Chapter One
London, 1745
Brigham Langston, the fourth earl of Ashburn, sat at breakfast in his elegant town house and frowned over the letter. It was certainly one
he'd been expecting, one he'd been waiting and watching for. Now that it was here, he read each word carefully, his gray eyes serious
and his full mouth firm. It wasn't often a man received a letter that could change his life.
"Damn it, Brig, how long are you going to keep me waiting?" Coll MacGregor, the quick-tempered, redheaded Scot who had been
Brigham's companion on certain journeys through Italy and France, seemed unable to sit quietly while Brigham read.
In answer, Brigham merely lifted one narrow hand, white-skinned and foaming with lace at the wrist. He was accustomed to Coil's
outbursts, and for the most part enjoyed them. But this time, this very important time, he would hold his friend off until he'd read the
letter through again.
"It's from him, is it not? Damn you to hell and back, it is from him. From the Prince." Coll pushed away from the table to pace. Only the
manners hammered into him by his mother kept him from tearing the letter from Brigham's hand. Although the knowledge that, despite
the difference in size and girth, Brigham could hold his own in a fight might also have played a certain role in his decision. "I've as much
right as you."
Brigham looked up at that, letting his gaze pass over the man who was now striding around the small salon with enough force to make
the china rattle. Though his muscles were tense and his mind was shooting off in a dozen directions, Brigham's voice was mild.
"Of course you do, but the letter is, nonetheless, addressed to me."
"Only because it's easier to smuggle a letter to the high-and-mighty English earl of Ashburn than it is to a MacGregor. We're all under
suspicion of being rebels in Scotland." Coil's sharp green eyes were alight with challenge. When Brigham merely returned to the letter,
Coll swore again and dropped into his chair. "You're enough to try a man's soul."
"Thank you." Setting the letter beside his plate, Brigham poured more coffee. His hand was as steady as it was when he gripped the hilt
of a sword or the butt of a pistol. And, indeed, this letter was a weapon of war. "You are quite right on all counts, my dear. The letter is
from Prince Charles." Brigham sipped his coffee.
"Well, what does he say?"
When Brigham indicated the letter with a wave of his hand, Coll pounced on it. The missive was written in French, and though his
command of the language was not as good as Brigham's, he struggled through it.
As he did, Brigham studied the room around him. The wallpaper had been chosen by his grandmother, a woman he remembered as
much for her soft Scottish burr as for her stubbornness. It was a deep, glassy blue that she'd said reminded her of the lochs of her
homeland. The furnishings were elegant, almost delicate, with their sweeping curves and gilt edges. The graceful Meissen porcelain
figurines she had prized still stood on the little round table by the window.
As a boy he'd been allowed to look but not to touch, and his fingers had always itched to hold the statue of the shepherdess with the
long porcelain hair and the fragile face.
There was a portrait of Mary MacDonald, the strong-willed woman who had become Lady Ashburn. It stood over the crackling fire and
showed her at an age very close to what her grandson claimed now. She'd been tall for a woman and reed-slim, with a glorious mane of
ebony hair around a narrow, fine-boned face. There was a look in the way she tilted her head that said she could be persuaded but not
forced, asked but not commanded.
The same features, the same coloring, had been passed down to her grandson. They were no less elegant in their masculine form—the
high forehead, the hollowed cheeks and full mouth. But Brigham had inherited more than his height and his gray eyes from Mary. He'd
also inherited her passions and her sense of justice.
He thought of the letter, of the decisions to be made, and toasted the portrait.
You'd have me go, he thought. All the stories you told me, that belief in the lightness of the Stuart cause you planted in my head during
the years you raised and cared for me. If you were still alive, you'd go yourself. So how can I not?
"So it's time." Coll folded the letter. In his voice, in his eyes, were both excitement and tension. He was twenty-four, only six months
younger than Brigham, but this was a moment he had been awaiting for most of his life.
"You have to learn to read between the lines, Coll." This time Brigham rose. "Charles is still holding out hope of support from the
French, though he's beginning to realize King Louis would rather talk than act." Frowning, he twitched back the curtain and looked out
at his dormant gardens. They would explode with color and scent in the spring. But it was unlikely he would be there to see them in the
spring.
"When we were at court, Louis was more than interested in our cause. He has no more liking for the Hanoverian puppet on the throne
than we," Coll said.
"No, but that doesn't mean he'll open his coffers to the Bonnie Prince and the Stuart cause. Charles's notion of fitting out a frigate and
sailing for Scotland seems more realistic. But these things take time."
"Which is where we come in."
Brigham let the drapes fall back into place. "You know the mood of Scotland better than I. How much support will he get?"
"Enough." With the confidence of pride and youth, Coll grinned. "The clans will rise for the true king and fight to the man behind him."
He rose then, knowing what his friend was asking. Brigham would be risking more than his life in Scotland. His title, his home and his
reputation could be lost. "Brig, I could take the letter, go to my family and from there spread word throughout the Highland clans. It isn't
necessary for you to go, as well."
One black brow rose, and Brigham nearly smiled. "I'm of so little use?"
"To hell with that." Coll's voice was bluff, his gestures wide. Both were as much a part of him as the rumbling cadences of his homeland
and his fierce pride in it. "A man like you, one who knows how to talk, how to fight, an English aristocrat willing to join the rebellion? No
one knows better than I just what you can do. After all, you saved my life more than once in Italy and, aye, in France, as well."
"Don't be boring, Coll." Brigham flicked at the lace at his wrist. "It's unlike you."
Coll's wide face folded into a grin. "Aye, and there's something to be said for the way you can turn into the earl of Ashburn in the blink of
an eye."
"My dear, I am the earl of Ashburn."
Humor kindled in Coll's eyes. When they stood together like this, the contrasts between the men were marked. Brigham with his trim
build, Coll with his brawny one. Brigham with his elegant, even languid manners, Coll rough-and-ready. But no one knew better than the
Scot just what lay beneath the well-cut coats and the lace.
"It wasn't the earl of Ashburn who fought back-to-back with me when our coach was attacked outside of Calais. It wasn't the earl of
Ashburn who damned near drank me, a MacGregor, under the table in that grimy little gaming hell in Rome."
"I assure you it was, as I remember both incidents very well."
Coll knew better than to banter words with Brigham. "Brigham, be serious. As the earl of Ashburn you deserve to stay in England, go to
your balls and card parties. You could still do the cause good here, with your ear to the ground."
"But?"
"If I'm going to fight, I'd like to have you beside me. Will you come?"
Brigham studied his friend, then shifted his gaze up and beyond, to the portrait of his grandmother. "Of course."
The weather in London was cold and dank. It remained so three days later, when the two men began their journey north. They would
travel to the border in the relative comfort of Brigham's coach, then take the rest on horseback.
For anyone who remained in London during the miserable January weather and chose to inquire, Lord Ashburn was making a casual
journey to Scotland to visit the family of his friend.
There were a few who knew better, a handful of staunch Tories and English Jacobites whom Brigham trusted. To them he left in trust his
family home, Ashburn Manor, as well as his house in London and the disposition of his servants. What could be taken without undue
notice, he took. What could not, he left behind with the full knowledge that it probably would be months, perhaps even years, before he
could return to claim them. The portrait of his grandmother still stood above the mantel, but on a sentimental whim he'd had the statue
of the shepherdess wrapped for the journey.
There was gold, a good deal more than was needed for a visit to the family of a friend, in a locked chest beneath the floor of the coach.
They were forced to move slowly, more slowly than Brigham cared for, but the roads were slick, and occasional flurries of snow had the
driver walking the team. Brigham would have preferred a good horse beneath him and the freedom of a gallop.
A look out the window showed him that the weather to the north could only be worse. With what patience he'd learned to cultivate,
Brigham sat back, rested his booted feet on the opposite seat, where Coll sat dozing, and let his thoughts drift back to Paris, where he
had spent a few glittering months the year before. That was the France of Louis XV, opulent, glamorous, all light and music. There had
been lovely women there, with their powdered hair and scandalous gowns. It had been easy to flirt, and more. A young English lord with
a fat purse and a talent for raillery had little trouble making a place in society.
He had enjoyed it, the lushness and laziness of it. But it was also true that he'd begun to feel restless, fretting for action and purpose.
The Langstons had always enjoyed the intrigue of politics as much as the sparkle of balls and routs. Just as, for three generations, they
had silently sworn their loyalty to the Stuarts—the rightful kings of England.
So when Prince Charles Edward had come to France, a magnetic man of courage and energy, Brigham had offered his aid and his oath.
Many would have called him traitor. No doubt the fusty Whigs who supported the German who now sat upon the English throne would
have wished Brigham hanged as one if they had known. But Brigham's loyalty was to the Stuart cause, to which his family had always
held true, not to the fat German usurper George. He'd not forgotten the stories his grandmother had told him of the disastrous rebellion
of '15, and of the proscriptions and executions before and after it.
As the landscape grew wilder and the city of London seemed so far away he thought once again that the House of Hanover had done
little—had not even tried—to endear itself to Scotland. There had always been the threat of war, from the north or from across the
Channel. If England was to be made strong, it would need its rightful king.
It had been more than the Prince's clear eyes and fair looks that had decided Brigham to stand with him. It had been his drive and
ambition, and perhaps his youthful confidence that he could, and would, claim what was his.
They stopped for the night at a small inn where the Lowland plains started to rise into the true Highlands.
Brigham's gold, and his title, earned them dry sheets and a private parlor. Fed, warmed by the leaping fire, they diced and drank too
much ale while the wind swept down from the mountains and hammered at the walls. For a few hours they were simply two well-to-do
young men who shared a friendship and an adventure.
"Damn your bones, Brig, you're a lucky bastard tonight."
"So it would seem." Brigham scooped up the dice and the coins. His eyes, bright with humor, met Coll's. "Shall we find a new game?"
"Roll." Coll grinned and shoved more coins to the center of the table. "Your luck's bound to change." When the dice fell, he snickered.
"If I can't beat that…" When his roll fell short, he shook his head. "Seems you can't lose. Like the night in Paris you played the duke for
the affections of that sweet mademoiselle."
Brigham poured more ale. "With or without the dice, I'd already won the mademoiselle's affections."
Laughing thunderously, Coll slapped more coins on the table. "Your luck can't hang sunny all the time. Though I for one hope it holds for
the months to come."
Brigham swept his gaze upward and assured himself that the door to the parlor was closed. "It's more a matter of Charles's luck than
mine."
"Aye, he's what we've needed. His father has always been lacking in ambition and too sure of his own defeat." He lifted his tankard of
ale. "To the Bonnie Prince."
"He'll need more than his looks and a clever tongue."
Coll's red brows rose. "Do you doubt the MacGregors?"
"You're the only MacGregor I know." Before Coll could begin an oration on his clan, Brigham asked quickly, "What of your family, Coll?
You'll be pleased to see them again."
"It's been a long year. Not that I haven't enjoyed the sights of Rome and Paris, but when a man's born in the Highlands, he prefers to die
there." Coll drank deeply, thinking of purple moors and deep blue locks. "I know the family is well from the last letter my mother sent
me, but I'll feel better seeing for myself. Malcolm will be nigh on ten now, and a hellion, I'm told." He grinned, full of pride. "Then so are
we all."
"You told me your sister was an angel."
"Gwen." The tenderness invaded his voice. "Little Gwen. So she is, sweet-tempered, patient, pretty as new cream."
"I'm looking forward to meeting her."
"And still in the schoolroom," Coll told him. "I'll be around to see you don't forget it."
A little hazy with ale, Brigham tilted back in his chair. "You've another sister."
"Serena." Coll jiggled the dice box in his palm. "God knows the lass was misnamed. A wildcat she is, and I've the scars to prove it.
Serena MacGregor has the devil's own temper and a quick fist."
"But is she pretty?"
"She's not hard to look at," said her brother. "My mother tells me the boys have started courting this past year, and Serena sends them
off with boxed ears, scrambling for cover."
"Perhaps they have yet to find the, ah, proper way to court her."
"Hah! I crossed her once, and she grabbed my grandfather's claymore from the wall and chased me into the forest." The pride came
through, if not the tenderness. "I pity the man who sets his sights on her."
"An amazon." Brigham pictured a strapping, ruddy-cheeked girl with Coll's broad features and wild red hair.
Healthy as a milkmaid, he imagined, and just as sassy. "I prefer the milder sort."
"Isn't a mild bone in her body, but she's true." The ale was swimming in Coll's head, but that didn't stop him from lifting the tankard
again. "I told you about the night the dragoons came to Glenroe."
"Yes."
Coll's eyes darkened with the memory. "After they'd finished shaming my mother and firing roofs, Serena nursed her. She was hardly
more than a bairn herself, but she got my mother into bed and tended her and the children until we returned. There was a braise on her
face where that black bastard had knocked her aside, but she didn't cry. She sat, dry-eyed, and told us the whole."
Brigham laid a hand over his friend's. "The time's past for revenge, Coll, but not for justice."
"I'll take both," Coll murmured, and tossed the dice again.
They started out early the next morning. Brigham's head ached, but the cold, blustery air soon cleared it. They went on horseback,
allowing the coach to follow at a sedate pace.
Now they were truly in the land he'd been told of as a child. It was wild and rough, with crags rising high and moors spread out and
desolate. Prominent peaks pierced the milky gray of the sky, sometimes cut through with tumbling waterfalls and icy rivers thick with
fish. In other places rocks were tumbled as though they had been dice rolled by a careless hand. It seemed an ancient place, one for
gods and fairies, yet he saw an occasional cottage, smoke belching from the central opening in the thatch.
The ground was heaped with snow, and the wind blew it in sheets across the road. At times they were nearly blinded by it as Coll led
the way up the rising, rut-filled hills. Caves opened out of rock. Here and there were signs that shelter had been taken in them. Lakes,
their waters a dark, dangerous blue, were crusted at the edges with ice. The effects of the ale were whisked away by a damp cold that
stung the air and penetrated even the layers of a greatcoat.
They rode hard when the land permitted, then picked their way through snowdrifts as high as a man's waist. Cautious, they bypassed
the forts the English had built and avoided the hospitality that would have been given unhesitatingly at any cottage. Hospitality, Coll had
warned Brigham, would include questions about every aspect of their journey, their families and their destination. Strangers were rare in
the Highlands, and prized for their news as much as their company.
Rather than risk the details of their journey being passed from village to village, they kept to the rougher roads and hills before stopping
at a tavern to rest the horses and take their midday meal. The floors were dirt, the chimney no more than a hole in the roof that kept as
much smoke in as it let out. The single cramped room smelled of its occupants and of yesterday's fish. It was hardly a spot the fourth
earl of Ashburn would be likely to frequent, but the fire was hot and the meat almost fresh.
Beneath the greatcoat, which now hung drying in front of the fire, Brigham wore dun-colored riding breeches and a shirt of fine lawn with
his plainest riding coat. But though it might be plain, it fit without a wrinkle over his broad shoulders, and its buttons were silver. His
boots had been dulled a bit by the weather but were unmistakably of good leather. His thick mane of hair was tied back with a riband,
and on his narrow hands he wore his family seal and an emerald. He was hardly dressed in his best court attire, but nonetheless he
drew stares and curious whispers.
"They don't see the likes of you in this hole," Coll said. Comfortable in his kilt and bonnet, with the pine sprig of his clan tucked into the
band, he dug hungrily into his meat pie.
"Apparently." Brigham ate lazily, but his eyes, behind half-closed lids, remained alert. "Such admiration would delight my tailor."
"Oh, it's only partly the clothes." Coll raised his bicker of ale to drain it, and thought pleasantly of the whiskey he would share with his
father that night. "You would look like an earl if you wore rags." Anxious to be off, he tossed coins on the table. "The horses should be
rested; let's be off. We're skirting Campbell country." Coll's manners were too polished to allow him to spit, but he would have liked to.
"I'd prefer not to dally."
Three men left the tavern before them, letting in a blast of cold and beautifully fresh air.
It had become difficult for Coll to contain his impatience. Now that he was back in the Highlands, he wanted nothing so much as to see
his own home, his own family. The road twisted and climbed, occasionally winding by a huddle of cottages and cattle grazing on the
rough, uneven ground. Men living here would have to keep an eye out for wildcat and badgers.
Though they had hours to ride, he could almost scent home—the forest, with its red deer and tawny owls. There would be a feast that
night, and cups raised in toasts. London, with its crowded streets and fussy manners, was behind him.
Trees were scarce, only the little junipers pushing through on the leeside of boulders. In Scotland, even the brush had a difficult time
surviving. Now and then they rode by a rumbling river or stream, to be challenged by the eerie, consuming silence that followed. The
skies had cleared to a hard, brilliant blue. Above, majestic and glorious, a golden eagle circled.
"Brig—"
Beside Coll, Brigham had suddenly gone rigid. Coll's horse reared as Brigham pulled out his sword. "Guard your flank," he shouted,
then wheeled to face two riders who had burst out from behind a tumble of rock.
They rode sturdy garrons, shaggy Scottish ponies, and though their tartans were dulled with age and dirt, the blades of their fighting
swords shone in the midafternoon sun. Brigham had only time enough to note that the men who charged had been in the tavern before
there was the crash of steel against steel.
Beside him, Coll wielded his sword against two more. The high hills rang with the sounds of battle, the thunder of hooves against
hard-packed ground. Gliding overhead, the eagle circled and waited.
The attackers had misjudged their quarry in Brigham. His hands were narrow, his body slender as a dancer's, but his wrists were both
wiry and supple. Using his knees to guide his mount, he fought with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. There might have
been jewels on the hilts, but the blades were fashioned to kill.
He heard Coll shout and swear. For himself, he fought in deadly silence. Steel scraped as he defended himself, crashed when he took
the offensive, driving at one foe and outmaneuvering the other. His eyes, usually a calm, clear gray, had darkened and narrowed like
those of a wolf that scents blood. He gave his opponent's sword one final, vicious parry and ran his own blade home.
The Scot screamed, but the sound lasted no more than a heartbeat. Blood splattered the snow as the man fell. His pony, frightened by
the smell of death, ran clattering up the rocks. The other man, wild-eyed, renewed his attack with more ferocity and fear than finesse.
The violence of the advance nearly cut through Brigham's guard, and he felt the sting of the sword on his shoulder and the warm flow of
blood where the point had ripped layers of clothing and found flesh. Brigham countered with swift, steady strokes, driving his quarry
back and back, toward the rocks. His eyes stayed on his opponent's face, never flickering, never wavering. With cool-headed precision,
he parried and thrust and pierced the heart. Before the man had nit the ground, he was swinging back toward Coll.
It was one on one now, for another of the attackers lay dead behind Coll, and Brigham took time to draw a deep breath. Then he saw
Coll's horse slip, nearly stumble. He saw the blade flash and was racing toward his friend. The last man of the band of attackers looked
up to see the horse and rider bearing down on him. With his three comrades dead, he wheeled the pony and scrambled up the rocks.
"Coll! Are you hurt?"
"Aye, by God. Bloody Campbell." He struggled not to slump in the saddle. His side, where the sword had pierced it, was on fire.
Brigham sheathed his sword. "Let me see to it."
"No time. That jackal may come back with more." Coll took out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound, then brought his gloved
hand back. It was sticky but steady. "I'm not done yet." His eyes, still bright from battle, met Brigham's. "We'll be home by dusk." With
that, he sent his horse into a gallop.
They rode hard, with Brigham keeping one eye out for another ambush and the other on Coll. The big Scot was pale, but his pace never
faltered. Only once, at Brigham's insistence, did they stop so that the wound could be bound more satisfactorily.
Brigham didn't like what he saw. The wound was deep, and Coll had lost far too much blood. Still, his friend was in a fever to reach
Glenroe and his family, and Brigham would not have known where else to find help. Coll accepted the flask Brigham put to his lips and
drank deeply. When the color seeped back into his face, Brigham helped him into the saddle.
They dropped down out of the hills into the forest at dusk, when the shadows were long and wavering. It smelled of pine and snow, with
a faint wisp of smoke from a cottage farther on. A hare dashed across the path, then crashed through the brush. Behind it, like a flash,
came a merlin. Winter berries, as big as thumbs, clung to thorny limbs.
Brigham knew Coll's strength was flagging, and he paused long enough to make him drink again.
"I ran through this forest as a child," Coll rasped. His breathing came quickly, but the brandy eased the pain. He'd be damned if he
would die before the true fighting began. "Hunted in it, stole my first kiss in it. For the life of me, I can't think why I ever left it."
"To come back a hero," Brigham said as he corked the flask.
Coll gave a laugh that turned into a cough. "Aye. There's been a MacGregor in the Highlands since God put us here, and here we stay."
He turned to Brigham with a hint of the old arrogance. "You may be an earl, but my race is royal."
"And you're shedding your royal blood all over the forest. To home, Coll."
They rode at an easy canter. When they passed the first cottages, cries went out. Out of houses, some fashioned from wood and
stone, others built out of no more than mud and grass, people came. Though the pain was streaking up his side, Coll saluted. They
crested a hill, and both men saw MacGregor House.
There was smoke winding out of the chimneys. Behind the glazed windows lamps, just lighted, were glowing. The sky to the west was
ablaze with the last lights of the sun, and the blue slate glowed and seemed to turn to silver. It rose four stories, graced with turrets and
towers, a house fashioned as much for war as for comfort. The roofs were of varying height, strung together in a confused yet somehow
charming style.
There was a barn in the clearing, along with other outbuildings and grazing cattle. From somewhere came the hollow barking of a dog.
Behind them more people had come out of their homes. Out of one ran a woman, her basket empty. Brigham heard her shout and
turned. And stared.
She was wrapped in a plaid like a mantle. In one hand she held a basket that swung wildly as she ran; the other hand held the hem of
her skirt, and he could see the flash of petticoats and long legs. She was laughing as she ran, and her scarf fell down around her
shoulders, leaving hair the color of the sunset flying behind her.
Her skin was like alabaster, though flushed now from delight and cold. Her features had been carved with a delicate hand, but the mouth
was full and rich. Brigham could only stare and think of the shepherdess he had loved and admired as a child.
"Coll!" Her voice was low, filled with the music of laughter, rich with the burr of Scotland. Ignoring the horse's dancing impatience, she
gripped the bridle and turned up a face that made Brigham's mouth turn dry. "I've had the fidgets all day and should have known you
were the cause. We had no word you were coming. Did you forget how to write or were you too lazy?"
"A fine way to greet your brother." Coll would have bent down to kiss her, but her face was swimming in front of his eyes. "The least you
can do is show some manners to my friend. Brigham Langston, Lord Ashburn, my sister, Serena."
Not hard to look at? For once, Brigham thought, Coll hadn't exaggerated. Far from it. "Miss MacGregor."
But Serena didn't spare him a glance. "Coll, what is it? You're hurt." Even as she reached for him he slid from the saddle to her feet.
"Oh, God, what's this?" She pushed aside his coat and found the hastily bound wound.
"It's opened again." Brigham knelt beside her. "We should get him inside."
Serena's head shot up as she raked Brigham with rapier-sharp green eyes. It wasn't fear in them, but fury. "Take your hands off him,
English swine." She shoved him aside and cradled her brother against her breast. With her own plaid she pressed against the wound to
slow the bleeding. "How is it my brother comes home near death and you ride in with your fine sword sheathed and nary a scratch?"
Coll might have underplayed her beauty, Brigham decided as his mouth set, but not her temperament. "I think that's best explained after
Coll's seen to."
"Take your explanations back to London." When he gathered Coll up to carry him, she all but pounced on him. "Leave him be, damn
you. I won't have you touching what's mine."
He let his gaze run up and down her until her cheeks glowed. "Believe me, madam," he said, stiffly polite, "I've no desire to. If you'll see
to the horses, Miss MacGregor, I'll take your brother in."
She started to speak again, but one look at Coll's white face had her biting back the words. With his greatcoat flapping around him and
Coll in his arms, Brigham started toward the house.
Serena remembered the last time an Englishman had walked into her home. Snatching the reins of both horses, she hurried after
Brigham, cursing him.