Rebellion Page 4

  "You brought him." She offered her hand. "I owe you a great deal."

  "He's my friend."

  "Aye." She squeezed his hand briefly. "So he's told me. That doesn't lessen the debt, but I won't embarrass you." Molly brought in coffee and Fiona poured, pleased by the opportunity to make use of her china. "Coll asked for you this morning. Perhaps after you've eaten you would go up and speak with him."

  "Of course. How does he?"

  "Well enough to complain." Fiona's smile was maternal. "He's like his father, impatient, impulsive and very, very dear." They spoke idly while his breakfast was served. There was porridge and thick slabs of ham, portions of fresh fish with eggs and oatcakes and numerous jams and jellies. Though he chose coffee over the breakfast whiskey, it occurred to him that, while remote, this Highland table could easily rival one in London. The lady sipped her coffee and encouraged Brigham to eat his fill. He found her burr charming and her conversation direct. While he ate, he waited for her to ask him what he and her husband had discussed the night before. But the questions didn't come.

  "If you'll give me your jacket this evening, my lord, I would mend it for you." He glanced at the ruined sleeve. "I fear it will never be the same."

  Her eyes were sober when they met his. "We do what we can with what we have." She rose, bringing Brigham to his feet. Her skirts swished quietly into place. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Ashburn, I have much to see to before my husband returns."

  "The MacGregor has gone?"

  "He should be home by evening. We all have much to do before Prince Charles makes his move." Brigham's brow lifted as she left. He'd never known a woman to take the threat of war quite so complacently. When he returned upstairs, he found Coll a bit pale and shadowed around the eyes but sitting up and arguing.

  "I won't touch that slop."

  "You will eat every drop," Serena said threateningly. "Gwen made it especially for you."

  "I don't care if the Blessed Virgin dipped her finger in it, I won't have it."

  "Blaspheme again and you'll wear it."

  "Good morning, children." Brigham strolled into the room.

  "Brig, thank God," Coll said feelingly. "Send this wench on her way and get me some meat. Meat," he repeated. "And whiskey." After crossing to the bed, Brigham raised a brow at the thin gruel Serena held in a bowl. "It certainly looks revolting."

  "Aye, that's just what I said myself." Coll fell back against the pillows, relieved to have a man on his side. "No one but a thick-skulled woman would expect anyone to eat it."

  "Had a rather nice slab of ham myself."

  "Ham?"

  "Done to a turn. My compliments to your cook, Miss MacGregor."

  "Gruel's what he needs," she said between her teeth, "and gruel's what he'll have." After a shrug, Brigham sat on the edge of the bed. "I've done my bit, Coll. It's up to you."

  "Toss her out"

  Brigham fluffed his lace. "I hate to disoblige you, my dear, but the woman terrifies me."

  "Hah!" Coll set his chin and eyed his sister. "Go to the devil, Serena, and take that slop with you."

  "Fine, then, if you want to hurt little Gwen's feelings after she nursed you and took the time and trouble to make you something fit to eat. I'll just take it down and tell her you said it was slop and you'd rather have nothing than touch it." She turned, bowl in hand. Before she'd taken two steps, Coll relented. "Hell and damnation, give it to me, then." Brigham caught her smirk as she swept aside her skirts and sat. "Well done," he murmured. Ignoring him, she dipped the spoon in the bowl. "Open your big mouth, Coll."

  "I won't be fed," he said just before she shoved in the first bit of gruel. "Curse it, Serena, I said I'll feed myself."

  "And spill gruel all over your clean nightshirt. I'll not be changing you again today, my lad, so open your mouth and be quiet." He would have sworn at her again, but he was too busy swallowing gruel.

  "I'll leave you to your breakfast, Coll."

  "For mercy's sake." He grabbed Brigham's wrist. "Don't desert me now. She'll yap at me, nag and bluster and set me mad. I—" He glared as Serena pushed more gruel into his mouth. "She's the devil of a female, Brig. A man's not safe with her."

  "Is that so?" Smiling, Brigham studied Serena's face and was rewarded by the faintest rising of color.

  "I haven't thanked you for getting me home. I'm told you were wounded," Coll said.

  "A scratch. Your sister tended it."

  "Gwen's an angel."

  "Young Gwen had her hands full with you. Serena bound me up."

  Coll looked at his sister and grinned. "Ham-fisted."

  "You'll be swallowing the spoon in a moment, Coll MacGregor."

  "It takes more than a hole in my side to devil me, lassie. I can still put you over my knee." She wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. "The last time you tried you walked with a limp for a week." He grinned at the memory. "Aye, right you are. Brig, the lass is a Trojan. Kicked me square in the—" he caught Serena's furious look

  "—pride, so to speak."

  "I'll remember that if I ever have occasion to wrestle with Miss MacGregor."

  "Beaned me with a pot once, too," Coll said reminiscently. "Damn me if I didn't see stars." He was drowsy again, and his eyelids drooped. "Fire-eater," he muttered. "You'll never catch a husband that way."

  "If it was a husband I wanted to catch, so I would."

  "The prettiest girl in Glenroe." Coll's voice wavered as his eyes shut. "But the temper's foul, Brig. Not like that pretty Frenchie with the gold hair."

  What pretty Frenchie? Serena wondered, sending Brigham a sidelong look. But he was only grinning and fiddling with the button of his jacket.

  "I've had the pleasure of discovering that for myself," Brigham murmured. "Rest now. I'll be back."

  "Forced that gruel on me. Nasty stuff."

  "Aye, and there's more where that came from. Ungrateful oaf."

  "I love you, Rena."

  She brushed the hair from his brow. "I know. Hush now, and sleep." Serena tucked him up while Brigham stood back. "He'll be quiet for a few hours now. Mother will feed him next, and he won't argue with her."

  "I'd say the arguing did him as much good as the gruel."

  "That was the idea." She lifted the tray with the empty bowl and started past him. Brigham had only to shift to block her way.

  "Did you rest?"

  "Well enough. Pardon me, Lord Ashburn, I have things to do."

  Instead of moving aside, he smiled at her. "When I spend the night with a woman, she usually calls me by my name." The lights of war came into her eyes, just as he'd hoped. "I'm not some golden-haired Frenchie or one of your loose London women, so keep your name, Lord Ashburn. I've no use for it."

  "I believe I have use for yours… Serena." She delighted him by snarling. "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." That flustered her. She knew how to handle flattery, how to accept it, evade it, discount it. Somehow it wasn't as easy with him. "Let me pass," she muttered.

  "Would you have kissed me?" He put two fingers under her chin as he asked. Serena held the tray like a shield. "Would you have, this morning, when the need for sleep was all over your face and the light just going gold?"

  "Move aside." Because her voice was husky, she shoved the tray at him. Brigham caught it instinctively to keep it from falling. Unencumbered, Serena headed for the door with him two steps behind. The sound of running feet stopped them both.

  "Malcolm, must you sound like a great elephant? Coll's sleeping."

  "Oh." A boy of about ten skidded to a halt. His hair was a deep red that would probably darken to mahogany with age. Unlike the other men in his family, he had fine, almost delicate features. He had, Brigham noticed immediately, the deep green eyes of his sister. "I wanted to see him."

  "You can watch him, if you're quiet." With a sigh, Serena shook his shoulder. "Wash first. You look like a stableboy." He grinned, showing a missing tooth. "I've been with the mare. She'll foal in a day or two."


  "You smell like her." She noticed from the mud in the hall that he hadn't done a thorough job of cleaning his boots. She would sweep it up before their mother saw it. She started to speak to him about it, then noticed he was no longer attending. Brigham found himself being studied and assessed, quite man-to-man. The boy was lean as a whippet and smudged with dirt, and there was sharp curiosity in his eyes.

  "Are you the English pig?"

  "Malcolm!"

  Both ignored her as Brigham stepped forward. Calmly he handed the tray back to Serena. "I'm English, at any rate, though my grandmother was a MacDonald."

  Mortified, Serena stared straight ahead. "I will apologize for my brother, my lord." He shot her a look ripe with irony. Both of them knew where Malcolm had come by the description. "No need. You would perhaps introduce us."

  Serena's fingers dug into the tray. "Lord Ashburn, my brother Malcolm."

  "Your servant, Master MacGregor."

  Malcolm grinned at that, and at Brigham's formal bow. "My father likes you," he confided. "So does my mother, and Gwen, I think, but she's too shy to say."

  Brigham's lips twitched. "I'm honored."

  "Coll wrote that you had the best stables in London, so I'll like you, too."

  Because it was irresistible, Brigham ruffled the boy's hair—and grinned wickedly at Serena. "Another conquest." She lifted her chin. "Go wash, Malcolm," she ordered before she flounced away.

  "They always want you to wash," Malcolm said with a sigh. "I'm glad there'll be more men in the house." Nearly two hours later, Brigham's coach arrived, causing no little stir in the village. Lord Ashburn believed in owning the best, and his traveling equipment was no exception. The coach was well sprung, a regal black picked out with silver. The driver wore black, as well. The groom, who rode on the box with him, was enjoying the fact that people were peeking out their doors and windows at the arrival. Though he'd complained for the last day and a half about the miserable weather, the miserable roads and the miserable pace, he felt better knowing that the journey was at an end and that he'd be left to tend to his horses.

  "Here, boy." The driver pulled up the steaming horses and gestured to a boy who stood beside the road, ogling the coach and sucking his finger. "Where will I find MacGregor House?"

  "Straight down this road and over the rise. You be looking for the English lord? That be his carriage?"

  "You got that right."

  Pleased with himself, the boy gestured. "He's there."

  The driver sent the horses into a trot.

  Brigham was there to meet them himself. Braced against the cold, he stepped out as the coach pulled up. "You took your sweet time."

  "Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up."

  Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. "Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?" Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. "Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace."

  Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. "I'm sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would—" He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out.

  "Parkins."

  Parkins bowed. "My lord." Then he studied Brigham's attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. "Oh, my lord."

  Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. "As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?"

  "You have a need for me, as well, my lord." Parkins drew himself up. "I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn's room immediately."

  Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. "How did you come?"

  "I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse." A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. "I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here."

  "I don't need a valet, man. I'm not attending any balls."

  "I served my lord's father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back." Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. "Oh, come in, damn you. It's freezing." Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. "I will see to my lord's unpacking immediately." He gave a shudder as he studied his master's attire once more. "Immediately. If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice."

  "Later." Brigham swung on his greatcoat. "I want to check on the horses." He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. "Parkins, welcome to Scotland."

  The faintest ghost of a smile touched the thin lips. "Thank you, my lord."

  Jem the groom seemed well on the way to making himself and the horses at home. Brigham heard his cackling laughter as he pushed aside the wooden door.

  "You're a right one, ain't you, Master MacGregor? Sure and Lord Ashburn has the best stable in London—England itself, for that matter—and it's me who's in charge of them."

  "Then I'll have you look at my mare, Jem, who'll be foaling soon."

  "Pleased to have a look at her I'll be—after I've seen to my loves here."

  "Jem."

  "Eh—" He turned and saw Brigham standing in a beam of thin winter light. "Yes, sir, Lord Ashburn. I'll have everything set to rights in a twinkle."

  Brigham knew that Jem couldn't be faulted with horses, but he also had a free hand with the bottle and language the MacGregors might not deem proper for their youngest So he lingered, supervising the settling of his team.

  "Fine horses they are, Lord Ashburn." Malcolm had taken a hand in the grooming. "I can drive very well, you know."

  "I wouldn't doubt it." Brigham had stripped off his greatcoat and since his jacket was ruined in any case, he added his weight to the work. "Perhaps we'll find an afternoon so you can show me?"

  "Truly?" There was no quicker way to the boy's heart. "I don't think I could handle your coach, but we have a curricle." He gave a manly sneer. "Though my mother won't let me drive anything but the pony cart by myself."

  "You'll be with me, won't you?" Brigham swatted one of the horses' flanks. "They seem to be in good shape, Jem. Go have a look at Master MacGregor's mare."

  "Please, sir, would you look in on her, too? She's a beauty."

  Brigham laid a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "I'd be delighted to meet her."

  Satisfied he'd found a kindred spirit, Malcolm took Brigham's hand and led him through the stables. "She's Betsy." At the sound of her name, the mare poked her head over the stall door and waited to be rubbed.

  "A lovely lady." She was a roan, not beautifully distinguished, but dignified and trim enough. As Brigham lifted a hand to stroke her head, she pricked up her ears and fixed him with a calm, questioning eye.

  "She likes you." The fact pleased Malcolm, as if he often trusted the opinions of animals over those of people. Inside the stall, Jem went about his business in a calm, capable way that impressed the young Malcolm. Betsy stood tolerantly, sighing occasionally so that her heavy belly shook, and switching her tail.

  "She'll be foaling soon," Jem pronounced. "Another day or two by my guess."

  "I want to sleep in the stables, but Serena always comes and drags me back."

  "Don't fret about it, Jem's here now." With that, Jem stepped out of the stall.

  "But you will send word when it's time?"

  Jem looked at Brigham for affirmation, got it and grinned. "I'll send up a shout for you, never fear."

  "Could I impose on you to show Jem to the kitchen?" Brigham asked. "He hasn't eaten."

  "I beg your pardon." Abruptly proper, Malcolm straightened his shoulders. "I'll see that the cook fixes you something right away. Good afternoon, my lord."

  "Brig."

  Malcolm grinned at the man, and at
the hand he was offered. He shook it formally, then skipped out, calling for Jem to follow.

  "A taking little scamp. If I may say so, milord?"

  "You may. Jem, try to remember he's young and impressionable." At Jem's blank expression, Brigham sighed. "If he begins to swear like my English groom, the ax will fall on me. He has a sister who would love to wield it."

  "Yes, milord. I'll be the soul of propriety, I will." Breaking into a grin, Jem followed Malcolm out Brigham didn't know why he lingered. Perhaps it was because it was quiet, and the horses good company. It was true that he'd spent a good part of his youth in the same way as Malcolm, in the stables. He'd learned more than a few interesting phrases. He could, if necessary, have harnessed a team himself in only half again as much time as his groom. He could drive to an inch or doctor a strained tendon, and he had overseen his share of foalings.

  Once it had been his dream to breed horses. That had changed when the responsibilities of his title had come to him at an early age. But it wasn't horses or lost dreams he thought of now. It was Serena. Perhaps because his thoughts were on her, he wasn't surprised to see her enter the stables.

  She'd been thinking of him, as well, though not entirely kindly. Throughout the day she hadn't been able to concentrate on ordinary things. Instead she concentrated, unwillingly, on that moment she had stood with him by her brother's window. She'd been tired, Serena assured herself as she wrapped the plaid securely around her. Almost asleep on her feet, if it came to that. Why else would she have only stood there while he touched her in that way… looked at her in that way?

  And how he'd looked. Even now, something stirred in her at the memory. His eyes had gotten so dark; they'd been so close. She knew what it was to have a man look at her with interest, even to have one try to steer her into the shadows to steal a kiss. With one or two, she'd permitted it. Just to see if she might care for it. In truth, she found kissing pleasant enough, if unexciting. But nothing before had come close to this.

  Her legs had gone weak, as if someone had taken out the blood and replaced it with water. Her head had spun the way it had when she'd been twelve and sampled her father's port. And it had felt, Lord, as though her skin were on fire where his fingers had touched it. Like a sickness, she thought.

  What else could it be? She shook the feeling off and straightened her shoulders. It had been fatigue, plain and simple. That, and concern for her brother, and a lack of food. She was feeling a great deal better now, and if she chanced to come across the high-and-mighty earl of Ashburn she would handle him well enough.

  She shook off her thoughts and peered around the dim stable. "Malcolm, you little heathen," she called, "I'll have you out of those stables and into the house. It's your job to fill the woodbox, hang you, and I've done it myself for the last time."

  "I regret you'll have to hang Malcolm later." Brigham stepped out of the shadows and was pleased to startle her.

  "He isn't here. I've just sent him along to the kitchen with my groom."

  She tossed up her chin. "Sent him along? He's no servant of yours."

  "My dear Miss MacGregor." Brigham stepped closer, deciding that the dull colors in the plaid were the perfect foil for the richness of her hair. "Malcolm has formed an attachment for Jem, who is, like your brother, a great horse lover." Because her heart was softest when it came to Malcolm, she subsided. "He's forever in here. Twice this week I've had to bundle him up and drag him into the house past his bedtime." She caught herself and frowned again. "If he pesters you, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. I'll see that he doesn't intrude."

  "No need. We deal together easily enough." She was frowning over that as he stepped closer. She smelled of the lavender that always seemed to waft around her. "You need more rest, Serena. Your eyes are shadowed." She had nearly stepped back before she was able to resist the unusual urge to retreat. "I'm as strong as one of your horses, thank you. And you're very free with my name."

  "I've taken a liking to it. What was it Coll called you before he fell asleep? Rena? It has a pretty sound." It sounded different when he said it. She turned to study his horses. "You've impressed Malcolm with these, I'm sure."

  "He's more easily impressed than his sister."

  She glanced over her shoulder. "You have nothing that could impress me, my lord."

  "Don't you find it wearing to despise all things English?"

  "No, I find it fulfilling." Because she was feeling weak-kneed again, and needful, she turned on him, letting anger replace longings she did not yet