The Blood of Roses (65 page)

“I am not leaving you! Not like this!”

Aluinn closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself. “The gun. In my hand. I promise, I will not feel a thing, and the soldiers will think you are one of them. Do it, Deirdre. Use the gun. Save yourself.”

“No!” she cried aghast. “No … never!”

“Then do it for me,” he pleaded. “Don’t let me die without knowing you are safe. And don’t let me die like the others—” He choked briefly on the words. “Don’t let the bastards find me alive. Do it, my love. Save yourself, and save me.”

Deirdre stared, remembering the hacked and mutilated bodies they had passed on the road.

“Well now.” The soldiers were moving closer. “What do we have here? One of them hot little rebel wenches, maybe? How d’ya suppose she got past ol’ Hornie up there on the road? Mayhap she done something nice for him. Mayhap she’ll do something nice for us too.”

Deirdre was drowning in Aluinn’s eyes. Between his tears and her tears there was a world of love and happiness, a place filled with sunshine and laughter and gentle loving peace. It was inconceivable to think she could look away and survive. Inconceivable to think she would want to look away, ever.

“I love you,” she whispered, leaning forward to press her lips to his. “I have loved you, Aluinn MacKail, from the first moment I saw you … and every moment since.”

“Every moment since,” he echoed. “My only love.”

With the movement of her hands concealed from the soldier’s view, she took the pistol from the cool, lifeless fingers and turned it inward, firing it into his heart while his lips still moved against hers. As soon as she heard the muffled explosion and knew there had been no misfire, she held the barrel of her own gun against her breast and squeezed the trigger.

Catherine heard two shots fired so closely together they sounded like one. Startled by the noise and the immediate shouts that followed, she pushed to her feet, a worried frown erasing all thoughts of Shadow as she saw the three soldiers running toward the spot where she had last seen Deirdre.

Deirdre!

A cry already in her throat was rammed back into her lungs as she took a step, then drew up short again, a fourth menacing presence nearby earning all of her attention. At first, she did not recognize the chiseled, patrician features staring out at her from under the brim of the black beaver tricorn; she only saw the red tunic, the gleam of a saber, and the flaring nostrils of the horse he spurred into a quick gallop in her direction. Something about the eyes, however, the piercing, jade-green frost of them lanced through her shock and numbness and she knew who it was: Major Hamilton Garner.

She staggered back several steps as the full horror of this new threat superceded all others and spurred her into a desperate run for the nearby verge of trees. The ground was treacherously uncertain, and she slipped with every skidding footstep, stumbling, running in a half crouch as she clawed for a hold at tufts of grass and exposed knots of stone.

She dared not stop or look back, even though behind her, the sound of angry hoofbeats drew irrepressibly closer. If she kept running, kept climbing up the slope, there was a chance she could reach the forest, a chance she could escape the animal’s gusting breath as it ran her down.

Blinded by panic, Catherine tripped and sprawled painfully onto her knees. She used her hands to break the fall, and when she lifted them from the rough ground, the palms were red and skinless, embedded with bits of stinging pebbles. Sobbing, she pushed herself to her feet and forced herself to keep running, her legs tangled in her long skirts, her knees wobbling violently now, as her strength began to falter and fail. She gasped at mouthfuls of air, sucking it into lungs that burned with fear. She cried out Alex’s name, soft and low, over and over, as if she could somehow will him to appear, braced to defend her against the swiftly closing threat.

Hamilton Garner leaned forward over the saddle, his arm stretched out, his gloved hand swiping at a streaming wave of bright blonde hair as he came within range. He jerked his horse to one side at the same time, causing Catherine to scream in terror as she was pulled off her feet and thrown to the ground. Hamilton’s speed carried him past the spot where she fell and he wheeled his horse around, seeing her roll and struggle frantically to regain her footing.

But there was nowhere for her to run, no stamina left in her legs to carry her. She stood swaying unsteadily only half a dozen yards shy of the trees, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping as stabs of searing hot pain speared through her sides. Her hands fell protectively to cover her belly, but they were no match for the cramps, spiked with the agony of defeat. She crumpled onto her knees again, gasping for breath, struggling now just to remain conscious.

Garner dismounted, wincing as his weight jarred the freshly bandaged wound in his thigh. He walked over to where Catherine knelt and, curling his hand around her upper arm, dragged her unceremoniously to her feet, his grip as ruthless and unrelenting as the look in his eyes.

“What have we here?” he snarled, forcing her to look up into his face. “Can it truly be the elusive and long-suffering Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Hamilton,” she gasped. “Hamilton … thank God it’s you.”

He arched a brow. “Happy to see me, are you?”

“I … I’m happy to see anyone I know … alive.”

“But you ran away from me,” he chided softly.

“I … did not recognize you,” she lied, shuddering as his fingers pinched cruelly into her arm. “I … did not expect to see you here.”

“Did you expect I would still be waiting back in Derby?”

“N-no. No, I didn’t mean that, I—”

“As I recall, that was your plan … and your promise, was it not?” His eyes sparkled malevolently. “I was to wait in Derby and you were to leave your new husband at the first posting inn, there to fly back into my arms and set the world to rights again.”

His gaze moved slowly down the front of her laboring breasts and came to rest on her hands, which were still cradling the gentle roundness of her belly. This further proof of her disloyalty churned black and vicious through his veins, slowing his pulse, causing his heart to throb sluggishly in his chest.

“So … The daughter of a whore surprises no one in proving herself to be a whore as well. At least Lady Caroline’s affairs had a certain honesty about them; there were no pretenses in bedding her, just lust. And she found enough willing young studs in the immediate vicinity without having to roam farther afield with her deceptions. Really, Catherine—a Scotsman? A filthy rebel spy? Were there not enough stablehands and ironmongers in Derby to satisfy your cravings?”

Catherine did not know where she found the strength, let alone the audacity, to strike the leering smirk from Hamilton Garner’s face. Her hand cracked sharply across his jaw, and it was with intense pleasure, she saw the shock and surprise flare in his eyes. She paid dearly for the pleasure, however, for he slapped her back, hard and fast, and with such malicious force she spun out of his grasp and sprawled on the grass at his feet. His rage unleashed, he kicked out once, twice, the polished leather toe of his boot sinking solidly into ribs and stomach with enough fury to send her jerking into a tight, fetal curl.

He might have continued, might have kicked her unresisting body into a bloody pulp if not for the three dragoons who came running up the slope to investigate the screams. The last to arrive, lagging behind the others because he was favoring a limp in one leg, joined them in staring down at the curled body. He frowned and leaned over, pushing aside the heavy veil of scattered yellow hair to have a closer look at her face.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “Mrs. Cameron. We meet again.”

Catherine could hardly see through the wall of pain, could barely register the added shock of recognizing Corporal Jeffrey Peters before the swarming, sickening clouds of darkness descended and rendered her unconscious.

“Where the devil did she come from?” Peters asked, straightening. “I thought I recognized the other one, Mrs. MacKail, back there, but it was hard to be sure through all the blood.”

“Shall we finish this ’un off too, sar?” one of the other men inquired casually, his eyes moving hungrily over the slender, shapely body.

“No,” Garner rasped, pulling himself together with a mighty effort. “No, by God, she may be of some use to me yet.”

The dragoon, misinterpreting the major’s meaning, grinned and dragged the tip of his bloodied saber along the curve of Catherine’s buttocks. “Aye, she looks a ripe enough one at that, Major. I’ve heard tell these Highland wenches are sum’mit rare hot when they’re breeding, an’ this ’un looks like the pick of the crop.”

At this ribald presumption, Garner’s green eyes cut into the soldier with the sharpness of a meat cleaver. “You will take the prisoner back to the bat-wagons and see that she is placed under heavy guard. You will not touch her or vilify her in any way … not until I tell you you are free to do so. Is that clearly understood? As for your opinions to her worth or abilities—when I want or need either, I will ask for them.”

He strode back to where his horse stood and, with a final, cool glance down at Catherine’s limp form, swung himself into the saddle and dug his heels into the gleaming flanks. His cheeks still stung from the bite of her hand and his indignation still rankled with the hard proof of her betrayal. But he had her in his hands now, and with her, a way of getting to Alexander Cameron once and for all. The bastard had slipped through his net again today, but his freedom would not be long-lived, not if he ever wanted to see his Catherine alive again.

24

N
ews of the manner and substance of the Jacobites’ defeat on Drummossie Moor swept across the stunned Highlands like a firestorm. Word of his son’s astounding victory took five days to reach King George in London but less than twenty-four hours to reach ears on the remotest isles of Scotland. Clans loyal to the Hanovers, or those with the wit and cunning to appear to be so, quickly took up the black cockade and did not bother to wait for Cumberland’s orders before descending upon any territories held by Jacobite clans. The Campbells, in particular, released their men like a flood across the borders of their age-old enemies: the MacLarens, the MacLeans, the MacDonalds, and, with particular zeal, the wealthy holdings of the Camerons.

Any rebels attempting to escape the murderous rampage of Cumberland’s soldiers were forced to travel mainly by night, avoiding roads and open fields where bands of militia roamed on wild killing sprees. They begged food and lodging at their own peril, often suffering the final degradation of finding themselves betrayed to the soldiers by their greedy hosts.

Lochiel, both his ankles smashed by grapeshot, had been carried from the field and taken by his clansmen to a pitiful rendezvous with the remainder of the Jacobite army. With what dignity he could muster, Charles Stuart told his loyal soldiers to run for their lives and seek what safety they could, until such time as they could recruit a new army and avenge their fallen comrades at Culloden.

Carried in a tartan sling, Lochiel and his men turned toward the shores of Loch Ness, following the inky shoreline south into Lochaber. Some five hundred Camerons and MacDonalds traveled by this route, still formidable enough in numbers and temperament to discourage any interference from marauding clans. In groups of ten and twenty, however, they broke away at intervals along the route, exchanging solemn prayers for good luck with those they left on the road. Each man was desperate to know how his family was faring. Some had been away from their homes nine months or more, since before the prince’s standard was raised at Glenfinnan. Others, like Donald and Archibald Cameron, had been lucky enough to have found occasion to return to their homes in the interim, and felt relatively content that the walls of their castle had been strong and tall enough to have shielded the ones they loved from the horror and consequences of Culloden.

Still others, like Alexander Cameron, stumbled wearily alongside the litter carrying his wounded brother, oblivious to the pain and fever induced by his own injuries, numbed by all that had transpired behind him and concentrating on what lay ahead. He thought only of Catherine. She was at Achnacarry, and he needed the calm, sane assurance of her presence more than he had ever needed anyone or anything in his life before.

Lady Maura Cameron was the first to detect movement far out beyond the avenue of elm trees Donald had planted along the road leading to the castle gates. She had been taking a late stroll around the catwalk that hugged the stone ramparts high on the castle walls, and had paused to gaze out over the smothered flush of twilight. The angle of the sun had turned the air hazy and caused the blues of the sky and the surrounding mountains to deepen almost to black. By contrast, the snowcapped, regal crown of Ben Nevis was painted with pale golds and pinks, its majesty towering above the heads of the lesser, gloomier gods of the Gray Corries.

Lochaber was a world of lochs and heather, of high impenetrable hills and dark gorges, brown moors and wild forests, splendid solitudes where the air was so still, a leaf could be heard falling off the bough. Presiding over this medieval wilderness was Achnacarry Castle, a fortress of steep sandstone walls and high battlements rising in places to one hundred feet above the ground. Its four great towers stood silhouetted against the forests and mountains, its twelve-foot-thick walls overlooked a sheer and breathtaking drop to the black waters of Loch Lochy.