Rebellion & In From The Cold (33 page)

With a shout, Brigham lunged. The pain exploded afresh in his side, almost blinding him. The dragoon swung around, but raised his sword again over Malcolm’s head.

Serena fired the freshly loaded pistol from the mouth of the cave and sent a ball into his heart.

It was over in minutes. Five dragoons lay dead, but the sanctuary of the cave was ended.

* * *

They moved at dusk, heading west. Two of the horses the dragoons had tethered were Malcolm’s own. They took shifts, riding, walking. When it was possible, they sheltered in mud huts or with the cattle. Highland hospitality was as it had always been. Through the people they met they learned of Cumberland, who was already known as the Butcher. The persecution was unbearable, and the search for the Prince through the heather unrelenting.

Houses were in ruin; cattle and horses and sheep had been driven off. The Highlanders, never rich, faced starvation. Still, they hid their Prince and any fugitive who asked for shelter.

Progress was slow, with each day bringing its own dangers. Thousands of troops had been engaged
to find the Prince. It was June before they were able to sail from the mainland to Skye, where they were taken in by the MacDonalds of Sleat.

“It’s as beautiful as she said it was,” Brigham murmured as he stood with Serena on the lush green grass of a small slope and looked out at Uig Bay. “My grandmother told me how she ran through the grass as a girl and watched the boats.”

“It is beautiful.” The breeze was kind against her face. “Everything is beautiful now that we’re all together and safe.”

For how long? Brigham wondered. There were troops here, as well. The sea was being patrolled. There were rumors that the Prince was near. If he was, the English would be on his heels. A way had to be devised for the Prince to return to France or Italy. But more personally, and more importantly, Serena and the child had to be kept safe.

He had thought of little else during the days of his recovery, during the nights they had traveled like outcasts through the hills of Scotland. He could not now return to England and give Serena what was rightfully hers as Lady Ashburn. Nor could he, though she had yet to accept it, return to Glenroe for years to come.

“Sit with me, Serena.”

“Gladly.” She laughed a little as he helped her settle what had become a cumbersome weight. “I shall never be able to face a cow again.”

“You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“You lie.” She grinned and turned her face for a kiss. “But the truth wouldn’t earn you a kiss.” With her head on his shoulder, she looked out at the bay. The sun scattered over it, edging the blue with gold, like a lady’s ball gown. “It is beautiful here, Brig. I’m glad you had the chance to see the land where your grandmother grew up. That we had the chance to see it together.” With a little sound of discomfort, she rested a hand on her stomach.

“Do you feel unwell?”

“No, better every day since we’ve come here.” It was true, spiritually. She didn’t want to tell him how poorly she had begun to feel physically. Only that morning the ache in her back, and the pressure, had nearly kept her in bed. “Your grandmother’s people have been so kind to us.”

“I know. I shall always be grateful to them, and all the others who gave us shelter.” His eyes clouded as he looked down over the water. “It is difficult to understand how they could give shelter so freely to an Englishman.”

“How can you speak so?” There was genuine anger in her voice as she gripped his arm. “It was not your England that has murdered Scotland. It was, is, Cumberland and his thirst for blood, his need to destroy. It is he who has laid waste to the glens.”

“And in London he is cheered like a hero.”

“Listen to me.” Her grip gentled as she reached for his hand. “There was a time I blamed all for the wrongs of a few. As you love me, don’t do the same.” With a smile, she moved his hand over her belly. “Our child carries English blood. I am proud of it.”

He brought her close a moment, just to hold her. “Again you humble me.” They remained as they were, sitting close, clinging to the hope that had come even out of loss. “You know, if I am found here, what will happen to the MacDonalds?”

It was cowardly, but she didn’t want to think of it. “You will not be found.”

“I cannot run forever, Rena, nor continue to endanger friend and stranger.”

She plucked nervously at the turf. It was so green and smelled so sweet. “I know, but what choice do we have? The Prince is still hunted. I know you worry for him.”

“I do, but I also worry for you and your child.” When she started to reassure him, he gripped her hands. “I will never forget that last day in the cave, the way you were forced to defend me, to kill for me and your family.”

“I did what needed to be done, what you would have done. All those months I felt useless because I could do nothing. That day, things changed. A woman might not join the rebellion on a battlefield, but a woman can protect what she loves.”

“I will tell you in truth that I have never loved you more than I did that day, when you held a sword and a pistol in your hands.” He kissed them, then looked steadily into her eyes. “Can you understand that I wanted to give you beauty, not a life of fear and running? I wanted to give you what was mine, but is mine no longer.”

“Brigham—”

“No, wait. There is something I must ask you. You said you would go with me wherever I chose. Will you?”

She felt a little pain ripple through her, but nodded. “Aye.”

“Will you leave Scotland, Rena, and travel with me to the New World? I cannot give you all that I once promised, though we won’t be poor. So many of the things I wanted for you will be left behind. You will be only Mrs. Langston, and the land and the people will be strange to you, to both of us. I know what I ask you to give up, but perhaps one day we can return.”

“Ssh.” Overcome, she wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t you know I would ride into hell with you if you asked?”

“I don’t ask you to ride into hell, but I know what I ask you and what promises I break.”

“You promised only to love me, and to come back to me. You have done both.” She shook her head before he could speak. “You must listen, and try to understand. The weeks I had with you at court were beautiful, but only because we were together. I have never needed such things, Brigham. The title means nothing to me, nor do the balls or the gowns. Only you.” With a watery laugh, she pulled back. “Every day at Holyrood I worried that I would make a mistake and embarrass you, that you would see you had made a grave error in judgment in taking me for Lady Ashburn.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“I shall never be an easy aristocrat, Brigham. I was afraid you would ask me to go to France, to court.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Your life would be easier there, as it was in Edinburgh.”

“And I would have to pretend to be a lady while I longed for my breeches and a fast ride.”

“You would rather go to America with only a chest of gold and a dream?”

She framed his face with her hands. “England was yours and Scotland mine. We’ve lost them. Together we will make our own.”

“I love you, Rena. More than my life.”

“Brigham, the child—”

“Shall be happy. I swear it.”

“Sooner than we think,” she managed. At his expression, she managed another laugh, then winced. “Oh, I think he has my impatience. I need Gwen, Brigham, and Mother.”

“But you said it would be a few weeks yet.”

“It’s not what I say.” She held a hand over her belly as it hardened with a contraction. “It’s what he says.”

She caught her breath, then giggled when he swept her awkwardly into his arms. “Brigham, there is no need. I’ll break your back.”

At that moment she felt weightless. “Madam,” he said with a trace of mockery. “Have a little faith.”

Near the last day of June, fourteen months after he had raised his standard, Prince Charles landed near Mugston House on the Isle of Skye. He was disguised as the lady’s maid of Flora MacDonald, a young woman who risked her life to travel with him and see him to safety.

He had missed capture by a hairbreadth, but had lost neither his ambition nor his eagerness. Nor had he lost his air of romance. He left Flora with a lock of his hair and the wish that they might meet again, at the Court of St. James.

Brigham saw him briefly. They spoke as they had often spoken in the past, with ease and mutual respect. Charles did not, though the hope was in his heart, ask Brigham to join him on the journey to France.

“You will miss him,” Serena said as they stood in their bedchamber at Mugston House.

“I will miss him as a man, and I will grieve for the loss of what might have been.” He gathered her close, holding her newly slim body against his. “It was he and his cause that brought me to you. We did not win, Rena, but I have only to look at you, and my son, to know that neither did we lose.” With his arm around her, he turned to look down at the child they had christened Daniel. “It is as your father said, love. It has not been for naught.” He pressed his lips to hers, lingering over the kiss, drawing out the passion, the love and the trust. “Are you ready?”

With a nod, she picked up her traveling cloak. “If only Mother and Coll and Maggie would go with us.”

“They need to stay, as we need to go.” He waited as she gathered up the child. “You will have Gwen and Malcolm.”

“I know. I only wish …”

“There will be a MacGregor in Glenroe again, Serena. And we will come back.”

She looked at him. The sun was streaming through the window at his back. He was as he had been when she had first seen him, dark, stunningly handsome, a little reckless. It made her smile even as the baby stirred against her. “There will be a Langston at Ashburn Manor again. Daniel will come back, or his children will. They will have their place there, and in the Highlands.”

He lifted the chest that held the little Dresden shepherdess. One day he would give it to his son. He had bent to kiss her again when there was a knock on the door.

“Your pardon, my lord.”

“What is it, Parkins?”

“We will lose the tide.”

“Very well.” He gestured to the other cases. “And Parkins, must I remind you that you are to address me as Mr. Langston now?”

Parkins hefted the cases in his thin arms. He had asked his favor of his lady, and he and the new Mrs. Parkins were traveling to America. “No, my lord,” he said mildly, and proceeded them.

Over Brigham’s oath, Serena laughed and walked out with the baby. “You will always be Lord
Ashburn,
Sassenach.
Come.” She held out a hand to him. “We are going home.”

In from the Cold

His name was MacGregor. He clung to that even as he clung to the horse’s reins. The pain was alive, capering down his arm like a dozen dancing devils. Hot, branding hot, despite the December wind and blowing snow.

He could no longer direct the horse but rode on, trusting her to find her way through the twisting paths made by Indian or deer or white man. He was alone with the scent of snow and pine, the muffled thud of his mount’s hooves and the gloom of early twilight. A world hushed by the sea of wind washing through the trees.

Instinct told him he was far from Boston now, far from the crowds, the warm hearths, the civilized. Safe. Perhaps safe. The snow would cover the trail his horse left and the guiding path of his own blood.

But safe wasn’t enough for him. It never had been. He was determined to stay alive, and for one fierce reason. A dead man couldn’t fight. By all that was holy he had vowed to fight until he was free.

Shivering despite the heavy buckskins and furs, teeth chattering now from a chill that came from within as well as without, he leaned forward to speak to the horse, soothing in Gaelic. His skin was clammy with the heat of the pain, but his blood was like the ice that formed on the bare branches of the trees surrounding him. He could see the mare’s breath blow out in white streams as she trudged on through the deepening snow. He prayed as only a man who could feel his own blood pouring out of him could pray. For life.

There was a battle yet to be fought. He’d be damned if he’d die before he’d raised his sword.

The mare gave a sympathetic whinny as he slumped against her neck, his breathing labored. Trouble was in the air, as well as the scent of blood. With a toss of her head, she walked into the wind, following her own instinct for survival and heading west.

The pain was like a dream now, floating in his mind, swimming through his body. He thought if he could only wake, it would disappear. As dreams do. He had other dreams—violent and vivid. To fight the British for all they had stolen from him. To take back his name and his land—to fight for all the MacGregors had held with pride and sweat and blood. All they had lost.

He had been born in war. It seemed just and right that he would die in war.

But not yet. He struggled to rouse himself. Not yet. The fight had only begun.

He forced an image into his mind. A grand one. Men in feathers and buckskins, their faces blackened with burnt cork and lampblack and grease, boarding the ships
Dartmouth
,
Eleanor
and
Beaver
. Ordinary men, he remembered, merchants and craftsmen and students. Some fueled with grog, some with righteousness. The hoisting and smashing of the chests of the damned and detested tea. The satisfying splash as broken crates of it hit the cold water of Boston Harbor at Griffin’s Wharf. He remembered how disgorged chests had been heaped up in the muck of low tide like stacks of hay.

So large a cup of tea for the fishes, he thought now. Aye, they had been merry, but purposeful. Determined. United. They would need to be all of those things to fight and win the war that so many didn’t understand had already begun.

How long had it been since that glorious night? One day? Two? It had been his bad luck that he had run into two drunk and edgy redcoats as dawn had been breaking. They knew him. His face, his name, his politics were well-known in Boston. He’d done nothing to endear himself to the British militia.