by Nora Roberts
But the nights were real. Serena clung to them as tightly as she clung to Brigham in the privacy of their marriage bed. She knew it was temporary, and that its continuation was in God’s hands. It was only a matter of time before Brigham would leave. They did not speak of it. There was no need to speak of what they both understood. If force of will alone could bring him back safely to her, she could be content.
At night she could be his wife freely, in heart, mind and body. By day she often felt like an impostor, masquerading in fashionable gowns as a lady while in her heart she remained a product of the Highlands, longing to kilt up her skirts and race through the autumn trees surrounding the park as the wind tore the leaves from the branches for a dizzying dance. Instead, she walked sedately with the other women while the men held council or rode to the camp.
Because she loved, she put her heart and soul into being the kind of wife she thought Brigham should have. She sat, desperately struggling to be attentive, through musical evenings. Though she found it absurd, she never complained about the necessity to change from a morning dress to an afternoon dress, then again for evening. Only once, when she was sure she wouldn’t be noticed, did she accompany Malcolm to the stables to admire the horses.
She envied her young brother the freedom to take wild rides, but set her teeth and determined to enjoy her own demure ones.
“Do this, do that,” she muttered as she paced alone in her bedchamber. “Don’t do this, don’t do that.” Swearing, she kicked a chair with the toe of the pretty slipper that matched her violet morning dress. “A body could go mad trying to remember the rules, then madder still trying to live by them.”
With a hiss of breath she dropped down into the chair, skirts billowing. She wanted the loch, the peace of it. She didn’t just want to look out at the hills and crags. She wanted to climb them. She wanted her breeches, she thought, and her boots. She wanted …
Sighing, she braced her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands. Not an attitude suitable for Lady Ashburn, but Serena didn’t feel like Lady Ashburn at the moment. She was being selfish and ungrateful, she told herself. Brigham was giving her things many another women would have swooned over. He was promising her the kind of life only a fool would toss aside.
And she was a fool, Serena decided, because she would have done just that if it wouldn’t have meant losing Brigham, as well. Living with dignity and propriety was a small price to pay for love. But oh, she had nearly botched it a dozen times already, and they had only been married three weeks.
She heard the door open and popped up like a spring, smoothing her skirts. A breath of relief escaped when she saw that it was Brigham. She would have hated for a servant to gossip below stairs about how Lady Ashburn sulked in her room with her elbows on her knees.
Brigham lifted a brow when he saw her. He would have sworn she grew more beautiful each day, though he did wish from time to time that she could wear her hair loose and free so that he could bury his hands in it at will.
“I thought you were going for a walk with your sister and Maggie.”
“I was just getting ready.” Automatically she reached up to pat her hair, afraid her pacing had loosened the careful arrangement. “I didn’t expect you back until much later. Is the council over?”
“Yes. You look exquisite, Rena. Like a wild violet.”
With a laugh that was half sob, she raced into his arms. “Oh, Brig, I love you. I love you so much.”
“What’s this?” he murmured as she pressed her face against his neck. “Are you crying?”
“No—aye, a little. It’s only that whenever I see you I love you more than the last time.”
“Then I’ll take care to leave and come back several times each day.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“And risk fatal injury?” He tilted her head back so that he could kiss her properly. “No, my dear, I shan’t laugh at you.”
She saw it in his eyes, and knew then that she had seen it the moment he had come into the room. The courage she had promised herself she would show wavered, but she willed it back. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
He brought her hand to his lips. “Come, sit.”
“There is no need,” she said steadily. “Just tell me.”
“We march in a matter of days. Tomorrow you must leave for Glenroe.”
Her cheeks paled, but her voice remained strong. “I would stay until you go.”
“I would go with an easier mind if I knew you were safe at Glenroe. The journey will take longer because of Maggie.”
She knew he was right, knew it was necessary, and tried to live with it. “You march to London?”
“God willing.”
With a nod, she stepped back, but she kept his hand in hers. “The fight is mine, as well as yours, doubly so now that I am your wife. I would go with you, if you would let me.”
“No. Do you think I see my wife as a camp follower?” The look, the very familiar look, in her eyes warned him to change tactics. “Your family needs you, Serena.”
What of my needs? The words sprang to her tongue and were bitten back. She would do him no good by following him into battle. She looked at her hand and cursed the fact that it was too weak to wield a sword, to protect him as he would protect her.
“You’re right. I know. I will wait for you.”
“I take you with me. Here.” He brought their joined hands to his heart. “There is something I would ask of you. If things go wrong—” She shook her head, but a look from him stopped her urgent protest. “There is a chest in my chamber, and a strongbox. In the box is gold and enough jewels to buy your safety and that of your family. In the chest is something more precious that I would have you keep.”
“What is it?”
He traced a fingertip along her cheekbone, remembering. “You will know when you see it.”
“I won’t forget, but there will be no need. You will come back.” She smiled. “Remember, you have promised to show me Ashburn Manor.”
“I remember.”
Lifting her hands, she began to undo the tiny buttons at her bodice.
“What are you doing?”
Smiling still, she let the dress open. “What I am not doing is going for a walk with my sister.” She undid the satin sash at her waist. “Is it improper to seduce one’s husband at this hour?”
“Probably.” He grinned as she tugged the coat from his shoulders. “But we shall keep it our secret.”
They made love on the elegantly skirted bed, under the high canopy, with the sun coming strong through the windows. The proper morning dress lay discarded in billows of violet. She knelt beside him, slender, with the light playing over her skin as she drew the pins from her hair. Heavily, in a glory of flame-tipped gold, it fell over her naked shoulders and breasts. Brigham reached for it, wrapped it once, twice, around his wrists as if to imprison himself, then drew her slowly down to him.
Their bodies fit.
They both remembered the loch, and another sundrenched morning filled with love and passions. The memory of it, and thoughts of the cloudy, uncertain future brought them gently together. Selflessly they gave to each other, beautifully they received.
With a sigh, he slipped into her. With a murmur, their lips met and clung. Together they showed one another a new level of pleasure, one that could be reached only through the purity and the passions of unconditional love.
* * *
It was the first of November when the march finally began. Many, Brigham among them, had urged the Prince to begin the campaign earlier, moving on the advantage they had gained by taking Edinburgh. Instead, Charles had continued to hope for active support from France. Money had indeed come, and supplies, but no men. Charles put his own strength at eight thousand, with three hundred horses. He knew that he must make one decisive stroke, bringing victory or defeat in a short time. As before, he decided the best strategy was a bold one.
Charles had a high opinion of his troops, as did the
English. A few months before, the young Prince’s ambitions and his ragtag troops of rugged Highlanders had been laughed at. Then he had swept down on Edinburgh. His early victories, and the flair with which he had brought defeat to the English had the uneasy government recalling more and more troops from Flanders, sending them to Field Marshal Wade in Newcastle.
Still, as the Stuart army marched into Lancaster under the leadership of Lord George Murray, they met with little resistance. But the celebration there might have been was offset by the disappointing number of English Jacobites who had rallied.
Near a hot fire on a cold night, Brigham sat with Whitesmouth, who had ridden from Manchester to join the cause. Men warmed themselves with whiskey and wrapped themselves in plaids against the keening wind.
“We should have attacked Wade’s forces.” Whitesmouth tipped his flask. “Now they’ve called the elector’s fat son Cumberland in haste, and he’s advancing through the Midlands. How many are we, Brig? Four, five thousand?”
“At best.” Brigham accepted the flask but only stared into the fire. “The Prince is pushed two ways by Murray and O’Sullivan. Each decision comes only after agonizing debate. If you want the truth, Johnny, we lost our momentum in Edinburgh. We may never get it back.”
“But you stay?”
“He has my oath.”
They sat another moment in silence, listening to the wind crying over the hills. “You know that some of the Scots are drifting off, going quietly back to their glens and hills.”
“I know it.”
Only that day, Ian and other chiefs had spoken together. They meant to hold their men. Brigham wondered if they, or anyone, fully understood that the brilliant victories of their outnumbered and ill-equipped army had been won because the men hadn’t simply been ordered to fight, but had fought with their hearts. Once the heart was lost, so would be the cause.
With a shake of his head, he shifted his thoughts to practical matters. “We reach Derby tomorrow. If we hit London quickly, thoroughly, we could still see the king on the throne.” He sipped then, as someone began to play a mournful tune on the pipes. “We’ve yet to be beaten. From what news you bring, there is panic in the city and the elector prepares to leave for Hanover.”
“There may he stay,” Whitesmouth mumbled. “My God, it’s cold.”
“In the north the wind has an edge as sharp and as sweet as a blade.”
“If luck is with us, you’ll be back to your wife and her Highlands by the new year.”
Brigham drank again, but in his heart he knew it would take more than luck.
In Derby, with London only 130 miles away, Charles held his council of war.
Snow fell fitfully outside as the men rounded the table. A gloom was in the room, both from the leaden light and on the faces of men. There was a good fire, but over its crackle and hiss the sound of the icy wind could still be heard.
“Gentlemen.” Charles spread his fine hands in front of him. “I seek advice from you who have pledged to my father. It is boldness we need, and unity.”
His dark eyes scanned the room, lighting briefly on each man. Murray was there, and the man whom Murray considered a thorn in his side, O’Sullivan. Brigham watched, holding his silence, as the Prince continued to speak.
“We know that three government troops threaten to converge on us, and morale among the men is suffering. A thrust, rapier-sharp, at the capital—now, while we still remember our victories—is surely our move.”
“Your Highness.” Murray waited, then was given permission to speak. “The advice I must offer is caution. We are poorly equipped and greatly outnumbered. If we withdraw to the Highlands, take the winter to plan a new campaign that would launch in spring, we might rally those men we have already lost and draw fresh supplies from France.”
“Such counsel is the counsel of despair,” Charles said. “I can see nothing but ruin and destruction coming to us if we should retreat.”
“Withdraw,” Murray corrected, and was joined by the assent of other advisers. “Our rebellion is young, but it must not be impulsive.”
Charles listened, shutting his eyes a moment as one after another of the men who stood with him echoed Murray’s sentiments. Prudence, patience, caution. Only O’Sullivan preached attack, using flattery and reckless promises in his attempt to sway the Prince.
All at once, Charles sprang up from his chair, scattering the maps and documents spread out in front of him. “What say you?” he demanded of Brigham.
Brigham knew that, militarily, Murray’s advice was sound. But he remembered his own thoughts as he had sat with Whitesmouth by the fire. If they withdrew now, the heart of the rebellion would be lost. For once, perhaps for the only time, his thoughts marched in step with O’Sullivan’s.
“With respect, Your Highness, if the choice was mine I would march to London at daybreak and seize the moment.”
“The heart says to fight, Your Highness,” one of the advisers put in, closely echoing Brigham’s thoughts. “But in war, one must heed the head, as well. If we ride to London as we are, our losses could be immeasurable.”
“Or our triumph great,” Charles interrupted passionately. “Are we women who cover our heads at the first sign of snow or who think of only warming our tired feet by the fire? Withdraw, retreat.” He swung back toward Murray, eyes furious. “It is one and the same. I wonder if you have a mind to betray me.”
“I have only a mind to see you and our cause succeed,” Murray said quietly. “You are a prince, sire. I am but a soldier and must speak as one who knows his troops and the way of war.”
The argument continued, but long before it was finished, Brigham saw how it would be. The Prince, never strong of purpose when faced with dissension among his advisers, was being forced to heed Murray’s words of caution. On December 6, the decision to retreat was taken.
The road back to Scotland was long, and the men dispirited. It was as Brigham had feared. When a halt was called to the exuberant, aggressive advance that had given the clans such power since the previous summer, the heart went out of the rebellion. Men might still talk of another invasion in the following year, but all believed in their secret hearts that they would never march south again.
They fell back behind the Scottish border and took Glasgow, though the city was openly hostile. The men, frustrated and disillusioned, might have taken that Christmas day to loot and sack, had not Cameron of Lochiel’s cool head and compassion dissuaded them.
Stirling surrendered just as reinforcements, men, stores and ammunition arrived from France. It started to seem as if the right decision had been made, but if Charles now believed Lord George had been correct, he never spoke of it.
The Prince’s numbers were again on the increase as more clans came to him, pledging heart and sword and men. But there were MacKenzies and MacLeods, MacKays and Munroes who followed the elector’s colors.
They fought again, south of Stirling, in the purple winter’s dusk, Scot fighting Scot, as well as English. Again they tasted victory, but with it came grief, as Ian MacGregor fell to an enemy blade.
He lingered through the night. Men who ride in battle need not be told when wounds are mortal. Brigham knew it as he sat beside the old man with the night wind flapping at the tent.
He thought of Serena and how she had laughed when the big bear of a MacGregor had swung her around and around in her night robe. He thought of riding with Ian through the winter wind and of sharing a bottle of port near a great fire. Now, approaching death seemed to have stolen both size and strength so that he was only an old, fragile man. Still, his hair glowed rich and red in the pale glow of the lamp.
“Your mother …” Ian began, reaching for Coll’s hand.
“I’ll care for her.” They were men who loved each other too well to pretend there would be a tomorrow.
“Aye.” Ian’s breath hissed in and out, like wind through an empty husk of wheat. “The bairn—my only regret is I won’t see the bairn.”
�
�He shall carry your name,” Coll vowed. “He shall know the man who was his grandsire.”
There was a faint smile on Ian’s mouth, though his lips were the color of ashes. “Brigham.”
“I’m here, sir.”
Because his vision was fading, Ian concentrated on the voice. “Don’t tame my wildcat. She would die from it. You and Coll will tend to little Gwen and Malcolm. Keep them safe.”
“My word on it.”
“My sword—” Ian struggled for another breath. “My sword to Malcolm. Coll, you have your own.”
“He shall have it.” Coll bent over Ian’s hand. “Papa.”
“We were right to fight. It will not be for naught.” He opened his eyes for the last time. “Royal is our race, lad.” He managed a final fierce grin. “We are MacGregors despite them.”
There were men dispatched to bear the body back to Glenroe, but Coll refused to go with them. “He would have me stay with the Prince,” Coll told Brigham as they stood out in the bitter sleet. “That he died here, with our backs turned to London.”
“It’s not finished, Coll.”
Coll turned his head. There was grief in his eyes, and also a bright anger. “No, by God, it’s not.”
The men of the clans grew dispirited, as it seemed ever clearer that the invasion of England was fast petering out into a holding action. Desertions had become frequent, and the decision was made to consolidate forces in the north of Scotland. But the leaders continue to bicker, even after the rebels forded the icy waters of the Forth and marched north up the Great Glen. For seven weeks that winter, Charles made his base in Inverness. Inactivity again took its toll, dwindling the numbers of the so recently replenished troops. There were short, sporadic, often bitter little battles during those weeks. The Jacobites were again victorious in the taking of Fort Augustus, that hated English stronghold at the heart of the Highlands, but the men longed for a decisive victory and for home. Meanwhile, Cumberland massed his forces. It seemed the winter would never end.
