Rebellion & In From The Cold (12 page)

“Please, tell 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 sure Ian and
Lord Ashburn will tell 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 fine 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.

Serena sat before the crackling bedroom fire, wrapped in her night robe, while her mother brushed and dried her hair. For Fiona it brought back memories, both sweet and sad, of her eldest daughter’s childhood. So many times she had stood like this, with her daughter bundled before the fire, her skin glowing from her bath. It had been simple then to ease a hurt or solve a problem.

Now the child was a woman, with, Fiona thought, a woman’s needs and a woman’s fears. There would come a time when her little girl would sit in front of a fire of her own.

Usually when they had this time together Serena was full of talk, questions, stories, laughter. Now she was strangely subdued, her eyes on the fire, her hands quiet in her lap. Through the open door they could hear Gwen and Malcolm entertaining Coll with some game. The laughter and crows of triumph came, muffled, into the room.

Of all her children, it was Serena who concerned Fiona most. Coll was headstrong, certainly, but enough like his father to content Fiona that he would find his way well enough. Gwen was mild and sweet-natured. Fiona had no doubt that her giving heart and fragile looks would bring her a kind man. And Malcolm … She smiled as she drew the brush through Serena’s long, damp hair. He was full of charm and mischief, bright as a button, according to the good Father.

But it was Serena who had inherited the uncertain MacGregor temper along with a heart easily bruised. It was Serena who hated as passionately as she loved, who asked questions that couldn’t be answered, who remembered too well what should be forgotten.

It was that that concerned Fiona most of all. That one hideous incident had scarred her daughter as much as it had scarred her. Fiona still bore the marks of the English officer’s use of her. Not on her body, but on her heart. And she was afraid that the marks would never fade from Serena’s heart, any more than they would fade from her own. But while Fiona carried her shame secretly, Serena’s hate too often burned from her eyes and fell unheedingly off her tongue.

Fiona would never forget the way her young daughter had washed her, comforted her, eased both her body and heart through the misery of that night. Nor could she forget that a wildness had been born in Serena as a result of it, a recklessness that caused her to ride off unattended into the forest, to flare up at any real or imagined slight to the family. As a mother, she worried at Serena’s obvious disdain of the men who came courting.

Now it was Serena’s uncharacteristic silence that troubled her. Fiona wondered, not for the first time, how to mother a grown child.

“You’re so quiet, my love. Do you see dreams in the fire?”

Serena smiled a little. “You always said we could, if we looked hard enough.” But she had looked tonight and had seen only flaming wood.

“You’ve kept to yourself so much the last few days. Are you feeling poorly?”

“No, I’m just …” She let her words trail off, not certain she could explain to herself, much less her mother. “Restless, I suppose. Wanting spring.” She fell silent again, staring into the fire. “When do you
think Papa will be back?”

“Tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.” Fiona stroked the brush tirelessly through Serena’s hair. Her daughter’s pensive mood had come on the day the hunting party had left. “Do you worry about him?”

“No.” She sighed, and her hands moved nervously in her lap. “Sometimes I worry where it will all end, but I don’t worry for Papa.” Abruptly she linked her fingers together to still them. “I wish I were a man.”

The statement brought Fiona some measure of relief, as it was typical. With a little laugh, she kissed the top of Serena’s head. “What foolishness is this?”

“I do. If I were a man I wouldn’t forever be forced to sit and wait.” And want, she thought, want something so nebulous she could never describe it.

“If you were a man you would rob me of one of the greatest pleasures of my life.”

With another sigh, Serena quieted. “I wish I were more like you—more like Gwen.”

“You are what you were born to be, love, and nothing pleases me more.”

“I wish I did please you. I wish I could.”

“What, more nonsense?”

“There are times I know you are disappointed with me.”

“No, not disappointed, never that.” For a moment, Fiona wrapped her arms around Serena and pressed cheek to cheek. “When you were born, I thanked God for giving you to me whole and safe. My heart was nearly broken from losing the two bairns between Coll and you. I feared I’d have no more children, then there you were, small as a minute, strong as a horse. What a time you gave me with the birthing. The midwife said you clawed your way into the world. Women don’t go to war, Serena, but I tell you this, there would be no children in the world if men had to bring them into it.”