The Blood of Roses (69 page)

Catherine’s lips trembled apart and she flung herself into his arms with a sob. “Please, Alex. Please don’t go through with this.”

He cradled her face between his hands and kissed her. “I love you, Catherine. Whatever happens, I want you to remember that.”

“Alex …
please!”

“I want you to stay with Maura and Giovanni and do exactly what they say.”

“No. Oh no, Alex. No … please—”

“Catherine, listen to me.
Listen
to me.” He angled her head up, forcing her to look into his eyes. “You are all I have. You are the single most important thing in my life and I want to know you are safe. Do that much for me, Catherine. Live for me, live for our son. I will always be a part of you, whatever happens, and you will always be a part of me. Nothing can change that. Nothing.”

Catherine’s eyes flooded with tears. She kissed him urgently, desperately, and clung all the more tightly when she heard Maura come up quietly behind them, her voice calm and assured in a world that held only madness.

“Alasdair na Camshroinaich.
Rose told me where to find this. She thought I should bring it to you, that if ever the old
gaisgach liath’s
hand should reach out from the grave and help you, it should be now.”

Catherine felt her husband’s body tense. Through her tears she saw Maura holding something wrapped in a dirt-encrusted length of tartan. As she watched, the folds were loosened and the polished, dazzling brilliance of a sword was introduced into the murky light of the forest.

The
clai’mór
was ancient, the hilt wrought in gold, protected by a basket-shaped guard of filigreed silver studded with topazes. With the point of the blade touching the ground, the cap of the hilt rose well above Maura’s shoulder and was almost too heavy for her slender arms to balance as she held it out to him.

“Take your grandfather’s sword, Alex. Use it as it was meant to be used.”

The steel was polished bright enough to reflect a blurred image of his face as Alex took it and tested the unfamiliar weight in his hands. It reflected the memories as well. Memories of Annie MacSorley and the Campbell brothers, of Aluinn MacKail and their shared fifteen-year-long exile. He saw the faces of Struan MacSorely and Damien Ashbrooke, but none were stronger at the moment than the wizened, crinkled features of the sage old Highlander whose affinity for the dark gods had won him dubious distinction as the
Camshroinaich Dubh.

He removed his own broadsword and replaced it with the gleaming
clai’mór.

“Alex … please …”

He looked deeply into Catherine’s eyes and took her into his arms for one last embrace before he mounted the chestnut and wheeled away into the mist and shadows.

Watching him ride away, Catherine faltered and felt Maura’s arm go around her shoulders.

“Hamilton will kill him,” she whispered. “He isn’t strong enough.”

“If you believe in him, he will be strong enough,” Maura said. “But you must believe it with your whole heart and soul so that Alex feels it and is able to use the power of Sir Ewen’s sword.”

Catherine looked at Lady Maura in astonishment. “Surely you do not believe there is any magical power in that sword? It is only a piece of steel, for pity’s sake.”

“I agree completely. Undoubtedly Ewen found it while he was trekking in the mountains and concocted a wondrous legend about it to inspire his men before going on raids. The real magic of it Catherine, has always been in here.” She laid her hand gently over her breast. “It was Alex’s love for Annie that gave him the strength to wield the sword against the Campbells fifteen years ago, and it will be his love for you that gives him the strength to meet his destiny today. He knows you are waiting here for him; you and your son. That would be magic enough for any man.”

Catherine held Maura’s gaze a long moment before turning to look back along the empty forest path. Already the mist had resettled around the bases of the trees again, closing in the gap briefly caused by the passage of Alex’s horse.

“Signora Camerone
, please,” the count said, moving to her side and indicating the path back up the mountain. “We do as-a you husband wish, no? We go back up to the caves and-a wait.”

Catherine squared her shoulders. Maura, ever practical, especially now when future provisioning was so uncertain, bent to retrieve the tartan the sword had been wrapped in. The count signaled to the other clansmen to retreat back up the hill, and Catherine, on impulse, was able to reach across and withdraw one of the fancy snaphaunces from his belt.

Fanducci’s reflexes were lightning quick, but Catherine’s, driven by fear and desperation, were quicker. She stepped back and had both serpentine flintlocks cocked before he could make any move to disarm her.

“Don’t!” she warned, leveling the gun at his chest. “Please. You have been a good friend to Alex and I don’t want to have to hurt you, but believe me, I will.”

“Catherine!” Maura gasped.

“I’m not going to hide away in a cave to wait for news of my husband. I’m going back down the mountain. If anyone tries to stop me or stand in my way, I’ll shoot. I swear to God, I will.”

“What are you going to do when you get down the mountain?” the count asked calmly.

“I don’t know. I just know I can’t walk away and leave him all alone down there.”

“Signora—”

“Catherine, they will kill you if you go back,” Maura cried, trying to reason with her, but Catherine shook her head vehemently.

“They won’t kill me, I am much more valuable to them alive. I am the daughter of Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, a prominent member of Parliament. My mother is Caroline Penrith, the king’s own cousin. They wouldn’t
dare
kill me.”

Lady Cameron clasped her hands together, wringing them in frustration.

“Maura … I must go back. If I can’t stop this terrible thing from happening, I can at least be there to see they do not go back on their word. I know Hamilton Garner. He will declare himself the winner only if Alex is dead at his feet. But if he loses, I don’t think his word is enough to bind the rest of his men. They know full well there is still a price on Alex’s head, and it’s good to any man who brings him back dead or alive. Alex is prepared to die for his honor and his family name—I can accept that. But he could never bear to be thrown into chains and put on display like some wild, caged animal.”

The count, studying Catherine’s face intently, extended his hand slowly. “Give me the gun.”

Catherine grasped the butt tighter in both hands, raising the barrel so that she was aiming between the two crystal-clear blue eyes. For a long, breathless moment, Damien’s face swam before her, but she shook away the unexpected image and backed away another determined pace.

“Catherine … give me the gun,” he commanded. “You cannot go down there alone.”

She bit down on the corner of her lip until she tasted blood, but her aim did not waver.

“You are a very brave, very resolute young lady … but also very foolish, no?” The handsome face relaxed into a wry smile. “Together, we would not-a be so foolish.”

“T-together?”

He raised his hands, palms out. “Please,
signora.
The gun, she is-a very temperamental. A shiver, no more, and she goes off like-a the whore in-a the boy’s school. Please.”

Catherine lowered the barrel a fraction. “No tricks?”

“No tricks,
signora.
Your husband has-a been my good friend too. Together we make sure he’s-a no cheated.”

Catherine’s arms fell down to her sides. The count leaned over and eased the snaphaunce from her ice-cold fingers, and, with his piercingly sharp gaze still scrutinizing every minute detail of her face, he smiled. “I think,
signora
, you have the little blood of larceny in-a you veins, no?”

“More than you know,” she agreed, thinking of Lady Caroline’s confession.

“Si
More than you know.” He straightened and uncocked the hammers before replacing the gun in his belt. He crooked a finger at one of the nearby clansmen, noting the instant flash of suspicion in the violet eyes. It faded as soon as she realized he was only calling for horses.

Maura’s shock was complete. “You cannot be serious! You are not really taking her back down there!”

Fanducci assisted Catherine into the saddle then doffed his tricorn in a sweepingly graceful bow to Lady Cameron. “Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci never goes-a back on his word,
signora
—something you Scots teach-a me very well. Don’t worry. I won’t-a let anything happen to
Signora
Catherine.” He snapped his fingers and pointed collectively to the closest group of clansmen. “You, come-a with us. The rest, take Lady Cameron back to her husband. In-a one hour, if-a we don’t come back, you bring-a down the mountain!”

Hamilton Garner paced the carpet of silvery, flattened heather, pausing now and then to scowl toward the upper end of the meadow. He wasn’t coming back. The black-hearted, conniving bastard wasn’t coming back! What in God’s name had made him believe the Highlander was good for his word?

“Sir?”

“What is it, Corporal?” Garner snapped, turning to see Corporal Jeffrey Peters looking past him, staring at something higher up on the slope.

Hamilton spun around and felt a gratifying spurt of pleasure ripple through his loins. A lone figure stood poised against the distended wisps of mist, his wild black hair flung forward against his cheeks and throat, his long, powerful legs braced wide apart. The cloak he had worn earlier was gone. He was dressed in black breeches and a white linen shirt, the latter fitting loosely across the massive shoulders and left open at the throat to reveal a wealth of curling black hair on his chest. Held in front of him, his hands draped almost leisurely across the hilt, was a sword that looked as if it had been forged in Dante’s Inferno.

Tall—almost as tall as its owner—polished to a mirror brightness, it identified the warrior of legend, the Dark Cameron, and commanded the attention of every man present on the field.

Hamilton Garner was forced to admire the effect. The combination of black hair, black eyes, black boots and breeches, made a startling contrast against the dazzling white shirt, the gold-and-silver sword, and the drifting banks of mist behind him. It was enough to give a stouthearted man pause, never mind the rabble Garner had collected in his troop. Even the Argyle Campbells, bestial brutes throughout the campaign, full of boasts on what they would do if ever turned loose in Lochaber, were standing wooden and silent, their ugly faces shining under a patina of clammy sweat.

Garner inflated his chest with a lungful of crisp, pungent air. When he was finished with Cameron, they would all be looking at him with the same awe and respect. They would cheer him as they would cheer any man who would dare slay a dragon, and there would be no limit to the heights to which he could rise. Cumberland had been the hero of the hour at Culloden, but he was bulbous and grotesque, and commanded his popularity through military discipline. He, Hamilton Garner, was the golden-haired savior, walking alone onto a field of honor to do battle with the envoy of the Prince of Darkness.

Peters muttered something in Hamilton’s ear, but the major brushed aside the interruption, wanting nothing to detract from the lush sense of anticipation surging through his veins. His smile curved into an avaricious grin as he unbuckled the scabbard housing his own slim rapier and called instead for one of the five-foot-long broadswords he had familiarized himself with over the months. If Cameron preferred Highland steel for this, his final battle, then Hamilton Garner had no objections. The hours he had spent retraining his army in their methods of countering the awesome weapons had turned his arms to marble, increased his prowess and stamina tenfold. Indeed, if truth be known, he preferred the bloody savagery of the double-edged blade to the swift, clean efficiency of a dueling rapier. This would be his finest performance to date, and he had no desire to end it quickly or compassionately.

After unbuttoning his tunic, Garner tossed the garment aside in a dramatic swirl of scarlet. As an afterthought, he removed the neatly powdered and curled periwig so that his pale-gold hair was bare to the morning light. He adjusted the froth of lace at his throat and smoothed the white quilted satin of his long-skirted waistcoat.

“Corporal Peters, you will temper the enthusiasm of the men; I want no repeat of what happened at Culloden, no interference from any quarter. Is that clearly understood?”

“Perfectly, sir. But in the event … er, in the event the rebel should gain an advantage—”

Hamilton glared at the younger officer. The boyish face had suffered hideous scarring from the fall he had taken several weeks before at Moy Hall, and his desire to avenge himself upon those he blamed for the disfiguration was nearly as great at Hamilton’s.

“Corporal, if I am not able to deal with an exhausted, half-crippled adversary, then he deserves every advantage he can win. As long as I am on my feet, however, you will refrain from interfering.”

Peters’s persistence was not daunted by the glint in Garner’s eyes. “But if you are no longer on your feet, if the Scotsman—”

“If he wins, Corporal,” the major interrupted, “I will expect you to carry through with your orders. This”—he pointed the tip of his sword across the field—“is a private matter and has nothing whatsoever to do with General Cumberland’s specific directives.”

A second officer, standing alongside Peters, snapped to attention and saluted. “The destruction of Achnacarry Castle, aye, sir. The orders will be carried out.”

“Your enthusiasm is commendable, Wellesley. As for the rebel—” Garner’s gaze shifted back to Peters.
“Should
the inconceivable happen, Corporal, I would expect to have his soul join mine in hell within a matter of moments following my demise.”

Peters smiled slowly. “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Hamilton Garner fixed his attention once more on the Highlander. Clearing his mind to concentrate on the task ahead, he pushed everything, everyone aside and primed himself by reliving the duel they had fought in the courtyard of Rosewood Hall. With a fencer’s instinct, he had identified and isolated all of Cameron’s distinctive moves. The way a man fought was as idiosyncratic and personalized as the way he made love, and, having replayed the humiliating moments leading up to and including the stunning coup that allowed Cameron his previous victory, Garner was confident that this time, there would be no unexpected surprises.