The Blood of Roses (17 page)

“Deirdre, if something doesn’t happen soon, I shall go completely mad.”

The slender, dark-haired maid smiled solemnly and dragged the brush through the long, shiny mass of her mistress’s hair. “You will hear something from Mr. Cameron soon, I’m sure of it.”

“But it has been two whole days! Why would he have sent Damien so soon unless he was confident of being able to make arrangements right away? Something has happened. Something dreadful. I just know it.”

“Nothing has happened,” Deirdre insisted, and set the brush aside. “You have said yourself, a dozen times, he is too clever to be taken by surprise.”

“Damien is not so clever,” Catherine remarked dryly. “Suppose he was followed and watched?”

“Why would anyone follow Master Damien?”

Catherine’s only answer was a sigh.

“Indeed,” Deirdre said, “something may have gone wrong with their plan. After all, there are troops moving every which way across the country. Perhaps their original arrangements had to be delayed or amended.”

“Or abandoned altogether,” Catherine said miserably. “My husband is far too impatient to let such a trifling thing as a wife delay his return to the battlefront.” Her sarcasm was not as believable as the second, heartfelt sigh that drew her forward onto her elbows. “Did I tell you what Damien said about him? The risks, the chances, the foolish … brave exploits he has taken upon himself to perform?”

“Several times, mistress. And with more pride shining in your eyes with each telling.”

Catherine glared at the maid’s reflection, then rose from her seat before the dressing table. “Pride indeed. How proud can a widow be?”

Pacing over to the long double french windows, she opened them on a sudden impulse and strolled out onto the narrow stone balcony. The air was cold, the breeze scraping an instant chill into her flesh as she gazed out over the moon-washed courtyard.

“Come inside, mistress, before you catch your death!”

“He’s out there somewhere, Deirdre. I can feel it.”

“As surely as you’ll feel a fever in your brow by morning if you don’t come back by the fire at once!”

Catherine scanned the twinkling darkness of the landscape one last time before surrendering to Deirdre’s orders and returning to the hearthside. Scolding under her breath, the maid closed and securely latched the windows, then, as if the cold air had had time to sabotage her earlier efforts with the warming pan, she scooped fresh coals into the covered copper pot and passed it slowly between the bed-sheets.

“Shall I braid your hair, mistress?”

Catherine’s gaze went from the hypnotic flames in the grate to the gilt-edged cheval mirror. She was wearing a voluminous muslin dressing gown, the sleeves of which were long and full, ruffled with tiers of lace. The collar was high under her chin, trimmed with tiny satin bows and chains of delicately embroidered flowers. Her hair, brushed full and glossy, spilled over her shoulders in a golden cascade that stopped a scant inch shy of the wide satin sash that circled her waist.

“A vestal virgin could not look so pure.” She grimaced. “I should think Lieutenant Goodwin would have enjoyed sacrificing me tonight.”

“Goodwin? What has that wretched man to do with you?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him,” Deirdre said with a frown. “The first day he was here he strutted into the servants’ quarters and looked the women over as if he were making his selection. A couple of the younger girls who were fetched from the village to help the regular staff were plainly smitten by his looks and his uniform, and I suspect he has had his merry way with more than one of them. Has he dared try his bold ways with you, my lady? If so, Sir Alfred should be told at once!”

“I am confident it will not be necessary to call upon my father’s … paternal indignation. I was none too gentle on the good lieutenant’s vanity this evening; he may think twice before accosting me again. Do you think I should cut it?”

Deirdre, her thoughts chasing after Lieutenant Goodwin, momentarily lost the drift of conversation. “Excuse me, mistress? Cut what?”

“My hair.” She gathered handfuls at the nape of her neck and piled it high on the crown. “Harriet writes it is all the rage in London. Cap curls, she calls it.”

“Hmph. And if the plague visits the city again and everyone has to shave their heads bald, will that become the rage as well?”

“It was just a thought,” Catherine said meekly. “Ah well, I suppose vestal virgins must maintain their image.”

“Vestal virgin,” Deirdre muttered, and was there in an instant to take the robe from her mistress’s shoulders as Catherine slipped the sash from around her waist. The wry comment turned into an instant gasp of disbelief as the nightgown worn beneath was revealed.
“Miss Catherine!”

The gown was silk, so luminous it might have been woven from liquid moonlight, so sheer where it flowed over breasts and thighs it silhouetted the curves and shadows like silver Stardust. It was definitely not the gown of a vestal virgin, and certainly not the modest lawn negligee Deirdre had laid out earlier.

“Mistress Catherine! Wherever did you find such a … a …”

“Shameful, wanton piece of frippery?” Catherine supplied, executing a graceful pirouette before the mirror. “I borrowed it from my mother’s wardrobe, where else?”

“Lady
Caroline!”

“She has scores just like it. I borrowed two, in fact, and I doubt she’ll miss either one.”

“But … surely you don’t intend to actually … I mean, what if someone should see you in it? It isn’t even … why, it isn’t
decent
, mistress.”

Two thin slivers of silk passing over the bare shoulders were all that held the filmy garment in place—not that it mattered. The brazen display of pale ivory flesh and contrasting rose-tipped breasts showing through the translucent fabric was enough to send a fainthearted Deirdre to the window again to draw the curtains tightly together.

“Who in heaven’s name is going to see me?” Catherine demanded wearily. “We’re two full storeys above the ground, and the only man I would want to see me is goodness knows where. I just … I don’t know. I just wanted to feel … different tonight. Special.”

“Well, you certainly look that. As special as any doxy plying her wares on a waterfront brothel.”

“Are you insinuating my mother does her shopping there?” Catherine inquired, smiling as Deirdre flushed uncomfortably. “I thought a higher class of bordello, at least.”

“Into bed with you now, mistress, or you’ll catch your death for sure.”

Obediently, Catherine removed her dainty satin slippers and lifted the cloud of silk so that it floated down around her as she settled against the pillows. Stretching her arms and legs, she savored the erotic texture of the material where it brushed her skin, sighing as she envisioned what further erotic sensations a pair of broad, masculine hands might make. She reached beneath the pillows and retrieved the much-read, fully memorized letter Alexander had sent her. After reading it again, she pressed it next to her heart and smiled up at Deirdre through a wavering shine of tears.

“If I could just see him. Just for a moment. If I could just be certain …”

“Certain of what, mistress? That he loves you?” Deirdre’s soft brown eyes filled with compassion. “You worry needlessly. Of course he loves you. And he’ll send for you soon, I know he will.”

Catherine blinked away her tears and grasped Deirdre’s cool hand. “How selfish I must sound, carrying on so, when you must be suffering equally without Aluinn MacKail.”

“’Tis true, I … I miss him,” Deirdre admitted in the barest of whispers.

“Perhaps they are together,” Catherine said encouragingly. “Lord knows they are never more than a stone’s throw apart, especially when there is any chance of adventure.”

“Perhaps,” Deirdre agreed, not sounding the least convinced. She returned the faint pressure of Catherine’s hand before releasing it and moving away from the bed. As she snuffed the candles one by one, her thoughts wandered here and there, distracting her, stretching a chore that should have taken seconds into several minutes. By the time she had added a final log to the fire and returned the brushes and combs to their proper place in the dressing room, Catherine was fast asleep, the letter still held possessively to her breast.

The fire was little more than a sporadic ripple of flames at the ends of the half-charred log when a faint scratching noise disturbed the silence. The blade of an infantry bayonet intruded its way between the panes of the french doors and crept slowly upward, pausing when it found its way blocked by the brass latch. Seesawing carefully against the bolt, it managed to raise the brass bar from its seat and scrape it upward so that when the handle turned, the door opened without protest. The serrated knife was resheathed in its pocket in the wide leather belt before the door opened further and a cool gust of wind accompanied a shadowy figure into the bedchamber. After securing the panes behind him, he stood for a moment, concealed by the floor-length velvet draperies, listening for any sign that his entry had been detected.

Satisfied, he lifted aside the curtain and stepped into the muted light cast by the fire. The red wool of his tunic glowed like fresh-spilled blood; his white crossbelts and tall black leather boots reflected the shine of the night lamp, as did the dark, narrowed eyes. Still wary of a misplaced footfall, he moved cautiously to the door leading to the outer hall and, after listening for any sounds from without, coaxed the key around in a full circle until a faint
click
told him it was locked. Stealthily he removed the key and slotted it into a pocket of his tunic.

The ease with which his mission had been accomplished put a smile on his face as he made his way back to the foot of the bed. He stood and stared down at Catherine’s sleeping form where she lay nestled against a soft bank of pillows, her blonde hair loose and spread beneath her in a pool of molten gold. The covers had been partially displaced, leaving the pale curve of a slender shoulder bared to his hungry gaze.

At first glance he had thought her to be naked, and his heart had thudded so loudly in his ears he felt sure the sound would waken her. A second, more devastating scrutiny caught the sheen of silk molded around the breathtaking perfection of a breast, and his mouth went dry; his senses wavered and threatened to abandon him to the urgent needs building in his body.

His hands trembled noticeably as he unfastened the row of ornate brass buttons that ran down the stiff red wool of his jacket. Slipping his arms free, he shrugged the garment to the floor, where it was joined moments later by his belts and sash, the high-collared scarlet waistcoat, and white powdered periwig. He pulled the tails of his shirt free of the tight-fitting uniform breeches and, unwinding the starched ties from around his neck, lifted it up and over his head in a motion that caused the muscles across his chest and shoulders to flex in the gleam of firelight.

Catherine stirred and made a soft purring sound deep in her throat as she sought a warmer hollow in the mattress. The covers slipped further and she dreamed of searching fingertips skimming over the taut peak of her nipple, of naked, heated flesh pressing against hers, and of long, skillful fingers stroking deftly into the aching junction of her thighs.

She knew the dream would not last and a small frown of dismay formed across her brow. All the craven sensations, so long denied, were flooding into her loins and curling upward like a wave of thick, rich cream. There was pressure where she longed most to feel it and she moaned, parting her thighs willingly, melting against the insistent, probing tension until the sheer layer of silk was wet and slippery with her need.

The pressure was so real … the pleasure so intense, she cried out and pushed herself closer to the new source of warmth, and for as long as it took her to realize it was
not
a dream, she was
not
alone in the bed, her body continued to respond, to urge a deeper intimacy. The violet-blue eyes snapped open. The very real presence of muscle and bone and hard male sinew brought a jarring halt to all sensations in her body and a scream of pure terror bubbling to her lips.

The scream was stifled before it was fully formed. The same hand that bore the faint musk of her arousal was clamped firmly over her mouth, while a naked, muscular leg was thrown overtop her own before she could thrash herself free. Blinded by fear, knowing only that she had to escape, Catherine struck out with her fists, pushing and writhing against the great wall of muscle that threatened to crush her. She managed to land a solid blow to his temple and was gathering steam for another when she heard a softly muttered Gaelic oath.

Her fist froze in midair and her eyes widened. Certain her mind was playing some dreadful hoax, her body tensed and her heart skipped several beats.

“A hell of a greeting for a wife to give her husband,” Alex murmured, his hand still in place over her mouth, but easing slightly so that it was almost a caress. Indeed, as she continued to stare up at him in shock, the hand slid around to cradle the side of her neck and the pressure of his lean fingers was replaced by the possessive warmth of his lips.

“Alex?” She gasped. “Oh, God …
Alex?”

“You were expecting someone else, perhaps?” He leaned back and let the firelight play havoc with the glimmering wash of silk. “Come to think of it, you certainly
look
as if you were expecting someone.”

“N-no. No! No, I … I …” Her hands trembled up to his cheeks as if to confirm he was real flesh and blood. “Please … tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“You are not dreaming,” he assured her, kissing each disbelieving eyelid with a gentleness that caused a sob to catch in her throat. “I’m here. I’m real.”

“But …
how
did you get here? I thought … I mean, Damien said it would be too dangerous for you to come here … that I was to wait for a message …”

Alexander’s hands moved down her body compulsively, as if he could not stop their actions now that she was finally in his arms.

“When Damien impressed upon me the fragile nature of your patience”—his palm encircled the heavy softness of her breast—“I found my own condition to be rather indelicate as well. Far too indelicate to bother with cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”