The Blood of Roses (58 page)

“I see,” she whispered, her eyes widening as his fingers probed the terrain designated as his hypothetical Inverness. “And he would not be able to do so if the prince’s army stands at Culloden?”

“Culloden”—his fingers rose again and trailed a slow circle around the delicate indent of her navel—“lies directly in the way of any army marching upon Inverness. Cumberland would have to take the moor first, or, if it looked as if he might be successful, we would have the option of falling back to Inverness, in which case, it would then depend upon how much resistance he encountered … and if Inverness was willing to be occupied.”

Deirdre’s soft brown eyes were glowing as she adjusted her position slightly to allow easier access to the invading army.

“I do not know about your Inverness,” she murmured against his lips, “but mine is downright eager to be occupied.”

Aluinn’s free hand moved up into the froth of glossy chestnut curls at the nape of her neck, holding her fast while his mouth earnestly accepted the capitulation.

21

C
atherine’s party left Moy Hall at dawn. Despite the presence of twenty heavily armed clansmen who looked as if they chewed trees for amusement, and despite the presence of Deirdre, Damien, and the surly familiarity of Struan MacSorley, a cold and deplorably lonely sense of isolation rode with her. Alex and Aluinn had escorted their wives as far as the junction of the military roads outside of Inverness. In stark contrast to the cheerful displays of bravado fronted by all parties, Catherine’s heart had remained lodged firmly in her throat; Deirdre had hardly spoken two words all morning.

MacSorley was clearly not happy at having been assigned the duty of escorting the women to Achnacarry. He could smell a battle brewing and had five weeks of pent-up frustration that wanted venting. Lauren’s betrayal and treachery had struck him hard; her death had been necessary and justified, but as the days passed, he had shifted the blame for her actions squarely onto the shoulders of the English bastards, who had obviously corrupted her with visions of wealth and luxury. Struan had no intentions of obeying Alexander Cameron’s orders to remain at Achnacarry after delivering his charges safely. His one good hand and sword arm were still worth ten of any other men, and he had a deal of vengeance to wreak upon his enemy.

Archibald had mended the wounded hand as best he could, but the tendons had all been severed, and consequently, as the fingers healed, they curled into a stiff, frozen claw. To compensate for the loss of articulation, Struan had fashioned a rigid leather gauntlet that fit snugly over the hand, wrist, and forearm, turning the damaged limb into a fearsome club. The back of the glove was studded with inch-long metal spikes that could rake away a man’s face with a single, vicious swipe—not that anyone had dared aggravate him to the point of testing it.

Damien Ashbrooke was also less than thrilled to be on the road to Lochaber. He had argued for two solid hours against his banishment, but Alex, as usual, had had the final word. Damien would be of more use at Achnacarry, he had been told, especially since it was a forgone conclusion that Struan MacSorley would be returning and, undoubtedly, bringing most of the castle guards with him. Furthermore, if there was a battle and if the English gained the ground, the rebel army would most likely fall back along the shores of Loch Ness, and it would be prudent to have someone positioned at their backs to warn of any threat from the south.

Dawn had arrived drenched in mist and rain, and the morning had not seen much improvement. The ground was slippery with mud, the air pungent with damp and wood musk. MacSorley rode in the lead like a drowned, shaggy bear, his hair glued to his face in wet shanks, his breath steaming out in vaporous curses to convey each order and observation. The mist distorted heights and distances, gave shadows movement, and colors a disturbing lack of density. Frequent halts were called in order for scouts to ride ahead to ensure against any unpleasant surprises on the road, although for the entire morning, they had not seen another living soul.

Had they been able to imitate the gold-breasted eagles that often soared by overhead, Achnacarry was less than forty miles along the chasm of the Great Glen. Without wings, however, they were forced to follow the rough trails and tracts that snaked up, down, along, and around the rolling hills and dark forests flanking Loch Ness, and they would end up traveling closer to sixty.

The loch itself was deep and cold. At times, the black water lapped against the horses’ hooves as they descended a steep turn in the trail; at others, it loomed stygian blue, dozens of feet below a sheer, razor-backed fall of rock. On such a dreary day, there were patches of mist floating out across the surface of the water on which ghostly galleons seemed to echo with the eerie laughter of their phantom crews. Wet and thick, the mist never lifted out of the hollows and thickets. Passing through a bank of fog was like passing through a curtain of fine rain, after which a myriad of tiny droplets clung to clothes and skin in a layer of glistening dew.

Catherine took no notice of the rain, the mist, or the breathtaking scenery. She and Deirdre rode side by side in silence, alone with their private thoughts and miseries.

It was late afternoon when Catherine’s sides began to cramp from the long hours in the saddle. While Struan sent out his scouts, Damien helped the women dismount, concern for his sister’s delicate condition breaking through his own brooding lethargy.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, noting how gratefully she clung to his arm for support. “Are you all right?”

“No. I am not. I should not be traveling in my condition, never mind on horseback and in the abominable cold.”

Damien glanced at Deirdre—whose face remained carefully blank—before scowling back at Catherine. “You are as healthy as a mule, young lady, and just as singular in character. I am no more pleased at being here than you are, but since I am, I intend to see you safely to Achnacarry if it is the last thing I do.”

The slump disappeared magically from Catherine’s shoulders and she squared off before her brother, her eyes threatening mutiny. “I shall inform Harriet of how hateful you have become in the past few months. A veritable tyrant. I shall also advise her to seek a divorce with all due haste.”

“You do that,” he agreed dryly. “I have no doubt you, of all people, can be very convincing when it comes to counseling marriages.”

The defiant gleam persisted for a moment, then was lost to a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. You must miss her terribly.”

Damien’s gaze drifted south as if he could see through the impeding barrier of mountains and across the endless miles. “I do,” he murmured. “It was a wretched thing I did, leaving her alone like that, yet she was so wonderful about it. She knew it was tearing me apart to stand by and do nothing while so many others were willing to risk everything they had.”

“Well, you needn’t feel deprived any longer,” Catherine insisted. “Not after single-handedly saving Charles Stuart’s life. Lately, though, I find myself almost wishing you had failed. Perhaps, if the prince had died that night, the rebellion might have died with him. The clans would have gone peacefully home, their pride intact, their honor upheld. Alex would have taken me home to Achnacarry; you would be back with Harriet right now. We all could have resumed normal lives.”

Damien regarded her strangely for a moment, noting the use of the words home and Achnacarry said in conjunction with Alexander Cameron. He smiled his old secret smile, the one he reserved especially for Catherine, and took her gloved hands into his.

“Alex has made you happy, hasn’t he Kitty? I mean … you don’t still hold it against me that I more or less tricked you into accompanying him to Scotland all those months ago?”

“It was cowardly and low of you not to confess your involvement with the Jacobites,” she protested. “Even worse, that you did not trust me enough to confide.”

“I’m sorry. I just did not know how you would react. You were, after all, enamored with Hamilton Garner and had just suffered the indignity of watching your fiancé bested in a duel.”

Catherine chewed thoughfully on her lower lip. “Actually, if we are making a clean breast of things, brother dear, I suppose it is only honorable that I make a minor confession of my own. Hamilton and I were never actually engaged. He never
actually
proposed to me—although I am sure he would have, given the proper incentive.”

Damien’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Which you sought to provide by flirting with Alexander Cameron?”

“I did not know he was Alexander Cameron, did I? Or that either one of them would display such a poor sense of humor.”

Damien shook his head. “For a girl who had no idea she was playing with fire, you have managed to come through all this relatively unscathed.”

“On the contrary, I have come out of it very scathed,” she objected, fidgeting absently with the huge amethyst ring she wore over her gloved finger. “You need only look at me to see the proof. Here I am, standing on a road in the middle of nowhere, several hundred miles from civilized society, in the midst of a raging rebellion. I am better than four months’ pregnant, wed to an enemy of the crown. I am scarred with bullet holes, wanted for the murder of an English officer … How much more scathed could I become?”

“Anyone else reciting such an enviable litany could have easily become hard and ugly and unforgiving—” He raised her hand to his lips and smiled again. “Instead, you’ve become softer and more beautiful than any other woman I know—with the obvious exception of my own lovely wife, of course.”

“Of course,” she demurred.

“You’ve blossomed into a woman, a wife, a mother. You make my own paltry efforts at growing up and accepting responsibility seem pale by comparison.”

“Damien—you are a lawyer, not a soldier. You excel in fighting your enemies with words, not swords. You will be important to Scotland after this rebellion is over to help pick up the pieces and make the country strong again. Soldiers certainly don’t know how to make laws and run governments fairly. Cromwell tried and failed miserably. So did Caesar and … and …”

Laughing, Damien pulled her abruptly into his arms for a huge, affectionate bear hug. “Is this what it has come down to—my little sister lecturing me on history and politics?”

“By the same logic, you would dare to lecture me on motherhood,” she retorted.

“Ahh, Kitty. Don’t ever change.” His voice had grown softer and he was still holding her close, but his gaze was fixed on Struan MacSorley. The Highlander stood a dozen paces away, frozen into a pillar of stone. His head was cocked to one side and he seemed to be sniffing the wind like a wild forest animal scenting danger.

Damien scanned the silent ring of trees but could see nothing amiss. They had stopped in one of the few barren patches of grass and rock that bordered the red sandstone road. Ahead and behind was forest, to the left the silvered sheen of Loch Ness was reflecting the slate-gray sky.

Leaving his sister with Deirdre, Damien strolled casually over to where Struan was standing. “What is it? Do you see something?”

MacSorley held up his gloved hand, unsure himself as to exactly what had raised the cold crawl of flesh along his spine. When he finally did answer, it was in a low growl, his expression as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “Mayhap ye should take the lassies intae the wood ahind us. Slow like. An’ keep them talkin’ as if they hadn’t a care in the world.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“Take the lassies intae the trees. Take the ponies as well, an’ if there is trouble—”

The sharp retort of a musket cracked the silence, abruptly ending whatever advice Struan was about to deliver. Almost at the same time, two of the three scouts MacSorley had dispatched forward on the road returned at a gallop, their tartans flying, their shouts raising an alarm above the pounding beat of the horses’ hooves.

“Sassenachs!”
they screamed. There was more, shouted in Gaelic, but the clansmen were already in motion, shrugging off their easy stances and drawing their weapons even as Struan roared to draw their attention to the ring of scarlet-clad soldiers who had appeared at the edge of the forest.

Damien ran back to where Catherine and Deirdre stood, reaching their side just as a volley of gunfire erupted from the border of trees. Musketballs stung the air like a swarm of bees, thudding into the bark of trees, spitting into knolls of sand and grass. Responding to Damien’s shout, the women threw themselves flat on the ground and crawled frantically for the protection of a large cairn of rocks.

The answering volley of gunfire from the Cameron clansmen sent a hot wave of acrid smoke into the misty air. Following Highland tradition, they threw the spent weapons aside and drew their broadswords, rushing the line of soldiers before they could reload and redirect a second volley. MacSorley streaked across the narrow clearing and threw himself into the line of militiamen, scattering them like a row of scarlet pins. With an enraged bellow, he slashed his broadsword across the throat of one startled soldier, the force of the stroke carrying it through to the chest of the man who stood alongside.