The Blood of Roses (45 page)

“You are forgetting vigorous and unselfish.”

“And humble,” she added with a stab for emphasis. “A trait sadly lacking in the father.”

“And completely foreign to the mother.”

Catherine peered at him for all of three seconds before she snuggled back onto his chest.

“What, no rebuttal?”

“I am too happy to argue. And too busy wondering if my legs will ever work properly again.”

He rocked the chair forward, lifting her with him as he stood up. And since she was quite able to twine her legs around his waist and cling to him as he walked over to the bed, any doubts concerning her mobility were removed along with her chemise.

“Absolutely shameless,” he murmured again, lowering her onto the bed, their bodies still joined.

“I had an excellent example to follow in you, my love,” she said, dragging his mouth down to hers.

“And yet I fail to recall doing anything particularly inventive with balcony balustrades.”

“I have no doubt you will think of something, given time.”

He bowed to the demands of her lips again and wondered if there would ever be enough time. She had given up everything for him, and as if everything were not enough, she was prepared to risk her life in childbirth—a hazardous undertaking even under the most pristine and comfortable conditions. What had he given her so far? Dampness and cold, beds fashioned out of planks and canvas, poor food, lonely days, and long nights filled with every terror she could imagine.

“What is it?” She stroked her hand along his jaw. “What are you thinking about to bring on such a scowl?”

He smiled faintly, unaware she had noted his distraction. “I am thinking about you. And my grandfather.”

“Sir Ewen Cameron?”

“Aye. The old
gaisgach liath
would have approved of you, I think. It would have amused him and pleased him to no end to see how easily I have been tamed.”

“Not tamed, my lord. Never tamed. A little softened around the edges, perhaps. If you reformed completely, who would I have to argue with? And who would be there to make sure I behave always like a properly … married … wife?”

The last three words were emphasized most eloquently within the lush, sleek folds of her body, and Alex found himself marveling again at her resilience … and his.

“Are you suggesting, without a firm hand to guide you, you might search out ways to behave improperly?”

“I am suggesting no such thing. But I do promise you, sir, that my behavior in the past will seem positively angelic in comparison to what it will be if you take any unnecessary risks in the coming week or do anything that might keep us apart any longer than it takes to frighten a handful of redcoats out of a nuisance fort. I expect your promise on this, Alexander Cameron. Your most solemn word of honor.”

“Would it stop you from worrying?”

“No,” she said after some consideration. “But it would make it easier to worry about other things.”

“Very well.” He gently disengaged himself and swung himself out of the bed. His kilt and belts lay in a crush of tartan by the fireplace, and he rummaged beneath the folds a minute before returning to Catherine’s side. In his hand was the small ebony-handled dirk he wore sheathed at his waist.

“We have a pleasant little custom in this country when a man’s most solemn word of honor is required. He gives it, sealing his pledge with the full knowledge that if he should break his word or dishonor his vow in any way, the blade he kisses will be the one used to take his life.”

Alex raised the dirk, pressed the blade to his lips, then kissed Catherine with the taint of steel still cool on his mouth. “I give you my word, Catherine, that I will do everything in my power to see that I am back with you at Achnacarry, for good and ever, in plenty of time to see our son born.”

Something flickered in the depths of her eyes and he frowned. “Are you questioning the oath of a Highlander, madam?”

“No. No, I believe you will keep your promise if you can. It’s just … I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know how to explain this … this awful feeling I have sometimes. A feeling that something terrible is going to happen.”

“Is it your nightmare again?”

“No. I have not had it since I left Derby. And yet … somehow … it feels as if I am living it, that it has become real … or some part of it, anyway.”

Alex set aside the dirk and joined Catherine on the bed again, taking her into his arms and holding her close.

“It was only a dream,” he insisted. “Something your mind conjured because you were frightened, or because we were not together. But I have never heard of a nightmare that has actually come true, and believe me, men have some hellish beauties when they are trying to get some sleep the night before a battle.”

“Do you? Do you have nightmares?”

He hesitated, thinking of the chillingly real dreams he had about the night Annie was slain. They had haunted him for fifteen years and were so real, he would waken in a sweat, his sword gripped in his hands. Now he had Catherine’s face in his dreams at night, and sometimes he still woke up in a sweat, his hands reaching for his sword. He knew the Campbells would not let something as incidental as a rebellion stand in the way of their revenge; there was still a twenty-thousand-pound reward on his head for the death of their three clansmen. MacKail was no less worried about some elusive French assassin the Duke of Argyle had hired to hunt him down and kill him. And there was Hamilton Garner; he was still out there somewhere, obsessed with the need to avenge his honor.

“Alex …?”

“Yes. Yes, I have nightmares. I have day
mares
, too, but I know that if I give in to the fear, it could destroy me.”

“How do you fight it? Where do you find the
strength
to fight it?”

“Here,” he said, kissing each of her eyelids. “And here.” He kissed her nose, her mouth, her chin. “And here,” he murmured, sliding his body forward, joining himself to her with one powerful thrust. “Here is where I find my strength, Catherine. Right here in your arms.”

16

L
ater that evening Lauren Cameron MacSorley found herself thinking that: everything was working out very well indeed, better than she had dared hope. Lochiel had welcomed her back with tears and toasts. Struan had stalked after her like an oversexed bear ever since a minister had blessed their union. But aside from his constant, feverish attentions during the nights, she had been left pretty much to her own inclinations the rest of the time.

Five days and nights of camp life had erased any pangs of doubt or guilt she might have had. The ice-cold nights spent snowbound in the mountains left her moaning—not from Struan’s efforts to warm her but from the memory of the deep, soft, warm feather bed she had left at Edinburgh Castle. The frosted, mist-ridden dawns that arrived in a glorious avalanche of gold and lavender clouds only reminded her of the miles of trudging dampness that lay ahead, the probability that her nose would leak constantly and her hands and feet turn to blocks of ice before she pitched their sorry little excuse for a tent again. She saw no beauty in the sheer cliffs and jagged tumble of misshapen boulders that had guarded their passage through the mountains. She felt no great stirring in her soul as she looked forward, backward, side to side, and saw nothing but snowcapped peaks, piled one upon the other.

She was glad to leave them behind, thankful to descend through the densely forested foothills and into the graduated sweep of the glens. Moy Hall was eight miles from Inverness, and Inverness was a busy seaport—while it was still under the control of the Hanover government—with ships leaving every day for London and points beyond. The closer the rebel army had come to Inverness, the more eager the clansmen became, anticipating a long-overdue confrontation with the enemy. The closer Lauren came to Inverness, the more urgent it became to do what she had come to do and escape as quickly as possible.

Despite what Hamilton Garner may have thought, there was no sum of money on earth worth her taking the risk of going any deeper into the Highlands. She had been trapped there once already, and it had taken eight years to break out. Now, bearing the yoke of a husband on her back—a husband as dangerous and predatory as a wild beast if he was roused—she could well vanish in those glens and never be seen or heard from again.

She had almost bolted and run when she’d heard the Camerons and MacDonalds were preparing to leave for Lochaber. It was the only time she could recall being thankful to Catherine Cameron for anything. Her “delicate” condition had all the men agreeing that the women would remain behind until such time as Fort Augustus was taken and the route made safe for them to travel unmolested to Lochaber.

No one had worried after the women’s safety before this, she mused wryly. There had to be a half a hundred clans-women walking around the camps with swollen bellies, lugging heavy armloads of firewood, hauling water, cooking, seeing to the voracious appetites and needs of the men … but not sweet Catherine. She was settled into the big house like a queen, her every whim and fancy seen to, no doubt. It was enough to make a lass puke.

As for the proud father—the entire camp was buzzing with good cheer. The pipers were playing their fingers raw, the bards were already composing songs and poems to bring the grand
Camshroinaich Dubh’s
heir good luck and good fortune, not to mention another score of healthy, braw bairns in succession. They would naturally, conveniently neglect to mention sweet Catherine’s heritage: that she was a
Sassenach
of weak and impure bloodlines. They would also neglect to mention that the marriage had been conceived in hell, consummated in anger, and the offspring of any such union would undoubtedly be limp of wrist and as pale and sickly blonde as the mother.

Alasdair deserved
sons.
Highland sons, born and bred of the land. Lauren could have given him such sons. Tall and strong-limbed, with fire in their spirits and passion in their souls. But he had shunned her in favor of his thin, vapid-looking
Sassenach
, and so he deserved whatever he got. Deserved more than ever he bargained for … which was why Lauren found herself slogging ankle deep through the slushy snow and mud, picking her way carefully along the forest path with a recently filled bucket of water.

She searched either side of the gloomy path, wary of any sounds or movement that would indicate she had been followed away from the camp. She was obeying the instructions on the crumpled note she had found earlier in the afternoon—the note that had been left in response to the fountain of bright red ribbons she had worn in her hair all morning.

Her teeth chattered from the dampness, her skin felt clammy, and her nerves were rebelling at the sight of the silent stands of tall fir trees that crowded the path from the camp to the stream. Another fifty yards and she would have the comfort of roaring campfires to guide her down the gentle slope, but here, where the trees were thickest and the mist almost opaque, she felt as cut off and isolated from the real world as a child lost in a nightmare.

She stopped dead in her tracks and whirled around.

Nothing.

She could hear herself breathing and feel the steady pounding of her heart, but aside from the constant drip, drip, dripping of the snow melting from the upper branches of the trees, there were no other sounds to explain the alarm swelling in her chest.

Cursing, she expelled her breath in a stream of white vapor. A scream would bring half the camp to her rescue in a matter of seconds, if any was necessary. After all, it was not as if she were meeting an enemy alone, unarmed, unprotected in the middle of a deep, dark, cavernous forest … she was meeting the man who would hopefully speed this farce on its way and send her cheerfully back to Edinburgh.

Lauren started walking again, humming under her breath just to prove to whoever might be watching that she could be as calm and proficient at these games as he could. She had barely taken two paces when she heard the distinct rustle of bushes off to one side, followed by the sucking sound of a wet foot stepping onto the path of slush behind her.

She slowed, her chest a wall of ice, the skin on her arms and legs becoming so sensitive she could feel every seam and thread on her clothing.

“Keep walking,” a voice hissed. “Don’t turn around.”

“What dae ye mean, dinna turn around?” she asked in a normal tone, already halfway into her turn. Before she could complete it and before she could catch a glimpse of his face or form, he had an arm slung around her waist, another locked preventively under her chin.

Her first impulse was to scream, which she would have done had he not anticipated the reaction and clamped a bruising hand over her mouth. Her second instinctive reaction was to drop the heavy bucket and claw behind her for any vulnerable, exposed area of his face.

He only swore at the futile gesture, and, after catching both her wrists and twisting them around to the small of her back, he lifted her bodily off the track and carried her into the deeper shadows behind an outcrop of rock. There she was shoved roughly against the wet surface of the boulder, pressed against it with enough force to leave her struggling for air.