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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.
    Damn the woman for looking at him as though he were scum 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 luster 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