Part 3 (1/2)
”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 fas.h.i.+on.
”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 s.h.i.+vering, 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.