The Pride of Lions (18 page)

Their progress so far, as Iain had predicted, had been slow and dusty over the red sandstone military roads. Traveling by coach with two sullen women had definitely hampered them; on horseback the trio could have covered the distance in a fraction of the time. Weighing heavily on the other end of the scale, however, was the fact that they had been stopped by at least a dozen patrols
of soldiers who, after a cursory inspection of the Ashbrooke coat of arms and a courteous introduction to “Lord and Lady Grayston,” had been more concerned with warning them about the dissident Jacobite rebels in the area than verifying their identities.

“We could bring half the French army into Scotland under the petticoats of a well-turned ankle,” Aluinn had remarked after one such delay when the soldiers had actually ridden escort for several miles. “And I confess, I am glad we have those ankles along. These troops are so jittery they’re ready to shoot anything that moves.”

The tension and suspicion they had met while crossing through the Lowlands had been disturbing as well. Hospitality—an inbred tradition to Caledonians—had been given grudgingly and guardedly. The Lowlanders were content with the Hanover government. Their pastures were lush and green, stretching for miles, filled with herds of fat, waddling cattle. The cities were prosperous, the towns crowded with English merchants who spread their money like lard, and to say a word against King George was to spit in the hand of affluence. Clan ties had long since become lax in these border territories, loyalties strained and scattered. A man could better himself on wits and ambition without the support or protection of the chiefs and lairds, and being less dependent on hereditary laws they were less willing to commit themselves to a cause that would see that independence taken away.

Looming above these Lowland pastures, beckoning on the horizon like ancient, twisted hands, were the mist-ridden peaks of the Grampian Mountains. They formed a wall of hostile, impenetrable rock that stood as a clear division between the Highlands and Lowlands. Within these forbidding glens and corries, their inhabitants depended upon strict codes of subservience to the clan for survival. Territories were divided and claimed by power of the sword, disputed by centuries-old blood feuds, guarded and protected in some cases by whole private armies. There were laws—of survival and retribution. The chief’s word
was absolute; the Highlander’s pride in himself, his clan, his heritage, was his mainstay. An insult to the humblest of tenants was answered by an armed raiding party. A man from one clan found straying on land belonging to another could be hanged without benefit of trial or defense. The history of the Highlands was steeped in bloodshed and violence; it was a land of dark gods and druids, of legends and superstition, where a man was either born to wealth and prominence or born to serve. It was Alexander Cameron’s birthright, and as he stood on the crest of the sweeping vista that stretched out before him, his blood sang and his body throbbed with pride.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Aluinn asked softly by his side. He, too, was staring awestruck at the graduating shades of purple and blue and darkest-black chasms that marked the vastness of Lochaber. “All the memories come back on a single whiff of mountain heather.”

Cameron smiled and dismounted, then patted Shadow on the rump, setting him free to graze on the sweet deer grass. “I’ve been seeing faces in my mind’s eye that I haven’t been able to recall for years. Do you remember old MacIan of Corriarrick?”

“Ruadh MacIan? Who could forget? Arms as thick as tree trunks and hair so red it hurt your eyes.” He grinned suddenly. “I wonder if he ever got around to marrying Elspeth MacDonald. He used to turn as red as his hair when he was anywhere near her.”

Cameron’s eyes crinkled with fond remembrances as he studied the towering cliffs on either side of the amphitheater. There were curls of hazy mist shrouding the summits, and in the foreground a solitary eagle hovered, the sunlight dancing off its wings like liquid silver as it carved a slow, watchful circle on the wind currents.

“What do you suppose we will find when we reach Achnacarry?”

Aluinn glanced over. “According to Iain, nothing much has changed. The war tower still stands, the fruit gardens still bloom, the roses and yews are thriving.
Lochiel has planted a new avenue of elms—probably at Maura’s suggestion—to make the approach to the castle less forbidding.”

Alex sighed. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. What do you want me to say? That nothing has changed? The curse of all exiles is to dream of a homecoming where everything has remained frozen in time, precisely as they remembered it. But it’s been fifteen years. The buildings are older, the people are older. The children are grown, with wives and families of their own; the burial grounds undoubtedly have more cairns than we’d care to see.” He hesitated and crooked his head in the direction of the coach. “And speaking of changes, how are you proposing to explain the presence of Lady Grayston?”

Alex followed his gaze. The coach had drawn to a halt several yards away, the door was open, and the head and shoulders of Catherine Ashbrooke were emerging into the sunlight. Alex had avoided any unnecessary contact with his “wife” over the past ten days and nights, an arrangement that had been met with icy approval. It was far easier to deal with her cool hostility than it was to try his patience with forced conversation. It was easier, in fact, just to watch her—something he found himself doing far more frequently than was advisable, or so his conscience warned him. But she was a beauty, no denying. Her hair shone in the sunlight like pure gold, her skin glowed with a refreshing radiance foreign to the powdered, painted faces he had been accustomed to seeing in his travels. Her eyes were bright and keen and noticed every little detail of her surroundings despite her feigned indifference. It would have taken a heart colder even than his to be able to ignore her completely.

Even so, he had been pondering the question of what to do with her ever since they had left Wakefield.

“I suppose I could always tell them a version of the truth—that she is the sister of a friend who was willing to pose as my wife in order to ensure us a safe passage home.”

Aluinn looked skeptical. “Lochiel has been anxious to see you married off for years now. Even a hint that the vows were legal, regardless of the circumstances, and he will be converting half the castle into a nursery.”

“You have a better idea?”

MacKail pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You could live up to the image she has of you—already well-deserved, I might add—and tell Donald you have brought him a fine English prize to hold for ransom.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Alex asked dryly.

“It has its moments.”

“Then I hope you won’t be too disappointed when I tell you I plan to make a brief detour south once we have crossed the Spean.”

Aluinn sobered instantly. “You’re going to take her to Fort William?”

“It should not be too difficult to arrange passage for her on a military supply ship, especially since her uncle is a high-ranking officer in the English army.”

“And I suppose you think you will be able to just walk through the gates, brandish an effete accent, and walk out again?”

Alexander turned away, squinting against the glare of the sun.

“I thought we agreed not to take any unnecessary risks,” Aluinn reminded him quietly.

“You would rather I risk my freedom by taking her all the way to Achnacarry?”

The attempted humor fell flat as the soft gray eyes darkened with concern. “I would rather you had never thought of this harebrained scheme in the first place.”

“If it was so harebrained, why didn’t you object more strenuously at the outset?”

Aluinn sighed. “Because at the time Iain seemed just a little too eager to dig three graves. Have you told her yet?”

“No. I was planning to brighten her day now.”

Aluinn looked down and stubbed at a mound of dirt with his toe. “You know … you could do a lot worse for
yourself.” He paused and grinned slyly. “And the castle does have a lot of spare room.”

Before Alex could answer, MacKail was wisely out of range, already on his way back to the coach. He was still chuckling softly under his breath as he passed by Catherine and Deirdre, both of whom treated him to such a cold stare, he looked down to see if he had trod in something unpleasant.

Catherine looked away disdainfully and followed Deirdre into the shade of a tree. She had found the past ten days to be an excruciating test of endurance. While it was true the three fugitives had been remarkably well-mannered, she could not help but feel it was only a matter of time before their true bestial natures emerged again. Despite her own outwardly good behavior, the promise extracted by the Scottish renegade rankled and abraded her senses at every turn. At each stop they made—each inn, each village, each lowly cow shed they paused at to beg a cup of water—she yearned to scream for help at the top of her lungs. Each time they were stopped and questioned by the militia she grew faint with desperation, hoping against hope they could see the cold steel of the pistol concealed beneath Cameron’s jacket and interpret the silent plea in her eyes. Each time she caught a glimpse of scarlet her heart raced and her blood pounded, for she knew it must be Hamilton Garner come to rescue her.

She was thinking about Hamilton as she turned to study her nemesis, about the pleasure she would have watching him slash Cameron’s face to ribbons. He stood on the knoll, his big body outlined against the stark blue of the sky. He was hatless, and the metallic black waves of his hair were gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, leaving only a few errant curls to brush forward over his brow and temples. He wore a chocolate-brown jacket and buff breeches, the latter indecently tight where the cloth was stretched to fit the muscles of his thighs. His shirt was snowy white linen, his waistcoat was cream-colored
satin embroidered with bright sprigs of green-and-gold leaves.

It was no wonder men and women alike were duped into believing he was someone he was not. He gave the appearance of refinement and elegance, and he certainly spoke with more authority than one would credit a Highland sheep farmer. The faint lilt in his voice was easily mistaken for a Continental accent, and his mannerisms supported the fact that he had been educated in Europe. He was obviously accustomed to expensive clothes and a luxurious lifestyle; what could possibly be inspiring him to trade the comfortable vicissitudes of Raefer Montgomery for a damp stone cottage and sheepskin cloaks?

He certainly had not given the impression he was a fanatical Jacobite, so she suspected it was not politics bringing him home. Money? Were spies well paid? And with regard to money—there was a reward often thousand crowns on his head, the fortune of ten lifetimes to most of the Highland rabble they had encountered thus far, some of whom had stared at him as if he were the devil reincarnate. Was he not afraid someone might recognize him without her assistance and alert the local constabulary?

With a small start she realized the dark eyes were upon her. He was frowning slightly, no doubt curious to know why he was earning such a prolonged scrutiny.

Catherine lowered her lashes quickly, but not soon enough to discourage him from joining her in the shade.

“A lovely afternoon,” he commented casually. “Perfect for a bit of a stroll. The hill we are coming to is rather steep, and the road does not appear to be in the best condition to accept the coach. It would probably be safer to have Iain drive it down ahead and we will join him at the bottom.”

“As you like,” she said primly and picked at the lace ruff on her sleeve. When he did not move away at once, she felt annoyingly obliged to look up. “Is it permitted for me to ask where we are?”

“We have been in MacDonald territory since noon yesterday.”

“That does not tell me a great deal.”

“I had no idea you were interested in geography.”

She mimicked his gently mocking smile. “I am merely curious to gain some bearings. Other than being vaguely aware of crossing the border from England
three days ago
, I have not seen anything that could possibly be construed as a landmark since.”

Her tone was so accusing and the implication so blatant, he kept his intent to tell her about Fort William on his tongue and arched an eyebrow instead. “You aren’t impressed by our mountains?”

“I have seen mountains before.”

“No doubt you have seen fine English hills,” he agreed and startled her again by reaching his hand out in an invitation. When she quickly clasped her own behind her back, his grin broadened, allowing the barest glimpse of the dimple she had marked once before. “You wanted to see a landmark, didn’t you? I am merely offering to present you a better view.”

Catherine followed his glance to the top of the knoll. It looked harmless enough, and with a sigh she ignored his extended hand and walked up the shallow incline. As she climbed it the crust of the bluish mountains that dominated the skyline seemed to move farther away, as if sliding independently from the ground she walked on. The mountains themselves grew and expanded until they spread to dominate the entire horizon, whereas the top of the knoll simply ended in a void of space and cool air, a ledge of rock marking the rim of a cliff that fell several hundred feet straight down. Cameron was a pace behind, and as she reached the top of the hill he moved up alongside her. This time she offered no objections to the hand he slipped under her elbow, steadying her against the lure of the sheer precipice that dropped off a mere few feet from where they stood.

At its base sprawled a valley, so far below them that
the road was reduced to a thin ribbon rippling across the green-carpeted floor. Sweeping up on either side, the walls of the two closest mountains were split and broken by fissures piled randomly with rocks, and even though it was a bright, crisp day, the battlements were hazed and gloomy, as if there were places where even the sun was denied entry.

Loath as she was to admit it, there had been other vistas like this that had quite taken her breath away. Sweeping russet meadows; winding silver slashes of rivers and streams; the steep and craggy peaks that lost their summits in the shrouds of opaque mists before falling black and sheer into the inky waters of a loch. There was beauty in the iridescent green of the thunder-clouds that gathered at night, and there was brutality in the peaceful majesty of the glens. Only yesterday they had traveled through a valley so still and tranquil it might have been painted on canvas. It was called Glencoe, MacKail had told her, home of the MacDonalds and scene of one of the most treacherous massacres in Scotland’s history. Beauty and ugliness, prosperity and awesome desolation; the mood of the land was as changing and enigmatic as that of the man who stood by her side.