The Blood of Roses (46 page)

“If you scream or make one single sound before I tell you to, I’m going to snap your neck like a piece of kindling. Is that understood?”

Lauren’s eyes stung with tears of outrage at being manhandled. He was crushing her body, his hand was mashing her lips against her teeth, and he was holding her neck at such an angle it felt as if it would snap without any further help from him.

She managed a jerky nod and slowly, the ironlike fingers unclamped from her mouth.

“Stupid bitch. You think this is some kind of a game?”

She dared not answer, not while he still held her neck arched at an impossibly painful angle.

“You have a message for me?”

Nodding again, she tried to angle her head a bit farther around, but he only tightened his grip and kept her eyes pointed at the slimy rock.

“Well?”

“Leave go O’ me first. Ye’re near breakin’ ma bluidy neck.”

After another tense moment, he relented. Lauren barely waited for the blood and air to resume normal circulation before she was twisting around like a dervish, her lips drawn back in a snarl, her hands flung up and hungry for a strike.

“Who d’ye think ye are, ye damned heavy-handed bastard! Who d’ye think I am ye can just drag me intae the bushes like a sack O’ grain!”

One of her fists made contact, but the pleasure was short-lived as he grabbed her and slammed her against the rock again. He curled his fingers around the ribbon-bound shank of her hair and yanked at the thick knot until the scalp was in danger of being ripped from her skull.

“Who do I think you are?” he spat, ignoring her shrill whimpers of pain. “I think you are a cheap little whore who would spread her legs for anyone with the shavings from a copper penny to shove up your skirts. I, on the other hand, am a man who is taking an incalculable risk by meeting you here like this. I didn’t like the idea in the first place, didn’t agree with the major’s assessment of your … special talents, and see no reason why I should have to coddle the vanity of a useless, foul-mouthed trollop. In short, I could walk away from here right now and not give it a second though. Whereas you”—he tightened his fingers, prompting another thin wail from the swollen lips—“if I do walk away, Mrs. MacSorley, you will be on your own. There will be no one to watch your backside or scrape your pretty butt off the ground if someone finds out the real reason why you came back to camp. And they will find out,” he promised ominously. “I’ll make damned sure of it.”

Shockingly aware of just how strong this madman was and just how isolated they were here in the forest, Lauren swallowed back her rage and indignation. She had no idea who he was, only that he was not a Scot. Although he had lowered his voice in order to disguise it, there was no mistaking the cultured accent. She had not needed Hamilton Garner’s forewarning to tell her the man was a foreigner, but to a Highlander, a foreigner was anyone born south of the Grampians. There were Frenchmen among the Jacobite rebels, Italians, Irishmen, Welshmen, even proper English gentlemen who had volunteered their services to the Stuart cause—-all of them foreigners, but to an army starved for manpower, they were not required to show much proof of loyalty.

“Shall we try again?” he hissed. “You have a message for Major Garner?”

“Lochiel an’ Keppoch are bein’ sent tae attack Fort Augustus,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “They’re takin’ all their men wi’ them, but leavin’ the women an’ most O’ the supplies until they’ve cleared the route.”

“Is that your message?” he demanded incredulously. “You took a risk like this to tell me something every man, woman, and child in camp will know by morning?”

“There’s more they dinna ken,” she insisted evenly.

“Such as?”

“The prince. He’s stayin’ on at Moy Hall. He has a bad chest an’ a cough an’ disna feel well enough tae move until Lord George comes f’ae him.”

A lengthy, tension-filled pause ended with a slight reduction in pressure on her neck. “Where did you hear this?”

“Ma husband was wi’ Lochiel an’ his brithers all mornin’. He came tae me noontime in a rare foul mood f’ae havin’ tae pick extra guards tae stay ahind an’ nurse the prince.”

“Are you absolutely certain he said Moy Hall? I thought the prince was supposed to move to Kilravock Castle tonight.”

“Aye, that were the plan, but he changed his mind. He’s stayin’ here wi’ but a han’ful O’ guards; twenny, mayhap less, if Lochiel carina spare them.”

“Lady MacKintosh has men.”

Lauren shook her head as much as she was able. “They’ve all gone home tae wait till the rest O’ the army comes up from Aberdeen.”

“I see,” he murmured.

“Dae ye now?” She sneered. “An’ what will ye dae about it? A
clever
man would get word tae Inverness an’ have the prince snatched from his bed afore anyone was the wiser. A daft bastard would stall an’ blether an’ miss his chance f’ae a share O’ thirty thousan’ pounds reward.”

“A share?” he rasped pointedly.

“Aye. Half O’ it’s mine, or the only ither information the
Sassenach
major will get from me is where tae find yer molderin’ body.”

The threat was absorbed and dismissed with a coarse laugh. He might have called her bluff then and there, but the sound of a cracking twig somewhere near in the fog had him moving her lightning fast into a deep niche in the rocks. Lauren heard a faint whisper of steel on leather and was startled to feel the presence of a cocked pistol in his hand. Where it had come from and the speed with which he had produced it made the blood sing through her veins and the danger flood her senses with excitement.

The sliding footsteps of two clansmen, returning from sentry duty, passed close to the outcrop of rock before fading in the direction of the camp. Lauren and her companion remained frozen in the shadows for several more long moments, the latter alert for any further indications of unexpected company. Lauren, conversely, was more aware of the heat of his body where it was pressed up against hers and of the heady scents of horse leather, wind, and weather that clung to his skin and clothing.

“Ye can leave go O’ me now,” she murmured huskily. “Unless ye’ve found somethin’ ye like.”

Startled, the man moved away, unselfconsciously rubbing his hand along his jacket to erase the memory of contact.

“An’ what the devil were ye plannin’ tae dae wi’ the gun?” she asked. “One shot, but, an’ ye’d have the whole camp crawlin’ down yer throat.”

Glancing down, she straightened her shawl and sent a hand up to probe her scalp. Her hair had been torn loose and the ribbon lost somewhere in the mud and slush at their feet. She spared a moment or two in a useless search of the shadows, and when she straightened again, she was alone.

“What the bluidy hell?”

She whirled, her eyes searching the murky darkness, but there was no sound, no movement of any kind—nothing but cold, empty space where her fellow conspirator had stood only seconds before.

“Bluidy bastard,” she exclaimed softly. “Serves ye right ye didna hear the whole message, then.”

With a toss of her frothing, titian hair, she stepped out from behind the rocks and regained the familiarity of the path. She located her bucket—empty, of course—and cursed the need to go back to the stream and fight her way through the crust of ice to refill it.

On second thought, she decided, if MacSorley wanted a wash he could damn well go to the stream himself, or melt snow over the fire. She kicked the bucket under some brush and started back down the path toward the faint sounds of the distant camp. Muttering to herself and massaging the abused patch of skin at the base of her skull, she rounded the final bend and emerged from the trees, halting abruptly in the swirl of clinging mist that had followed her out of the forest.

Standing less than ten feet down along the slope was Struan MacSorley, his arms crossed over his chest, his massive frame silhouetted against the brighter glow of the camp spread out behind him. He was leaning on a tree stump. When he caught sight of her, he straightened, dropped his arms slowly down by his sides and started walking forward to meet her.

Lauren arranged her face in a smile and started to call out a greeting, but a movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention farther along the meandering border of trees. With the field of clear snow to define his shape and the brightness of the campfires to dispell most of the distortion of the mist, she had no trouble in identifying the
Sassenach
, Damien Ashbrooke, casually emerging from the forest, whistling softly to himself, and hitching his breeches as if he had just returned from relieving himself.

Aluinn MacKail
had
just relieved himself and was about to mount his horse when he heard the discreet clearing of a throat behind him. Without looking around, he knew who it was and sighed inwardly. Eager, earnest, devoted were all words he could easily use to describe Corporal Jeffrey Peters. In the past few weeks, he had been eager to prove himself a hard worker, earnest about being accepted as one of them despite the distinct shade of gray he had turned upon hearing of the fates of the four hundred men of the Manchester Regiment captured at Carlisle. And there were few, with the exception of Alexander Cameron himself, who were more devoted to Catherine. As Alex, in one of his rare moods of generosity liked to say, his wife had found a stray puppy that night in Derby and it had slavishly followed her home to stay.

The corporal had, by nature, attached himself to the Englishmen who formed their own small contingent of the prince’s army. But every spare moment he had, he was usually dogging Catherine, helping her about the campsite, fetching, carrying, running errands—all for the reward of a smile, which never failed to send him into crimson paroxysms of stuttering rapture. Doubtless he had heard the women would be remaining behind at Moy Hall and was here to plead his case in the hopes he might be permitted to stay and act as Catherine’s bodyguard and champion.

“Mr. MacKail, sir?”

“Corporal Peters.” Aluinn clamped a firm restraint on his patience as he half turned to address the young soldier. “A fine evening for a stroll.”

Peters peered up into the misty web of tangled clouds the moon had spun out across the stars. “Yes, sir. I suppose it is.”

When several moments passed with no further sign of life from the corporal, Aluinn turned fully around. “You wanted to see me about something, Corporal?”

Peters’s head had remained tilted up toward the sky, only his gaze flicked down to MacKail. “Actually, sir, I was hoping to have a private moment to speak to Mr. Cameron, but I haven’t managed to catch up to him at all today.”

“He has been a little busy. Is it something I can help you with?”

“Well … I did want to speak to Mr. Cameron.” “If it’s important, I’ll see that Alex gets the message tonight.”

The corporal bit his lip thoughtfully. “Well … the honest truth is … I don’t know if it’s important or not. I mean, I could be wrong and seeing things that aren’t there, and if that’s the case, then we would have a fine mess on our hands indeed, and all b-because of me.”

Aluinn frowned, stroking absently at the nose of his horse, who seemed to be as impatient as he to get away. Aluinn wanted to spend what time he could with Deirdre, not act as a go-between for some nerve-wrought, loves-smitten rival for his best friend’s wife.

“It has been a very long day, Corporal.” MacKail sighed. “I estimate I have, at best, five hours to spend saying good-bye to my wife, so, if whatever this is all about can wait until the morning—”

“Not
what
, sir.
Who.
It has to do with the count. Count Fanducci? The Italian gentleman who—”

“I know who Count Fanducci is, Corporal,” Aluinn cut in, exasperated. “What the devil has he to do with Lady Cameron? If you’re looking for someone to act as your second, lad, you have come to the wrong place.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

The corporal looked genuinely baffled and Aluinn cursed softly. “Never mind. It has been an
extremely
long day. What about Fanducci?”

“Yes, well, as I said, sir, I could be seeing something that isn’t there. I could be dead wrong in my suspicions, but …”

“But,” Aluinn prompted irritably.

“But … I have reason to believe the count may not be who he purports to be; that his loyalties may not lie where he would like us to believe they lie.”

Mildly taken aback, Aluinn’s hand dropped slowly from the horse’s nose. “I hope your reasons are damned good, Corporal.”

Peters flushed. “That was why I wanted to speak to Mr. Cameron privately. I haven’t said anything to anyone else, and have no intentions of d-doing so, sir. I know too well how ill-spoken rumors can d-destroy a man’s reputation and career.”

MacKail’s gray eyes pierced through the gloom. “Say what you have to say, Corporal, What makes you suspect something is not right about Fanducci?”

“Well, sir.” The corporal moistened his lips and drew himself to attention as if reporting officially to a senior ranking officer. “I had occasion to observe Count Fanducci when he was unaware of my presence. He was sitting by one of the wagons cleaning and oiling his pistols.”