But there was a ring of pride in MacDonald’s warning. “Lord Ashburn, may I present my daughter Margaret.”
Maggie dropped another curtsy and extended her fingertips to Brigham. “My lord.”
“Miss MacDonald. It’s a pleasure to see a flower on such a bitter night.”
She giggled, spoiling the elegant curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. It’s not often I hear flattery. You are a great friend of Coll’s, are you not?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I had thought …” She glanced from Brigham to Ian. “He did not accompany you, Lord MacGregor?”
“Not for lack of wanting, Maggie. And not so many years ago it was Uncle Ian.”
She dimpled and kissed his bearded cheek. “It’s still Uncle Ian.”
He patted her hand as he turned to MacDonald. “Coll and Brigham ran into a bit of trouble on the road from London. Campbells.”
“Coll?” Maggie spoke quickly, revealing more than she had intended. “Was he hurt?”
Ian’s brows rose as her fingers curled into his. “He’s on the mend now, lassie, but Gwen put her foot down and said he wasn’t to travel.”
“Please, tell me what happened. How badly was he wounded? Was he—”
“Maggie.” With a little laugh, MacDonald cut off his daughter’s rapid questions. “I’m sure Ian and Lord Ashburn will tell us the whole of it. Now I imagine they’d like to refresh themselves before dinner.”
Though obviously impatient, she pulled herself back. “Of course. Forgive me. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Gracefully she swept her skirts aside and led her father’s guests out of the drawing room and up the staircase. “You’ve only to ask if there’s anything you need. We dine in an hour, if it suits you.”
“Nothing would suit me better,” Ian told her, and pinched her cheek. “You’ve grown up nicely, Maggie. Your mother would be proud of you.”
“Uncle Ian … was Coll badly hurt?”
“He’s mending well, lass, I promise you.”
Forced to be content with that, she left the men alone.
They dined leisurely and with elegance in the great dining hall. There were oysters bigger than any Brigham could recall seeing anywhere before, and salmon in a delicate sauce, removed with roast duck. There were wild fowls and gooseberry sauce and joints of roast mutton. The claret was fine and plentiful. Their host pressed sweets upon them. Mince pie, tarts, stewed pears and sweetmeats.
Throughout, Maggie handled her duties as hostess with an ease and liveliness that became her well. By the time she had risen to leave the men to their port, she had charmed the entire table, from Ian down to his humblest retainer.
The talk turned to politics. Louis’s intentions toward England and his support of Charles and the Jacobites were discussed, debated and argued over while servants brought fresh candles and stoked the roaring fire.
Here, in this dining hall in the wild western Highlands, there was unanimous support for the fair-faced Prince. Brigham saw that these men would not only fight behind him but had come to love him for the symbol of hope he had been almost from his birth.
He went late to bed but found sleep difficult. The fire burned red, and the plaid bedcurtains kept out any drafts, though he could hear the wind whistling against the window glazing. His thoughts, no matter how he struggled to discipline them, returned again and again to Serena.
Would she be in bed now, fast asleep, her mind at rest, her body relaxed? Or would she, like him, lie awake and restless, mind in turmoil, body tensed with needs that had been stoked like the flames of the night fire?
What kind of madness drew a man to a woman who detested him and everything he was? There had been prettier women in his life, and certainly there had been sweeter. There had been women who would laugh and frolic, in bed or out, without a care as to whether he was an English lord or a French peasant. There had been women, dignified and elegant, who had been delighted to receive him for tea or to accompany him on a leisurely ride through the park.
Why had none of them caused him to lie in bed and sweat with visions of slender white hands and tumbled red-gold hair? None of them had ever made him burn with just the thought of a name, a face, a pair of eyes. They had nothing in common but an allegiance to a deposed royal house. He could find no logic here, no reason for a man to lose his heart to a woman who would have delighted in crushing it beneath her heel.
But he did love her. It occurred to Brigham that he might pay more dearly for those feelings than he ever would for following his conscience and the Jacobite cause.
When he slept he slept poorly, and he was awakened shortly after dawn by the arrival of the Camerons.
By midday, the house was swarming with men. MacDonalds from the western isles, Camerons, Drummonds, more MacGregors from the outlying districts. It became a celebration with pipes playing and whiskey to be drunk. Rough manners were overlooked and laughter rang off stone.
Gifts had been brought—deer, rabbits and whatever game had been killed on the journey. They were served at dinner, and this time the great dining hall was packed with men. The company at this meal was varied, from the chiefs and lairds to their eldest sons and men of rank to the retainers. They were all served at the same table and served well, but with subtle distinctions.
At the head of the table was venison done to a turn and fine claret. At the middle there was ale and port with substantial dishes of mutton and rabbit. At the bottom, below the salt, beef and cabbage and table beer were offered. But at all levels the food was plentiful. No man seemed insulted by the arrangements, and all ate ferociously. Servants stood behind the chairs, many of them local villagers pressed into duty for the event.
Toasts were drunk, to the true king, to the Bonnie Prince, to each clan, to t
he wives and daughters of the chiefs, one after another, until bottles were drained and more opened. As a man, they lifted cups to the king across the water. There was no doubt that hearts were with him. But Brigham found as talk turned to the Stuarts and the possibility of war that the table was not of one mind.
There were some whose blood ran hot enough to make them yearn to make the march on Edinburgh immediately, swords raised and pipes playing. Old grudges festered, and like reopened wounds their poison poured out. Proscriptions, executions, homes burned, kin sent to plantations and indentured, estates forfeited.
As Serena had once told him, it was not to be forgiven; it was not to be forgotten.
But others were less inclined to put their lives and their lands into the hands of the untried Prince. They had gone to war before and had seen their men and their dreams cut down.
Cameron of Lochiel, his clan’s acting chief while his father remained in exile, pledged the Prince his heart, but with reservations. “If we fight without the support of French troops, the English will swarm over our land and drive us to the hills and the caves. Clan Cameron is loyal to the true king, but can the clans alone stand against the trained might of England? And a loss now will break the back of Scotland.”
“So we do what?” James MacGregor, heir of Rob Roy, slapped his palm on the table. “Do we sit with our swords sheathed? Do we sit by our fires, growing old, waiting for retribution? I, for one, am sick of the elector and his German queen.”
“If a sword is sheathed, it can’t be broken,” Lochiel returned quietly.
“Aye.” A MacLeod chieftain nodded as he hunched over his port. “Though it goes against the grain to do nothing, it’s madness to fight if there will be no victory. We have lost before, and paid a bitter price for it.”
“The MacGregors stand behind the Prince to the man,” James said with a dangerous light of battle in his eyes. “As we’ll stand behind him when he takes his throne.”
“Aye, lad.” Keeping his voice soothing, Ian broke in. He knew James had inherited his father’s loyalty, and a good deal of his guile and love of intrigue, but not his control. “We stand behind the Bonnie Prince, but there is more to be thought of than thrones and injustices. Lochiel is right. This is not a war to be waged rashly.”