The Blood of Roses (22 page)

“Not that I have personal knowledge of her talents, you understand.”

“Of course not.”

“Or the opportunity to explore them. Not since our Italian friend has found his way onto the scene at any rate-much to Struan’s displeasure.”

“I thought Struan MacSorley and dear Lauren had an … understanding.”

Alex’s smile faded slightly. “Aye, we all thought so. Especially when she insisted on accompanying the clan when we left Achnacarry.”

Catherine stiffened, all traces of humor vanishing at once. “Lauren is traveling with the army? She’s traveling with you?”

“She was,” he admitted, wary of the feline sparks snapping to life in Catherine’s eyes. “But only as far as Edinburgh. She was born there and made no secret about wanting to return. As near as anyone can recollect, she slipped out of camp the eve before the battle at Prestonpans and has not been seen or heard from since.”

Somewhat mollified, Catherine allowed herself to be drawn back into her husband’s arms, but the specter of Lauren Cameron kept her from enjoying the comfortable haven. Wild titian red hair, a complexion warmed by the sun and weather, eyes the color of amber—there had been a distinct and open challenge in the way Lauren Cameron had presented herself as a sultry rival for Alexander’s attention. Memories of her voluptuous body and brazen sensuality had not been the least of Catherine’s worries over the past few months.

“Is that a jealous scowl I detect misshaping your pretty face, or is it some after-effect of your last night’s meal repeating itself in your spleen?”

“Jealous? Me? Of that … that …”

Alex laughed and muffled her stammerings beneath his lips. “You may believe this or not as you see fit, but I scarcely even noticed Lauren—or anyone else, for that matter. There, you see what you have done to me? Gelded me. Deprived me of one of man’s most basic and revered instincts.”

“Good. As long as you remain deprived, we shall have no quarrels.”

“Does that order extend to include food and drink as well? Half a dozen buckets full of hot soapy water would not go unappreciated either, unless of course you are bent on keeping me earthy and well sweated to discourage outside interests.”

“How thoughtless of me!” she cried, pushing herself upright. “You must be starving!”

“I
was
starving; now I am merely ravenous. Aside from being here with you, there are three things I fantasize about the most: a hindquarter of beef dripping with gravy, blackberry pies fresh from the oven, and being able to bathe in something other than ice-cold river water.”

“You shall have all three,” Catherine declared, leaning down to bestow a fleeting kiss on his cheek. Naked, she jumped down from the bed and padded barefoot to the dressing room, her long golden hair swinging on each step, the curls dancing brightly as she passed through a streamer of sunlight. Alex propped his head on his folded arms and openly admired the luscious curves and gazellelike grace of his wife’s body; she was intelligence, beauty, and passion combined—how could he ever have contemplated giving her up?

He had spoken the truth earlier when he’d said he only meant to stay a few hours. He had been gone nearly a week from the prince’s camp, and it was inexcusable for him to be delaying his return for purely selfish reasons. But when he had held Catherine in his arms and heard the need trembling in her voice, the thought of leaving, the idea of rushing back to a cold bedroll on the hard ground, and the company of men snoring and coughing and breaking wind loudly enough to bring down the walls of Jericho … well, it suddenly was not important anymore. Lochiel could manage without him for another twelve hours. Or fourteen.

“Do you intend to lie there grinning, sir, or do you think it possible you could bestir yourself to help in some small way?”

Catherine was glaring at him, her eyebrow raised inquisitively. Alex swung his long legs over the side of the bed and joined her in the dressing room, following her pointed finger to where the large copper and enamel bathtub was pushed into the far corner.

“If you will place it before the hearth, my lord, and see to building up the fire, I shall find Deirdre and enlist her assistance in fetching those buckets and buckets of steaming hot water.”

“Deirdre?” Alex frowned as if he had never heard the name before. “Damnation! I knew there was something else I was forgetting.”

He walked back around to the far side of the bed and retrieved the scarlet tunic from the chair. Patting the inner pockets, he found what he was looking for and produced them with a flourish. “Aluinn’s threat of violence was uncommonly graphic in the event I neglected to deliver these to Deirdre.”

“These” proved to be letters, almost as thick a packet as those Catherine had flung on the bed the previous evening.

Alex had the grace to flush sheepishly when he saw the look on his wife’s face.

“Aluinn MacKail has never been at a loss for words, regardless of the situation. They flow from his pen in torrents, more so now that he is in love.”

“Perhaps he could give you lessons,” she said quietly, staring enviously at the twine-bound bundle. In the next instant, she was regretting the petty outburst. She was married to a man who loved her, something not one woman in ten could boast with any truth these days, regardless if she had volumes of letters and sonnets in her possession.

Setting aside the jar of bath salts she had been holding, she went to Alex and ran her hands up around his neck and pressed her soft body up to his with a message as clear and urgent as the one in her eyes. The letters fell forgotten onto the floor as his arms went around her, and he was about to scoop her up and carry her back to the bed when a brusque tapping on the chamber door brought an abrupt and breathless halt to the embrace.

“Deirdre!” Catherine gasped. “I shall send her to the kitchens for food and hot water.”

“Tell her not to hurry,” he murmured, his voice sending a liquid thrill down her spine.

“I thought you were ravenous.”

“I am.”

The second knock was not as subtle, nor as easy to ignore.

“Y-yes? Deirdre?”

“It is your father,” a gruff male voice replied. “I must speak to you at once.”

The latch on the door rattled impatiently, sending Catherine’s heart up into her throat. Alex was already in motion, gathering up his clothing, boots, and swordbelt and carrying them into the dressing room. He tossed Catherine the key to the door as he passed, then vanished into the tiny antechamber.

The latch rattled again. “Daughter?”

“J-Just a moment, Father,” she cried, smoothing back her hair with one hand while she snatched up her robe with the other. A glance into the cheval mirror nearly caused her to swoon: Her lips were lush and swollen, her hair so tangled it would require a solid hour of brushing to tame. And … oh sweet merciful heaven! The bed looked as if a war had been waged beneath its scalloped canopy—linens, blankets, and pillows were tossed every which way. Sir Alfred was no fool. Even as she dashed madly from one side of the bed to the other, attempting to restore some semblance of order, she knew it was futile. He had noted Lieutenant Goodwin’s attentiveness last night and would undoubtedly draw his own conclusions as to why she had withdrawn from the parlor early.

Catherine yanked the satin sash painfully tight about her waist as she approached the door. Her hand was trembling so badly it took two attempts before the key fitted into the slot, and when she finally managed to open the door, her smile was as brittle and unnatural as her high-pitched voice.

“Father,” she shrilled. “What a surprise.”

Sir Alfred’s complexion was ruddier than usual, his stride brisk with agitation as he propelled himself through the doorway. His frizzed gray wig was set on a slightly unbalanced angle on his otherwise bald head; his shirt, waistcoat, and breeches were the ones he had been wearing last night and looked as if they had been slept in.

He barged straight past Catherine without seeming to have seen her, and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room. His back remained to her long enough for Catherine to pat a few more strands of hair into place, but she quickly whipped her hand down by her side as he turned to confront her.

“I trust I am not disturbing you? I know the hour is early yet.”

“N-No. No, you are not disturbing me, Father. I was awake. I was, er, just about to take a bath.” “Mmmm. Good. Good.”

Catherine moved slowly away from the door. She could never, in all her years, recall Sir Alfred paying a visit to her rooms. Nor, for that matter, could she remember him ever apologizing for disturbing anyone.

“Father … is something wrong? Is something troubling you?”

“Wrong? Trouble?” He stared, frowning as if he could not recollect what had brought him here. “Trouble,” he said again, this time pacing to the foot of the bed.

Catherine’s composure was shattered a second time when she noticed the neatly bound packet of letters lying on the floor not two inches from the toe of Sir Alfred’s buckled shoe.

“There could very well be trouble,” he bellowed, jerking his daughter’s gaze back up to his face. “Word arrived late last night that the rebel army has moved out of Manchester and is headed this way. Moreover, it is rumored that over fifteen hundred erstwhile loyal citizens actually joined the papist locusts and have taken up arms against King George! It is inconceivable such a thing could have happened—worse still, that it could possibly happen here!”

“Here, Father? You believe the rebels will come here, to Derby?”

“What is to stop them?” he demanded in a rage. “The army has deserted us, the militia is folding camp and retreating before them with such haste they are uprooting whole trees from the gardens!”

“Father, there is no point in bringing a fit down upon yourself. Here, sit down, and—”

“A fit? A
fit?
Why the deuce should I not suffer fits? That papist princeling has left a wasteland behind him, a veritable wasteland, I tell you. He has caused whole towns and villages to be razed to the ground, and he has driven the decent citizens into hiding for mortal fear of their lives. I warned them. I warned them all what they could expect from thieves and savages, but did anyone listen? Parties, teas, luncheons—that is what they threw instead of cannon-balls. Now we must all pay for their ignorance and pay dearly!”

“Father, I have heard the stories your so-called authorities seem determined to spread, and frankly, I find them not only hard to believe but downright contradictory. Why should a city welcome the prince’s army with bells if it anticipates chaos? Why should the citizens join his army if they burn and level everything behind them? If this were true, would we not see more evacuees fleeing for their lives instead of just the rich transporting their gold and silver to safety?”

Sir Alfred glared caustically at his daughter. “You have learned bold lessons from your brother on the art of arguing, I see.”

“I am not arguing, Father. I am merely questioning your sources.”

“Sources be damned! The reality, daughter, is that my Lord Cavendish, the Duke of Devonshire, is insisting upon a full evacuation of Derby—a decision with which I wholeheartedly concur. I have spent the better part of the morning arranging my affairs so that we might take our leave with all due haste.”

“Leave!” Catherine gasped, glancing at the closed doors of the dressing room. The thought of riding away, of being torn from Alex’s side a second time against her will was so abhorrent she scarcely heard the first few words of her father’s renewed tirade.

“—only to encounter a most stubborn form of opposition from—of all people—your mother! Scorned me, she did. Called me a spineless worm and said she has no intentions of budging one foot off the estate. God’s teeth, I do not know what has come over her. Not even when I pointed out the possibility of her being grossly abused, or that Rosewood Hall could well be burned down about her ears—not even then would she relent! I have come to you, daughter, in the very real hope that you can persuade her to come to her senses.”

Sweating profusely, he withdrew a large square of linen and began mopping his face and throat.

“Ungrateful,” he muttered. “That’s what she is. Twenty-five years of boundless privileges have affected her sense of obligation. She no longer remembers who she
is
or who she
was
before my generosity saved her from a life of ignominy and shame. This … this
leave-taking
of her senses has clearly made her forget her most solemn vow of obedience. How will it look to my Lord Cavendish if she defies my orders? How will they regard me in Parliament if it is seen that I cannot even control the whims of my own wife? She must be made to obey. I am relying on you, daughter, to show her the error of her ways.”

Catherine temporarily forgot the listener in the dressing room as she smiled at her father. “Me? A model of obedience?”

“You have not been too great a disappointment,” Sir Alfred allowed. “You married this chap Montgomery, did you not? As violent a tantrum as you threw when I put the matter before you, and as ardently as you professed to hate him and every other human being who walked the face of the earth that particular evening, you still acknowledged my sound judgment in the matter and married him. What is more, you followed him dutifully to London and accepted your responsibilities with the grace and humility women were bred to assume.”

Catherine drew a controlled breath, her temper crackling with the swiftness of a lightning strike. But before she could add to her mother’s fine assessment of Sir Alfred’s character, she watched him bend over and pick up the letters he had narrowly missed treading upon.

“Women were not put upon this earth to rebel and contradict,” he continued in his best parliamentary mein. “Certainly not to dictate to a man what he should or should not do to protect his best interests. If women had been given brains large enough to accommodate such matters, they should also have been given the brawn and fortitude to see them through. Knowledge of how to paint one’s fingernails and preen before a mirror for two and three blessed hours a day is hardly a prerequisite for understanding the intricacies of politics and military strategy.” He slapped the bundle of letters against the palm of his hand and pursed his lips in thoughtful repose as he glanced down at the boldly scripted name on the top envelope. “I must insist you speak with her at once, Catherine. She must be made to recognize her obligations to the Ashbrooke name.”