But Serena didn't spare him a glance. "Coll, what is it? You're hurt."

Even as she reached for him he slid from the saddle to her feet. "Oh, G.o.d, what's this?" She pushed aside his coat and found the hastily bound wound.

"It's opened again." Brigham knelt beside her. "We should get him inside."

Serena's head shot up as she raked Brigham with rapier -sharp green eyes. It wasn't fear in them, but fury. "Take your hands off him, English swine." She shoved him aside and cradled her brother against her breast.

With her own plaid she pressed against the wound to slow the bleeding.

"How is it my brother comes home near death and you ride in with your fine sword sheathed and nary a scratch?"

Coll might have underplayed her beauty, Brigham decided as his mouth set, but not her temperament. "I think that's best explained after Coll's seen to."

"Take your explanations back to London." When he gathered Coll up to carry him, she all but pounced on him. "Leave him be, d.a.m.n you. I won't have you touching what's mine."

He let his gaze run up and down her until her cheeks glowed. "Believe me, madam," he said, stiffly polite, "I've no desire to. If you'll see to the horses, Miss MacGregor, I'll take your brother in." She started to speak again, but one look at Coll's white face had her biting back the words. With his greatcoat flapping around him and Coll in his arms, Brigham started toward the house.

Serena remembered the last time an Englishman had walked into her home. s.n.a.t.c.hing the reins of both horses, she hurried after Brigham, cursing him.

Chapter Two

There was little time for introductions. Brigham was greeted at the door by a gangly black-haired serving girl who ran off wringing her hands and shouting for Lady MacGregor. Fiona came in, her cheeks flushed from the kitchen fire. At the sight of her son unconscious in the arms of a stranger, she went pale.

"Coll. Is he-"

"No, my lady, but the wound's severe."

With one very slender hand, she touched her son's face. "Please, if you'd bring him upstairs." She went ahead, calling out orders for water and bandages. "In here." After pushing open a door, she looked over Brigham's shoulder. "Gwen, thank G.o.d. Coll's been wounded."

Gwen, smaller and more delicately built than her mother and sister, hurried into the room. "Light the lamps, Molly," she told the serving girl. "I'll need plenty of light." She was already pressing a hand to her brother's brow. "He's feverish." His blood stained his plaid and ran red on the linen. "Can you help me off with his clothes?"

With a nod, Brigham began to work with her. She coolly sent for medicines and bowls of water, stacks of linen were rushed in. The young girl didn't swoon at the sword wound as Brigham had feared, but competently began to clean and treat it. Even under her gentle hands, Coll began to mutter and thrash.

"Hold this, if you please." Gwen gestured for Brigham to hold the pad she'd made against the wound while she poured syrup of poppies into a wooden cup. Fiona supported her son's head while Gwen eased the potion past his lips. She murmured to him as she sat again and st.i.tched up the wound without flinching.

"He's lost a lot of blood," she told her mother as she worked. "We'll have to mind the fever." Already Fiona was bathing her son's head with a cool cloth.

"He's strong. We won't lose him now." Fiona straightened and brushed at the hair that had fallen around her face. "I'm grateful to you for bringing him," she told Brigham. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"We were attacked a few miles south of here. Coll believes it was Campbells."

"I see." Her lips tightened, but her voice remained calm. "I must apologize for not even offering you a chair or a hot drink. I'm Coll's mother, Fiona MacGregor."

"I'm Coll's friend, Brigham Langston."

Fiona managed a smile but kept her son's limp hand in hers. "The earl of Ashburn, of course. Coll wrote of you. Please, let me have Molly take your coat and fetch you some refreshment."

"He's English." Serena stood in the doorway. She'd taken off her plaid.

All she wore now was a simple homespun dress of dark blue wool.

"I'm aware of that, Serena." Fiona turned her strained smile back to Brigham. "Your coat, Lord Ashburn. You've had a long journey. I'm sure you'll want a hot meal and some rest." When he drew off his coat, Fiona's gaze went to his shoulder. "Oh, you're wounded."

"Not badly."

"A scratch," Serena said as she flicked her gaze over it. She would have moved past him to her brother, but a look from Fiona stopped her.

"Take our guest down to the kitchen and tend to his hurts."

"I'd sooner bandage a rat."

"You'll do as I say, and you'll show the proper courtesy to a guest in our home." The steel came into her voice. "Once his wounds are tended, see that he has a proper meal."

"Lady MacGregor, it isn't necessary."

"Forgive me, my lord, it's quite necessary. You'll forgive me for not tending to you myself." She picked up the cloth for Coll's head again.

"Serena?"

"Very well, Mother, for you." Serena turned, giving a very small and deliberately insulting curtsy. "If you please, Lord Ashburn."

He followed her down through a house far smaller than Ashburn Manor, and neat as a pin. They wound around a hallway and down two narrow flights because she chose to take him down the back stairs. Still, he paid little notice as he watched Serena's stiff back. There were rich smells in the kitchen, spices, meat, from the kettle hung by a chain over the fire, the aroma of pies just baked. Serena indicated a small, spindle-legged chair.

"Please be seated, my lord." He did, and only by the slightest flicker of his eyes did he express his feelings when she ripped the sleeve from his shirt. "I hope you don't faint at the sight of blood, Miss MacGregor."

"It's more likely you will at the sight of your mutilated shirt, Lord Ashburn." She tossed the ruined sleeve aside and brought back a bowl of hot water and some clean cloths.

It was more than a scratch. English though he might be, she felt a bit ashamed of herself. He'd obviously opened the wound when he'd carried Coll inside. As she stanched the blood that had begun to run freely, she saw that the cut measured six inches or more along a well-muscled forearm.

His flesh was warm and smooth in her hands. He smelled not of perfumes and powders, as she imagined all Englishmen did, but of horses and sweat and blood. Oddly enough, it stirred something in her and made her fingers gentler than she'd intended.

She had the face of an angel, he thought as she bent over him. And the soul of a witch. An interesting combination, Brigham decided as he caught a whiff of lavender. The kind of mouth made for kissing, paired with hostile eyes designed to tear holes in a man. How would her hair feel, bunched in a man's hands? He had an urge to stroke it, just to see her reaction. But one wound, he told himself, was enough for one day.

She worked competently and in silence, cleaning the wound and dabbing on one of Gwen's herbal mixtures. The scent was pleasant, and made her think of the forest and flowers. Serena hardly noticed that his English blood was on her fingers.

She reached for the bandages. He shifted. All at once they were face-to- face, as close as a man and woman can come without embracing. She felt his breath feather across her lips and was surprised by the quick flutter of her heart. She noticed his eyes were gray, darker than they had been when he'd coolly a.s.sessed her on the road. His mouth was beautiful, curved now with the beginnings of a smile that changed his sharp-featured aristocratic face into something approachable.

She thought she felt his fingers on her hair but was certain she was mistaken. For a moment, perhaps two, her mind went blank and she could only look at him and wonder.

"Will I live?" he murmured.

There it was, that English voice, mocking, smug. She needed nothing else to drag her out of whatever spell his eyes had cast. She smiled at him and yanked the bandage tight enough to make him jerk.

"Oh, pardon, my lord," she said with a flutter of lashes. "Have I hurt you?"

He gave her a mild look and thought it would be satisfying to throttle her. "Pray don't regard it."

"I will not." She rose to remove the bowl of bloodstained water. "Odd, isn't it, that English blood runs so thin?"

"I hadn't noticed. The Scottish blood I shed today looked pale to me."

She whirled back. "If it was Campbell blood, you rid the world of another badger, but I won't be grateful to you for that, or anything."

"You cut me to the quick, my lady, when your grat.i.tude is what I live for."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up a wooden bowl-though her mother would have meant for her to use the delft or the china-and scooped out stew and slapped it down so that more than a little slopped over the sides. She poured him ale and tossed a couple of oatcakes on a platter. A pity they weren't stale.

"Your supper, my lord. Have a care not to choke on it." He rose then, and for the first time she noticed that he was nearly as tall as her brother, though he carried less muscle and brawn. "Your brother warned me you were ill-tempered."

She set her fist on her hip, eyeing him from under lashes shades darker than her tumbled hair. "That's fortunate for you, my lord, so you'll know better than to cross me."

He stepped toward her. It couldn't be helped, given his temper and his penchant for fighting face-to-face. She tilted her chin as if braced, even anxious, for the bout. "If you've a mind to chase me into the wood with your grandsire's claymore, think again."

Her lips twitched even as she fought back the smile. Humor made her eyes almost as appealing as anger. "Why? Are you fast on your feet, Sa.s.senach?" she asked, using the Gaelic term for the hated English invader.

"Fast enough to knock you off yours if you were fortunate enough to catch me." He took her hand, effectively wiping the smile from her eyes.

Though her hand curled into a fist, he brought it to his lips. "My thanks, Miss MacGregor, for your so gentle touch and hospitality."

While he stood where he was, she stormed out, furiously wiping her knuckles against her skirts.

It was full dark when Ian MacGregor returned with his youngest son.

After his quick meal, Brigham kept to the room he'd been given, leaving the family to themselves and giving himself time to think. Coll had described the MacGregors well enough. Fiona was lovely, with enough strength in her face and bearing to add grit to beauty. Young Gwen was sweet and quiet with shy eyes-and a steady hand when she sewed rent flesh together.

As to Serena... Coll hadn't mentioned that his sister was a she-wolf with a face to rival Helen's, but Brigham was content to make his own judgments there. It might be true that she had no cause to love the English, but for himself, Brigham preferred to weigh a man as a man, not by his nationality.

He would do as well to judge a woman as a woman and not by her looks, he thought. When she had come racing down the road toward her brother, her face alive with pleasure, her hair flying, he'd felt as though he had been struck by lightning. Fortunately, he wasn't a man who tarried long under the spell of a beautiful pair of eyes and a pretty ankle.

He had come to Scotland to fight for a cause he believed in, not to worry because some slip of a girl detested him.

Because of his birth, he thought as he paced to the window and back.

He'd never had any cause to be other than proud of his lineage. His grandfather had been a man respected and feared-as his father had been before death had taken him so early. From the time he was old enough to understand, Brigham had been taught that being a Langston was both a privilege and a responsibility. He took neither lightly. If he had, he would have stayed in Paris, enjoying the whims and caprices of elegant society rather than traveling to the mountains of Scotland to risk all for the young Prince.

d.a.m.n the woman for looking at him as though he were sc.u.m to be scrubbed from the bottom of a pot.

At a knock on the door he turned, scowling, from the window. "Yes?"

The serving girl opened the door with her heart already in her throat.

One peep at Brigham's black looks had her lowering her eyes and bobbing nervous curtsies. "Begging your pardon, Lord Ashburn." And that was all she could manage.

He waited, then sighed. "Might I know what you beg it for?"

She darted him a quick look, then stared at the floor again. "My lord, the MacGregor wishes to see you downstairs if it's convenient."

"Certainly, I'll come right away." But the girl had already dashed off. She would have a story to tell her mother that night, about how Serena MacGregor had insulted the English lord to his face-a face, she'd add, that was handsome as the devil's.

Brigham fluffed out the lace at his wrists. He had traveled with only one change of clothes, and he hoped the coach with the rest of his belongings would find its ponderous way to Glenroe next day.

He descended the stairs, slender and elegant in black and silver. Lace foamed subtly at his throat, and his rings gleamed in the lamplight. In Paris and London he'd followed fashion and powdered his hair. Here he was glad to dispense with the bother, so it was brushed, raven black, away from his high forehead.

The MacGregor waited in the dining hall, drinking port, a fire roaring at his back. His hair was a dark red and fell to his shoulders. A beard of the same color and l.u.s.ter covered his face. He had dressed as was proper when receiving company of rank. In truth, the great kilt suited him, for he was as tall and broad as his son. With it he wore a doublet of calfskin and a jeweled clasp at his shoulder on which was carved the head of a lion, "Lord Ashburn. You are welcome to Glenroe and the house of Ian MacGregor."

"Thank you." Brigham accepted the offered port and chair. "I'd like to inquire about Coll."

"He's resting easier, though my daughter Gwen tells me it will be a long night." Ian paused a moment, looking down at the pewter cup held in his wide, thick-fingered hand. "Coll has written of you as a friend. If he had not, you would now be one for bringing him back to us."

"He is my friend, and has been." This was accepted with a nod. "Then I drink to your health, my lord." He did, with gusto. "I'm told your grandmother was a MacDonald."

"She was. From the Isle of Skye."

Ian's face, well lined and reddened by wind and weather, relaxed into a smile. "Then welcome twice." Ian lifted his cup and kept his eye keen on his guest. "To the true king?"

Brigham lifted his port in turn. "To the king across the water," he said, meeting Ian's fierce blue gaze. "And the rebellion to come."

"Aye, that I'll drink to." And he did, downing the port in one giant gulp.

"Now tell me how it happened that my boy was hurt."

Brigham described the ambush, detailing the men who'd attacked them, and their dress. As he spoke, Ian listened, leaning forward on the big table as though afraid he might miss a word.

"b.l.o.o.d.y murdering Campbells!" he exploded, pounding a fist on the table so that cups and crockery jumped.

"So Coll thought himself," Brigham said equably. "I know a bit about the clans and the feud between yours and the Campbells, Lord MacGregor. It could have been a simple matter of robbery, or it could be that word is out that the Jacobites are stirring."

"And so they are." Ian thought a moment, drumming his fingers. "Well, four on two, was it? Not such bad odds when it comes to Campbells.

You were wounded, as well?"

"A trifle." Brigham shrugged. It was a gesture he'd acquired in France.

"If Coll's mount hadn't slipped, he would never have dropped his guard.

He's a devil of a swordsman." "So he says of you." Ian's teeth flashed. There was nothing he admired so much as a good fighter. "Something about a skirmish on the road to Calais?"

Brigham grinned at that. "A diversion."