Chapter Five
"If you think I'm keeping to my bed like an old man while you and my father ride out to do the Prince's work, you're a madman."
As Brigham watched, Coll pushed himself out of bed and uncertainly gained his feet. His head swam more man a little, but he braced
himself against one of the bedposts and tugged off his nightshirt.
"Where in hell's name are my clothes?"
"My dear Coll," Brigham said dryly, "how should I know?"
"You must have seen what was done with them."
"I regret I can't help you there." Brigham flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve and continued in the mildest of tones, "Nor will I carry you
back to your bed after you faint and fall from your horse."
"The day a MacGregor falls from his horse—"
"I hasten to remind you you've already done so once." When Coll merely swore and staggered to a chest to look for his clothing,
Brigham clasped his hands behind his back. "Coll," he began, picking his way over tender ground, "I sympathize, believe me. I'm sure
it's miserable to be tied to a sickbed day and night, but the simple fact is you're not well enough for the journey."
"I say I am."
"Gwen says not"
Frustrated at finding no more than linen and blankets, Coll slammed the chest shut again. "Since when does that slip of a girl run my
life?"
"Since saving it."
That silenced Coll, who stood naked as a newborn in the early-morning sunlight. He had allowed his beard to grow since leaving London,
and the roughness it gave his face suited him.
"I have no doubt she did," Brigham added. "And I wouldn't care to see all of her hard work go for nothing because you were too proud to
rest until you were able to be of use."
"It's a black day when a Campbell stops me from riding with my father to gather the support of the clans for the Stuarts."
"Oh, there will be time yet. It's just beginning." Brigham smiled then, knowing that Coll's temper was easing, allowing him to see sense.
He was much like his sister in the way that temper kindled as fast as dry wood. The pity was, Serena's didn't cool as quickly. "And I'll
have you remember, we're riding out today for nothing more than an innocent hunting party. It wouldn't do for it to be rumored otherwise."
"I trust I can speak my mind in my own house," Coll muttered, but subsided. It was a bitter pill, but he knew he was far from ready for
the journey west. Worse, if he insisted on going, he would slow the rest of the party down. "You'll meet with the MacDonalds and the
Camerons?"
"So I'm led to believe. The Drummonds and Fergusons should be represented."
"You'll need to speak with the Cameron of Lochiel. He's always been a strong supporter of the Stuarts, and his voice is listened to." Coll
dragged a hand through his mane of red hair. "Hell and damnation. I should be there, standing with my father, showing I stand for the
Prince."
"No one will doubt it," Brigham began, then stopped when Gwen entered with a breakfast tray. She took one look at her brother,
standing naked and furious, and clucked her tongue.
"I hope you haven't pulled any stitches out."
"Damn it, Gwen." Coll grabbed up a blanket and covered himself. "Have some respect."
With a gentle smile she set down the tray and curtsied to Brigham. "Good morning, Brig."
He touched a handkerchief to his lips in a futile effort to hide a grin. "Good morning."
"Brig, is it?" Coll sputtered. He knew that if he tried to stand five minutes more he'd embarrass himself. "You've become damn familiar
with my sister, Ashburn."
Brigham nearly winced, thinking just how familiar he'd become with Coll's other sister. "We dispensed with formality shortly after we
mopped up your blood." He picked up his greatcoat. "I fear you'll have trouble with your patient today, Gwen. He's in a foul temper."
Gwen smiled again and moved over to tidy Coll's bed linen. "Coll never gives me any trouble." She fluffed his pillows. "You may feel
better after your breakfast, Coll. If you're up to taking a short walk, I'll go along with you. But I think you might dress first."
Stifling a chuckle, Brigham sketched a bow. She might not have the bite of her sister, but Coll's little angel knew how to get her way.
"Now that I see you're in good hands, I'll take my leave."
"Brig—"
Brigham merely laid a hand on Coll's shoulder. "We'll be back within a week."
Too weak to argue, Coll let himself be led back to bed, "God go with you."
Brigham left them with Gwen tugging a fresh nightshirt over Coll's shoulders. He started for the staircase, then stopped short when he
saw Parkins waiting for him, stiff backed, thin lipped and carrying a valise.
"Decided to return to England, Parkins?"
"On the contrary, my lord, I mean to accompany you on your hunting trip."
Brigham gave him one brief, incredulous look. "I'm damned if you do."
Parkins's pointed chin came up, the only sign of his agitation. "I will accompany your lordship."
"Don't be daft, man. If I wanted to take someone along, I'd take Jem. At least he'd be of some use with the horses."
Though he gave an inward shudder at being compared to a lowly groom, Parkins remained resolute. "I'm convinced Lord Ashburn will
have need of me."
"I'm convinced I won't," Brigham responded, and started past.
"Nonetheless, I will accompany you, my lord."
Slowly, almost certain he had misunderstood, Brigham turned to see Parkins standing, a figure of righteousness, at the top of the
stairs. "You are ordered to remain," he said in a very quiet, very dangerous voice. Parkins's stomach lining turned to ice, but he
remained unbroken.
"I regret that your orders fail to persuade me that my duties are not best carried out in your company, my lord. I will accompany you."
With his eyes narrowed, Brigham ascended a step. "I'm of a mind to dismiss you, Parkins."
The pointed chin quivered. "That is your lordship's prerogative. That being the case, I will accompany you still."
"Damn your eyes, Parkins." Exasperated, Brigham stormed down the steps. "Have it your own way then, but you won't care for the
pace or the accommodations."
"Yes, my lord." Fully satisfied, Parkins smiled at Brigham's back.
Surly, Brigham strode out of the house and toward the stables to have a word with his groom. Barely dawn, he thought, and already he'd
been engaged in two arguments. He flung on his greatcoat as he went, his long, purposeful strides eating up the frosty ground. God, it
would be good to get in the saddle and ride. Away from here, he thought, glancing back and homing in unerringly on Serena's window.
Away from her, he corrected, almost savagely.
She had managed to avoid him all through the evening. Or when she could not, Brigham remembered with some fury, she had spoken to
him in a voice as frigid as the ground he was treading on.
He could hardly blame her, after his treatment of her.
He did blame her, completely.
It was she who had raged and ranted at him until his temper had snapped. It was she who had fought him like some kind of hellcat until
his passions had torn loose. Never, never in his life had he treated a woman with any form of physical violence. In lovemaking he was
known to be passionate but never harsh, thorough but never forceful.
With Serena he had barely restrained himself from ripping the clothes from her back and plunging into her like a man gone mad.
She was the cause. If he had managed to make it to midway through his third decade without ill-treating any woman save one, surely
that woman was at fault. She goaded him, he thought viciously. She taunted him.
She fascinated him.
Damn her. He kicked a pebble out of his way—the mark on his lordship's gleaming boot would distress Parkins severely—and wished
Serena could be dispatched as easily as the stone.
He would have the better part of a week away from her. When he returned, this madness that had taken hold of him would have passed.
He would then treat her with cordial respect and disinterest, as befitted the sister of his closest friend.
He would not, under any circumstances, think of the way her body had felt, melting beneath his.
He would certainly not pause to reflect on the way her lips had tasted, warmed and swollen with his kisses.
And he would be damned if he would allow himself to remember the way his name had sounded when she had spoken it, just once, in
the depths of passion.
No, he would do none of those things, but he might murder her if she got in his way again.
His mood filthy, his temper uncertain, he came to the stables. Before he could pull open the door it was pushed outward. Serena, all but
swaying on her feet, stepped out. Her face was pale, her eyes were exhausted, and the bodice of her dress was smeared with blood.
"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 a half-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 Lochnan 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
celebrate, 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 be wasn't to travel."
"Please, ten 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 sue Ian and Lord Ashburn will ten 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 tine 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 the 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."
"Do we fight as women then?" James demanded. "With talk only?"
There had been whiskey enough drunk to bring tempers boiling. James's words had already stirred angry mutters. Before more could be
said, Ian spoke again, drawing the men's attention to him.
"We fight as clansmen, as our fathers and their fathers. I fought beside your sire, James," he said quietly. "And at your side when we
were both young," he added to Lochiel. "I am proud to pledge my sword and my son's to the Stuarts. When we fight, we should fight
with cool heads and shrewdness, as well as sword and ax."
"But do we know the Prince means to fight?" someone at the table demanded. "We've gathered before, behind his father, and it came to
nothing."
Ian signaled for his cup to be filled again. "Brigham, you spent time with the Prince in France. Tell us his mind."
The table quieted, so Brigham kept his voice moderate. "He means to fight for his rights and those of his house. Of that there can be
little doubt." He paused to take stock of the faces around him. All listened, but not all seemed cheered by his words. "He looks to the
Jacobites here and in England to fight with him, and hopes to convince King Louis to support his cause. With the French behind him, I
think there is no doubt he could divide his enemies and cut through." He lifted his cup, taking his time. "Without them, it will take bold
action and a united front."
"The Lowlanders will fight with the government army," Lochiel mused. He thought sadly of the death and destruction that would surely
follow in their wake. "And the Prince is young, untried in battle."
"Yes," Brigham agreed. "He will need experienced men, advisers as well as fighting men. Don't doubt his ambition, or his resolve. He
shall come to Scotland and raise his standard. He will need the clans behind him, heart and sword."
"He has both of mine," James stated, lifting his cup like a challenge.
"If the Prince's mind cannot be swayed," Lochiel said slowly, "the Camerons will fight behind him."
The talk continued into the night, and over the next day and the next. Some were convinced, their swords and their men at the ready.
Others were far from encouraging.
When they took their leave of the MacDonalds, the sky was as gloomy as Brigham's thoughts. Charles's glittering ambition could all too
easily be dulled.