Rebellion & In From The Cold (11 page)

“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 half a dozen children, all but naked, though happy enough, and the shepherd’s wife, who sat near the fire working a spindle. The turf house smelled of the compost heap that lay just outside the door and of the cattle that were housed in the room beyond.

If the family considered their fate bitter, they didn’t show it. The shepherd drank with gusto and pledged his loyalty to the Stuart king.

All the men were welcomed, and food was pressed on each, though the portions were meager. Brigham couldn’t resist a grin at the sight of the proper Parkins struggling to swallow the mysterious soup while removing a pair of small, grimy hands from his spotless sleeve.

Dozens of excuses had to be made before the travelers could convince their hosts that business prevented them from remaining overnight. When they set out again the wind was rising, bringing with it the taste and the scent of snow.

“I feel as though we’ve caused them to starve for the next week,” Brigham commented as they continued west.

“They’ll do well enough. Their laird will see them provided for. That’s the way of the clans.” Ian rode like a man half his age, straight in the saddle, light wristed, tireless. “It’s men like him darlin’ Charlie will need to make Scotland thrive.”

“And the Camerons?”

“Good fighters and true men.” Ian settled into an easy, ground eating lope. “When we meet at Glenfinnan you’ll judge for yourself.”

“The Jacobites will need good fighters, and good generals, as well. The rebellion will only be as successful as the Prince’s advisers.”

Ian shot him a glittering look. “So you’ve thought of that.”

“Yes.” Brigham looked around him as they rode. The rocky, tumbled ground was a perfect field of war for the Highlanders. The men who rode behind them, the men who lived in it, would know its advantages and hardships well.

“If we bring the battle here, we’ll win. Britain will be united.”

“It’s my wish to see a Stuart on the throne,” Ian mused. “But I’ll tell you I’ve seen wars before. In ‘15, in ‘19. I’ve seen hopes raised and hopes dashed. I’m not so old that my blood doesn’t warm at the thought of battle, at the hope of putting old wrongs right. But this will be the last.”

“You’ll live to see others, Ian.”

“This will be the last,” he said again. “Not just for me, lad, for all of us.”

Brigham thought of those words as they neared Glenfinnan.

The waters of Loch nan Uamh were a dark, violent blue. As they arrived at the great stone fortress, the snow was just beginning. Overhead the sky had turned to a thick steel gray, and the wind whipped the waters of the lake into fury.

Their coming had been heralded by the playing of pipes, and the high, eerie music lifted into the thin air. Such music was used to 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 he wasn’t to travel.”