"My dear Coll," Brigham said dryly, "how should I know? "

"You must have seen what was done with them."

"I regret I can't help you there." Brigham flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve and continued in the mildest of tones, "Nor will I carry you back to your bed after you faint and fall from your horse." "The day a MacGregor falls from his horse-"

"I hasten to remind you you've already done so once." When Coll merely swore and staggered to a chest to look for his clothing, Brigham clasped his hands behind his back. "Coll," he began, picking his way over tender ground, "I sympathize, believe me. I'm sure it's miserable to be tied to a sickbed day and night, but the simple fact is you're not well enough for the journey."

"I say I am."

"Gwen says not"

Frustrated at finding no more than linen and blankets, Coll slammed the chest shut again. "Since when does that slip of a girl run my life?"

"Since saving it."

That silenced Coll, who stood naked as a newborn in the early-morning sunlight. He had allowed his beard to grow since leaving London, and the roughness it gave his face suited him.

"I have no doubt she did," Brigham added. "And I wouldn't care to see all of her hard work go for nothing because you were too proud to rest until you were able to be of use."

"It's a black day when a Campbell stops me from riding with my father to gather the support of the clans for the Stuarts."

"Oh, there will be time yet. It's just beginning." Brigham smiled then, knowing that Coll's temper was easing, allowing him to see sense. He was much like his sister in the way that temper kindled as fast as dry wood. The pity was, Serena's didn't cool as quickly. "And I'll have you remember, we're riding out today for nothing more than an innocent hunting party. It wouldn't do for it to be rumored otherwise." "I trust I can speak my mind in my own house," Coll muttered, but subsided. It was a bitter pill, but he knew he was far from ready for the journey west. Worse, if he insisted on going, he would slow the rest of the party down. "You'll meet with the MacDonalds and the Camerons?"

"So I'm led to believe. The Drummonds and Fergusons should be represented."

"You'll need to speak with the Cameron of Lochiel. He's always been a strong supporter of the Stuarts, and his voice is listened to." Coll dragged a hand through his mane of red hair. "h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. I should be there, standing with my father, showing I stand for the Prince."

"No one will doubt it," Brigham began, then stopped when Gwen entered with a breakfast tray. She took one look at her brother, standing naked and furious, and clucked her tongue.

"I hope you haven't pulled any st.i.tches out."

"d.a.m.n it, Gwen." Coll grabbed up a blanket and covered himself. "Have some respect."

With a gentle smile she set down the tray and curtsied to Brigham.

"Good morning, Brig."

He touched a handkerchief to his lips in a futile effort to hide a grin.

"Good morning."

"Brig, is it?" Coll sputtered. He knew that if he tried to stand five minutes more he'd embarra.s.s himself. "You've become d.a.m.n familiar with my sister, Ashburn."

Brigham nearly winced, thinking just how familiar he'd become with Coll's other sister. "We dispensed with formality shortly after we mopped up your blood." He picked up his greatcoat. "I fear you'll have trouble with your patient today, Gwen. He's in a foul temper." Gwen smiled again and moved over to tidy Coll's bed linen. "Coll never gives me any trouble." She fluffed his pillows. "You may feel better after your breakfast, Coll. If you're up to taking a short walk, I'll go along with you. But I think you might dress first."

Stifling a chuckle, Brigham sketched a bow. She might not have the bite of her sister, but Coll's little angel knew how to get her way. "Now that I see you're in good hands, I'll take my leave."

"Brig-"

Brigham merely laid a hand on Coll's shoulder. "We'll be back within a week."

Too weak to argue, Coll let himself be led back to bed, "G.o.d go with you."

Brigham left them with Gwen tugging a fresh nightshirt over Coll's shoulders. He started for the staircase, then stopped short when he saw Parkins waiting for him, stiff backed, thin lipped and carrying a valise.

"Decided to return to England, Parkins?"

"On the contrary, my lord, I mean to accompany you on your hunting trip."

Brigham gave him one brief, incredulous look. "I'm d.a.m.ned if you do."

Parkins's pointed chin came up, the only sign of his agitation. "I will accompany your lordship."

"Don't be daft, man. If I wanted to take someone along, I'd take Jem. At least he'd be of some use with the horses."

Though he gave an inward shudder at being compared to a lowly groom, Parkins remained resolute. "I'm convinced Lord Ashburn will have need of me." "I'm convinced I won't," Brigham responded, and started past.

"Nonetheless, I will accompany you, my lord."

Slowly, almost certain he had misunderstood, Brigham turned to see Parkins standing, a figure of righteousness, at the top of the stairs. "You are ordered to remain," he said in a very quiet, very dangerous voice.

Parkins's stomach lining turned to ice, but he remained unbroken.

"I regret that your orders fail to persuade me that my duties are not best carried out in your company, my lord. I will accompany you."

With his eyes narrowed, Brigham ascended a step. "I'm of a mind to dismiss you, Parkins."

The pointed chin quivered. "That is your lordship's prerogative. That being the case, I will accompany you still."

"d.a.m.n your eyes, Parkins." Exasperated, Brigham stormed down the steps. "Have it your own way then, but you won't care for the pace or the accommodations."

"Yes, my lord." Fully satisfied, Parkins smiled at Brigham's back.

Surly, Brigham strode out of the house and toward the stables to have a word with his groom. Barely dawn, he thought, and already he'd been engaged in two arguments. He flung on his greatcoat as he went, his long, purposeful strides eating up the frosty ground. G.o.d, it would be good to get in the saddle and ride. Away from here, he thought, glancing back and homing in unerringly on Serena's window. Away from her, he corrected, almost savagely.

She had managed to avoid him all through the evening. Or when she could not, Brigham remembered with some fury, she had spoken to him in a voice as frigid as the ground he was treading on.

He could hardly blame her, after his treatment of her. He did blame her, completely.

It was she who had raged and ranted at him until his temper had snapped. It was she who had fought him like some kind of h.e.l.lcat until his pa.s.sions had torn loose. Never, never in his life had he treated a woman with any form of physical violence. In lovemaking he was known to be pa.s.sionate but never harsh, thorough but never forceful.

With Serena he had barely restrained himself from ripping the clothes from her back and plunging into her like a man gone mad.

She was the cause. If he had managed to make it to midway through his third decade without ill-treating any woman save one, surely that woman was at fault. She goaded him, he thought viciously. She taunted him.

She fascinated him.

d.a.m.n her. He kicked a pebble out of his way-the mark on his lordship's gleaming boot would distress Parkins severely-and wished Serena could be dispatched as easily as the stone.

He would have the better part of a week away from her. When he returned, this madness that had taken hold of him would have pa.s.sed. He would then treat her with cordial respect and disinterest, as befitted the sister of his closest friend.

He would not, under any circ.u.mstances, think of the way her body had felt, melting beneath his.

He would certainly not pause to reflect on the way her lips had tasted, warmed and swollen with his kisses.

And he would be d.a.m.ned if he would allow himself to remember the way his name had sounded when she had spoken it, just once, in the depths of pa.s.sion. No, he would do none of those things, but he might murder her if she got in his way again.

His mood filthy, his temper uncertain, he came to the stables. Before he could pull open the door it was pushed outward. Serena, all but swaying on her feet, stepped out. Her face was pale, her eyes were exhausted, and the bodice of her dress was smeared with blood.

"Rena, my G.o.d." He gripped her by the shoulders hard enough to make her cry out. Then he was gathering her tight against him. "What happened? Where are you hurt? Who did this to you?"

"What? What?" She found her face pressed into the folds of his greatcoat, and the hand that stroked her hair was trembling. "Brig-Lord Ashburn..." But it was difficult to think when she was being held as though he would never let her go. When she was being held, Serena realized dimly, as though she was someone to be protected and cherished. She fought back an urge to snuggle into him. "My lord-"

"Where is he?" he demanded, dragging her away again, one hand supporting her waist as he drew out his sword. "By G.o.d, he won't live longer than it takes me to kill him. How badly are you hurt, my love?"

Her mouth simply hung open. He was holding her gently, as though she might break, even as murder kindled in his eyes. "Are you mad?" she managed. "Who do you want to kill? Why?"

"Why? Why? You're covered with blood and you ask me why?"

Confused, Serena looked down at her dress. "Of course there's blood.

There's always blood at a foaling. Jem and I have been working half the night with Betsy. She had twins, and the second didn't come as easily as the first. Malcolm is nearly beside himself with delight."

"Foaling," he said blankly while she stared at him. Serena moistened her lips and wondered if he needed one of Gwen's potions. "Are you feverish?"

"I'm quite well." His voice was stiff as he stepped back and sheathed his sword. "I beg your pardon. I mistook the blood for your own."

"Oh." She looked foolishly down at her dress again, both warmed and confused by his explanation. So far as she knew, no one had ever raised a sword in her name before. She could think of nothing to say. He had leaped to her defense as though he would have fought an army for her.

And he had called her his love. Serena pressed her lips together to moisten them. Perhaps he was feverish. "I should wash."

He cleared his throat and felt ten times the fool. "Do the mare and the foals do well?"

"Very well, though everyone but Malcolm is exhausted." She tucked her hands into the folds of her skirts, not knowing what to do next. Oddly enough, she wanted to laugh. It was laughable, after all-Brigham drawing his sword like an avenging angel. Or devil. And herself smeared with dirt and sweat and birthing blood. "I beg your pardon, my lord," she managed as a giggle escaped her. She might enjoy fighting him, but not for the world would she embarra.s.s him deliberately.

"This amuses you, madam?" His voice was cold, cracking like ice on a pond.

"No. Yes." With a sigh, she wiped at her eyes. "I'm terribly sorry for laughing. I'm tired."

"Then I will leave you to find your bed."

She couldn't let him go that way, she thought as he put his hand on the door. If their parting words had been a shout, it would have contented her. But to have made him cringe when he had tried to protect her would keep her awake at night. "My lord."

He turned back. His eyes were calm again and very cool. "Yes?"

Her tongue tied itself into knots. This wasn't the kind of man you could thank with a smile and a quick word. The other man would have understood-the one who had held her so gently. But not this one. "You, ah, ride with my father and his men today."

"Yes." The reply was curt as he drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

"I will wish you luck... with your hunting."

He lifted a brow. So she knew, he thought. Then, that she would of course know, and being a MacGregor, would go to the grave with the knowledge if need be. "Thank you, madam. I shan't keep you longer."

She started to leave, then turned, the pa.s.sion in her eyes again. "I would give so much to go with you today." Gathering up her skirts, she raced toward the house.

Brigham stood where he was, in the chill air of early morning, the light breeze ruffling his hair. It had to be madness. It had to be the gravest error of judgment, the sharpest of ironies.

He was in love with her.

Letting out a long breath, he watched her until she had scrambled over the rise. He was in love with her, he thought again, and she would sooner plunge a dagger into his heart than give hers to him.

It was a long, rough ride over land wilder than that he and Coll had traveled through on their way north. There were echoing hills and naked rock thrust like deeply gouged teeth from the bare ground. Gray peaks and crags glittered with snow and ice. For miles they would see hardly a hovel. Then they would come across a village where peat smoke rose thick and people clamored out for greetings and news.

It was very much the Scotland his grandmother had spoken of, hard, often barren, but always fanatically hospitable. They stopped at midday and were pressed into a meal by a shepherd and his family. There was soup, the makings of which Brigham didn't care to know, and bannock and black pudding. He might have preferred the supplies they had brought with them, but he ate what was offered, knowing it was as gracious a feast as could be afforded in the lonely hills. It was washed down with Ian's own ale.

There were a half-dozen children, all but naked, though happy enough, and the shepherd's wife, who sat near the fire working a spindle. The turf house smelled of the compost heap that lay just outside the door and of the cattle that were housed in the room beyond.

If the family considered their fate bitter, they didn't show it. The shepherd drank with gusto and pledged his loyalty to the Stuart king.

All the men were welcomed, and food was pressed on each, though the portions were meager. Brigham couldn't resist a grin at the sight of the proper Parkins struggling to swallow the mysterious soup while removing a pair of small, grimy hands from his spotless sleeve.

Dozens of excuses had to be made before the travelers could convince their hosts that business prevented them from remaining overnight.

When they set out again the wind was rising, bringing with it the taste and the scent of snow.

"I feel as though we've caused them to starve for the next week,"

Brigham commented as they continued west "They'll do well enough.

Their laird will see them provided for. That's the way of the clans." Ian rode like a man half his age, straight in the saddle, light wristed, tireless.

"It's men like him darlin' Charlie will need to make Scotland thrive." "And the Camerons?"

"Good fighters and true men." Ian settled into an easy, ground eating lope. "When we meet at Glenfinnan you'll judge for yourself."

"The Jacobites will need good fighters, and good generals, as well. The rebellion will only be as successful as the Prince's advisers."

Ian shot him a glittering look. "So you've thought of that"

"Yes." Brigham looked around him as they rode. The rocky, tumbled ground was a perfect field of war for the Highlanders. The men who rode behind them, the men who lived in it, would know its advantages and hardships well.

"If we bring the battle here, we'll win. Britain will be united."

"It's my wish to see a Stuart on the throne," Ian mused. "But I'll tell you I've seen wars before. In '15, in '19. I've seen hopes raised and hopes dashed. I'm not so old that my blood doesn't warm at the thought of battle, at the hope of putting old wrongs right. But this will be the last."

"You'll live to see others, Ian."

"This will be the last," he said again. "Not just for me, lad, for all of us."