The Blood of Roses (57 page)

Catherine slipped the last bow free and turned back the opened edges of the bodice, pushing the muslin aside just enough to cause another tic to quiver in his cheek. Impudently she ran her fingertips down into the deep, shadowy cleft between her breasts and slowly dragged them upward again, brushing the filmy layer of muslin farther apart on each pass.

The taunting strokes brought the dark eyes back up to hers, the smoldering centers warning of imminent danger.

“Not one muscle,” she admonished.

This time when the dark eyes descended, she heard a thin hiss of air escape his lips. Her nipples were bared, standing firm and proud, and so tightly crinkled she shivered at the next pass of her fingertips.

The nightdress went the way of the robe and she raised her arms, stretching sinuously before the fire. Tilting her head to one side, she began drawing out the steel pins and fine filigreed combs that had been keeping her hair neatly confined. The shining curls spilled over the sloping whiteness of her shoulders like a turbulent waterfall, the gold and silver threads caught the sheen of the firelight and seemed to gild her body in flames. She combed her fingers through the heavy waves to loosen them, aware of his eyes following her every move, of his toes curling into the carpet for added restraint.

She reached for the decanter of brandy and splashed some into a crystal wineglass.

“I am a little thirsty myself,” he said, his teeth flashing in a grin that was part wolfish, part bluster.

“I was not planning on drinking it,” she said calmly, watching his face as she dipped a finger into the glass and swirled the amber liquid around and around. Glistening wet, her finger moved back to her breast and deposited a bright, amber droplet on the nipple. She allowed it to sparkle intact for a moment before smoothing it into all the tiny creases and puckers, then dipped her finger again, painting streaks of brandy across her breasts and up to the soft arch of her throat, lavishly enough that a thin, shiny rivulet trickled down over her stomach and disappeared between her thighs.

“An inventive use for brandy,” he murmured. “But rather sticky.”

“I had an inventive teacher. And it is sticky only if you fail to remove it properly.” Dipping her fingers again, she stepped forward and painted the brandy on the dark disc of his nipple, then used her tongue to lap it clean. “You see? Quite clean … although one must be quite thorough as well.”

All five fingers were soaked now, and Alex did not have to follow the motion of her hand from the glass to his body to know where she was bound with her further devilment. And in truth, he could not have moved if he had wanted to at that particular moment. The shock of feeling her slippery fingers close around his flesh was nearly as devastating as the penetrating heat of brandy where it came in contact with his skin.

Abandoning his nipple, she followed the path she had painted down to his belly, then lower, where the brandy had been spread with such loving care and proved to be exceedingly stubborn to remove.

“I never taught you this,” he said hoarsely.

“Perhaps not this particular embellishment,” she conceded, gazing at the formidable result of her handiwork. “But you must admit, the effect is admirable.”

“Only
admirable
, you say?”

With a shriek of surprise and a swirl of scattered blonde tresses, Catherine was swept up into his arms and carried to the bed. The brandy glass was snatched out of her hand as she was deposited on the satin counterpane and, without wasting time on ceremony or finesse, the contents were dribbled in a fiery stream from her throat to her toes.

“You moved,” she gasped. “You lose.”

The curve in his mouth scorned her briefly before he turned his attention to the shiny amber puddle between her breasts. His lips and tongue chased greedily after the spreading runnels of brandy, licking it eagerly from her flesh, tracking down every last drop and drizzle with meticulous care. He suckled the sweetness from every ridge and wrinkle on her nipples, then lured great mouthfuls of opulent flesh into the well of his mouth, holding it there until she was shivering and arching into each rolling thrust of his tongue.

Smoothing his hand over the gentle roundness of her belly, he followed the path the brandy had taken between her thighs. His fingers stroked into the dampened thatch of tight gold curls and he lavished the trembling folds of flesh with the liquor, his forays at first light and charitable, but as the first waves of pleasure rippled through her body, he deepened his strokes, introducing more brandy, more pressure.

Catherine tensed around each deep stroke, her hips rising and falling, her cries turning to pleas, her nails threatening to tear ribbons of skin from his arms and shoulders. Only then did he shift the weight of his body between her thighs, thrusting himself and the heat of the brandy deep, deep inside. He was in no hurry to ease her torment, however, and curled his fingers into her hair, forcing her to look up into his face, his eyes dark and gleaming, watchful … waiting …

And Catherine knew, suddenly, why. The warmth from the brandy began to flare along the length of his flesh, spreading outward and inward until its effects could even be felt flushing across the surface of her skin. Her cry was urgent, desperate, her eyes wide in amazement and disbelief, feeling every inch of his fullness where it stretched and swelled and throbbed within her. He seemed to know the precise moment when the heat became too much to bear without movement and he began thrusting with strong, powerful strokes. She tightened around him, lashed herself around him, convulsing wildly, fiercely, joyously around each rise and fall of his hips until the pleasure crested in a blur of unrelenting ecstasy.

Gasping, straining to share every last shiver of molten heat, they clung to each other, reeling under the exquisite sensation of knowing they could never again become two separate beings, could never exist one without the other. Startled groans and wet, slippery flesh sent their bodies rolling apart, damp and panting onto the cool bed sheets.

“You cheated,” she said through a gasp.

“Especially not one who feels he must win at every game, at any cost.”

He laughed and drew her into his arms, brushing the pad of his thumb gently over the tears that spiked her lashes.
“Buaidh no bas
,” he said with a grin.

“Which means …?”

“Victory or death. No room for surrender … or fair play.”

Catherine smiled wistfully and curled up against the welcoming curve of his big body. She was already painfully aware that he was not a man given to surrendering—in matters of love or war. But with the one there did not always have to be a clear winner or a clear loser; there were times when both of them benefited immeasurably from the other’s stubbornness.

In war, however, the rules were more defined. Someone won, someone lost. The more stubborn the contenders, the more bloody the defeat.

Victory or death. There would be no such thing as compromise, not for a man like Alexander Cameron, and not for a nation of men and women who lived and died on the strength of their courage and honor.

Three rooms away, Aluinn MacKail and Deirdre were snuggled together before a blazing fire, their hands laced together, their bodies huddled one against the other beneath a cozy quilt. They were putting the time they had left together to similar use; they were naked and flushed with the afterglow of their lovemaking, relaxed and pensive as they studied the leaping flames in the hearth.

“You think there will be a battle, then?” Deirdre asked, breaking the silence for the first time in many minutes.

“The Prince is determined. He says he is tired of tucking his tail between his legs and running away like a frightened puppy.”

“What do you think?”

Aluinn sighed and twined his fingers tighter around hers as he lifted her hand and brushed it with his lips. “What do I think? I think I am one of the luckiest men alive at the moment. Good friends, good food, a beautiful wife curled on my lap like a kitten—” His mouth reached for hers and found it supple, willing, and pleasantly aggressive. “What more could a humble man ask for?”

“A cause he still believed in?” Deirdre suggested gently, her hand combing through the sand-colored locks of his hair. Watching his smile fade, her heart throbbed painfully in her chest. She felt so close to him, in mind and spirit, that she could feel his pain and sadness no matter how hard he tried to conceal it behind smiles and casual bravado.

“You no longer believe Charles Stuart can win, do you?”

He sighed and turned his gaze back to the fire. “To be honest, I haven’t believed it since the day he led the army across the River Esk into England. Up until then he had a chance. A damned good chance too; all he had to do was listen to the wind and hear which way it was blowing.”

Deirdre frowned and bit her lip. She loved this man with all her heart and soul, but sometimes he forgot she was just a gameskeeper’s daughter who spoke and thought in plain terms.

“Which way is it blowing now?”

“Well … the prince’s purse is empty, and has been for weeks. He cannot pay his army, he cannot buy food, he cannot replace guns and ammunition—of which he had precious little to begin with. Clans have had to forage for food and supplies, and some of the humblies have been without shirts, shoes, or coats since the campaign began. Council meetings are hardly more than glorified verbal brawls; the chiefs cannot even agree among themselves anymore. The men are tired. Lord knows, they’re half starved with that imbecile Murray of Broughton in charge of provisions. Lochiel and Keppoch returned to camp today, after pressing their men into a forced march from Fort William. They were issued a biscuit each and a mug of sour ale and told it would have to suffice until stores could be replenished.”

“I did not know things were so bad,” Deirdre said, feeling guilty as she glanced over at the remains of the huge meal she had prepared for Aluinn. He had scarcely tasted the mutton or touched the boiled fowl, and had only forced himself to pick at the cheese and fresh-baked bread at her insistence. “Why does he not end it? Can he not see his men are suffering, his cause is losing?”

“End it? You mean surrender? Charles Edward Stuart? He still thinks the French are on their way to assist him. He is convinced they will land in force, any day, despite the fact that the French ambassador got down on his knees and begged the prince to retreat and use what few resources he has left to save himself. Even if he could be persuaded, though, where could we retreat to? The northern Highlands cannot support an army living off the land, there is nothing but rock and heather and miles of moorland. We cannot go south, we cannot go east or west without Cumberland snapping at our flanks.”

“And if you stand and fight?”

Aluinn stared at the flames, watching two yellow fingers dart back and forth along the top of the burning log before colliding midway and bursting into a fountain of sparks.

“We’re still short of men. MacPherson is on the way with eight hundred, but God knows where he is right now or how long it will take him to get here. We’ve sent messengers after Fraser and his men to recall them; the same with Cromarty and his fifteen hundred fighters. At the moment, if pressed, we could muster about five thousand if we had to, but I suspect that is a very generous guess.”

“How many men does Cumberland have?”

“Ahh, now that depends on whose report you would care to believe. O’Sullivan’s man—he who still swears the English are trapped by floodwaters at the River Spey— numbers the duke’s forces around seven thousand. The report we received this evening suggests it is closer to ten.”

“What has Lord George Murray recommended?” Deirdre asked, astonished by the disparities and the confusion.

Aluinn smiled wryly. “Lord George, with his usual aplomb, has recommended to O’Sullivan that the next time he has a surgeon bleed him for migraines, he should present his jugular to the knife for more widespread relief.”

“Oh, dear, they are not squabbling again, are they?”

“Again? They’ve never stopped. And unfortunately, the prince’s desperation makes him more inclined to listen to O’Sullivan’s cloying flattery than Lord George’s bare facts. He’s allowed himself to be convinced it was his military genius that took Inverness and Lord George’s incompetence that lost us the advantage after Falkirk. He has also been pursuaded to relieve Lord George of his command and lead the army into battle himself.”

Deirdre straightened in surprise. “But he cannot do that, can he? He has never actually led the men into a real battle before, has he?”

“Lord George has always given him a wing to command—usually somewhere in the second line, in the rear, well out of harm’s way. But it is, in essence, his army to command and lead.”

“What will Lord George do?”

“He won’t roll over and play dead, that’s for sure. Not after he has brought us this far. And certainly not after he heard O’Sullivan’s proposed choice of battlefields.” Aluinn’s hands moved restlessly beneath the quilt and he snorted derisively. “The stupid Irish bastard has the prince believing the moor below Culloden is the ideal field on which to win victory and glory. Lord George rode out and took a look at it today and came back white as a ghost. It’s flat and treeless—perfect for Cumberland’s artillery, among other things. The alternative Lord George has suggested—has pleaded for, in fact—is a glen just this side of Nairn, where the land is gorged and hilly, broken by swamp and bogland—ideally suited to the way our men fight, and with ample protection from the bloody artillery.”

“The second choice sounds more logical by far, even to me,” Deirdre said. “And I know as much about soldiering as I do about … flying. Why is the prince being so obstinate?”

Aluinn averted his gaze from the fire and studied his wife’s solemn, heart-shape face. He hadn’t realized how much he had been rambling on and quite frankly did not want to continue. He was suddenly very much aware of Deirdre’s naked bottom resting on his lap and of the small but perfectly shaped breasts peeping over the edge of the crumpled quilt.

“Because,” he murmured, nudging aside the quilt to caress the velvety soft cap of her nipple, “if the prince is here, occupying the high ground above Nairn, and Cumberland is here—” He traced an imaginary line from the plumpness of her breast up into the seductive little hollow at the base of her throat. “In theory, Cumberland could easily split his forces, sending half to keep the prince’s army preoccupied here”—he retraced his line to her nipple—“while the other half”—his finger touched the hollow again and began a slow descent downward, bypassing the swell of her breast to follow the deep cleft down beneath the quilt—“could march right past him and take Inverness.”