The Pride of Lions (25 page)

“At the moment, what they believe is of no consequence. What I believe, however, is that you should keep your mouth firmly shut from here on in.” The anger in his voice matched the threat of violence in his hand as he clamped it painfully around her upper arm. “And you are absolutely right: I don’t dare leave you alone. Struan”—he turned to the burly Highlander—“have you an extra horse?”

MacSorley appeared to still be in shock. “Eh? Oh, aye. Aye. One o’ the lads can spare a pony.”

“I … I think I would prefer to remain with the coach,” Catherine said, trying to pull away from the iron grip. “I think I would prefer to stay with Deirdre.”

“You are coming with me, dear
wife
,” Alex insisted. “But if you wish to argue the matter further, I would be more than willing to demonstrate how a Highlander disciplines a spouse who dares to speak out of turn.”

Catherine opened her mouth, but snapped it closed again without making a sound, wisely deciding not to challenge the promissory glitter in his dark eyes.

As for Alex, he almost wished she would defy him. One more day—one more
hour
and he would have had her safely across the High Bridge and on the road to Fort William. Damn the Argyle men. Damn Gordon Ross Campbell. And damn whatever demon had made him dance with Catherine Ashbrooke under a starlit sky!

12

C
atherine rode the remaining miles to Achnacarry in utter despair. Since Cameron had turned his back on her on the hillside, he had not spared a glance or a word in her direction. She could feel his anger crackling in the air between them, and while she was prepared to accept the blame for her ill-timed slip of the tongue, it was unfair and unreasonable for him to treat her as if she had deliberately and spitefully set out to entrap him.

Far from being comforted by the presence of an armed escort, she found herself growing more and more leery of what lay ahead. Having never dreamed the charade would last this long or take her so far into the heart of the Highlands, she had not dared to imagine what his precious home might look like or what kind of a reception she could hope to receive. Visions of caves with firelit ceilings and great hanging stalactites spun wearily through her head. Cameron had referred to his home as a castle, but so far most of the structures she had seen peppering the land were nothing more than cramped, rancid-smelling stone cottages. Once or twice she had glimpsed the distant silhouette of battlements against a wind-blown sky, but the impression had been bleak and forbidding and brought to mind her father’s tales of thick-tongued savages who wore stinking fur robes and made their homes in mountain lairs. Ancient stone keeps, dungeons, ramparts guarded by gargoyles and grotesques … would this Achnacarry be such a place? Would its inhabitants stare at her and sneer contemptuously behind her back as did these silent, belligerent outriders?

She was exhausted, confused, and frightened. She had not had a decent bath or a familiar meal since crossing the border into Scotland. The soiled, stained gown she wore was the only garment she possessed now that Cameron had seen fit to abandon her trunks. She did not even have a cloak or shawl to ward off the evening dampness. One of the clansmen had grudgingly provided her with a coarse length of wool tartan to wrap around her head and shoulders like a bedraggled peasant. Her fingers stung from the unaccustomed abuse of handling the stiff leather reins without gloves. Her hair was a yellow tangle, her nose red and dripping, her eyes swollen almost shut from the tears and filth and despair; her body ached in places too pampered to have contemplated the possibility of bruising.

The sun had long since vanished behind the crust of blue-black mountains. The road they were following skirted the banks of a loch, plunging and twisting around the shoreline like a coiling snake, so thick with mist in places it seemed as if they were riding into an opaque wall. The air smelled wet and oddly sweet, as if there was a forest of fruit trees hiding behind the fog, and sure enough, when they rounded a bend in the road and climbed high enough to surmount the mist, she saw apple trees and two tall columns of elms flanking either side of the road. At the end of this regal promenade was Achnacarry Castle.

Perched on an isthmus of land between two deep, inky lochs, the buff-colored masonry stood tall and stark against the last dying shades of twilight. The walls rose sheer from the edge of a bluff, the cold stone facings presenting a monstrous and deadly fortification nestled in a setting that was a perfect gem of tranquillity. The castle itself consisted of huge square war towers capped by rust-hued turrets. Long ranges of rooms, each carefully designed and fitted one upon the other in tiers, were buttressed to the walls to form the upper stories, and surrounding
the whole were tall, saw-toothed battlements, where sentries could see for miles in all directions.

Catherine was suitably awestruck. Achnacarry Castle could easily have absorbed four Rosewood Halls within its walls and afforded living space for a small town should the need for such a defense arise.

The castle was approached along a well-packed road of earth and crushed stone called the dark mile, she would later learn, because of the heavy shadows thrown by the twin rows of elms. The breastworks became even more impressive the closer they came, rising in places to a height of well over eighty feet. The entrance was marked by two bright streaks of lantern light. Sandwiched between enormous square barbican towers, the black oak gates opened to a width equal to that of a large carriage and were protected by a portcullis—a massive grille of iron spikes that could be dropped into place to seal the entryway at a moment’s notice. Between the port and gate the walls were slit at intervals, wide enough for men with muskets to question any uninvited guests. It was also planked underfoot, so that the arrival of so many men and horses echoed loudly throughout the inner courtyards.

Inside the walls there were two baileys fashioned in the style of Norman strongholds. A long range of lighted windows spanned the two like a bridge, with a vaulted stone undercroft forming a covered walkway beneath. The “bridge” housed a long gallery and connected the two main wings of the castle. Stables occupied one full length of the outer courtyard, alongside the blockhouses, pens, smithy, and salt house. Here also were the servants’ quarters and the guardhouse, and one of two huge out-buildings that contained a kitchen and laundry. There were lights in nearly every window, and at the echo of their horses’ hooves the glare was bisected by curious heads filling the spaces, craning to identify the visitors.

The second courtyard was measurably smaller, with a large stone well occupying its center. Here was the
principal entrance to the main living quarters as well as the chapel, smokehouse, and family kitchen. Catherine could hear the excited murmur of voices before she had fully cleared the archway and was not surprised to see several dozen men and women rushing out of doors to greet the late-night guests. The men all seemed to be bigger than life—tall and broad-chested, draped in swathes of tartan dyed in crimsons, greens, and blues. Some of them carried torches and lanterns, and soon the misty air was hazed further with smoke and stained yellow by the flickering flames.

Catherine had read stories about the Christians being led to the lions in the days of the Roman Empire—she was beginning to understand something of what they felt. Cameron had treated her with blatant hostility on the long ride through the mountains, but now, as he dismounted and was engulfed in a sea of waving arms and hearty handclasps, he was all smiles and laughter. Hugged by men and women alike, he was passed willingly from one deliriously happy group to the next until he found himself standing before the main entrance.

There, a tall, elegantly lean man stood patiently in the spill of light from the open doors. Although his features were less angular than Alexander’s and his coloring a fair contrast to his brother’s rugged darkness, there was no mistaking the family resemblance. There was also no mistaking his rank and station. He wore plaid woolen breeches patterned in crimson and black and a frock coat of hunting green, the cuffs and collar thick with lace, heavily embroidered in gold thread. Without hearing an introduction Catherine surmised he was Donald Cameron, The Cameron of Lochiel, and realizing this she experienced a small shudder of relief. He did not look like a mountain savage, nor did he look like the type of man who would hold her prisoner in a cave and ransom her as a hostage. He looked reasonable, rational, and totally civilized in the midst of a world she had begun to believe was plunged in utter madness.

Slowly the swelling crowd fell silent and turned, one by one, to witness the reunion of the two brothers. For a long moment neither man moved, their expressions mirrored in the slight, crooked smiles and shining eyes.

“So then. Ye’ve come home, have ye, Alexander Cameron,” the laird said finally. “By all that’s holy, we’ve missed yer comely face nigh these long years.”

“Not nearly as much as I have missed yours,” Alex said quietly.

The two men came together and embraced, triggering another eruption of cheers and laughter. When the noise again subsided, Donald Cameron raised his voice and addressed the crowd in Gaelic, an obvious invitation to bring forth ale and wine to help celebrate the prodigal’s homecoming. Alex, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the slender, dark-haired woman who was standing quietly by Lochiel’s side.

“Maura. You are still the most beautiful woman in all of Scotland.”

Lady Cameron laughed and wept openly as Alex swept her into his arms and spun her in a happy circle. Two gangly, awkward youths were beckoned forward in turn and introduced to their infamous uncle, but before any further formalities could be observed, a voracious roar reduced the crowd to quivering silence again. A shorter, rounder version of Donald Cameron exploded through the doorway and smothered Alex in a hearty, shoulder-thumping embrace.

“Alasdair! Alasdair, be damned if ye’re no’ the sicht f’ae sore eyes! Stand tae the light an’ gie us a better look! By the Christ … he’s grown tae the image of auld Ewen! Donald—if he isna Ewen Cameron born again, I’ll set masel’ doun here an’ now an’ eat ma own liver!”

“Ye’ve nae call tae waste the effort, Archibald Cameron,” declared a cackle of a voice behind them. “Yer liver’s well enough along eatin’ itsel’.”

The portly physician was elbowed aside by his wife—a short firebrand of a woman who barely reached the
height of Alex’s chest but whose hug very nearly lifted him off his feet.

“A fine welcome home,” she scolded, glaring up at him through bright, twinkling eyes. “Though ye dinna deserve it, ye askit me. A glib-glabbet, educated man, an’ what do ye send home but a miserable wee scratchet note once or twice the year. Ungrateful swine, that’s what ye are. If it were up tae me, I’d send ye packin’ back tae France again, no never mind.”

“Jeannie.” Alex laughed. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed a bit. Still the sharpest tongue in Lochaber.”

“Sharp enough tae cut ye doun a step or two,” she warned, thrusting a finger up under his nose. In response to the threat he gathered her into his arms and twirled her so hard and fast her velvet skirts belled up and over her thrashing, pantalooned legs. “Enough! Enough, ye daft fool! Put me doun afore I’m up tae seein’ ma supper again, poor as it were the fairst time around.”

Alex set her aside and turned to Archibald again. “You know we met with some trouble on the road?”

“Aye, so Angus told us. Everything ready an’ waitin’. How bad off is the lad?”

“Bad enough even before we had to rattle about in a coach for six hours. He has lost a great deal of blood—”

“A coach?” Archibald interrupted. “Were ye after tellin’ the whole world ye were on yer way home?”

“It seems the whole world knew already,” Alex said grimly. He started to briefly recount the treachery surrounding Gordon Ross Campbell, but was halted by another subtle swelling of whispers and speculation that centered around the tartan-wrapped figure still seated on her horse in the middle of the courtyard.

Catherine, for her part, had been quite content to remain forgotten. She was petrified at the very idea of dismounting, for that would mean she was
here
. She was in the Highland stronghold of the man generally considered to be the leader of the Jacobite faction in Scotland. As reasonable, rational, and civilized as Alexander’s
brother appeared to be, he was still in command of the loyalties and swords of a thousand or so clansmen who were blatantly less refined. Some of those men had been in the escort and were milling in the crowd now, telling their own version of what had happened in the mountains. And some of those whispers reached the ears of Archibald Cameron, who held up a hand and exclaimed in a voice loud enough to startle the devil, “A wife? Saints presairve us, ye’ve come home wi’ a wife?”

Without waiting for an answer or an explanation, the doctor pushed his way through the crowd, his Gaelic greeting as broad as the grin that beamed on his face. Catherine did not understand a word of what he was saying; she only saw the short, stubby hands reaching up to snatch her out of the saddle.