The Blood of Roses (34 page)

Deirdre was the first to meet the Scotsman’s challenge. “We have left Derby, my lord, not by choice but out of necessity. We were hoping we might be allowed to travel north with you.”

Alex stared. When the seconds ticked away and he had given no response, Catherine’s fingers inched out and clutched Deirdre’s hand tightly for courage. To Deirdre’s credit, she withstood the chilling effects of Alexander’s stony gaze, showing visible signs of faltering only when the obsidian eyes flicked over to Struan.

“I think you had best find MacKail,” Alex said finally. “He should be privy to this, don’t you agree?”

“Aye. Shall I fetch this one wi’ me?”

Alex spared a shriveling glance for the corporal. “God no. He has come this far, driven no doubt by some misguided sense of chivalry. He should at least be here to make the grand offer of having his backside flayed to strips in place of theirs.”

The corporal swallowed noisily. Struan ducked back out of the tent and Alex, Who had not moved a muscle up to this point, tipped his chair back on the rear two legs and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I had honestly expected better from you, Mrs. MacKail,” he remarked dryly. “I had thought the Irish had a stronger sense of self-preservation.”

“It is exactly because of a sense of self-preservation we thought to find our best protection with you, sir,” Deirdre answered defiantly.

“Protection? From what?” he demanded. “The clans have taken advantage of the hospitality of countless estates and homes belonging to the English, with no repercussions to date. If this is some kind of ploy, madam, I’ll warn you both now, it will not work.”

Although Catherine could not yet bring herself to meet her husband’s eyes, she could feel their probing effect on her knees, which were turning rapidly to butter, and on her stomach, which was beginning a slow, unobstructed slide toward her feet. Their angry heat relented only when the sound of running feet brought Aluinn MacKail’s sandbrown head of hair thrusting under the tent flap.

“Deirdre!” He gasped. “Good God, it
is
you!”

He pushed all the way inside the tent, followed closely by MacSorley and a third man neither of the women had met before—a lean, tall, elegantly middle-age gentleman dressed incongruously in courtly garb. At the sight of the ladies, Count Fanducci removed his plumed tricorn. At the sight of MacKail, Deirdre’s nerve collapsed and she turned into his embrace, her arms thrown about his neck as if she might smother him in her need. Aluinn started to respond in a similar fashion, but a glance in Alexander’s direction halted the movement of his arms and, instead, he reached up and gently pried her wrists down from around his neck.

“Deirdre … what are you doing here?” he asked, his tone less threatening than Cameron’s, but cool enough to produce a shine of tears in Deirdre’s eyes. “How did you get here? Don’t you know the whole of Cumberland’s army is breathing down our necks?”

“Th-that’s not entirely true, sir,” Corporal Peters ventured to say. “The main body of his army is still en route to London, to reinforce the guard at Finchley Commons and to act upon rumors of an impending invasion by the French. The duke has but a thousand cavalrymen at his disposal, and they, in turn, are riding to a rendezvous with Marshal Wade. Sir.”

Aluinn’s gray eyes narrowed as they went from Corporal Peters to Alex. “Who the devil is he?”

“Corporal Jeffrey Peters,” Alex drawled belligerently. “At our service. Rather, it might be said, at the service of these two”—he paused and searched a moment for an appropriate word—“adventuresses.”

“Corporal Peters helped us out of an extremely unpleasant situation,” Deirdre said defensively. “Furthermore, he escorted us here at great personal risk. If it had not been for Mr. MacSorley taking the time to recognize us, there is no telling what your brutish guards might have done to the corporal—or to us.”

“You should not feel so assured of your safety just yet,” Alex warned silkily. “And I am still waiting to hear an explanation as to why you are here. Catherine? It astounds me you have managed to hold your silence this long—is this supposed to be for dramatic effect?”

Deirdre blanched and pushed angrily away from Aluinn. “She’s not said anything yet, sir, because it would be extremely painful for her to do so. If it is drama you want, I suggest you use your eyes to look at the bruises and cuts on her face rather than to show us how cold and heartless you can be by frightening us half to death.”

She caught a trembling lip between her teeth and watched as Alexander’s gaze turned slowly away from hers to his wife. After another long, heart-thudding moment of tension, he rose from the chair, his eyes never wavering from Catherine’s downturned face as he advanced around the table toward her. He stopped within arm’s reach, halted by the shock of realizing the darker shadows on his wife’s face were not a result of the angled lantern light. Bracing himself, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head upward, turning it slightly so that the purple bruise on her cheek and the swelling of her eye had the full benefit of the light. Even before his senses had absorbed this new shock, his eyes were drawn lower, to where the pleats of her neckerchief had been dislodged and revealed the ugly black and broken-veined contusions on her throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Aluinn whispered, moving to stand by Alex’s side. “What the hell happened?”

Catherine’s eyes swam behind a film of tears as she opened them slowly and looked up at her husband.

“When we woke this morning,” Deirdre said, “the house was deserted. Most of the servants had left, either to spread gossip or to run away and hide before anyone else decided to commandeer the house and property. There was a British officer … one from the company of militia who had been camped on the grounds prior to your arrival, and he … he was the first to come back after your men left. He must have guessed the house would be deserted for a while. At any rate, he … he took advantage of the fact that my lady was alone and … and …”

Catherine felt a tremor shudder through the hand that still supported her chin. She had seen anger in Alexander’s eyes before—cool, dispassionate anger used to turn an enemy’s soul to ice. But she had never seen anything comparable to the naked, consuming rage she saw now—a fury focused as much inwardly as it throbbed outwardly, commanding every tautly held muscle in his body, rasping on every short, dry breath.

“Struan: Have Shadow saddled and ready to ride in five minutes.”

“Aye. An’ ye’ll be takin’ me along tae see the job’s done right.”

“No,” Deirdre cried. She grabbed MacSorley’s arm and was dragged several steps toward the tent door before making him aware of her clinging presence. “No, there isn’t any need to go back!”

“I want his name,” Alex said quietly. “Aluinn?”

MacKail gripped Deirdre by the shoulders and turned her abruptly toward him. “His name, Deirdre; do you know the bastard’s name?”

She stared up in disbelief. The face of her tender and loving husband had hardened. The same primitive violence that had flared to life on Alexander Cameron’s face had molded Aluinn’s into something unrecognizable—something she did not wish to acknowledge.

“Please.” Catherine gasped, the word hardly more than a pain-filled breath of air. She clutched one hand around Alex’s arm, another around Aluinn, and cast a frightened, imploring glance toward Struan. “He’s already dead. The one who did it is dead.”

“Dead?” Aluinn asked. “How? By whose hand?”

Catherine looked up into her husband’s face. “We killed him, Deirdre and I. We had no choice … it was self-defense!”

Alexander’s composure cracked visibly. “What? What did you just say?”

“It’s true, sir,” Corporal Peters stammered. “I c-couldn’t believe it either, n-not at first. But it’s t-true. S-so help me God, it’s true!”

“What do you know about this?” Alex snarled, rounding on the corporal as if in search of some victim for his anger … a victim wearing the uniform of the British army.

“I was I-looking for Lieutenant Goodwin, s-sir. That was his n-name: Goodwin. I w-was supposed to relay the orders from our colonel as to h-how and wh-where we were to join up with C-Cumberland’s army. I had seen the w-way Goodwin had behaved in Mrs. Montgomery’s presence on s-several other occasions and I … I had my suspicions as to wh-where he might have gone as s-soon as he heard that the reb … er, the Jacobite army had withdrawn. B-by the time I got to the house, sir, it was all over. The ladies had managed to overpower him and—” His voice wavered, his eyes glazed with the memory of walking into the dressing room, of holding a light over what had once been the head of Lieutenant Goodwin, and of having to go through the motions of checking for any sign of life. “I sh-should never live to see another man as d-dead as he was, sir. I swear to God. I’m only sorry I did not arrive in time to deal with him p-personally. But when I saw and heard what he had done to Mrs. Montgomery … well, had it been the king himself, I would gladly have killed him!”

“Go on, Corporal.”

“Well, sir, when I heard their story, I knew they could not remain at the manor or risk facing a tribunal. I tried to convince them to go elsewhere—
anywhere
—Mrs. Montgomery has a brother in London, I believe—but they would have none of it. They insisted on being brought here and from here to make their way under your protection to Blackpool, where they hoped to meet up with Mrs. Montgomery’s husband. It was all I could do to insist they accept my services as escort this far.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Catherine cried softly. “We didn’t know what else to do, where else to go to feel safe.”

Alex drew her gently into his arms. Safe? He could have cursed the word for mocking him so.
Safe?

“Corporal Peters—” His eyes sought the young officer over the top of Catherine’s head. “For what you have risked and everything you have done for my wife and for Mrs. MacKail, you have my deepest thanks and my humblest apologies. If there is anything—anything I can do to repay you—please let me know.”

“Your … wife, sir? But—” Peters frowned and some of the rigid army discipline deserted him. “B-but I thought … I mean, they told me Mr. Montgomery was a merchant …”

Catherine disengaged herself from Alex’s arms and turned to the bewildered corporal. “I’m sorry for lying to you, after all you have done. I just was not sure what your reaction would be if you knew my husband’s true identity. And my name is Cameron. Mrs. Alexander Cameron.”

Corporal Peters returned her weak smile and was about to offer the same to Alex when he seemed to notice for the first time the jet-black hair, the massive shoulders, the power and authority rippling through every muscle, echoing in every word. “Jesus H. Christ on a stick,” he muttered slowly. “You’re him, aren’t you! You’re the one they call the Dark Cameron!”

“Alexander will do. Alex, if you prefer.” Wrapping an arm protectively around Catherine’s waist, he thrust his other hand out toward the corporal. It took an additional moment or two for Peters to acknowledge the gesture, then to wipe the dampness from his palm and accept the offered handshake.

“I’m honored, sir. And indeed, there
is
something you can do for me: You can honor me further by personally accepting my sword in surrender.”

Alex started to protest, but the corporal’s grin cut him short. “Please, sir. My father has been drinking secret toasts to the ‘king over the water’ for the past forty years. I guess I just didn’t think I had the guts to join you before, but … well, now that I’m here, and … and … well …”

Alex shook his head. “In case you haven’t been listening to your own dispatches, Corporal, we’re in retreat. You may be picking the wrong time to change sides.”

“I don’t think so, sir. If Mrs. Mon—Mrs.
Cameron
has enough faith to join you, I cannot see any mistakes being made at all.”

Alex’s smile slipped. He glanced down at Catherine and felt a resurgence of anger boil into his blood again, only this time it was solely for his own inadequacy as a husband and protector. She was standing firm, putting up a brave enough front, but most of her weight was trusted to the arm he had around her waist. Her head was leaning gratefully on his shoulder, and she seemed unaware of the people around her.

“Alex?” Aluinn dragged his attention away. “Do you want me to find Archibald?”

“What?”

“Archibald,” Aluinn repeated the question gently. “Do you want me to fetch him?”

Alex suffered another severe jolt as his focus reverted to the bruises on Catherine’s cheek and throat. Those were only the ones he could see; there were sure to be others, possibly even more devastating.

“Deirdre?”

She could read the question and the fear in the dark sapphire eyes and she shook her head. “No, sir, he didn’t hurt her … not that way. I think she’ll be all right, now that she’s here with you. She’s exhausted, to be sure, and I don’t know how she managed to stay in a saddle as long as she did, but a few good hours of sleep should work wonders.”

Alex nodded and smiled his thanks. It was the Italian, Count Fanducci, a silent observer up until now, who took a cue from the way Alex tightened his arm around his wife and stepped out of the shadows to deliver a devastatingly well-executed bow in Catherine’s honor.

“Signora Camerone!
A very brave-a lady. If there is anything I, Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci, can do for either of-a you beautiful ladies, you joost-a snap-a you fingers,
si?
But for now, we leave-a you alone. Come, come!” He flicked his hands to indicate everyone should share his fine sense of timing and vacate the tent. “I’m-a personally posting the guard outside so no one is disturbed, si?”

Aluinn did not need to be told twice to take his tearful wife into his arms and lead her out of the tent to seek their own. MacSorley crammed his blue woolen bonnet on his head and offered a final, muttered curse to the British army, then clamped an almost friendly hand on the corporal’s shoulder and ushered him out into the crisp, dark night air, the count following close on their heels.

Alone, Alex surrendered to the overwhelming need to circle his arms around his wife and bury his lips in the damp fragrance of her hair. He held her as closely as he dared, aware of the tiny shudders of pain she was doing her best to conceal. Not so easily contained were the tears that began on a stifled sob, swelled in volume and substance until she was crying openly, her fingers clutching the lapels of his coat, her body shaking against his like a leaf in a storm.