The Blood of Roses (33 page)

Catherine’s eyes grew round and wide. “You are going to follow the rebel army? Oh, Deirdre … you mustn’t! If what the lieutenant said is true, and the prince is in retreat—”

“I shall retreat with them. They will be bound for the border, for Scotland. It is my husband’s home and therefore mine, as well, sooner now than later, is all.”

“But—”

“Please, mistress, we have no time to argue. My mind is made up; there will be no talking me out of it. My place is with my husband now, for as long as we both draw breath.”

Catherine stared, dumbfounded. Her mind felt as battered as her body, but two revelations came very clear to her. First, if Deirdre was prepared to take the blame, to have the questions and accusations and ultimate reprisals brought down upon her own head rather than see Catherine suffer any further abuse … and if Catherine thought, for even one moment, of letting her do so, she might just as well have never left Rosewood Hall all those months ago. Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke would certainly have allowed it, would have grasped at any avenue of escape regardless of the right or wrong of it, regardless who was hurt or destroyed so long as she remained unscathed.

The second revelation was that Catherine Ashbrooke Cameron would no more consider doing such a thing than she would contemplate betraying the trust, courage, and loyalty of her husband or—even worse—her own newfound faith in herself.

She finished fastening the buttons down the front of the warmly quilted waistcoat Deirdre had provided and began plaiting her hair. Oddly enough, though she still ached with every movement, her body had stopped shaking and the terrible chill of fear and uncertainty was gone.

“The lieutenant said the rebel army withdrew well before dawn,” she said calmly. “He guessed they would be in Manchester by tonight, and if we hope to catch up to them, we will have to find ride very hard and fast.”

Deirdre looked up, her hands freezing on her neckcloth. “Did you say ‘we,’ mistress?”

“I think”—Catherine paused to moisten her throat— “after all we have been through together, you need not address me as ‘mistress’ or ‘my lady’ anymore. Criminals are equal in the eyes of the law, for one thing. For another, I would greatly appreciate being considered more your friend than your employer. And yes, I said we.
We
will be heading north together, you and I. Scotland is my home now, too, and my place is with my husband.”

Deirdre’s large, solemn brown eyes followed the motion of Catherine’s scraped hands as she wound the damp blonde length of her hair. “I think it would be rash for you to make any decision without consulting with Lady Caroline … or, at the very least, Master Damien.”

“Mother will have enough difficulties of her own to deal with in the next few weeks. As for Damien …” She paused again and sighed. “He is a Jacobite, Deirdre. He has been for months, perhaps years. He will undoubtedly be worried after his own safety and the safety of his wife and unborn child. I would never knowingly put them in further danger. Not Damien, not Harriet. Not you,” she added quietly.

“But … the lieutenant did die by my hand. I wielded the poker. I killed him.”

“And for that I shall be everlastingly in your debt. Furthermore, despite the little I know about doctoring, I suspect there was far too much blood leaking from his neck to have been caused by a minor scratch. You may have hastened the good lieutenant along the road to hell, but I daresay I helped put his feet firmly on the path.”

“But … Mr. Cameron … he will send you right back, you know he will. I am not even certain Aluinn will be overly pleased to see me.”

Catherine wrapped the braid into a tight coil and stuffed it under the crown of a large felt hat. “Come now, Deirdre. We have just done murder; surely we are capable of dealing with the wrath of two self-righteous Scotsmen.” She reached out and took Deirdre’s hand in hers. “We are both in desperate need of their protection right now—do you really think they would refuse us? Can you honestly see either one of them thinking that Derby is a safer place to be than by their sides?”

“No” came a low male voice from the open door to the hallway. “But I can give you at least one thousand armed reasons why you might never get the chance to ask them.”

Both women gasped and whirled around. Standing in the doorway, his musket primed and cocked for business, was Corporal Jeffrey Peters, the grimness of his expression erasing any and all hint of youthfulness and inexperience from his face.

Retreat
11

I
n less than twenty-four hours, the attitude of the Jacobite army had undergone a complete and potentially disastrous turnabout. In Derby, poised to march the remaining one hundred-fifty victorious miles to London, the clansmen had tackled their daily routines with a strength of purpose few men could not help but admire. Hundreds of miles from home, suffering from a constant lack of adequate provisions and shelter, regarded with open contempt and hostility by the English people, they still sang to cover the rumble of empty bellies, danced around the campfires to keep the numbing winter chill out of their bones, kept their weapons honed and their outlooks keen for a confrontation with the Hanover army.

That was why, when the order to retreat was finally delivered, it was decided only the chiefs and their senior officers were to know their destination beforehand. The army was to be roused before dawn and settled into a brisk pace before the sun betrayed in which direction they marched. If asked, the officers were to imply they were marching out to a meeting with either Wade’s forces or Cumberland’s.

It was not until a few discerning eyes recognized landmarks they had passed only two days previous that rumblings began to spread throughout the clans that they were on retreat. The rumors were met at first with disbelief, then outrage, and finally, bitter disillusionment. The common soldiers had not been aware of the doubts and fears plaguing their chiefs; they had seen only victory thus far and could not fathom why they were turning away so close to their goal. The pace of the march slowed. Arguments broke out within the ranks, and, for the first time since crossing the border into England, the chiefs were regarded with mistrust and suspicion. Why had they been brought so many miles from home only to retreat with victory within their grasp? Where was the pride, the honor, the glory of fighting behind the Stuart standard when it could be so easily turned and blown back into the wind? Where was the passion and confidence that had led them to an astounding triumph at Prestonpans against odds no sane man could willingly entertain? And where was their prince? Where was the man whose heartfelt pleas and unshaking faith had swept them to victory in Scotland and convinced them of similar possibilities in England?

Prince Charles Edward Stuart did not make an appearance all day. Acting the part of a man who had lost not only his heart but his courage, he behaved as if the army were no longer his to command, as if their loyalty had been stripped from him by men who wished only to see him humiliated by betrayal and defeat. On the march south to Derby, he had risen each morning at dawn and walked all day on foot alongside the men, suffering the same effects of weather, hunger, and exhaustion. For the first twelve hours of the retreat, he rode in a small covered cart, weeping disconsolately and searching for comfort at the bottom of several bottles of whisky. His attitude was contagious, and a pall settled over the clans; by nightfall, the men had become quiet, morose, and too ill at heart to do more than curl themselves in their tartans and lie staring into the fires.

In those few short hours the prince had changed from conqueror to fugitive, his army no longer the hunters but the hunted.

Lord George Murray’s greatest concern in those same twelve hours was the opposite effect the news of their retreat would have on the English forces. Those who had elected to keep a prudent distance from the advancing Highlanders would now have the scent of the vanquished to infuse them with new courage and purpose. Alexander Cameron’s reconnaissance had established Cumberland’s army at Conventry, Wade’s at Doncaster. Less than forty miles separated the two armies. They were on familiar ground, well suited to their artillery and cavalry; as soon as word of the retreat reached them, they would undoubtedly strive with all haste to join forces and intercept the Highlanders before they could effect an escape across the border. Cumberland, although several months younger than his Stuart cousin, Charles Edward, was an experienced commander, a soldier known for his relentless pursuit of his enemies.

True to Lord George Murray’s promise, he and his Athollmen had taken up the position of highest risk at the rear guard of the army, traveling only as fast as the slowest clan contingent. Alexander Cameron, true to his word, joined his forces with the Athol Brigade and had, in turn, assumed the role of scout and liaison officer between the clans. He had been fielding reports of government sightings all day long, riding out to check the greater percentage of them personally. His mood, therefore, as midnight came and went and still found him poring over maps and charts of the territory they would be passing through come daylight was not exactly sterling. His seemingly endless reserves of strength and patience were rapidly dwindling; he had scarcely spoken a dozen words to anyone all day that were not laced with acid.

When he heard a muffled disturbance approaching his tent, the expression on his face should have sent any man who valued his neck fleeing—any man, except Struan MacSorley.

“I ken ye’ve had a long day,” the Highlander said, poking his head beneath the canvas tent flap, “but I thought ye might be interested in seein’ what the pickets found prancin’ along the road a wee while ago.”

Alex leaned back in his chair and scowled blackly. “Unless it is the Duke of Cumberland and he has come to present a flag of surrender, absolutely nothing could interest me at the moment.”

Struan arched a golden brow. “Aye, an’ if that’s true, I’ll toss them back soon enough. I’m O’ a mind they’ve a rare tale tae tell, but. Couldna hurt tae listen.”

Alex swore irritably and knuckled his eyes to rub away the sand and fatigue. “All right. What the hell, I’ve nothing better planned but a few hours sleep.”

“Aye, an’ growin’ fewer.” With that cryptic comment, MacSorley caught up the tent flap again and raised it to the height of his shoulder. A nod brought three grimy figures into the small space, two dressed in civilian clothes, the third wearing the uniform of a junior officer in the government infantry. Of the three, only the soldier dared to raise his face to the yellowish lantern light—as much for the hint of warmth it offered as for illumination. The other two kept their heads lowered and their eyes downcast so that their features were cloaked in the shadow of their tricorns.

“Well, well. So this is the vanguard of Cumberland’s army, is it? Or perhaps a delegation from King George asking when we might be wanting the keys to the palace?”

MacSorley snorted humorlessly and reached over to casually lift away the two tricorns. It took a full minute for the recognition to cut through Alex’s weariness, but when it did, when he saw the thick, glossy braid of blonde hair snake down over the slender shoulders, his expression darkened like a thundercloud about to erupt. It was only with an almost superhuman effort that he was able to control his reaction and keep his voice smooth and level, his hands flat and steady on the table.

“I trust there is a bloody good explanation for this,” he said through his teeth.

The soldier, his face flushed and his brow beginning to dot with moisture, snapped to attention at once. “Corporal Jeffrey Peters, sir, at your service. These two ladies are—”

“I know damn well who these two
ladies
are, boy. What I want to know is what the bloody Christ they’re doing here.”

“W-well, sir, they—”

“And I would prefer to hear it from them, if you don’t mind!” Alex snarled, glancing at Struan, who had only to rest a hamlike hand on the corporal’s shoulder to intimidate him into instant silence.

Alexander glared at Deirdre and Catherine in turn, his eyes black with fury, his temper stretched on a thin thread. “Well?”