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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.
    “Bloody 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.”
    “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