Rebellion & In From The Cold Read online

  “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.

  Chapter 6

  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.”

  That made Serena laugh. She tucked her legs up and settled more comfortably. “I remember when Malcolm came. Papa went to the stables and got drunk.”

  “So it was with all of you,” Fiona said, smiling. “He’s a man who would sooner face a hundred dragoons with only a dirk than set foot in a birthing room.”

  “How did you know—When you met him, how did you know you loved him?”

  “I’m not sure I did.” Dreaming herself, Fiona studied the fire. “The first time was at a ball. Alice MacDonald, Mary MacLeod and I were the best of friends. Alice MacDonald’s parents were having a ball for her birthday. The MacDonalds of Glenfinnan. Your father’s good friend Donald, as you know, is Alice’s brother. Alice wore green, Mary blue, and I wore white with my grandmother’s pearls. We had our hair powdered and thought we were
very fashionable and beautiful.”

  “I know you were.”

  With a little sigh, Fiona stopped brushing to rest her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “The music was very gay, and the men so handsome. Your father had Donald introduce him, and he asked me to dance. I did, of course, but I was thinking—what do I want with this great beast of a man? He’ll probably tread on my toes and ruin my new slippers.”

  “Oh, Mama, never say you thought Papa couldn’t dance.”

  “I did, and was shown contrary, as you’ve witnessed time and time again. No one danced with more grace and lightness of foot than Ian MacGregor.”

  It pleased Serena, the mental picture she conjured up of her parents young and sharing their first dance. “So you fell in love with him for the way he danced.”

  “No, indeed. I flirted with him, I confess. Alice and Mary and myself had made a pact to flirt with all the men at the ball until we had a score of suitors. We had decided we would choose only the most handsome, the most elegant and the wealthiest for husbands.”

  With some astonishment, Serena looked over her shoulder. “You, Mama?”

  “Aye, I was quite vain and full of myself.” Fiona laughed and patted hair that was just beginning to show the first signs of graying. “My father had spoiled me miserably, you see. The next day, your father called on the MacDonalds, where I was staying. To ride out with Donald, he said, but he made certain I saw him striding around the house as if he owned it. Over the next weeks he put himself in my way more times than I could count. He wasn’t the most handsome, the most elegant or the wealthiest of the men who called on me, but in the end, it was he I wanted.”

  “But how did you know?” Serena insisted. “How could you be sure?”

  “When my heart spoke louder than my head,” Fiona murmured, studying her daughter. So this was the problem, she realized, and wondered how she could have missed the signs. Her little one was falling in love. Rapidly Fiona ran through the names and faces of the young men who had come calling. She could not recall Serena sparing even one of them a second glance. In fact, Fiona thought with a frown, Serena had sent most of them off with their tails between their legs.

  “There has to be more than that.” As confused as she was unsatisfied, Serena plucked at the folds of her skirts. “There has to be a rightness to it, a sense to it. If Papa had been different, if you hadn’t had the same beliefs, the same backgrounds, your heart would never have spoken at all.”

  “Love doesn’t account for differences, Rena,” Fiona said slowly. A sudden thought had intruded, one that made her uncertain whether to laugh or weep. Had her daughter, her fiery, headstrong daughter, fallen in love with the English lord?

  “My sweet.” Fiona touched a hand to Serena’s cheek. “When love happens it’s most often right, but it rarely makes sense.”

  “I’d rather be alone,” Serena said passionately. Her eyes glowed in the firelight, showing as much confusion as determination. “I’d rather play aunt to Coll’s and Gwen’s and Malcolm’s children than find myself pining after a man I know would make me unhappy.”

  “That’s your head talking, and your temper.” Fiona’s hand was as gentle as her voice. “Falling in love is frightening, especially for a woman who tries to fight it.”

  “I don’t know.” She turned her cheek into her mother’s hand. “Oh, Mama, why don’t I know what I want?”

  “When the time’s right, you will. And you, the most courageous of my children, will take it.”

  Her fingers tightened suddenly on Serena’s cheek. They both heard the rumble of horses approaching. For a moment, in the light of the fire, both remembered another time, another night.

  “Papa’s back early.” Serena rose to take her mother’s hand.

  “Aye.” Degree by degree, Fiona forced herself to relax. “He’ll be wanting something hot.”

  The men had ridden hard in their desire to sleep in their own beds. They had indeed hunted, and came home laden with fresh-killed deer and rabbit and wild duck. The house, which had been so quiet, erupted with Ian’s shouts and commands. Clad in her night robe, Serena had decided to remain upstairs until she heard her father bellowing for her.

  She began smoothing her hair and skirts, then stopped herself in disgust. It hardly mattered what she looked like. She came down to see her father, his face still reddened by the bite of wind, giving Gwen a hearty kiss. Coll sat near the fire, a lap robe covering his knees and Malcolm perched laughing on the arm of his chair.

  With a full cup already in his hand, his other dug into his breeches pocket, Brigham stood in front of the hearth. His hair was ruffled by the ride, his boots splashed with mud. Despite her resolve not to, she found her eyes drawn to his. For the space of three heartbeats, there was nothing and no one else.

  Nor was there for him. He watched her enter, her dark green robe flowing down her, her hair glowing like firelight. Brigham’s fingers tightened so quickly, so violently, on the pewter cup that he thought they might leave dents. Deliberately relaxing them, he sketched her a bow. Her chin shot up, making him want more than anything else to stride across the room and crush her against him.

  “There she is, my little Highland wildcat.” Ian threw open his arms. “Have you got a kiss for your Papa?”

  She gave him a saucy smile. “I might.” Crossing to him, she gave him a very demure peck on the cheek. Then, with a laugh, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a loud, smacking one. He responded by lifting her off her feet and twirling her twice.

  “Now here’s a likely lass,” he told the room in general. “If a man can survive the claws, he’ll have a prize worth keeping.”

  “I’ll not be a prize for any man.” She gave his beard a hard, disrespectful tug that earned her a slap on the bottom and a grin.

  “You see I speak the truth, Brig. She’s a lively one. I’ve a good mind to give you to Duncan MacKinnon, as he asks me nigh on every week.”

  “And so you may, Father,” she said mildly. “He’ll be less of a nuisance once I slice him in two.”

  He laughed again. Though all his children delighted him, Serena held the tightest grip on his heart. “Fill my cup, brat, and the rest besides. Young Duncan’s not the match for you.”

  She did as he bade, passing the cup to him before walking over to add to Brigham’s. It was impossible to resist raising her gaze to his, or allowing the challenge to glow in her eyes. “Nor, perhaps, is any man,” she responded.

  When a gauntlet was thrown down, Brigham was honor bound to pick it up. “It may be, my lady, that none has yet taught you to sheathe your claws.”

  “In truth, my lord, none who tried have survived.”

  “It would seem you’re in need of a man made of tougher stuff.”

  She lifted a brow as if assessing him. “Believe me, I’m not in need of a man at all.”

  His eyes warned her he could prove her wrong, but he only smiled. “Forgive me, madam, but a high-strung mare rarely understands the need for a rider.”

  “Oh, please.” Coll choked on his own laughter and held up a hand. “Don’t encourage him, Rena. The man can go on like that for hours, and you’ll never win. Have pity and bring that jug here. My cup’s empty.”

  “As your head is,” she muttered, and poured whiskey into the cup her brother held out.

  “Easy, lass, don’t flay me. I’m still a sick man.”

  “Are you now?” With a smile, she snatched the cup from him. “Then you’ll be wanting one of Gwen’s brews and not whiskey.” She tossed it off herself before he could grab it.

  “Wench.” Grinning, he pulled her down in his lap. “Pour me some more and I’ll keep your secrets.”

  “Hah! What secrets?”

  He put his mouth to her ear and whispered only one word. “Breeches.”

  Serena swore under her breath and filled the cup again. “So you haven’t been so sick you couldn’t spy out your window,” she muttered to him.

  “A man takes what weapon
s he can.”

  “If you children would stop your bickering …” Ian waited until all eyes were on him. “We found the MacDonalds well. Donald’s brother Daniel is a grandfather again. His third, which shames me.” He sent a look at his two oldest children, who forgot their annoyance with each other long enough to give their father identical smiles. “Well you should grin like a couple of simpletons while neglecting your duties to the clan. A better father would have had you both married off and breeding, willing or not.”

  “There is no better father than our own,” Serena said, and watched him soften.

  “We’ll pass over that. I’ve invited Maggie MacDonald to visit.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Coll moaned. “Talk of nuisances.”

  The comment earned him a cuff on the ear from his sister. “She’s a great friend of mine, I’ll remind you. When does she come?”

  “Next week.” Ian sent Coll a stern look. “And I’ll remind you, my lad, that no guest in my home is a nuisance.”

  “They are when they’re forever underfoot so that you can’t walk but trip over them.” Then he relented, knowing that hospitality was a matter of honor and tradition. “No doubt she’ll have outgrown that by now and be happy in Rena’s and Gwen’s company.”

  * * *

  The next days passed in a flurry of activity in preparation for the expected company. As was Fiona’s wont, wood and silver were polished, foods prepared, floors scrubbed. Serena welcomed the diversion and was too used to work to resent the extra labor. She looked forward to the company of a girl her own age who had been her friend since childhood.

  Now that Coll had mended, he and Brigham rode out often, sometimes in the company of Ian and other men, sometimes alone. There were discussions nightly debating the Jacobite cause and the Prince’s next move. Rumors flew from hill to glen, from burn to forest. The Prince was on his way. The Prince was in Paris. The Prince was never coming at all.