Rebellion & In From The Cold

by Nora Roberts

  “So you bargain with me?” Incensed, he paced away from her. “You won’t share my life unless I’m content to live it ignoring all I believe in? To have you, I must turn my back on my country, my honor and my conscience?”

  “No.” She gripped her hands together tightly and fought not to twist them. “I offer you no bargain. I give you your freedom with an open heart and with no regrets for what passed between us. I cannot live in the world you want, Ian. And you cannot live in mine. All I ask is for you to give me the same freedom I give you.”

  “Damn you, I won’t.” He grabbed her again, fingers that had been so gentle the night before, bruising. “How can you think that a difference in politics could possibly keep me from taking you with me? You belong with me, Alanna. There is nothing beyond that.”

  “It is not just a difference in politics.” Because she knew she would weep in a moment, she made her voice flat and cold. “It is a difference in hopes and in dreams. All of mine, and all of yours. I do not ask you to sacrifice yours, Ian. I will not sacrifice mine.” She pulled away to stand rigid as a spear. “I do not want you. I do not want to live my life with you. And as a woman free to take or reject as she pleases, I will not. There is nothing you can say or do to change that. If in truth you do care for me, you won’t try.”

  She snatched up her cape and held it balled in her hands. “Your wounds are healed, MacGregor. It’s time you took your leave. I will not see you again.”

  With this, she turned and fled.

  An hour later, from the safety of her room, she heard him ride off. It was then, and only then, that she allowed herself to lie on the bed and weep. Only when her tears wet the gold on her finger did she realize she had not given him back his ring. Nor had he asked for it.

  * * *

  It took him three weeks to reach Virginia, and another week before he would speak more than a few clipped sentences to anyone. In his uncle’s library he would unbend enough to discuss the happenings in Boston and other parts of the Colonies and Parliament’s reactions. Though Brigham Langston, the fourth earl of Ashburn, had lived in America for almost thirty years, he still had high connections in England. And as he had fought for his beliefs in the Stuart Rebellion, so would he fight his native country again for freedom and justice in his home.

  “All right, that’s enough plotting and secrets for tonight.” Never one to pay attention to sanctified male ground, Serena MacGregor Langston swept into the library. Her hair was still fiery red as it had been in her youth. The few strands of gray didn’t concern a woman who felt she had earned them.

  Though Ian rose to bow to his aunt, the woman’s husband continued to lean against the mantel. He was, Serena thought, as handsome as ever. More perhaps. Though his hair was silver, the southern sun had tanned his face so that it reminded her of oak. And his body was as lean and muscular as she remembered it from nearly thirty years before. She smiled as her eldest son, Daniel, poured her brandy and kissed her.

  “You know we always welcome your delightful company, Mama.”

  “You’ve a tongue like your father’s.” She smiled, well pleased that he had inherited Brigham’s looks, as well. “You know very well you wish me to the devil. I’ll have to remind you again that I’ve already fought in one rebellion. Isn’t that so, Sassenach?”

  Brigham grinned at her. She had called him by the uncomplimentary Scottish term for the English since the first moment they had met. “Have I ever tried to change you?”

  “You’re not a man who tries when he knows he must fail.” And she kissed him full on the mouth. “Ian, you’re losing weight.” Serena had already decided she’d given the lad enough time to stew over whatever was troubling him. As long as his mother was an ocean away, she would tend to him herself. “Do you have a complaint for cook?”

  “Your table, as always, is superb, Aunt Serena.”

  “Ah.” She sipped her brandy. “Your cousin Fiona tells me you’ve yet to go out riding with her.” She spoke of her youngest daughter. “I hope she hasn’t done anything to annoy you.”

  “No.” He caught himself before he shifted from foot to foot. “No, I’ve just been a bit, ah, distracted. I’ll be sure to go out with her in the next day or so.”

  “Good.” She smiled, deciding to wait until they were alone to move in for the kill. “Brig, Amanda would like you to help her pick out a proper pony for young Colin. I thought I raised my eldest daughter well, but she apparently thinks you’ve a better eye for horseflesh than her mama. Oh, and, Daniel, your brother is out at the stables. He asked me to send for you.”

  “The lad thinks of little but horses,” Brigham commented. “He takes after Malcolm.”

  “I’d remind you my younger brother has done well enough for himself with his horses.”

  Brigham tipped his glass toward his wife. “No need to remind me.”

  “I’ll go.” Daniel set down his snifter. “If I know Kit, he’s probably working up some wild scheme about breeding again.”

  “Oh, and, Brig. Parkins is in a lather over something. The state of your riding jacket, I believe. I left him up in your dressing room.”

  “He’s always in a lather,” Brigham muttered, referring to his longtime valet. Then he caught his wife’s eye, and her meaning. “I’ll just go along and see if I can calm him down.”

  “You won’t desert me, will you, Ian?” Spreading her hooped skirts, she sat, satisfied that she’d cleared the room. “We haven’t had much time to talk since you came to visit. Have some more brandy and keep me company for a while.” She smiled, disarmingly. It was another way she had learned—other than shouting and swearing—to get what she wanted. “And tell me about your adventures in Boston.”

  Because her feet were bare, as she had always preferred them, she tucked her legs up, managing in the wide plum-colored skirts to look both ladylike and ridiculously young. Despite the foul mood that haunted him, Ian found himself smiling at her.

  “Aunt Serena, you are beautiful.”

  “And you are trying to distract me.” She tossed her head so that her hair, never quite tamed, flowed over her shoulders. “I know all about your little tea party, my lad.” She toasted him with her snifter. “As one MacGregor to another, I salute you. And,” she continued, “I know that the English are already grumbling. Would that they would choke on their own cursed tea.” She held up a hand. “But don’t get me started on that. It’s true enough that I want to hear what you have to say about the feelings of those in New England and other parts of America, but for now I want to know about you.”

  “About me?” He shrugged and swirled his drink. “It’s hardly worth the trouble to pretend you don’t know all about my activities, my allegiance to Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty. Our plans move slowly, but they move.”

  She was nearly distracted enough to inquire further along these lines, but Brigham, and her own sources, could feed her all the information she needed. “On a more personal level, Ian.” More serious, she leaned forward to touch his hand. “You are my brother’s first child and my own godchild. I helped bring you into this world. And I know as truly as I sit here that you’re troubled by something that has nothing to do with politics or revolutions.”

  “And everything to do with it,” he muttered, and drank.

  “Tell me about her.”

  He gave his aunt a sharp look. “I have mentioned no ‘her.’”

  “You have mentioned her a thousand times by your silence.” She smiled and kept his hand in hers. “’Tis no use trying to keep things from me, my lad. We’re blood. What is her name?”

  “Alanna,” he heard himself saying. “Damn her to hell and back.”

  With a lusty laugh, Serena sat back. “I like the sound of that. Tell me.”

  And he did. Though he had had no intention of doing so. Within thirty minutes he had told Serena everything from his first moment of regaining hazy consciousness in the barn to his furious and frustrated leave-taking.

  “She loves you
very much,” Serena murmured.

  As he told his tale, Ian had risen to pace to the fire and back, to the window and back and to the fire again. Though he was dressed like a gentleman, he moved like a warrior. He stood before the fire now, the flames snapping at his back. She was reminded so completely of her brother Coll that her heart broke a little.

  “What kind of love is it that pushes a man away and leaves him with half a heart?”

  “A deep one, a frightened one.” She rose then to hold out her hands to him. “This I understand, Ian, more than I can tell you.” Pained for him, she brought his hands to her cheeks.

  “I cannot change what I am.”

  “No, you cannot.” With a sigh, she drew him down to sit beside her. “Neither could I. We are children of Scotland, my love. Spirits of the Highlands.” Even as she spoke, the pain for her lost homeland was ripe. “We are rebels born and bred, warriors since time began. And yet, when we fight, we fight only for what is ours by right. Our land, our homes, our people.”

  “She doesn’t understand.”

  “Oh, I believe she understands only too well. Perhaps she cannot accept. By why would you, a MacGregor, leave her when she told you to? Would you not fight for her?”

  “She’s a hardheaded shrew who wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “Ah.” Hiding a smile, she nodded. She had been called hardheaded time and again during her life—and by one man in particular. It was pride that had set her nephew on his horse and had him licking his wounds in Virginia. Pride was something she also understood very well. “And you love her?”

  “I would forget her if I could.” He ground his teeth. “Perhaps I will go back and murder her.”

  “I doubt it will come to that.” Rising, she patted his hand. “Take some time with us here, Ian. And trust me, all will be well eventually. I must go up now and rescue your uncle from Parkins.”

  She left him scowling at the fire. But instead of going to Brigham, she went into her own sitting room and composed a letter.

  * * *

  “I cannot go.” Cheeks flushed, eyes bright and blazing, Alanna stood in front of her father, the letter still clutched in her hand.

  “You can and will,” Cyrus insisted. “The Lady Langston has invited you to her home to thank you in person for saving the life of her nephew.” He clamped his pipe between his teeth and prayed he wasn’t making a mistake. “Your mother would want this for you.”

  “The journey is too long,” she began quickly. “And in another month or two it will be time for making soap and planting and wool carding. I’ve too much to do to take such a trip. And … and I have nothing proper to wear.”

  “You will go, representing this house.” He drew himself up to his full height. “It will never be said that a Murphy cowered at the thought of meeting gentry.”

  “I’m not cowering.”

  “You’re shaking in your boots, girl, and it makes me pale with shame. Lady Langston wishes to make your acquaintance. Why, I have cousins who fought beside her clan in the Forty-five. A Murphy’s as good as a MacGregor any day—better than one if it comes to that. I couldn’t give you the schooling your good mother wanted for you—”

  “Oh, Da.”

  He shook his head fiercely. “She will turn her back on me when I join her in the hereafter if I don’t push you to do this. Tis my wish that you see more of the world than these rocks and this forest before my life is done. So you’ll do it for me and your mother if not for yourself.”

  She weakened, as he’d known she would. “But … If Ian is there …”

  “She doesn’t say he is, does she?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then it’s likely he’s not. He’s off rabble-rousing somewhere more like.”

  “Aye.” Glumly, she looked down at the letter in her hand. “Aye, more like.” She began to wonder what it would be like to travel so far and to see Virginia, where the land was supposed to be so green. “But who will cook? Who will do the wash and the milking. I can’t—”

  “We’re not helpless around here, girl.” But he was already missing her. “Mary can help, now that she’s married to Johnny. And the Widow Jenkins is always willing to lend a hand.”

  “Aye, but can we afford—”

  “We’re not penniless, either,” he snapped. “Go and write a letter back and tell Lady Langston you kindly accept her invitation to visit. Unless you’re afraid to meet her.”

  “Of course I’m not.” That served to get her dander up. “I will go,” she muttered, stomping up the stairs to find a quill and writing paper.

  “Aye,” Cyrus murmured as he heard her door slam. “But will you be back?”

  Chapter 9

  Alanna was certain her heart would beat so fast and hard that it would burst through her breast. Never before had she ridden in such a well-sprung carriage with such a fine pair of matched bays pulling it. And a driver all in livery. Imagine the Langstons sending a carriage all that way, with a driver, postilions and a maid to travel all the miles with her.

  Though she had traveled by ship from Boston to Richmond, again with a companion the Langstons had provided, she would journey by road the remainder of the way to their plantation.

  They called it Glenroe, after a forest in the Highlands.

  Oh, what a thrill it had been to watch the wind fill the sails of the ship, to have her own cabin and the dainty maid to see to her needs. Until the maid had taken sick from the rocking of the boat, of course. Then Alanna had seen to her needs. But she hadn’t minded a bit. While the grateful lass had slept off her illness, Alanna had been free to walk the decks of the great ship and watch the ocean, glimpsing occasional stretches of coastland.

  And she wondered at the vastness and beauty of the country she had never truly seen.

  It was beautiful. Though she had loved the farm, the forest and the rocks of her native Massachusetts, she found the land even more glorious in its variety. Why, when she had left home, there had still been snow on the ground. The warming days had left icicles gleaming on the eaves of the house and the bare branches of the trees.

  But now, in the south, she saw the trees greening and had left her cloak unfastened to enjoy the air through the carriage window. In the fields there were young calves and foals, trying out their legs or nursing. In others she saw dozens and dozens of black field hands busy with spring planting. And it was only March.

  Only March, she thought again. Only three months since she had sent Ian away. In a nervous habit, she reached up to touch the outline of the ring she wore on a cord under her traveling dress. She would have to give it back, of course. To his aunt, for surely Ian wouldn’t be on the plantation. Couldn’t be, she thought with a combination of relief and longing. She would return the ring to his aunt with some sort of explanation as to her possession of it. Not the full truth, she reflected, for that would be too humiliating and painful.

  She wouldn’t worry about it now, she told herself, and folded her hands in her lap as she studied the rolling hills already turning green in Virginia’s early spring. She would think of this journey, and this visit, as an adventure. One she would not likely have again.

  And she must remember everything to tell Brian, the curious one. She would remember everything, she thought with a sigh, for herself. For this was Ian’s family, people who had known him as a babe, as a growing lad.

  For the few weeks she remained on the plantation with Ian’s family, she would feel close to him again. For the last time, she promised herself. Then she would return to the farm, to her family and her duties, and be content.

  There was no other way. But as the carriage swayed, she continued to hold her fingers to the ring and wish she could find one.

  The carriage turned through two towering stone pillars with a high iron sign that read Glenroe. The maid, more taxed by the journey than Alanna, shifted in the seat across from her. “You’ll be able to see the house soon, miss.” Grateful that the weeks of traveling were almost at an
end, the maid barely restrained herself from poking her head out the carriage window. “It’s the most beautiful house in Virginia.”

  Heart thudding, Alanna began to fiddle with the black braid that trimmed the dove-gray dress she had labored over for three nights. Her busy fingers then toyed with the ribbons of her bonnet, smoothed the skirts of the dress, before returning to pluck at the braid again.

  The long wide drive was lined with oaks, their tiny unfurling leaves a tender green. As far as she could see, the expansive lawns were tended. Here and there she saw trimmed bushes already in bud. Then, rising over a gentle crest, was the house.

  Alanna was struck speechless. It was a majestic structure of pristine white with a dozen columns gracing the front like slender ladies. Balconies that looked like black lace trimmed the tall windows on the second and third stories. A wide, sweeping porch skirted both front and sides. There were flowers, a deep blood red, in tall urns standing on either side of stone steps that led to double doors glittering with glass.

  Alanna gripped her fingers together until the knuckles turned as white as the house. It took all her pride and will not to shout to the driver to turn the carriage around and whip the horses into a run.

  What was she doing here, in such a place? What would she have to say to anyone who could live in such richness? The gap between herself and Ian seemed to widen with each step of the prancing bays.

  Before the carriage had drawn to a halt at the curve of the circular drive, a woman came through the doors and started down the porch. Her billowing dress was a pale, watery green trimmed with ivory lace. Her hair, a lovely shade of red gold, was dressed simply in a coil at her neck and shone in the sunlight. Alanna had hardly alighted with the assistance of a liveried footman when the woman stepped forward, hands extended.

  “Mrs. Flynn. You’re as beautiful as I expected.” There was a soft burr to the woman’s speech that reminded Alanna painfully of Ian. “But I will call you Alanna, because I feel we’re already friends.” Before Alanna could decide how to respond, the woman was smiling and gathering her into an embrace. “I’m Ian’s aunt, Serena. Welcome to Glenroe.”