Chapter Fourteen
In the chill of April, the drums sounded and the pipes were played. In Inverness, the army readied for battle. Only twelve miles away,
Cumberland had pitched camp.
"I do not like the ground." Once more, Murray stood as Charles's adviser, but the rift between them that the retreat had caused had
never fully healed. "Drumossie Moor is well suited to the tactics of the English army, but not to ours. Your Highness…" Perhaps
because he knew Charles had yet to forgive him for the retreat north, Murray chose his words with care. "This wide, bare moor might as
well have been designed for the maneuvers of Cumberland's infantry, and I tell you there could never be a more improper ground for
Highlanders."
"Do we withdraw again?" O'Sullivan put in. He was as loyal as Murray, as brave a soldier, but he lacked the hard-headed military sense
of the Englishman. "Your Highness, have not the Highlanders proved themselves fierce and fearsome warriors, as you have proven a
canny general? Again and again you have beaten back the English."
"Here we are not simply outnumbered." Murray turned his back on O'Sullivan and appealed to the prince. "The ground itself is the most
terrible weapon. If we withdraw north again, across Nairn Water—"
"We shall stand to meet Cumberland." Charles, his eyes cool, his hands neatly folded, watched his most trusted men. "We shall not
run again. Through the winter we have waited." And the wait, he knew, had disillusioned and disgruntled his men. It might have been that
more than O'Sullivan's flattery or his own impatience that swayed him. "We wait no longer. Quartermaster-General O'Sullivan has
chosen the ground, and we shall fight."
Murray's eyes met Brigham's briefly. They had already discussed the Prince's decision. "Your Highness, if your mind is made up, may I
propose a maneuver that may strengthen our advantage?"
"If it does not include a retreat, my lord." Color stained Murray's cheeks, but he continued. "Today is the duke's birthday, and his men
will celebrate it. They will be drunk as beggars. A surprise night attack could turn the tide."
The Prince considered. "I find this interesting. Continue."
"Two columns of men," Murray began, using candlesticks to illustrate. "They would close in in a pincer movement, coming into camp
from both sides and cutting down the size of Cumberland's army while they sleep off the effects of the birthday brandy."
"A good plan," the Prince murmured, excitement once more kindling his eyes. "The duke should celebrate well, for the celebration will
be short-lived."
They marched. Men with no more than a single biscuit in their bellies set out to cover the twelve miles in the dark and the unrelieved
cold. The plan was a good one, but the men sent to accomplish it were tired and hungry. Once, twice, then yet again, they lost direction
and heart, until they were no more than a group wandering.
On horseback, the sun newly up, Brigham and Coll watched them return to camp.
"My God," the Scot muttered. "We've come to this."
With his own fatigue weighing on him, Brigham shifted in the saddle. Men exhausted from the march and grinding hunger dropped to the
ground, many nodding off to sleep in the park of Culloden House or near the road. Others grumbled, even as the Prince rode among
them.
Turning his head, Brigham looked out on Drumossie moor. It was wide and bare, skimmed now with early frost and a thin, shifting mist.
To Brigham, it might have been a parade ground for Cumberland's infantry. To the north, across the river called Nairn, the ground was
broken and hilly. There Murray would have chosen to stand. And there, Brigham thought, there would have been a chance for victory.
But O'Sullivan had the Prince's ear now, and there was no turning back.
"It ends here," Brigham said softly. "For better or worse." In the east, the sun struggled sluggishly to life, trapped behind churning
clouds. Spurring his horse, he rode through the camp. "On your feet!" he shouted. "Will you sleep until you wake with your throats cut?
Can you not hear the English drums beating to arms?"
Dragging themselves up, men began to gather in their clans. Artillery was manned. What rations were left were passed among the
troops, but they served only to leave stomachs edgy and empty. With pike and ax, gun and scythe, they rallied under the standard.
MacGregors and MacDonalds, Camerons and Chisholms, Mackintoshes and Robertsons and more. They were five thousand, hungry,
ill-equipped, held only by the cause that still bound them together.
Charles looked every bit the prince as he rode up and down their lines in his tartan coat and cockaded bonnet. They were his men, and
the oath he had sworn to them was no less than that they had sworn him.
Across the moor, they watched the enemy advance. They were in three columns that slowly and smoothly swung into line. As Charles
had done, the duke, pudgy in his red coat, a black cockade pinned to his tricorn, rode along encouraging his men.
There was the sound of drum and pipe, and the empty hum of wind that whipped sleet into the faces of the Jacobites. The first shots
were fired by Jacobite guns. They were answered, and devastatingly.
As the first cannon exploded near Culloden House, Maggie arched against a contraction. They were coming quickly, powerfully. Her
body, weakened by the full night of labor, was racked with pain her mind no longer registered. Over and over she cried out for Coll.
"Poor lass, poor lass." Mrs. Drummond brought fresh water and linen to the bedchamber. "Such a wee thing she is."
"There, darling, there." Fiona bathed Maggie's streaming face. "Mrs. Drummond, another log on the fire, please. We need it warm when
the baby comes."
"Wood's nearly gone."
Fiona only nodded. "We'll use what we have. Gwen?"
"The babe's breech, Mother." Gwen straightened a moment to ease the strain in her back. "Maggie's so small."
Serena, one hand holding Maggie's, laid the other protectively over the child growing inside her own womb. "Can you save them, save
them both?"
"God willing." Gwen wiped the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her dress.
"Lady MacGregor, I can tell Parkins to find more wood." Mrs. Drummond's wide face creased with concern as Maggie cried out with the
next pain. She had birthed and lost two babies of her own. "A man ought to be good for something other than planting a seed in a
woman."
Too tired to disapprove of the sentiment, Fiona nodded. "Please, Mrs. Drummond. Tell him we'd be grateful to him."
"Coll." Maggie sobbed, turning her head from side to side. Her eyes focused on Serena. "Rena?"
"Aye, my love, I'm here. We're all here."
"Coll. I want Coll."
"I know. I know you do." Serena kissed Maggie's limp hand. "He'll be back soon." Her own baby kicked, making her wonder if in a few
months she would find herself confined, calling out Brigham's name over waves of pain, all the while knowing he wasn't there to answer.
"Gwen says you must rest between the pains, gather your strength back."
"I try. Should it take so long?" Weakly she turned her head back to Gwen. "Tell me the truth, please. Is something wrong with the
babe?"
For a split second Gwen debated lying. But though she was young still, she had already seen that women dealt best with the truth, no
matter how frightening. "He's turned wrong, Maggie. I know what to do, but it won't be a simple birth."
"Am I going to die?" There was no desperation in Maggie's question, only a need for truth. As difficult as it was, Gwen had already made
her decision. If she had to choose, she would save Maggie and lose the child. Before she could speak, the next contraction hit, bringing
Maggie, exhausted as she was, rearing up.
"Oh, God. My baby, don't let my baby die. Swear it to me. Swear it."
"No one's going to die." Serena squeezed her hand hard, so hard it cut through the other pain and had Maggie quieting. "No one's going
to die," she repeated. "Because you're going to fight. When the pain comes you're going to scream it out if need be, but you're not going
to give up. MacGregors don't give up."
The round shot of the government artillery cut huge holes in the Jacobite lines. Their own guns could only answer ineffectually as men
fell like slain deer. Wind blew smoke and sleet back in their faces while they stood and suffered the slaughter of their ranks. Even with
their lines running six deep, the cannonfire broke through and brought writhing, miserable death.
"Sweet Jesus, why won't they give the order to charge?" Coll, his face blackened with smoke, looked with desperate eyes at the
carnage. "Will they have us stand here and be cut down to the last man before we raise a sword?"
Brigham swung around and galloped for the right wing, driving hard through the smoke and fire. "In the name of God," he cried when he
faced the Prince, "give us the command to charge. We die like dogs."
"What are you saying? We wait for Cumberland to attack."
"You can't see what the cannons have done to your front lines. If you wait for Cumberland, you wait in vain. He won't attack as long as
his guns can murder from a distance. We haven't their range, and sweet Lord, we're dying."
Charles began to dismiss him, for indeed his position was such that he had no clear view of the murderous skill of Cumberland's
artillery, but at that moment, Murray himself rode to the Prince with the request.
"Give the command," Charles agreed.
The messenger was sent, but was felled by a cannonball before he could reach the ranks. Seeing it, Brigham continued the drive
himself, shouting the order "Claymore" over the cheers and oaths of the men.
The center of the line moved first, racing like wild stags across the moor, and fell upon the dragoons, swinging broadsword and scythe.
It would be written that the Highlanders came like wolves, desperate for blood, fearless in spirit. But they were only men, and many were
cut down by bayonet and dagger.
If the English had run in front of a Highland assault before they had now learned. In a canny and merciless maneuver, the dragoons
shifted lines to catch the charging Scots in a sweeping and deadly rifle volley.
The Highland charge continued, but the ground itself, as predicted, served the English. A hail of bullets split the line. Still, it seemed for
an instant as though their combined strength would crumble Cumberland's ranks, as the English were forced back to the next line of
defense. But that second line held, pouring devastating fire onto the raging Highlanders. They fell, men heaping onto men so that those
who still stood were forced to crawl over the bodies of their comrades.
Still the guns thundered, scattering grapeshot now—canisters full of nails and lead balls and iron scrap—like hideous rain.
The well-trained dragoons held their ground, one rank firing while the next reloaded so that the hail of bullets was unending. But still the
clansmen pressed on.
Grapeshot blasted against Brigham's shield, scoring his arm and shoulder as he fought his way over the dead and wounded and through
the duke's line. He saw James MacGregor, Rob Roy's impetuous son, driving his men through the living wall of English troops. His own
eyes stung from the smoke that blurred his vision. Ice was in his veins as he hacked and sliced his way towards the back of
Cumberland's line. Through the fog, he saw that Murray had preceded him, his hat and wig blown off during the battle. Only then did the
confusion surrounding them start to come clear.
True, their right wing had cut through, taking down the dragoons in the press of their charge. But elsewhere, the Jacobites were in
tatters. The MacDonalds had taken fearful punishment as they tried to lure the dragoons into attack with short, daring rushes, for the
men facing them down had stood their ground and fired unrelentingly.
In a desperate move, Brigham wheeled back, determined to fight his way through yet again and rally what men who could.
He saw Coll, legs planted, claymore and dirk whistling viciously as he fought off three red-coated English. Without hesitation, Brigham
went to his aid.
This was no romantic duel at dawn, but a sweaty, grunting fight for life. The wound Brigham had already received was oozing blood, and
his dagger hand was slippery. Smoke billowed, clogging the lungs, even as the sleet continued to fall.
Only small, sporadic skirmishes remained in the area around them. The Jacobites were still fighting wildly but were being forced back
over the moor, which was already strewn with dead and wounded. The wall of men that had once been strong on the right wing had been
broken, allowing the red-coated cavalry to storm through and threaten the retreating men.
But the bigger defeat meant little at that moment to Coll and Brigham, who fought back-to-back, outnumbered in their personal war as
surely as the whole of the Prince's army had been outnumbered by Cumberland's. Coll took a hit to the thigh, but the gash went almost
unfelt as he continued to lash out with his weapon. Behind him, Brigham whirled and struck before another blow hit home. With this
small personal victory, both men turned and began the race over the littered, smoke-covered moor.
"My God, they've destroyed us." Breathless and bleeding, Coll scanned the carnage. It was a picture a man would never forget, a
glimpse of hell steaming with smoke and stinking of blood. "There must have been ten thousand of them." He saw, as they broke into a
pocket of clear air, a dragoon brutally mutilating the body of an already-dead clansman. With a lionlike roar, Coll fell on him.
"Enough. Sweet Jesus." Brigham dragged him off. "There's nothing more we can do here but die. The cause is lost, Coll; the rebellion is
over." But Coll was like a madman, sword raised, ready to use it on the first man who crossed his path. "Think. Glenroe is close, too
close. We have to get back, get the family out."
"Maggie." Only at his father's death had Coll felt so much like weeping. "Aye, you've the right of it."
They began again, swords at the ready. Here and there could still be heard the volley of shots and the screams. They had nearly
reached the hills when a chance twist of his head showed Brigham the wounded dragoon lifting his musket and taking unsteady aim.
There was time only to shove Coll out of the line of the fire. Brigham felt the ball slam into his body, felt its roaring, hideous pain.
He fell on the edge of Drumossie Moor, in the place that came to be known as Culloden.
Numb, nearly asleep on her feet, Serena burst out of the house to drag in cold, fresh air. There were wars only women knew, and she
had fought such a war. They had been nearly two nights in the desperate battle to bring Maggie's child out of her womb and into the
world. There had been blood and sweat and pain she had never imagined. The boy had come, feet first, into the world, leaving his mother
wavering between life and death.
Now it was nearly dusk, and Gwen had said that Maggie would live. Serena could only remember those first thin, wailing cries. Maggie
had heard them, too, before she had fainted from exhaustion and loss of blood.
Here, outside, the light was soft with approaching evening. To the west the first stars had shivered themselves into life, luring a lone owl.
Serena felt its call pierce through her.
"Oh, Brigham." She wrapped her arms around the slope of her own belly. "I need you."
"Serena?"
She turned, narrowing her eyes to focus as a figure limped out of the shadows. "Rob? Rob MacGregor?" Then she saw him fully, his
doublet streaked with blood, his hair matted with dirt and sweat, and his eyes, his wild eyes. "What happened to you? My God." She
reached for him as he stumbled at her feet.
"The battle. The English. They've killed us, Serena. Killed us."
"Brigham." She snatched at his torn shirt. "Brigham. Where is he? Is he safe? In the name of pity, tell me, where is Brigham?"
"I don't know. So many dead, so many." He wept into her skirts, broken. He had once been young, idealistic, fond of fancy waistcoats
and pretty girls. "My father, my brothers, all dead. I saw them fall. And old MacLean, too, and young David Mackintosh. Slaughtered."
The horror of it showed in his eyes when he lifted his face. "Even when we ran they slaughtered us like pigs."
"Did you see Brigham?" she said desperately, shaking him as he sobbed against her. "And Coll. Did you see them?"
"Aye. I saw them, but there was smoke, so much smoke, and the guns never stopped. Even when it was over it didn't stop. I saw—I
saw them killing women, and children. There was a farmer and his son plowing. The dragoons rode over them, stabbing and stabbing. I
was hiding, and I saw the wounded on the field. They murdered them with clubs."
"No." Again she wrapped her arms around her unborn child as she began to rock back and forth. "No."
"A man would put down his weapons in surrender and still be shot down like a dog. They came after us. There were bodies along the
road, hundreds, we couldn't even bury our dead."
"When? When was the battle fought?"
"Yesterday." With a choked sob, he wiped his eyes. "Only yesterday."
He was safe. She had to believe that Brigham was safe. How could she move, how could she act, if she thought him dead? He was not
dead, she told herself as she slowly rose. She would not let him be dead. She looked to the house, where the candles were already
lighted for evening. She had a family to protect.
"Will they come here, Rob?"
"They are hunting us down like animals." Recovered, he spit on the ground. "My shame is that I did not kill a dozen more instead of
running."
"Sometimes you run so you can fight again." She remembered him as he had been, and knew that he would never be that way again. In
pity, she put her arms around him. "Your mother?"
"I haven't gone to her yet. I don't know how I can tell her."
"Tell her that her men died bravely in the service of the true king, then get her and the other women into the hills." She looked down the
path to where the shadows fell over a thin frost. "This time, when the English come to burn, there will be no women to rape."
Inside the house, she sought out Gwen. The fear she felt for Brigham was trapped in the back of her mind. For her own sanity, and for
the sake of her family, she wouldn't allow it to break free. Over and over, hike a chant, her thoughts ran on.
He was alive. He would come back.
"Gwen." Taking her sister's hand, Serena drew her from Maggie's bedside. "How is she?"
"Weak." Gwen was teetering on the brink of exhaustion herself. "I wish I knew more. There is still so much to learn."
"No one could have done more than you. You saved her, and the bairn."
Gwen, her eyes still clouded with fatigue, looked back toward the bed where Maggie slept. "I was afraid."
"We all were."
"Even you?" Gwen smiled and pressed her sister's hand. "You seemed so fearless, so confident. Well, the worst is over. The bairn is
healthy, miraculously so." She sighed, allowing herself to think for the first time of her own bed. "A few weeks of rest and care and
Maggie will regain her strength."
"How soon can she be moved?"
"Moved?" Gwen paused in the act of adjusting the fillet that held back her hair. "Why, Serena?"
Maggie murmured in her sleep. With a gesture, Serena brought Gwen outside into the hallway. "I've just seen Rob MacGregor."
"Rob? But—"
"There was a battle, Gwen. It was bad, very bad."
"Coll?" Gwen managed after a moment. "Brigham?"
"Rob didn't know. But he told me that our troops were routed and that the English are pursuing the survivors."
"We can hide them. Rob, and whoever else comes. Surely if the English come and find us only women alone they will leave again."
"Do you forget what happened before when we were only women and the English came?"
"That was only one man," Gwen said in a desperate whisper.
"Listen to me." Serena put her hands on Gwen's shoulders and struggled to speak calmly. "Rob told me. He said it was like madness.
He said the dragoons murdered the wounded, that they struck down woman and children. If they come here before the madness is
passed they will kill us all, even Maggie and the bairn."
"We may kill her if we move her."
"Better that than have her butchered at the hands of the English. Gather together what she and the child will need. We daren't wait to
move longer than first light."
"Rena, what of you and your child?"
A light came into her eyes that had nothing to do with fear. Had her father seen it, he would have smiled. "We will survive, and we will
remember."
With her own words drumming in her ears, she walked downstairs. In the kitchen, her mother was preparing a tray of broth and bread.
"Serena, I thought you would rest. Go now, get to your bed. As soon as I have seen Gwen eat this, I shall be certain she does the
same."
"Mama, we must talk."
"Maggie?" Fiona said immediately. "The babe?"
"No, Gwen tells me they do well enough." She turned her head so that her eyes met Mrs. Drummond's, then Parkins's. "We must all
talk. Where is Malcolm?"
"In the stables, my lady," Parkins told her. "Tending the horses."
With a nod, Serena led her mother to a chair at the table. "Is there tea, Mrs. Drummond? Enough for all of us?"
"Aye." Silently she poured the cups, then took a seat when Serena gestured.
"There is news," Serena said, and told them.
At first light, they took what they could carry. Parkins laid Maggie as gently as he could in the Utter he had fashioned. She bit back her
moans, and though she tried, she was too weak yet to hold the baby. The journey into the hills was slow and nearly silent, with
Malcolm leading the way.
At the top of a ridge, where the first early flowers were pushing their way through the thin soil, Fiona stopped. The forest where she had
come as a bride spread beneath, shimmering behind a thin, morning mist. At the top of the rise stood the house where she had lived
with Ian, given birth to her children.
As she stood, the breeze rippled her plaid but left her cheeks colorless and her eyes dull.
"We will come back, Mother." Serena slipped an arm around her mother's waist and laid her head on Fiona's shoulder. "They will not
take our home."
"So much of my life is there, Serena, and my heart. When they brought your father back, I thought my life had ended, as well. But it has
not." She took a long breath. Her slender shoulders straightened. Her head came up. "Aye, the MacGregors will come back to
Glenroe."
They stood a moment longer, watching the blue slate house glimmer in the strengthening sunlight.
They reached the cave two hours later. Malcolm and Serena had already laid by wood and peat for the fire. They had blankets and
stores from the kitchen, medicines and milk drawn fresh that morning. Hidden behind rocks was the chest that held Brigham's
shepherdess and a miniature of his grandmother, and his strongbox. Serena set her grandfather's claymore at the entrance to the cave
and checked the pistols and ammunition.
Gwen tended Maggie while Fiona soothed the baby they already called young Ian.
"Can you fire a pistol, Parkins?" Serena asked.
"Yes, Lady Ashburn, should it become necessary."
Despite her fatigue, she grinned. He had used the same tone of voice he might have if she had asked him if he knew how to remove a
wine stain from lace. "Perhaps you would take this one?"
"Very well, my lady." He took the pistol with a slight bow.
"You are more than you seem, Parkins." She thought of the competent manner with which he had fashioned the litter, and of the way he
had pulled it and its fragile burden over the rough ground. "I begin to see why Lord Ashburn keeps you close. You have been with him
long?"
"I have been in service with the Langstons for many years, my lady." When she only nodded and stared at the mouth of the cave, he
softened. "He will come back to us, my lady."
Tears threatened, but only one managed to escape before she blinked them back. "I would give him a son this first time, Parkins. What
was his father's given name?"
"It was Daniel, my lady."
"Daniel." She was able to smile again. "We shall name him Daniel, and he will be brave enough to walk into the lion's den." She turned
her smile up to Parkins. "He shall be the next earl of Ashburn, and one day he shall walk through Glenroe."
"Will you rest now, Lady Ashburn? The journey has tired you more than you know."
"Aye, in a moment" She turned to be certain the others were busy. "When Brigham and my brother return, they will not know where to
find us. It will be necessary for one of us to go down every few hours and watch for them. You and Malcolm and I will take shifts."
"No, my lady."
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. "No?"
"No, my lady, I could not in good conscience permit you to travel again. My master would not hear of it."
"Your master has nothing to say about it. Both he and Coll will need to be led to this place."
"And so they shall be. Young Malcolm and I will arrange it. You and the other women will remain here."
Her face, pale and bruised with fatigue, set into stubborn lines. "I will not sit in this bloody cave and wait when I can be of use to my
husband."
Parkins merely spread a blanket over her. "I fear I must insist, Lady Ashburn. My lord would demand it."
Serena merely scowled at him. "I wonder that Lord Ashburn didn't dismiss you years ago."
"Yes, my lady," Parkins said comfortably. "So he has said himself many times. I will bring you a cup of milk."
She slept. She had the pistol at one hand and the sword at the other, but her dreams were peaceful and filled with
Brigham. She could see him clearly, almost clearly enough to touch him as he smiled at her. Her hand was in his, and she could all but
feel the warmth of his flesh as they danced together under dappled sunlight near the riverbank. He wore the gleaming black and silver,
and she the ivory satin seeded with pearls.
They were alone, gloriously alone, with only the rippling rush of water and the call of the birds for music. Their faces were close, then
closer, then close enough to kiss as they continued to step and sway with the dance.
He was so handsome, her tall English lover with the dashing rebel's heart. His kiss was so sweet, so gentle, like one of greeting or of
farewell.
Then she saw the blood staining his coat, seeping through it to dampen her hand as she reached for him. The blood was real, real
enough that she could feel the warmth of it on her skin. But when she tried to take him into her arms, he faded until she stood alone on
the banks of the river, with the only sound the high call of a warbler searching for its mate.
She woke with Brigham's name on her lips and her heart thundering. Fighting for air, she lifted her trembling hand and found no blood.
Slowly, struggling to separate dream from reality, she pressed the hand to her heart. It wasn't a warbler she heard, but an eagle. It
wasn't the song of the river, but the moan of the wind.
He was alive, she told herself, and laid a hand over the mound of her stomach as if to reassure her child that its father was safe. Almost
immediately she heard the whimper of the baby already born. Wearily she rose to make her way to the back of the cave. With Fiona's
help, Maggie held young Ian to her breast, where he sucked lustily.
"Serena." Maggie's voice was thin and her cheeks still deathly pale, but her smile was sweet. "He grows stronger every hour," she
murmured, and lifted a hand to stroke his downy head. "Soon you'll have your own."
"He's beautiful." With a little sigh, Serena sat beside her. "God was good enough to give him your looks instead of his father's."
Maggie laughed, settled comfortably in the crook of Fiona's arm. "I didn't know I could love anyone as much as Coll. But now I do."
"I know the journey was difficult for you. How do you feel?"
"Weak. I hate feeling so weak and helpless."
Serena stroked her cheek. "A man doesn't fall in love with a packhorse, you know."
This time Maggie's laugh was a little stronger. "If some girl tries that trick with my little Ian, I'll scratch her eyes out."
"Of course, but you'll be sure to teach it to your daughters."
"Oh, aye." Maggie shut her eyes. "I'm so tired."
"Just sleep," Fiona murmured. "When the bairn's had his fill, we'll tend him."
"Will Coll come soon?"
Over Maggie's drooping head, Fiona's eyes met Serena's. "Aye." Fiona's voice was soothing. "Very soon. He'll be so proud of you for
giving him a son."
Serena gathered up the dozing baby as Fiona settled Maggie among the blankets. "So tiny." Serena swaddled Ian and laid him to
sleep. "It always seems a miracle."
"It is." Fiona looked to the far side of the cave to where Gwen lay curled in exhausted sleep. "Each child is a miracle. There is always
death, Serena; there is always grief and loss. Without the promise of new life, we couldn't bear it"
Serena asked now what she had not been brave enough to ask before. "Do you think they're dead?"
"I pray they live." Fiona took Serena's hands in hers. "And I will pray every moment until we know. You must eat," she said briskly. "For
yourself and the child."
"Aye, but…" She let her words trail off as she glanced around the cave. "Where is Malcolm?"
"With Parkins. They left soon after you went to sleep. Down for more supplies."
Frowning, Serena started to accept the bowl Mrs. Drummond offered.
"Don't you fret about them, lassie, my Parkins knows what he's about."
"Aye, he is a good man, Mrs. Drummond, a steady one."
A becoming blush glowed in the widow's cheeks. "We are to be wed."
"I am happy for you." She stopped, her fingers tightening on the bowl. "Do you hear that?" she whispered as she set the bowl down.
"I hear nothing." But Fiona's heart had risen into her throat.
"Someone's coming. Stay to the back of the cave. See that Ian makes no sound."
"Serena."
But even as Fiona reached for her, Serena was moving quietly to the cave opening. Ice ran through her veins, freezing her fear and
making her strong. She would kill if God showed her no other way, and she would kill well.
With a steady hand, she picked up the pistol, then the sword. If the English had come, they would find women alone, but they would not
find women defenseless. Behind her, Mrs. Drummond gripped a carving knife.
As the footsteps came closer, there could be no doubt the cave would be seen. Holding both weapons, Serena stepped out of the cave
and prepared to do battle. The sun fell over her, striking her eyes so that she narrowed them even as she leveled the pistol.
"Still a hellcat, I see."
Brigham, supported by Coll and Parkins, managed to grin at her as he was half carried over the broken ground. The light shone over his
blood-streaked coat and breeches.
"Oh, sweet God." Laying the weapons down, Serena ran to him.
Her face swam in front of his eyes as he struggled to speak again. He could only manage her name before darkness closed in on him
and smothered the pain.