by Nora Roberts
Victorious, they continued their drive south, engaging and routing two regiments of dragoons.
The fighting seemed to fuel the rebels. Here at last was action instead of talk, deeds instead of plans. With sword and pipe, shield and ax, they were like a fury. Survivors would spread tales of their maniacal skill and daring that themselves would serve as a weapon. Joined by Lord George Murray at Perth, they entered Edinburgh and took it for their own. The city was in a panic. News of the invasion had preceded the Highland forces, and rumors flew about barbarians, cannibals and butchers. The city guard had fled, and while Edinburgh slept a party of Camerons rushed the sentries, and control was gained. Under the Prince's command, there was no looting, no pillaging. The people of Edinburgh were given justice and compassion, as was due the subjects of the true king.
It was only a month after the standard had been raised at Glenfinnan and James had been proclaimed king, and his son and regent was preparing to open a royal court at Holyrood House.
Coll was beside Brigham when the Prince rode his gray gelding into Holyrood Park. A crowd had gathered to watch him. Shouts and cheers followed them, for the people saw their heart's delight in the young man in his tartan shortcoat and blue bonnet. Perhaps he was not yet England's Prince, but he was theirs.
"Listen to them." Coll leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. "Here is our first real victory, Brigham, and by God, it has a good feel." Brigham steadied his mount as he maneuvered through the narrow, crowded streets. "I'll swear he could drive them to London now with only a word. I can only hope the supplies and men we need will arrive before it comes time."
"We could be outnumbered ten to one today and never taste defeat. It would be as it was at Perth and, aye, at Coltbridge." The early-autumn breeze drifted, making Coll grimace. "But in God's name, this place is filthy. Give me the open Highlands and the hills. How does a man breathe," he wondered, "without the room to draw air?" Edinburgh was packed with houses and shops, some still fashioned of mud and wood. The stone buildings rose high, like aeries, with the fronts four or five stories high, and the backs often stretching nine or ten stories down the perilously steep hills.
"Worse than Paris," Brigham agreed. The stench drifted out from crowded lanes, and waste and garbage clogged the alleys, but the people, cheering the Prince, seemed oblivious to it all.
Above the slums, the filth of the alleys and the dirt of the streets was the Royal Mile. Edinburgh Castle, majestic, already glamorous with age and history, guarded one end of that great street. Where its slope ended was Holyrood House, where palace and abbey stood together elegantly poised before the rough crags. It had already been the scene, time after time, of turbulence and passion. Mary, Queen of Scots, had been its most famous and doomed inhabitant. She had lived there, marrying her cousin Henry Stewart of Darnley in Holyrood Abbey, and seeing her lover Rizzio murdered by him in the little supper room of her apartments. Her son James had been born in the castle, and had survived a troubled and turbulent boyhood to become king of England, as well as Scotland. It was here, at this site of pomp and intrigue that James's great-great grandson Charles would hold his court, bringing Holyrood House to life once more.
He rode toward the palace that had once housed his ancestors. Dismounting, he walked slowly under the archway, to appear moments later in the window of his new apartments, waving to the shouts of the crowd.
Edinburgh held the Prince, and he held Edinburgh.
He was to prove this only days later, when Cope moved his troops south.
Primed, even eager, the Jacobites met the government army east of the city at Prestonpans. Red-coated dragoons faced the Highlanders, who were dressed for battle in kilts or close-fitting trews. Brigham, with a leather shield in one hand and his sword in the other, joined the MacGregors. For a moment the field was eerily silent, with only the hollow sound of the pipes rising into the misty air. Like the heartbeats of men, Brigham thought, men who were willing to die. Opposing standards waved, caught by the early breeze. The first charge sent birds wheeling and screaming up the sky. Men on foot met with a thunderous crash of sword and ax. Here, as they had on the route south, the Scots fought like demons, hacking with blades, pressing on even when bloody. As had happened before, the English infantry couldn't withstand the violence of the Highland charge. The red line wavered and broke. The cavalry surged forward, vicious hooves striking, claymores glinting. Brigham ignored the cries and curses around him as he met his man. A shot rang whistling past his ear, but his eyes never lost their icy determination. The Campbell on the road from London would have recognized it. Brigham was a man who was willing to die but confident he would not. Smoke from cannon and mortar grew thick, so that men on both sides fought in a fog. The heat of battle set sweat pouring as freely as blood so that the stench of both stung the air. Already carrion birds circled overhead, lured by the battle sounds. As Brigham maneuvered his mount through what was left of the English lines, he could see the white cockades of the Jacobites and the plaids of MacGregors, MacDonalds, Camerons. Some fell around him, victims of bayonets or swords. Again and again the ground exploded where mortars struck, flinging out rock and dirt and deadly metal. Men screamed as they were struck down. Others died in silence.
Within ten minutes, the battle was over. Dragoons sought safety in flight and raced to the concealing hills on horse or on foot. Blood streaked the thin grass and stained the gray rock. The bodies of the dead and wounded lay sprawled on the ground. That day the pipes played in victory, and the standard of the House of Stuart was held high.
"Why do we stay snug in Edinburgh when we should be marching toward London?" Coll demanded as he strode out into the courtyard at Holyrood, a plaid wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chilly dusk.
For once Brigham could only agree with Coll's impatience to be doing. They had been nearly three weeks at Charles's newly established court. The court itself was very glamorous, with levees and councils in the palace, but the Prince had not forgotten his men and so divided his time between Holyrood and the camp at Duddingston. Morale was good, though there was more than one man among them who would have agreed with Coll's sentiments.
Balls and receptions could wait. "Victory at Prestonpans earned us more support." Brigham flicked his cloak back, welcoming the damp evening air. "I doubt we tarry here much longer."
"Councils," Coll grumbled. "Every blessed day we have another council. If there's a problem here, my lad, it's between Lord George and O'Sullivan. I'll swear, if one says black, the other before God will vow it to be white."
"I know." It was a matter that caused Brigham no little concern. "I'll tell you true, Coll, O'Sullivan worries me. I prefer a commander a bit steadier, one who is less interested in routs than in overall victory."
"We can have neither if we dally here in court."
Brigham smiled, but he was looking out into the lowering night "You miss your Highlands, Coll, and your wife."
"Aye. It's been barely two months since we left Glenroe, but we had little time together. With the bairn coming, I worry."
"A man's entitled to worry about the ones he loves."
"There's many a man with us who knows once the march south begins it could be a year before we see our homes and families again." Because he had no wish to fall into a black mood, Coll slapped Brigham on the shoulder.
"At least there's plenty here for you to enjoy. The women are bonny. I wonder that you don't pick out a wench to charm. I'd swear you've broken a dozen hearts with your indifference these past few weeks."
"You could say I've something on my mind." Someone, Brigham thought. The only one. "What do you say we crack a bottle and find a game?" He turned at Coll's nod of assent, and together they started back across the courtyard. Brigham noticed the woman step through the shadowy archway, but his gaze skimmed over her and passed without interest. He had taken only three steps when he stopped, turning slowly, deliberately, to stare. The light was fading quickly, and he could see only that she was tall
and very slender. A plaid was draped over her head and shoulders. She might have been a servant, or one of the ladies of the court taking the air. He wondered why a stranger should remind him so achingly of his porcelain shepherdess. And though he couldn't see her face, he was certain she was staring at him as intently as he stared at her. The leap of attraction was unexpected. Annoyed with himself, Brigham turned again and continued on. Inexplicably, he was compelled to stop, to turn yet again. She was still there, standing in the fading light, her hands folded, her head held high.
"What the devil's wrong with you?" Coll stopped and turned himself. Spotting the figure in the archway, he grinned. "Well, if that's all. I don't suppose you'll want to dice with me now."
"No, I…" Brigham let his words trail off as the woman lifted her hands to slip the plaid from her head. The last of the light fell over her hair. Like sunset, it gleamed.
"Serena?" He could only stare. She took a step toward him, and he saw her face, and that she was smiling. His boots rang against stone as he strode across the courtyard. Before she could say his name, he swept her up into his arms, then around and around in dizzying circles.
"So that's the way of it," Coll murmured as he watched his friend drag his sister close for a long, bruising kiss.
"Why are you here? How did you come?" Then Brigham kissed her again and swallowed her answer.
"Give way, man." Coll plucked Serena from Brigham's arms, kissed her hard, then set her on her feet. "What are you doing in Edinburgh, and where's Maggie?"
"She's here." Breathless, Serena found herself swung back against Brigham's side. "And Mother and Gwen and Malcolm, as well." She reached out to give Coll's beard a sisterly tug. "The Prince invited us to court. We arrived almost an hour ago, but didn't know where to find you."
"Maggie's here? Is she well? Where is she?" With his usual impatience, Coll turned on his heel and strode off to see for himself.
"Brigham—"
"Say nothing." He combed his hands through her hair, delighted with the feel of it, the scent of it. "Say nothing," he repeated, and lowered his head.
He held her like that, mouth to mouth, body to body, while the shadows deepened. The weeks of separation melted away. Restless, his hands moved down her back, over her hips, up to her face, while his lips, heated with desire, had her moaning and straining against him.
"Beautiful, always more beautiful, Serena. A man could die from missing you."
"I thought of you every day, and prayed. When we heard of the battles, I nearly went mad waiting for your letters telling me you were safe." At last she drew away to look at him. Because he and Coll had ridden in from camp, he had yet to change to his court dress. With some relief, Serena noted that he was the same man who had ridden away from Glenroe nearly three months before.
"I was afraid you'd change somehow, being here." She moistened her lips as she looked back toward the buildings. Nothing she had ever seen was more magnificent than the palace, with its towers and steeples with lights flickering behind its tall windows. "Everything here is so splendid. The palace, the abbey."
"Wherever I am, nothing changes between us, Rena."
She moved back into his arms to rest her head on his shoulder. "I was afraid it would. I prayed every day for you to be safe. And I prayed every day that you wouldn't seek comfort in the arms of another woman."
He laughed and kissed her hair. "I shan't ask which you prayed for with more fervor. My love, there is no one else. Can be no one else. Tonight I shall find more than comfort in your arms."
She smiled as she turned her lips to his cheek. "Would that we could. In truth, next to finding you safe, my dearest desire was to spend a night loving you."
"Then I shall see to it that you have both your desires."
She kissed him again and chuckled. "I'm to share a chamber with Gwen. It would be as unseemly, my lord, for you to come to my bed as it would for me to search the corridors for yours."
"Tonight you share my chamber, as my wife."
Her mouth opened in surprise as she stepped out of his arms. "That's impossible."
"It is very possible," he corrected. "And it shall be." Without giving her a chance to speak, he pulled her through the archway. The Prince was in his apartments, preparing for that evening's entertainment. Though Brigham's request for an audience at that hour surprised him, he granted it
"Your Highness." Brigham bowed as he entered Charles's sitting room.
"Good evening, Brigham. Madam," he said as Serena sank into a curtsy. She would kill Brigham, she thought, for dragging her before the Prince without even a chance to wash off the travel dirt or take a comb to her hair. "You would be Miss MacGregor." Charles drew Serena to her feet and kissed her hand. "It is easy to see why Lord Ash-burn no longer notices the ladies at court."
"Your Highness. It was good of you to allow me and my family to come."
"I owe the MacGregors a great deal. They have stood behind my father, and behind me. Such loyalty is priceless. Will you sit?" He led her to a chair himself.
She had never seen a room like this one. The high ceiling was festooned with swirls and clusters of fruits and flowers, and from its center hung a dripping chandelier. Murals ran along the walls depicting Stuart victories in battle. A fire crackled in me hearth beside her chair. Music lay open on a harpsichord in the center of the room.
"Sire, I have a favor I would ask."
Charles sat, then gestured Brigham to a chair. "I am sure I owe you more than one."
"There is no debt for loyalty, Your Highness."
Charles's eyes softened. Serena saw then why he was called the Bonnie Prince. It wasn't just his face and form, it was his heart. "No, but there can be gratitude. What would you ask of me?"
"I would wed Miss MacGregor."
Charles's smile spread as he tapped his fingertips on his knee. "I had already surmised as much. Shall I tell you, Miss MacGregor, that in Paris Lord Ashburn was very generous with the ladies at court? At Holyrood House he has proved most selfish." Serena kept her hands folded primly in her lap. "I believe Lord Ashburn is a wise warrior, sir. He has some knowledge of the fierce and terrible temper of Clan MacGregor."
Highly entertained, Charles laughed. "So, I shall wish you well. Perhaps you would care to be married here, at court."
"Yes, sir, and tonight," Brigham said.
Now Charles's pale brows rose. "Tonight, Brigham? Such haste is…" He let his words trail off as he glanced at Serena again. The firelight played seductively over her hair, "…understandable," he decided. "Do you have the MacGregor's permission?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then. You are both Catholic?" Receiving nods, he thought it through. "The abbey is convenient. There is a matter of the banns and so forth, but I believe if a man cannot deal with such matters, he can hardly hope to win a throne." He rose, bringing both Serena and Brigham to their feet. "I will see you wed tonight."
Pale, not at all certain she wasn't dreaming, Serena found her parents in their chamber.
"Serena." Fiona sighed over the fact that her daughter still wore her traveling suit. "You must change. The Prince's court is no place for muddy boots and soiled skirts."
"Mama, I am to be wed."
"Devil, lass." Ian kissed her tumbled hair. "We're aware of that."
"Tonight."
"Tonight?" Fiona rose from her chair. "But how—?"
"Brigham went to the Prince. He took me, like this." Serena spread her muddy skirts, knowing her mother would understand her feelings on the matter.
"I see," Fiona murmured.
"And he, they…" She looked from her mother to her father, then back again. "Mama."
"Is it your wish to marry him?"
She hesitated, feeling the old doubts well up. Instinctively she lifted a hand to her breast. On a heavy chain under her bodice was the emerald Brigham had given her. "Aye," she managed. "But it has all happened so fast." He would be leaving again, she thought. Leaving to fight. "Aye," she said, her
voice stronger. "There is nothing I want more than to belong to him." Fiona slipped an arm around Serena's shoulders. "Then we have much to do. Leave us, please, Ian, and send a servant for Maggie and Gwen."
"Tossing me out, are you, my lady?"
Fiona held out a hand to him, even as Serena reached for his other. "I fear you would have a strong dislike for the woman's work that must be done in the next few hours."
"Aye, I'll go willingly." He paused a moment to draw Serena close. "You have always made me proud. Tonight I give you to another man, and you will take his name. But you will always be a MacGregor." He kissed her. "Royal is our race, Serena, and rightly." There was no time to think, and certainly no time to dwell on the enormity of what she would do before the night was over. Servants rushed in and out of the chambers with jugs of hot water that Fiona scented delicately for her daughter's bath. Gwen and Maggie chattered as they took out seams and sewed new ones on the dress Serena would wear to be married.
"It's romantic," Gwen said as she scanned her stitches with a critical eye.
"It's madness." Maggie glanced over, knowing Serena was soaking behind the screen. "Rena must have woven strong magic to make Brigham hurry so. He must not be so stuffy as I once thought."
"Imagine." Gwen shifted the ivory satin delicately. "Going to the Prince. We never had a chance to unpack from the journey before we're changing Mother's ball gown into Serena's wedding gown."
Maggie sat back, touching a hand to the mound of her belly. The baby she carried always became more active at night. The unpacking would have to wait, she thought, just as she and Coll would have to wait to have a proper reunion. She stifled a giggle as she remembered how he had roared when they had been interrupted just as they had started to become reacquainted. She looked over as Serena emerged, wrapped in towels, her skin and hair dripping.
"The dress will be beautiful," Maggie told her, blinking back tears at the thought of the wedding. "And so will you."
"By the fire," Fiona ordered, armed with a brush. Knowing the trembles had nothing to do with a chill, Fiona began to soothe her daughter as she dried her hair. "A woman's wedding is one of her most precious memories. Years from now, when you look back, what seems now like a dream will be very clear."
"Should I be so afraid?"
Fiona reached over Serena's shoulder to take her hand. "I almost think the more you love, the sharper the fear." Serena gave a weak laugh. "Then I must love him more man I knew."
"I could not wish a better man for you, Rena. When the fighting is done, you will have a good life together."
"In England," Serena managed.
Fiona began to stroke with the brush as she had so many times before. Her hands were gentle as she thought of this small pleasure that would soon be denied her.
"When I married your father, I left my family and my home. I had grown up with the sound of the sea, the smell of it. As a girl I would climb the cliffs and watch the waves break on the rocks below. The forest of Glenroe was foreign to me, and frightening. I wasn't sure I could bear being so far away from everything I had known and loved."
"How did you?"
"By loving your father more."
They left her hair loose so that it streamed like candlelight down her back. The bodice of the gown was snug, skimming her breasts, leaving them to rise softly above as a resting place for a rope of pearls. The sleeves belled out, sheening down to her wrists. There was a glimmer of pearls on the skirt where it flared over hoops and petticoats. At the waist was a sash gathered up with a clutch of the palest pink wild roses. With her heart hammering, Serena stepped into the abbey.
It was a place of legends, of joy and despair, and of miracles. There she would be wed.
He was waiting for her. In the wavering light of lamps and candles, she walked to him. She had always thought he was at his most elegant in black, but she had never seen him look more handsome. Silver buttons glinted, adding richness to the severe cut of his coat. For the first time since she had known him, he wore a wig. The soft white added romance to his face, contrasting royally with the dark gray of his eyes.
She didn't see the Prince, or the pews filled with the lords and ladies who had come to watch the ceremony. She only saw Brigham. When her hand touched his, it stopped trembling. Together, they faced the priest and pledged. The clock struck midnight.
The Prince had decided that a wedding, however hurried, deserved a celebration. Within minutes after becoming Lady Ashburn, Serena found herself being led to the picture gallery of the palace, where Charles had given his first grand ball on the night he had taken the city.
The long, wide room was already filled with music. Serena was kissed and congratulated by strangers, envied by the ladies, studied by the men. Her head was reeling by the time she was handed her first glass of champagne. She sipped and felt the bubbles burst on her tongue.
Exercising his privilege, Charles claimed her for a dance. "You make a lovely bride, Lady Ashburn." Lady Ashburn.
"Thank you, Your Highness. How can I thank you for making this possible?"
"Your husband is of great value to me, my lady, as a soldier and as a friend." Her husband.
"You have his loyalty, sir, and mine, both as a Langston and as a MacGregor."
Brigham claimed her when the dance had ended, fending off complaints by others who would have partnered the new bride.
"You are enjoying yourself, my love?"
"Aye." Ridiculous to be shy, she thought, but she felt herself color as she smiled at him. He looked different in the wig, with the flash of jewels, she thought. Not at all like a man who would toss her over his shoulder and threaten to dump her in a loch. He looked as glamorous as the Prince himself. And nearly as much a stranger. "It's a beautiful room."
"You see the portraits?" he asked, leading her gently by the elbow for a closer look. "There are eighty-nine, Scottish monarchs all. I'm told they were commissioned by Charles II, though he never once entered Holyrood House, in fact never returned to Scotland after the Restoration."
She knew her history, she thought irritably, but tried to show an interest. "Aye. This is Robert the Bruce, a fierce soldier and well-loved king."
"I should have known a woman as well-read as you would know her history and