The Blood of Roses (50 page)

“Pardon, ma lady,” came the voice of Robert Hardy, the wizened Stewart of Moy Hall. “There’s a lad at the door, name O’ Laughlan MacKintosh. He’s in a rare state an’ says he must take a word wi’ ye … in privat’cy.”

“Young Laughlan—Eanruil’s son?”

“The same, ma lady.” Robert arched a graying brow. “Says he has run all the way frae Inverness wi’ a message ye must hear wi’ yer ain ears.”

Lady Anne smiled. “Then by all means, Robert, show the lad in.”

Moments later Laughlan MacKintosh, his face a glowering red from the long run in the cold misty air, dripped his way into the richly furnished drawing room, his blue wool bonnet crushed in frozen fingers before his chest, a large bead of moisture hanging from the end of his nose. Robert Hardy pinched the lad severely on the arm and indicated by way of a frosty glare for him to remove his fur-skin brogues from the rug to the polished—and thus wipeable—wood floor.

Lady Anne Moy, as regal a hostess to a sweating, quivering fifteen-year-old gillie as she was to the royal prince regent, stood and waved the lad closer to the roaring fire.

“Ma lady,” he began. “I’d have a word wi’ ye, if ye please.”

“Whisht, Laughlan MacKintosh,” she interrupted, signaling a disapproving Robert Hardy to pour out a glass of brandy. “Warm yerself first. Yer teeth are chattering so loud I can barely hear anything through them.”

Laughlan dragged the sleeve of his coat across his nose and forehead, then accepted and gratefully drained the glass of spirits; “I’d have a word wi’ ye alone, ma lady,” he insisted, spluttering over the liquor-induced fireball in his throat. “It’s fair important, what I have tae say.”

“I’m sure it is to have brought ye out on a night like this. But these are ma friends, Laughlan. Ye can say what ye must in front of them.”

“Well—” He spared a last glance around the ring of quiet faces before blurting out his story. “The sojers from Fort George are on their way here, ma lady. They’re on their way from Inverness tae surround the hall an’ take Prince Charles their prisoner.”

Damien, leaning against the pillared column of the fireplace, straightened and set his glass on the mantel. Deirdre and Catherine exchanged worried glances, but Lady Anne only laced her fingers together and smiled calmly.

“Where did ye hear this, Laughlan?” she asked.

“’Tis the truth, ma lady, I swear it. I haird two men talkin’ about a plan tae attack an’ kidnap the prince. One O’ them was an officer from the fort an’ said as how Lord Loudoun had given him fifteen hunnerd sojers an’ they were tae march wi’in the hour. The ither one said as how there werena but a few men left at Moy Hall tae guard the prince; he said as how Lochiel an’ Keppoch had left this mornin’ an’ the prince were alone until Lord George comes from Nairn.”

“Who was this second man?” Lady Anne asked sharply. “Did ye see his face?”

Laughlan shook his head. “Nae. But he were
Sassenach
—a proper
Sassenach
wi’ an accent crisp as toast. I might ken him again if I seen him by the side an’ wi’ the same kind O’ shadows ’roun him—or if I heard him talk lowlike, in a whisper. I come here quick as I could, ma lady, on account O’ they vowed as how the sojers would have the prince in jail afore midnight.”

Lady Anne, Catherine, Deirdre, and Damien looked at the ticking clock simultaneously.

“If what the boy says is true,” Damien stated, loud enough for his cultured Derby accent to win a shocked stare from Laughlan, “then we haven’t much time.”

“Robert—” Lady Anne addressed the manservant with commanding efficiency. “Ye must go and rouse the prince at once. Take him warm claythes—a plain kilt and jacket— and tell him to dress quickly; we will have to hide him somewhere until we find out if it is true or na’.”

Laughlan dragged his wary eyes away from Damien and settled his gaze firmly on Lady Anne. “It is true, ma lady. On ma honor as a MacKintosh, it is true.”

For two full seconds there was silence, then the butler cleared his throat. “He could be taken to the caves, ma lady,” he suggested.

“Aye. Aye, Robert, we’ll have to risk it. We only have but forty or fifty men on hand.
Damn
MacGillivray f’ae choosing today of all days to go home and check on his farms.”

“I’ve already sent a message tae The MacGillivray,” Laughlan said with a measure of manly pride. “I knew ye mout be needin’ his help.”

“Bless ye f’ae that, Laughlan, but it will still be well past midnight before he can call his men together and be of any use.
Robert! Have yer feet grown into the floor?”
She waited until the butler hurried away before she spoke again.

“What we have to do is think O’ some way to stall the soldiers long enough to get the prince safely away.”

“We can begin by rounding up all the men from the camp,” Damien said, striding for the door. “If you don’t need the boy anymore, he can help me by collecting together all the servants, stableboys … anyone and everyone who is old enough and willing enough to carry a weapon.”

“Deirdre and I qualify on both counts,” Catherine declared. “We want to help too.”

“Absolutely not!” Damien growled, halting at the door. “You will both go up to your rooms, lock yourselves inside, and wait for me to come back and fetch you. And I warn you, Catherine Ashbrooke Cameron, if you defy me on this, it may be the last bit of willful disobedience you will ever attempt while
in one piece.”

He was gone in a startled blink of an eye, although it did not take long for either woman to redirect an appeal to Lady Anne.

“Please,” Catherine cried. “You cannot expect us just to hide away in our rooms and do nothing! There must be some way we can be of help.”

Lady Anne, anxious to be away on errands of her own, shook her head after little or no consideration. “No. Your brither is right, Catherine. Ye’ve nae hand f’ae violence, if it comes to that. Both yer husbands would skin me alive if I allowed either you or Deirdre anywhere near danger. Ye’re safest in your rooms, as ye were told. The soldiers wouldna dare enter Moy Hall.”

“I thought they would never dare violate Rosewood Hall,” Catherine said, stubbornly following Lady Anne out into the hallway and up the stairs, “but they did. As for violence, Deirdre and I have both witnessed our share lately, and regardless of my brother’s misguided sense of chivalry or my husband’s vaunted temper, I insist on helping in some way!”

Robert Hardy chose that opportune moment to appear in the hallway, his arms burdened under yards of plaid, his speech and mannerisms agitated.

“It is the prince, ma lady. I canna rouse him. He’s locked himsel’ in his room an’—”

“Christ on a cross!” Anne Farquharson Moy exclaimed, abandoning all pretense at patience. “Break the bluidy door down if ye must! Carry him out over yer shoulder if ye canna get him to move any other way! When I go back down the stairs, Robert Hardy, I dinna want to hear he’s still in the house, or I’ll have yer nether parts slung around ma neck to wear as a trophy!”

Clearly stunned by his mistress’s vehemence, Robert flinched out of her way, flattening himself against the panelled wall as she brushed past. His eyes remained owlish and watery as he swallowed and glanced nervously at the two remaining ladies.

“B-break down the door?” he stammered. “Carry him out over ma shoulder?” He paused and gulped again. “But … he’s The Stuart!”

“Well, I have no qualms about stirring the royal buttocks,” Catherine said firmly. “Take us to his rooms, then fetch two more sets of plain, warm clothing. Find Corporal Peters … Corporal Jeffrey Peters. He shouldn’t be too far if he’s heard there is trouble on the way … and have him waiting at the front door for us with horses and men to guard the prince. What are these caves you mentioned?”

Robert stumbled along beside them as he led the way down the hall. The tartan was becoming tangled around his bony legs, the trailing ends flapping this way and that, and he seemed to be having difficulty thinking, talking, and walking at the same time. Deirdre relieved him of the garments, earning a smile of gratitude.

“Aye,” he said. “The caves up the glen. There’s nae a house nor castle in the Heelands disna have a hidey-hole somewheres, by-the-by.”

“Do you know the way? Can you lead us there?” “Aye. Aye, I could dae.”

“Good. Then you’d best fetch some warmer clothes for yourself as well. And weapons. Pistols or muskets … even a fowling piece will do. And quickly. We’ll take care of the prince.”

Robert left them at the royal chamber and hurried away, repeating his instructions to himself in muttered Gaelic.

“Your Highness?” Catherine rapped sharply on the door. “Are you awake?”

When there was no answer, she tested the latch, not surprised to find it still securely locked.

“Your Highness? This is Lady Catherine. I must see you at once on a matter of great urgency.”

“Go away” came the muffled rejoinder. “I am not well …”

Catherine frowned and rattled the latch again. “Your Highness, I do not wish to alarm you, but there are soldiers on their way from Inverness. They have intentions of surrounding Moy Hall and taking you prisoner.”

“Have they a reputable physician with them?” the voice said, quavering. “If they do, I should gladly throw myself upon their mercy.”

Catherine looked at Deirdre. “What shall we do?”

“I doubt if we could break the door ourselves,” Deirdre said, studying the thick wooden panel skeptically. “We might have to go back down and—”

The key scraped into the lock and a bleary, bloodshot eye appeared in the crack of the door.

“Good God. Lady Catherine, it
is
you.” The crack widened and the eye narrowed as if to see through the alcoholic vapors of his own breath. “And Mrs. MacKail. What manner of mischief brings you clamoring to my rooms at this ungodly hour?”

“Sire. There are soldiers on their way from Inverness.”

“So you said. What do they want?”

Catherine held her patience in check, wondering why it was that all men seemed to revert to infancy when assailed by the slightest sniffle or sneeze? “They most likely want you, your Highness. We must, therefore, take you up into the hills and conceal you before they have a chance to succeed.”

“Into the hills?” he exclaimed. “In the abominable damp? I should die of the pneumonia long before I so much as saw a hill, never mind climbed one. Here—feel my brow. Does it not cry out for bedrest?”

Without leaving Catherine the choice, he snatched up her hand and pressed it to his forehead. Granted, there was some warmth under her fingertips, but she suspected it was more a result of the empty bottle she saw lying on its side by the bed than because of any fever he might be nursing.

She pushed her way into the room, wrinkling her nose distastefully at the smell of stale air, whisky, and a lidless chamber pot. The prince was similarly unkempt. The threads of fair reddish-blond hair that poked out from beneath his nightcap were scattered about his ears and temples, too thin and wispy to have retained any curl. His complexion was sallow, his brown eyes ringed with dark smudges. The linen nightshirt he wore reached his ankles and bore large splotches of spilled whisky, food, and other questionable stains.

“Your Highness, we have brought you warm clothes. You must get dressed at once. The soldiers—”

“A pox on the soldiers,” he grumbled, weaving his way back to the bed. “Let them come, if they like. I shall sneeze them all to perdition for their insolence.”

“There are fifteen hundred armed men on the way, sire,” Catherine said sharply. “I seriously doubt a few sneezes will deter them from clapping you in irons and dragging you away to jail.”

Charles staggered to a halt, his eyes screwing to slits as he peered back at Catherine. “How dare you speak to me in such a tone. Who the devil do you think you are?”

“Lady Catherine Cameron, as you well know. And who the devil are you to think you can jeopardize the lives of every single man, woman, and child on this estate simply because you do not feel well enough to stir from your bed?”

He drew back, blinking several times to bring her into better focus. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

“You heard me,” she said evenly. “And to think, our husbands almost had us convinced that what they are doing is right and just. They claimed you were an honorable, courageous man willing to continue this fight single-handed and to fight to the death, if need be, for the sake of what you believed in.” She paused and cast a sardonic glance along his dishevelled form. “In reality, it seems you are not even willing to risk a few hours of mild discomfort in order to save what is left of your army. The soldiers are welcome to you, sir. Perhaps they, too, will take pity on the miserable creature they find before them and continue to let him drown his miseries in fine whisky.”

In a swirl of velvet skirts, Catherine started back for the chamber door and gestured to an astonished Deirdre MacKail to deposit her armload of clothes on a chair and leave the room.

“Wait!” Charles demanded. “Hold up there, damn you!”

Ignoring the outburst, Catherine addressed him coolly. “Mrs. MacKail and I are adjourning to our rooms to change into warmer clothing. In fifteen minutes we will be outside the front door, mounted on horses, and prepared to leave. You may join us if you wish. If not”—retrieving a memory of one of Sir Alfred’s more dramatic moments, she spread her hands wide—“you may share the company and hospitality of the manor with whomever you choose.”