The Blood of Roses (42 page)

Sensing the moment had gone on too long, Lady Anne strode back to her horse and, refusing any assistance, swung herself up into the saddle. “We’ll bid ye godspeed, then; a fair wind at yer backs and safe passage through the corries.”

“Godspeed,” Alex replied, standing to the side of the path as the group of clansmen filed past. He watched them weave their way around a pair of carts and start a slow canter toward the deep, icy fissures that carved a pass through two looming mountain walls. Within minutes, even the brilliant splashes of color from their tartans would be cloaked and dulled by shadows, their heads would be tilted forward into the whistling wind, and their smiles frozen into determined slashes.

Turning back to scan the tiny, sheltered glen they had camped in overnight, Alex noted with satisfaction that most of the tents had been struck, the carts of provisions loaded and rumbling single file toward the mouth of the pass. The prince’s tent, marked by the red-and-white silk standard, was still standing, but the regent’s horse and guardsmen were gone, indicating he had left with an earlier contingent.

A tiny dot of movement on the opposite slope of the glen caught Alex’s eyes, and he squinted against the glare of the snow to identify it. The dot appeared to be a single cart, led by one mounted rider in front and flanked by three more in the rear. A heavily bearded clansman held the reins of the plodding horse, and beside him sat a lone passenger, swathed in folds of tartan.

As they cleared a ridge of shadow and descended into what passed for brighter daylight, the passenger—sensing they were under observation—reached up and loosened the shawl covering her head. Seeing the unveiled froth of bright red hair, Alex’s black brows crooked upward.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look what else the wind has brought us.”

Alexander, Aluinn MacKail, and Struan MacSorley were all standing in the cart’s path as it drew to a rattling halt in the basin of the glen. Lauren Cameron’s face was pink and wind-chafed, her eyes downcast and apprehensive as she waited for a reaction from the ominous reception line.

When none seemed to be forthcoming, she shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden slat that served as a seat and raised her thick auburn lashes.

“Is there n’ae one O’ ye even willin’ tae offer a hello? Four days an’ nights I’ve been on the road tryin’ tae catch up wi’ ye, an’ naught but a lick or two O’ melted snow an’ a bite O’ dry biscuit have I had since leavin’ Auld Reekie.”

His arms crossed over his chest, Alex stood, legs braced wide apart, raven hair blown forward against his cheeks and throat, giving a very good impression of a warlord of doom.

“I suppose the pertinent question here might be why,” he said casually. “Why did you leave Edinburgh at all?”

Lauren blinked at the harshness in his voice, and two splotches of red flowed up into her cheeks. Aluinn MacKail’s demeanor was hardly less reassuring, and it was with genuine desperation she directed her appeal to the stalwart Struan MacSorley.

“I were wrong. I admit it freely, Struan. I thought … I thought I could go back home an’ find everything the way it was when I left … but I were wrong. The people were cold an’ cruel. They laughed at the way I dressed, the way I spoke, the … the way I looked. Oh, there were jobs aplenny f’ae lassies what came tae the city an’ were willin’ tae make their coin on their backs. There were rooms, too, an’ taverns filled wi’ sojers only too happy tae offer their protection … f’ae a night or two … till they had what they wanted an’ grew bored wi’ it. Well, I’m no’ a whore, Struan MacSorley. Aye, I take pleasure in life an’ aye, in the pleasurable things life has tae offer, but I’m nae whore.” She stopped and bit the fleshy pulp of her lip. “I wouldna blame ye f’ae holdin’ yer anger, Struan. ‘Twas a surly thing I done, creepin’ away in the middle O’ the night, turnin’ ma back on ma friends, ma family, ma clan.” She bowed her head and the glistening swell of a teardrop rolled slowly down her cheek and dropped onto her tightly clasped hands. “But I’m sorry f’ae it now, an’ I want tae come home.”

“You came alone?” Aluinn asked, noting the accompanying clansmen and identifying them from a patrol he had sent out during the night.

“Aye, alone. Fast as I could too—see?” She held out her red and weather-cracked hands for their inspection. “It were all I could dae tae steal this miserable garron an’ cart, let alone find someone tae fetch me. But it didna matter. Naught mattered, as long as I could catch up wi’ ye.”

A small red hand was dashed across a cheek, smearing tears and grime together. Alex and Aluinn exchanged a glance, but MacSorley’s eyes had not wavered from Lauren Cameron.

“If ye dinna think ye can find it in yer hearts tae forgive me, I’ll understand,” she continued in a whisper. “Truly, I will. But … if ye can, if ye dae”—She looked up and fastened huge, gleaming gold eyes on MacSorley—“I’ll work twice as hard as anyone else in camp. I’ll cook, an’ scrub claythes, an’ dae the meanest chores ye can find wi’out a word O’ complaint. I swear I will. I swear it by ma own poor mam’s deid soul.”

MacSorley approached the cart. “Ye’ll have tae speak wi’ Lochiel. It’s his decision whether ye stay or whether ye go.”

“Aye. Aye, I ken that, Struan.”

His hazel eyes narrowed piercingly. “It might go easier on ye if ye had someone willin’ tae stand by yer side; someone willin’ tae take charge O’ ye an’ see that ye behave yersel’ this time.”

“Are … are ye offerin’ tae dae that f’ae me, Struan?”

“I dinna need a scrubwoman or a cook,” he said bluntly. Seeing her blanch under his stare, he relented somewhat and twitched his beard into a crooked smile. “If I take ye back, it’ll be as ma wife.”

“Yer … wife?” She gasped.

“Aye. An’ as ma wife, ye’ll keep yer eyes straight an’ yer skirts down, or ye’ll feel the flat O’ ma hand, hard an’ often, make nae mistake. As yer husban’, I’ll see ye never want f’ae aught; I’ll keep yer belly full an’ yer thighs warm, an’ I’ll kill any man wha’ disna treat ye wi’ the proper respect due a MacSorley.”

“I dinna desairve it, Struan,” she murmured, taken aback by the offer.

“No. Ye dinna.” He snorted. “But ye dinna have much choice either. Take it or leave it, lass; I’ll play the fool only once.”

Lauren saw the looks on the faces of the other two men and nodded quickly. “Aye, Struan, it’s a handsome offer an’ I take it gladly. What’s more, I promise ye’ll never regret it. Ye’ll never even have tae raise yer voice tae me. Never!”

“Enough said then.” He stretched up his massive arms and grasped her about the waist, swinging her effortlessly out of the cart. He did not set her on the ground at once, but held her so that her tearstained face was level with his. Emitting a small, strangled cry, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, her lips seemingly as starved for affection as they were for forgiveness.

Struan appeared similarly eager to impart both, but as Alexander watched the impassioned reunion, he could not quite shake the feeling that something was not right. His dark eyes queried MacKail’s, but Aluinn could only offer a noncommittal shrug.

Through partially closed eyes, Lauren noted the exchange. Struan was guided by instincts that were centered below the waist, not above the neck, and she had known he would be the easiest to manipulate. Lochiel, as always, would be susceptible to a tearful confession and a humble prostration, and would welcome her back into the fold, as well as giving his hearty blessings to the marriage. Cameron and MacKail were more suspicious by nature and, therefore, would be the most difficult to convince of her reformation.

To that end, Lauren’s immediate concern was for the insistent pounding in her breast. It had begun the moment she recognized the tall, black-haired Highlander striding down the path and had grown in intensity and purpose each heartbeat since. He was still in her blood, despite the months apart and the creditable efforts of Hamilton Garner to wipe her memory clean. It disturbed her to know the ache was still inside her, the desire as strong as it had been the very first time she had laid eyes upon him. Perhaps she should have left Edinburgh long ago. Perhaps the months of separation from his
Sassenach
wife had cleared his senses or, at the very least, made him more vulnerable to a soft word and a woman’s ripe musk. Perhaps—

“Alex! Alex, there you are! I was hoping to speak with you before you left. Damien was—” Catherine skidded to a halt, her cheeks flushed from the brief run, her breath frosting out before her. Her eyes sparkled as they went from Alex to Aluinn to Struan, then apologetically scanned the woman standing beside the wagon before returning to her husband. “Damien was wondering if—”

She stopped again, took two measured breaths, and looked back at the figure who was partly concealed by Struan’s bulky frame.

An equally rigid, disbelieving Lauren Cameron stared back in shock, the absolute unexpectedness of seeing her yellow-haired nemesis in the rebel camp almost undoing the brilliance of her performance thus far. She was here! The
Sassenach
bitch was here! Not in England, not banished from sight and mind, not removed from Alasdair’s presence, as Lauren had supposed her to be. She was here! In Scotland!

Fury, hatred, resentment rose in Lauren’s throat, all but choking off her ability to breathe. Struan’s arms were still around her waist and she was grateful for their restraint: Without them, she might have lunged for the loathsomely sweet and delicate face, tearing it to bloody ribbons, and happily so.

Catherine’s emotions were just as much in turmoil. She had been told Lauren had elected to abandon the rebel camp and remain in Edinburgh—where she belonged, as far as Catherine was concerned. For the briefest of instants, before either party had recognized the other, the amber eyes had been fixed on Alexander’s face, the envy and scheming hunger as avidly apparent to Catherine as it had been six months ago. She had grown accustomed to women staring at her husband—she stared at him herself, truth be known—but most did so out of respect and awe for the Dark Cameron. There was no respect in Lauren’s eyes, only lust. The awe translated into desire, as pure and raw as the hatred smoldering in them now.

“Why, Lauren Cameron,” she managed to say past a brittle smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Wherever did you come from?”

The pits of hell Lauren wanted to scream, where I’d love to send you right now!

Instead, she pressed herself deeper into Struan’s embrace and smiled brightly. “Why, I’ve come home, have I na? Where I belong.”

“Aye,” Struan said proudly. “Lauren’s home tae stay an’ more’s the luck, she’s agreed tae share the name MacSorley.”

“You are going to marry her?” Catherine gasped, startled again. She felt the subtle pressure of Alex’s hand on hers and covered her obvious slip with another smile. “Well, of course I am happy for you, Struan. Happy for both of you.”

“Aye. She’s a wild enough tigress tae try tae tame,” MacSorley said, grinning down at his prospective bride. “But I’ll gie it ma best effort.”

“It’s me who’ll dae the tamin’, Struan,” Lauren murmured suggestively, and with the relish of a hawk swooping down on an unsuspecting victim, Lauren drew MacSorley’s lips into a crushing kiss, using every inch and undulation of flesh at her disposal to strip the imagination of any doubts as to the truth behind her promises. Struan’s arousal was instantaneous and Herculean; obvious enough where it rose up beneath his tartan to have the three clansmen gaping.

Catherine stared, so long and hard, Alexander had to turn her forcibly around so she had nothing to distract her apart from the humor in his eyes.

“You were looking for me?”

“Looking for you?”

“Something to do with your brother,” he prodded gently.

“Oh. Yes. I mean … no. No, it’s nothing important.” She started to angle her head around, to investigate the source of the heated gasps and groans, but a firm hand kept her face averted.

“Let she who is innocent cast the first stone,” he murmured, adding unnecessarily, “Reminds me of another reunion a few weeks ago.”

Catherine flushed and conceded a smile. “At least ours was private.”

“Crowds of spectators would not have stopped me.”

Catherine considered the angular features, the gleaming dark eyes and boldly sensual mouth, and knew he spoke the truth.

“You are wicked, sir,” she murmured, conscious of his hand straying beneath the shield of her cloak.

“Just a man in love,” he said, drawing her forward.

Lauren, out of breath and very much aware of the iron-hard shaft of flesh nearly lifting her off the ground, ended the kiss on a triumphant note. She glanced away from Struan’s steamy determination in time to see Alex and Catherine come together in an open-mouthed, affectionately prolonged embrace. Before she could react, her eager groom-to-be was scooping her into his arms and turning the tables on her seductive prank. He carried her to the nearest available tent, bellowing jovially over his shoulder to the grinning audience that there would be a slight delay before he rejoined the column.

“Struan, no!” Lauren gasped, her face beet red with dismay. “We should speak tae Lochiel first. Ye said so yersel’!”

His lips muffled her protests, his hands stilled her thrashings. A startled clanswoman, driven out of her tent by the sight of the giant Highlander flinging his tartan and his woman onto the ground, was only one or two sentences into a scathing protest when the choked, highpitched cries began to bounce and echo off the iced, cavernous valley walls. The sounds sent her scrambling back even further, and it was left to Aluinn MacKail, as peacemaker—and the only one who could keep a straight face—to calm the woman and assure her that neither the tent nor her belongings would suffer any damage, and would be returned in due time.

The woman could be thankful she did not wait. An hour later the tent was still standing, the walls were still flapping and quivering, and renewed choruses of shrill cries were shattering the hollow silence of the glen. The bemused audience had long since melted away, however, as had every other tent, cart, horse and wagon in the valley.

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