Rebellion & In From The Cold

by Nora Roberts

  “You cut me to the quick, my lady, when your gratitude is what I live for.”

  She snatched up a wooden bowl—though her mother would have meant for her to use the delft or the china—and scooped out stew and slapped it down so that more than a little slopped over the sides. She poured him ale and tossed a couple of oatcakes on a platter. A pity they weren’t stale.

  “Your supper, my lord. Have a care not to choke on it.” He rose then, and for the first time she noticed that he was nearly as tall as her brother, though he carried less muscle and brawn. “Your brother warned me you were ill-tempered.”

  She set her fist on her hip, eyeing him from under lashes shades darker than her tumbled hair. “That’s fortunate for you, my lord, so you’ll know better than to cross me.”

  He stepped toward her. It couldn’t be helped, given his temper and his penchant for fighting face-to-face. She tilted her chin as if braced, even anxious, for the bout. “If you’ve a mind to chase me into the wood with your grandsire’s claymore, think again.”

  Her lips twitched even as she fought back the smile. Humor made her eyes almost as appealing as anger. “Why? Are you fast on your feet, Sassenach?” she asked, using the Gaelic term for the hated English invader.

  “Fast enough to knock you off yours if you were fortunate enough to catch me.” He took her hand, effectively wiping the smile from her eyes. Though her hand curled into a fist, he brought it to his lips. “My thanks, Miss MacGregor, for your so gentle touch and hospitality.”

  While he stood where he was, she stormed out, furiously wiping her knuckles against her skirts.

  * * *

  It was full dark when Ian MacGregor returned with his youngest son. After his quick meal, Brigham kept to the room he’d been given, leaving the family to themselves and giving himself time to think. Coll had described the MacGregors well enough. Fiona was lovely, with enough strength in her face and bearing to add grit to beauty. Young Gwen was sweet and quiet with shy eyes—and a steady hand when she sewed rent flesh together.

  As to Serena … Coll hadn’t mentioned that his sister was a she-wolf with a face to rival Helen’s, but Brigham was content to make his own judgments there. It might be true that she had no cause to love the English, but for himself, Brigham preferred to weigh a man as a man, not by his nationality.

  He would do as well to judge a woman as a woman and not by her looks, he thought. When she had come racing down the road toward her brother, her face alive with pleasure, her hair flying, he’d felt as though he had been struck by lightning. Fortunately, he wasn’t a man who tarried long under the spell of a beautiful pair of eyes and a pretty ankle. He had come to Scotland to fight for a cause he believed in, not to worry because some slip of a girl detested him.

  Because of his birth, he thought as he paced to the window and back. He’d never had any cause to be other than proud of his lineage. His grandfather had been a man respected and feared—as his father had been before death had taken him so early. From the time he was old enough to understand, Brigham had been taught that being a Langston was both a privilege and a responsibility. He took neither lightly. If he had, he would have stayed in Paris, enjoying the whims and caprices of elegant society rather than traveling to the mountains of Scotland to risk all for the young Prince.

  Damn the woman for looking at him as though he were scum to be scrubbed from the bottom of a pot.

  At a knock on the door he turned, scowling, from the window. “Yes?”

  The serving girl opened the door with her heart already in her throat. One peep at Brigham’s black looks had her lowering her eyes and bobbing nervous curtsies. “Begging your pardon, Lord Ashburn.” And that was all she could manage.

  He waited, then sighed. “Might I know what you beg it for?”

  She darted him a quick look, then stared at the floor again. “My lord, the MacGregor wishes to see you downstairs if it’s convenient.”

  “Certainly, I’ll come right away.”

  But the girl had already dashed off. She would have a story to tell her mother that night, about how Serena MacGregor had insulted the English lord to his face—a face, she’d add, that was handsome as the devil’s.

  Brigham fluffed out the lace at his wrists. He had traveled with only one change of clothes, and he hoped the coach with the rest of his belongings would find its ponderous way to Glenroe next day.

  He descended the stairs, slender and elegant in black and silver. Lace foamed subtly at his throat, and his rings gleamed in the lamplight. In Paris and London he’d followed fashion and powdered his hair. Here he was glad to dispense with the bother, so it was brushed, raven black, away from his high forehead.

  The MacGregor waited in the dining hall, drinking port, a fire roaring at his back. His hair was a dark red and fell to his shoulders. A beard of the same color and luster covered his face. He had dressed as was proper when receiving company of rank. In truth, the great kilt suited him, for he was as tall and broad as his son. With it he wore a doublet of calfskin and a jeweled clasp at his shoulder on which was carved the head of a lion.

  “Lord Ashburn. You are welcome to Glenroe and the house of Ian MacGregor.”

  “Thank you.” Brigham accepted the offered port and chair. “I’d like to inquire about Coll.”

  “He’s resting easier, though my daughter Gwen tells me it will be a long night.” Ian paused a moment, looking down at the pewter cup held in his wide, thick-fingered hand. “Coll has written of you as a friend. If he had not, you would now be one for bringing him back to us.”

  “He is my friend, and has been.”

  This was accepted with a nod. “Then I drink to your health, my lord.” He did, with gusto. “I’m told your grandmother was a MacDonald.”

  “She was. From the Isle of Skye.”

  Ian’s face, well lined and reddened by wind and weather, relaxed into a smile. “Then welcome twice.” Ian lifted his cup and kept his eye keen on his guest. “To the true king?”

  Brigham lifted his port in turn. “To the king across the water,” he said, meeting Ian’s fierce blue gaze. “And the rebellion to come.”

  “Aye, that I’ll drink to.” And he did, downing the port in one giant gulp. “Now tell me how it happened that my boy was hurt.”

  Brigham described the ambush, detailing the men who’d attacked them, and their dress. As he spoke, Ian listened, leaning forward on the big table as though afraid he might miss a word.

  “Bloody murdering Campbells!” he exploded, pounding a fist on the table so that cups and crockery jumped.

  “So Coll thought himself,” Brigham said equably. “I know a bit about the clans and the feud between yours and the Campbells, Lord MacGregor. It could have been a simple matter of robbery, or it could be that word is out that the Jacobites are stirring.”

  “And so they are.” Ian thought a moment, drumming his fingers. “Well, four on two, was it? Not such bad odds when it comes to Campbells. You were wounded, as well?”

  “A trifle.” Brigham shrugged. It was a gesture he’d acquired in France. “If Coll’s mount hadn’t slipped, he would never have dropped his guard. He’s a devil of a swordsman.”

  “So he says of you.” Ian’s teeth flashed. There was nothing he admired so much as a good fighter. “Something about a skirmish on the road to Calais?”

  Brigham grinned at that. “A diversion.”

  “I’d like to hear more about it, but first, tell me what you can about the Bonnie Prince and his plans.”

  They talked for hours, draining the bottle of port dry and cracking another while the candles guttered. Formalities faded and disappeared until they were only two men, one past his prime, the other only approaching it. They were both warriors by birth and by temperament. They might fight for different reasons, one in a desperate attempt to preserve a way of life and land, the other for simple justice. But they would fight. When they parted, Ian to look in on his son, Brigham to take the air and check the horses, they knew each
other as well as they needed.

  It was late when he returned. The house was quiet, fires were banked. Outside the wind whistled, bringing home to him the isolation, the distance from London and all he held familiar.

  Near the door, a candle had been lighted to show him the way. He took it and started up the stairs, though he knew he was still far too restless for sleep. The MacGregors interested him—they had since the first time he and Coll had shared a bottle and their life stories. He knew they were bound together, not just through family obligation but through affection and a common love of their land. Tonight he had seen them pull together with unquestioning faith and loyalty. There had been no hysterics when he had carried Coll inside, no weeping and fainting women. Instead, each had done what had needed to be done.

  It was that kind of strength and commitment Charles would need over the next months.

  With the candlelight sending shadows leaping, Brigham walked past his room to push open the door to Coll’s. The bedcurtains were pushed back, and he could see his friend sleeping yet, covered with blankets. And he saw Serena sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading a book by the light of another taper.

  It was the first time he’d seen her look as her name described. Her face was calm and extraordinarily lovely in the soft light. Her hair glowed as it fell down her back. She had changed her dress for a night robe of deep green that rose high at the throat to frame her face. As Brigham watched, she looked up at her brother’s murmur and placed a hand on the pulse at his wrist.

  “How is he?”

  She started at the sound of Brigham’s voice but collected herself quickly. Her face expressionless, she sat back again to close the book she had in her lap. “His fever’s still up. Gwen thinks it should break by morning.”

  Brigham moved to the foot of the bed. Behind him, the fire burned high. The scent of medicine, mixed with poppies, vied with the smoke. “Coll told me she could do magic with herbs. I’ve seen doctors with less of a sure hand sewing up a wound.”

  Torn between annoyance and pride in her sister, Serena smoothed down the skirts of her robe. “She has a gift, and a good heart. She would have stayed with him all night if I hadn’t bullied her off to bed.”

  “So you bully everyone, not just strangers?” He smiled and held up a hand before she could speak. “You can hardly tear into me now, my dear, or you will wake up your brother and the rest of your family.”

  “I’m not your dear.”

  “For which I shall go to my grave thankful. Merely a form of address.”

  Coll stirred, and Brigham moved to the side of the bed to place a cool hand on his brow. “Has he waked at all?”

  “A time or two, but not in his right head.” Because her conscience demanded it, she relented. “He asked for you.” She rose and wrung out a cloth to bathe her brother’s face with. “You should retire, and see him in the morning.”

  “And what of you?”

  Her hands were gentle on her brother, soothing, cooling. Despite himself, Brigham imagined how they might feel stroking his brow. “What of me?”

  “Have you no one to bully you to bed?”

  She glanced up, fully aware of his meaning. “I go when and where I choose.” Taking her seat again, she folded her hands. “You’re wasting your candle, Lord Ashburn.”

  Without a word, he snuffed it out. The light of the single taper by the bed plunged them into intimacy. “Quite right,” he murmured. “One candle is sufficient.”

  “I hope you can find your way to your room in the dark.”

  “I have excellent night vision, as it happens. But I don’t retire yet.” Idly he plucked the book from her lap. “Macbeth?”

  “Don’t the fine ladies of your acquaintance read?”

  His lips twitched. “A few.” He opened the book and scanned the pages. “A grisly little tale.”

  “Murder and power?” She made a little gesture with her hands. “Life, my lord, can be grisly, as the English so often prove.”

  “Macbeth was a Scot,” he reminded her. “‘A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ Is that how you see life?”

  “I see it as what can be made of it.”

  Brigham leaned against a table, holding the book loosely. He believed she meant just what she said, and that interested him. Most of the women he knew could philosophize about no more than fashion.

  “You don’t see Macbeth as a villain?”

  “Why?” She hadn’t meant to speak to him, much less hold a conversation, but she couldn’t resist. “He took what he felt was his.”

  “And his methods?”

  “Ruthless. Perhaps kings need be. Charles won’t claim his throne by asking for it.”

  “No.” With a frown, Brigham closed the book. “But treachery differs from warfare.”

  “A sword is a sword, thrust in the back or in the heart.” She looked at him, her green eyes glowing in the light. “If I were a man I would fight to win, and the devil take the method.”

  “And honor?”

  “There is much honor in victory.” She soaked the cloth and wrung it out again. For all her talk, she had a woman’s way with illness, gentle, patient, thorough. “There was a time when the MacGregors were hunted like vermin, with the Campbells paid in good British gold for each death. If you are hunted like something wild, you learn to fight like something wild. Women were raped and murdered, bairns not yet weaned slaughtered. We don’t forget, Lord Ashburn, nor forgive.”

  “This is a new time, Serena.”

  “Still, my brother’s blood was shed today.”

  On impulse he placed a hand over hers. “In a few months more will be shed, but for justice, not revenge.”

  “You can afford justice, my lord, not I.”

  Coll moaned and began to thrash. Serena turned her full attention to him again. Automatically Brigham held him down. “He’ll break open his wound again.”

  “Keep him still.” Serena poured more medicine into a wooden cup and held it to Coll’s lips. “Drink now, darling.” She poured what she could down his throat, murmuring, threatening, coaxing all the while. He was shivering, though his skin was like fire to the touch.

  She no longer questioned Brigham’s presence, and she said nothing when he stripped off his coat and tucked back the lace at his wrists. Together they bathed Coll with cool water, forced more of Gwen’s mixture past his dry lips and kept watch.

  During Coll’s delirium Serena spoke to him mainly in Gaelic, as calm and steady as a seasoned soldier. Brigham found it strange to see her so unruffled when from almost the first moment of their acquaintance she had been animated by excitement or fury. Now, in the deepest part of the night, her hands were gentle, her voice quiet, her movements competent They worked together as though they’d spent their lives doing so.

  She no longer resented his assistance. English or not, he obviously cared for her brother. Without his aid she would have been forced to summon her sister or her mother. For a few hours, Serena forced herself to forget that Lord Ashburn represented all she despised.

  Now and then, over the cloth or the cup, their hands brushed. Both of them strove to ignore even this minor intimacy. He might have been concerned for Coll, but he was still an English nobleman. She might have had more spine than any other women he’d known, but she was still a Scots terror.

  The truce lasted while Coll’s fever raged. By the time the light turned gray with approaching dawn, the crisis had passed.

  “He’s cool.” Serena blinked back tears as she stroked her brother’s brow. Silly to weep now, she thought, when the worst was over. “I think he’ll do, but Gwen will have a look at him.”

  “He should sleep well enough.” Brigham pressed a hand to the small of his back, where a dull ache lodged. The fire they had taken turns feeding during the night still roared at his back, shooting light and heat. He had loosened his shirt for comfort and a smoothly muscled chest could be seen in the deep V. Serena wiped her own brow and tried no
t to notice.

  “It’s almost morning.” She felt weak and weepy and tired to the bone.

  “Yes.” Brigham’s mind had shifted suddenly, completely, from the man in the bed to the woman by the window. The first hints of dawn were behind her, and she stood in shadow and in light. Her night robe cloaked her as if she were royalty. Her face, pale with fatigue, was dominated by eyes that seemed only larger, darker, more mysterious, for the faint bruises beneath.

  Her blood began to tingle below her skin as he continued to stare at her. She wished he would stop. It made her feel … powerless somehow. Suddenly afraid, she tore her gaze from his and looked at her brother.

  “There’s no need for you to stay now.”

  “No.”

  She turned her back. Brigham took it as a dismissal. He gave her an ironic bow she couldn’t see, but stopped when he heard the sniffle. He paused at the door. Then, dragging a hand through his hair and swearing, he moved toward her.

  “No need for tears now, Serena.”

  Hurriedly she wiped at her cheek with her knuckles. “I thought he would die. I didn’t realize how afraid I was of it until it was past.” She swiped a hand over her face again. “I’ve lost my handkerchief,” she said miserably.

  Brigham pressed his own into her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he managed when she handed it back to him crumpled and damp. “Better now?”

  “Aye.” She let out a long, steadying breath. “I wish you would go.”

  “Where?” Though he knew it was unwise, he turned her to face him. He only wanted to see her eyes again. “To my bed or to the devil?”

  Her lips curved, surprising them both. “As you choose, my lord.”

  He wanted those lips. The knowledge stunned him as much as her smile did. He wanted them warm and open and completely willing under his own. Light broke through the sky and tumbled like gold dust through the window. Before either of them were prepared, he reached out so that his fingers dug through her hair and cupped her neck.

  “No,” she managed, amazed that the denial was unsteady. When she lifted a hand in protest, he met it, palm to palm. So they stood as the new day began.