The Blood of Roses (47 page)

“Not an entirely suspicious act for a gunmaker, I should think.”

“N-no, sir. But the thing is, he was distracted for a moment by one of the men, and as he talked, he reassembled one of the metal fittings on the snaphaunce improperly. I know he did, sir, because after the clansman moved away, he noticed the firelock was not quite seated properly and he had to take it apart and refit it.”

Aluinn frowned again. “Forgive me, Corporal, but haven’t you ever made a mistake while cleaning and reassembling a gun?”

“Yes, sir. Dozens of times. But I do not profess to be a master gunmaker. One would think a master gunmaker would be able to strip and reassemble the firing mechanism of a gun—a gun he boasted of making—in the dark, blindfolded, and with one hand tied behind his back, the other in a splint.”

“One would, indeed,” Aluinn agreed quietly.

The corporal looked visibly relieved. “Then you concur with my suspicions, sir?”

“Now hold on, Peters, don’t go leaping to conclusions. Just because I agree it seems odd for a gunmaker to make a mistake handling a gun—”

“A
master
gunmaker, sir, handling a gun he supposedly carved, molded, and designed himself.”

Aluinn gave the points a moment of silent thought. “You have, I trust, taken into consideration the fact that Fanducci is an odd sort to begin with—a little eccentric, a little excitable, and extremely European. Having spent a good many years in Italy myself, I can almost say the count is, if anything, reserved by comparison to some of his countrymen. I rather like him, to be perfectly honest.”

“I like him, too, sir. Very much so. He’s usually so jolly and dramatic and …

“Yes?”

“Well … I just wouldn’t want anyone to be caught unawares or to be duped into thinking he was one thing while he was really another.”

“A spy, you mean?”

Corporal Peters looked glumly down at his hands. “I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but with so many foreign patriots in the army, it is possible for one or two of them to have been planted here by the government to watch our movements. And just because the count looks and sounds and acts the way we expect him to look and sound and act … well …”

Aluinn’s gaze strayed past the corporal’s shoulders to the hazy lights of the campfires that dotted the glen. Ridiculous? As ridiculous as being duped into accepting a man simply because he showed up at the time and place he was supposed to show up at and, yes, because he looked and acted and sounded the way he was supposed to. Seven months ago, both he and Alex had made a near-fatal mistake in accepting the man who called himself Iain Cameron of Glengarron, because neither of them had considered the ridiculous. Neither one had suspected the Duke of Argyle of substituting one of his own men for Glengarron, and because of their laxness, Gordon Ross Campbell had not only come damned close to collecting the reward for Alex’s capture but had put a shot in Aluinn’s shoulder—a shot that had missed his heart by mere inches.

“I appreciate your coming to me with this, Corporal, and no, I don’t think the notion is the least bit ridiculous that the British have planted spies in our camp. The count is coming with us when we head out to Fort Augustus—you can be sure I’ll keep what you have told me in mind and watch him like the proverbial hawk. In the meantime, you will keep this to yourself?”

“Of course, sir.” The corporal came to attention again, only just discouraged from throwing a full salute by the open grimace on Aluinn’s face. “May I ask, er, if all the Camerons are departing for Fort Augustus?”

“All the men, yes. With the exception of a few guards we’re leaving behind to stay with the women, naturally.”

The solemn, puppy-dog eyes were fixed unwaveringly on MacKail’s face, and Aluinn was hard pressed to confine his smile.

“It occurs to me, Corporal,” he said, reaching nonchalantly to untether his horse’s reins, “that you could be in a position to do me a great favor … not that I have the right to ask it of you, since you have already done me a service I can hardly hope to repay.”

“I have, sir?”

Aluinn smiled. “In case you have forgotten, you also escorted
my
wife safely out of Derby with Lady Catherine.”

“Oh.” Corporal Peters flushed again. “Of course, sir. Don’t mention it.”

“My wife and Lady Catherine will both be staying on at Moy Hall as guests of Lady Anne. Frankly speaking, I think both ladies might feel slightly more comfortable being left behind if they had a familiar face around—one who did not speak with a Celtic brogue.”

“Oh! Oh, I would be honored to stay with Lady Catherine, sir!” The corporal gasped. “Honored and p-privileged, and … and I would guard her with my l-life, sir! I swear I would not sleep a w-wink the whole time you were away, and I w-would never let her out of my sight!”

“Your dedication is commendable, Corporal, although I don’t think you will have to be quite so … intense. They are perfectly safe at Moy Hall. Lady Anne’s men are within shouting distance, and Lord George’s column is due to arrive in Inverness sometime in the next twenty-four hours.” Aluinn took up the reins and swung himself up into the saddle. “But I feel better already, knowing I am leaving my wife in your capable hands.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Naturally I would guard Mrs. MacKail with equal diligence.”

“Naturally.” MacKail grinned. “Good night, Corporal.”

“Good night, sir. And good luck at Fort Augustus. Give the Philistines hell, sir!”

MacKail laughed and nudged his horse into a brisk canter. The mist was wet against his face, the air chilly, his thoughts as sharp and piercing as the few stalwart stars that managed to penetrate the scudding haze overhead. The corporal’s suspicions about Count Giovanni Fanducci soon erased the lingering remnants of his smile, and by the time he drew up at the stable yards of Moy Hall, a line of concern was etched deeply across his forehead. The frown, in turn, remained until he had climbed the stairs to the chamber he and Deirdre shared, but his resolve to seek out Alexander Cameron and share this new worry took a decided downturn in importance when he opened the chamber door and won a sweet and eager greeting from his wife’s lips.

17

C
atherine put on a brave face, as did all the women who were gathered to watch their men leave for Fort Augustus. The pipers winded their instruments, pumping the sheep’s bladders and forcing the air out through selected holes in the ebony chanter to produce what, to a Scotsman, was music, and to most anyone else, was noise.

“How do you know when they are playing an actual, rehearsed tune and when they are just having a good time?” Catherine had once asked Alex. His answer, laden with frowns and hesitations, was hardly satisfying: “You just know.”

Prince Charles, rising from his sickbed, had given a passionate speech of encouragement to the clansmen, ending with a subtle suggestion that their goal should not simply be to rid the two English forts of their garrisons but to push farther south into Argyleshire and deal with the annoying presence of the Campbells. Lochiel managed to hide his shock well enough. The Duke of Argyle had five thousand men to call onto the field at the snap of his fingers; less than a thousand of them had been sent to Edinburgh to answer Cumberland’s request for men. The combined forces of MacDonalds and Camerons added to only seven hundred fifty—worse odds than those that had turned the entire army around at Derby.

The slope curving away from the majestic stone facade of Moy Hall glowed with tartans of red, blue, green, black, and gold. Only fifty or so of the highest-ranking officers were mounted; the rest of the men marched on foot, with a dozen small carts laden with supplies bringing up the rear.

Damien had elected to stay with Catherine, standing by his sister’s side as she watched the men bid their final farewells and form up in their columns. She picked out familiar faces—Lochiel, Keppoch, Archibald, even Count Fanducci—and tried not to think too long and hard on the possibility she might be seeing them for the last time. No one seemed too concerned about the task ahead. By all reports, Fort Augustus had a skeleton posting of less than sixty soldiers, supported by nothing in the way of artillery or cavalry. But they were still soldiers and they knew how to fire muskets, and muskets could kill, even accidentally.

She absolutely refused to think of Fort William, garrisoned by upward of five hundred men and built on the shores of Loch Linnhe. It could be resupplied daily by sea, if necessary, and a prolonged siege was out of the question. There were heavy guns mounted on the fortified walls and ready access to the four thousand remaining Campbells held champing in reserve less than forty miles to the south.

No, she would not think of Fort William. She wanted them to take Fort Augustus with all due haste so that she could be retrieved from Moy Hall and delivered safely to Achnacarry.

Had it really been seven months since she had first seen the weathered stone masonery and high, buttressed walls of Achnacarry Castle? Was it really seven months ago that she’d walked in the fragrant corridors of the mile-long apple orchard and sat in the garden under the sun-splashed protection of the gazebo—Lady Maura’s pride and joy? Did they think of her—Lady Maura, Jeannie, Aunt Rose—or had they forgotten her the instant she’d sailed out of their lives? Was it possible these feelings of attachment and homesickness burning inside her were real, or were they just born out of a need for something she had never had?

Lady Caroline Ashbrooke had delivered quite a blow by revealing the circumstances of her birth, and yet the news was not as devastating as it might have been had she been raised in an atmosphere of love and security. Her first introduction to either of those two emotions had come with her marriage to Alexander Cameron. Losing him once had almost destroyed her; losing him again would take away any reason to go on living.

“You are looking terribly intense, Mrs. Cameron” came a warm whisper against her ear. “Can it be you are going to miss your husband after all?”

Smiling, Catherine leaned into his embrace as Alex wrapped his long arms around her. “Is that why you are taking both Struan and Count Fanducci with you? To remove temptation? Well, it won’t work, my lord. Lady Anne has offered to provide me with a lusty lover if my needs become uncontrollable.”

“She has, has she?”

“And then, of course, I always have Corporal Peters.”

“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” Alex murmured huskily, his lips nuzzling her throat. “I barely have the strength to keep up.”

“In that case, you should make good use of this week and rest well, my husband, for I am already feeling the lack.”

Alex released her, turned her slowly around, and tilted her mouth up to his for a kiss—one that eventually drew the stares and smiles of every man and woman standing within twenty paces. Aluinn, thinking the idea a fine one, scooped Deirdre into his arms and took up the challenge. Lauren Cameron, her eyes flecked with hot yellow sparks, whirled into Struan’s embrace and kissed him so fervently he had difficulty climbing into his saddle when the time came.

“Mad,” Archibald Cameron declared summarily. “They’ve all gone stark starved mad.”

“Aye,” Lochiel agreed. “But a fine madness, nonetheless. Ye canna say ye dinna feel a wee bit envious, brither dear. Or that ye’ll have nothin’ buzzin’ up yer kilt when ye see Jeannie standin’ at the gates O’ Achnacarry.”

“Jeannie? Faugh!” Archibald denied the notion roundly. “That harridan couldna put a buzz up ma kilt an she had a hive O’ bees atween her legs. Come tae think on it, she does have a mout O’ somethin’ up there, since all I ever come away wi’ is an itch the likes O’ hellfire!”

Donald threw back his head and laughed, knowing full well that Archibald and Jeannie both left their wickedly barbed wits at the bedroom door, collecting them again when they departed flushed and voraciously satiated. Jeannie was Archibald’s mainstay, and he could not imagine either one surviving overlong on their own. Just as he could not imagine the sun rising or the heather growing wild and fragrant without some word of approval from his Maura.

Maura. God, how he missed her. As happy as he had been for Alasdair and Catherine these past months, Donald found himself grudging them their time together. Their visible joy only accentuated his own loneliness, and he knew, if for no other reason than to see and feel his Maura in his arms again, he would sooner raze Fort Augustus to the ground than waste an unnecessary hour in diplomacy.

Bristling impatiently, he raised his arm to signal the pipers to commence the stirring
piob ’rachds.

“I have to go,” Alex said, stroking his fingers softly down Catherine’s cheek. The motion was carried lower to bestow a private caress on the gentle roundness of her belly. “Take care of our son.”

Catherine nodded, her eyes wide and shining, a more vibrant shade of heather blue than Alex had ever seen. They were swimming with tears in spite of the smile she forced upon her lips; the wetness brimmed over her lashes and hung suspended in perfect silver droplets until a blink caused them to splash onto the back of his hands.