The Pride of Lions (22 page)

“He will be long gone before anyone can reach him. Aluinn … Where the hell is Aluinn?”

There were two bodies tangled together in the red dust of the road, both of them liberally smeared with blood, only one of the them showing any signs of life. MacKail was struggling, with Deirdre’s help, to push himself to his knees as Alex and Iain ran up. His hand was clamped protectively over a wound low on his shoulder; his face was streaming sweat, and his teeth were clenched against the pain. Alex helped lower him onto the step of the coach, then quickly determined where the shot had entered and exited the bloodied flesh. Deirdre, standing pale and shaken to one side, began tearing long strips of cotton from her petticoat to fold and wad in place over the torn flesh. The wadding became soaked almost at once, despite the pressure Alex applied, and she chewed her lip worriedly.

“He’ll need a doctor—and soon—to stop it proper.”

Alex turned his head and shouted. “Iain—collect the guns and all the spare shot and powder you can find; we may need it. Unsaddle the horses and set them free, then unload those trunks from the boot. In fact, dump everything we haven’t a use for except blankets and water.”

“The coach will slow you down,” Aluinn gasped. “Take the women and the horses and get the hell out of here.”

“And leave you to play the hero? Not bloody likely, my friend. And besides,” he added grimly, “you’re not the only casualty.”

Deirdre looked up and her face drained to a sickly gray. “Mistress Catherine?”

“For someone who insists she has never fainted before in her life, she is giving a good imitation of it over by the stream.”

“I must see to her,” Deirdre cried, jumping to her feet.

“No,” Alex ordered, taking her by the wrist. “I’ll see to her. You stay here with Aluinn and keep pressure on these bandages.”

“Alex—” Aluinn grabbed a fistful of Alex’s sleeve. “Alex, wait. Something … something’s not right.”

“What do you mean
not right
? What else could possibly be wrong?”

Aluinn shook his head to clear it and to try to hold back the nausea. “I don’t know. Something …”

Alex’s attention was absolute. “What is it?”

The blurred gray eyes looked up at him. “For a man we have both seen shoot at flying sparrows for practice … Iain missed two clear shots at point-blank range.”

It took a moment for Alex to grasp Aluinn’s meaning. “Everything happened so fast, maybe he wasn’t—”

“It happened fast,” MacKail agreed. “Too damned fast to calmly hang back and reload.”

“What are you saying? Spit it out, man.”

“I’m saying the shot that passed through my shoulder came from his musket.”

“He might have been aiming for the man you were fighting.”

“Then his timing is as rotten as his aim, because I was hit a few seconds after I had already dispatched the Argyleman and was shaking his blood off my hands.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. He knew Aluinn hadn’t liked or trusted the boy from the outset. He’d been too outspoken and cocky—traits Alex had credited to his youth. This was a far more serious charge, one that Aluinn would not make lightly despite personal differences.

A rustle of black gabardine reminded both men that there was another possible witness, and Deirdre glanced from one questioning stare to the other.

“I … I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

“Think,” Aluinn urged gently. “It could be very important.”

She frowned, but a careful search of her memory over those panic-stricken moments progressed no further than a small gasp as she saw the dull gleam of a musket being raised and pointed squarely at Alex’s back.

* * *

“Ye’re a wee bit too obsairvant f’ae ma likin’, MacKail,” Iain said matter-of-factly. “Ye’ve been like a fly on ma neck since we fairst met up togither.”

“Would you care to explain just what the hell you think you’re doing?” Alex’s voice was a sheet of ice. “And it better be damned good, mister.”

“Fairst things fairst. The dirk in yer boot, MacKail … kick it over here along wi’ the one in yer belt. No sudden moves now, or ye’ll have the lassie’s head in yer lap quicker than ye’d hoped.”

He aimed the musket at Deirdre, but Alex stepped to one side, keeping himself in front of the terrified maid. “I am assuming your quarrel is with us, boy. Let the women go and we’ll discuss it.”

Iain grinned coldly. “I’m no’ a
boy
, Cameron of Loch Eil. An’ ye were right; ma aim was poor the fairst time around—too much dust an’ all—but easily fixed.”

“Why?” Alex demanded. “What do you hope to gain by killing us?”

“Oh, I dinna plan tae kill
you
, Alexander Cameron. Dead, ye’re only worth half as much tae me.”

“The reward?” Aluinn spat. “You’re doing this for the money? You’re turning in your own kinsman for a few miserable gold coins?”

“Ten thousan’ gold sovereigns are no’ miserable. An’ it’s
twenty
, it might please ye tae know, if Malcolm Campbell has the pleasure o’ drawin’ the blade himsel’. As f’ae the
Camshroinaich Dubh
bein’ a kinsman o’ mine—” His grin turned sly and evil. “Unless he’s the bastard scion o’ a Campbell, like as I am, then we’re no kith or kin.”

“Campbell?”

“Aye. Gordon Ross Campbell o’ Dundoon, at yer sairvice. Enough like the real Iain Cameron o’ Glengarron tae be mistaken f’ae brithers, so we found out. Enough ye didna even suspect the change.”

Alex’s face remained impassive except for the tiny vein that throbbed to life in his temple. He was getting
old. Or sloppy. He had accepted the boy at his word because they had been expecting him and because he’d carried personal letters from Donald. He had never questioned the possibility that the letters might have been intercepted and the courier substituted. He had just been so damned anxious to go home …

“How did you know where to find me, or that I was expecting my brother to send someone to France?”

“We knew it were only a matter o’ time afore Lochiel sent f’ae the grand
Camshroinaich Dubh
. We’re no’ wi’out our own spies at Achnacarry, an’ when young Glengarron left the castle, bristlin’ with importance, he an’ his men were followed, stopped, an’ taken tae Inverary. He were stubborn, o’ course. He didna want tae tell us where he was supposed tae meet ye, but—” Gordon Ross Campbell shrugged his shoulders. “He did, by the by.”

With an effort Alex controlled a hot surge of rage. “You played your part well. But if your plan was to take us to Inverary, why haven’t you made your move before now? You’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

“I’m no’ fool enough tae try tae take the
Camshroinaich Dubh
by masel’,” he admitted with a lift of his eyebrow. “There are twenty men waitin’ across the Spean f’ae that very reason.”

“This”—Alex waved a hand to indicate the bodies—“wasn’t part of it?”

“Never saw them afore,” Iain said easily. “Clumsy bastards. Greedy too, an’ I didna fancy sharin’ ought wi’ the likes o’ them. Now—” The barrel of the musket moved. “Enough talk. Ye’ve as glib a tongue as an adder when it suits ye, an’ I’ve nae more time tae waste listenin’ tae ye.”

“Let the women go,” Alex said, tensing. He kept his gaze leveled on Campbell, willing himself not to look past the younger man’s shoulder. “They have no part in this; they couldn’t care less what happens to me … or to you, for that matter.”

“Let them go? Aye, this drab doxy maybe. She seems mair trouble than she’s worth. But the ither one? Ach! The
wife
o’ Alexander Cameron?” He paused and smacked his lips with anticipation. “Can ye imagine what the Duke will make o’ that? Besides the extra bit o’ coin she’ll bring, I can see the pleasure she’ll gi’ when he fills her wi’ a Campbell bastard an’ sends her home tae Achnacarry. I can just see the look on Lochiel’s face when—”

Behind him Catherine released her breath on a gust as she swung the heavy stock of the musket, using every last scrap of strength she possessed. She had recovered from her fainting spell and walked back from the stream, too dazed at first to see the weapon in Campbell’s hands or to realize what was taking place. She had even started to call out, thinking no one had noticed her or cared that she had been abandoned, but the cry had frozen on her lips when she saw Deirdre’s frantic warning, delivered from behind the shield of Cameron’s broad back.

Deirdre had tried to wave her away, and for the longest moment Catherine had been tempted. But then, the next thing she knew, she was bending over and prying a musket from the still-warm fingers of a dead militiaman. The gun was empty, but there was no time to reload it even if she could have found the powder and shot to do so. And with her heart lodged firmly in her throat she had crept up behind Campbell’s back, the musket raised, her arms quivering with the strain. Deirdre had watched in horror. Only Alexander Cameron had remained composed enough to keep the young Judas distracted with talk.

Even so, Gordon Ross Campbell flinched at the last moment, some instinct warning him of the danger at his back. His finger jerked the trigger of the musket just as the flat of the walnut stock caught him high on the cheek and tore open a strip of flesh from the corner of his eye to his ear. Alex had already started forward. He grabbed the barrel of the musket and shoved it aside a fraction of a second before it discharged harmlessly into the air, then wrenched it out of Campbell’s hand and pulled the
younger man into a bone-crunching reunion with his clenched fist. A second devastating blow lifted Campbell off his feet and propelled him into the side of the coach, the impact dazing him long enough for a third punch to crack his teeth off at the gumline.

In no time Campbell’s face was awash in blood, his nose again crushed to a misshapen mass of cartilage and tissue. He raised his hands in an attempt to fend off the subsequent blows, but he barely had the strength or sensibility to saw his fists back and forth with each hammer-like punch that came from the left, the right, the left …

He staggered and fell, but Cameron was there to haul him upright again, to turn him around, to prop him upright for another barrage of blows.

Catherine had thought the horror could not intensify beyond the slaughter she had witnessed only minutes ago, but seeing the cold killing fury in Cameron’s eyes, watching him slowly, deliberately beat the life out of another human being was too much to bear. She ran forward and threw herself at his uplifted arm, closing her hands around his bloodied fist to keep him from striking again.

“Stop it! Stop! You’re killing him!”

“He deserves killing,” Alex snarled. “Get out of my way.”

“I won’t get out of your way! I won’t let you murder him! Look! Look at what you’ve done! Isn’t it enough?”

Alex curled his lips back in another snarl, and he would have flung her aside without a qualm if not for the tears that flooded her eyes. It startled him, because the pity was not directed at Gordon Ross Campbell, but at him, for what she saw as his loss of humanity.

“Please,” she begged, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Please, Alex, let him go. He isn’t worth it.”

He lowered his fist slowly, releasing his grip on Campbell’s shirt at the same time. The boy’s legs buckled beneath him and he slumped down against the wheel of
the coach, blood spraying from his mouth on each labored breath.

Catherine collapsed against Alex’s chest, too weak with relief to think about what she was doing as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder.

Deirdre, having not dared to move or breathe during the display of explosive violence, crumpled to her knees beside Aluinn MacKail, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

“I thought I told you to keep your head down and run.”

Catherine stirred reluctantly and lifted her cheek away from the comfort of Cameron’s shoulder. The terrible flush of rage had faded from his face, and his eyes … his eyes were darker and deeper than any ocean she could imagine. Deeper, warmer, safer …

Alex was all too aware of her vulnerability at that moment, aware also of his body’s response to it. Her loneliness and uncertainty were etched as clearly on each feature as if painted there by an artist’s brush, and he longed to draw her back into his arms and reassure her that as long as she stayed there nothing would ever harm her or frighten her again. Only once before had he felt so strong a need to protect someone, but that one time he had failed so badly to honor his promise that the memory of it hardened his heart and made him ease Catherine gently to arm’s length.

“We haven’t much time,” he explained, avoiding her gaze. “Why don’t you and Deirdre go to the stream and fill the water cans while I see to the coach.”

Against her will she glanced down at Campbell’s sprawled body. “What about him? Wh-what about … them?” she added, including the other bodies steaming in the sun.

“Campbell can choke on his own blood for all I care. As for the others … when their comrade brings back help from the fort, perhaps they’ll stop long enough to
bury them. With luck, that should buy us a little extra time.”

Catherine shuddered at the coldness in his voice. She offered no resistance as Deirdre led her away, though she looked back over her shoulder once before they were swallowed into the shade of the trees.

“You were a little rough on her, don’t you think?” Aluinn observed. “Especially after what she’s just been through.”

“She’s tougher than she thinks. She’ll survive.”

“What about you? Exactly how tough do you think you have to be? Annie is dead, Alex. You can’t bring her back, and you can’t keep punishing yourself for something that happened half a lifetime ago.”

Resentment darkened Alex’s complexion as he started unstrapping the trunks from the boot of the coach. “What the hell does any of this have to do with Annie?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who keeps breathing life back into her ghost every time you start feeling yourself turning human. It isn’t fair, Alex. Not to her, not to you.”

“I loved her, Aluinn. And because I loved her, she died.”

“I doubt Annie would have seen it that way.”

The two heavy trunks crashed on the ground, one after the other. “Am I supposed to forget what happened? Or forget she ever existed?”