The Pride of Lions (29 page)

“Added to my hopes that you endure everlasting hell-fire, sir, you should have an interesting future.”

“Ah, the sweet sentiments of marital euphoria. It is no
wonder I have avoided the ensnarement for so long.” He winked in Deirdre’s direction, earning a blush and a curbed smile in response. A scathing glance from Catherine drew a hastily murmured excuse to see to the bathwater and a quick retreat from the room. When the maid was gone, the hot violet of Catherine’s contempt was concentrated on Cameron.

“
What do you want
?”

“What I want”—he let his eyes rake downward over her body—“and what I can hope to get are obviously two very different things … unless, of course, you feel inclined to join me in a few hours of relaxation before we have to prepare for our performance tonight?”

“What performance?” she asked warily.

“Why, that of the loving husband and wife, naturally. The entire household is priming itself for the unholy inquisition; they have been sharpening their teeth all morning on vestal virgins. I trust you will be equal to the task.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “You are more than simply drunk, sir. You are delirious if you think I have any intentions of continuing this farcical charade. I do not intend to join you in any performance tonight—or any other night, for that matter. I shall remain in my room behind locked doors until such time as you see fit to honor your end of our agreement.”

He swayed slightly and frowned to keep his eyes in focus. “Our agreement?”

“You promised to send me home if I cooperated.”

“Ah … 
that
agreement. Yes, well, I shall certainly see what I can do.”

“What do you mean,
see what you can do
?”

He stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip of his cigar and shrugged. “These things take time to arrange, you know. It could take weeks—”

“
Weeks!
”

“Months even.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped open. “But you promised!
You gave Damien your word of honor! You pledged the fate of your soul!”

“I seem to recall some promises and oaths you made that you conveniently elected not to keep.”

“Once,” she gasped. “I tried to run away once! It was no more and no less than what you would have done had you been in my position. Since then I have done everything you asked—
more
than what you have asked, or have you
conveniently
forgotten about Gordon Ross Campbell?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said lightly. “Self-preservation is a strong instinct in all of us; I’m sure you were glad to discover you could call upon it when it was needed.”

Catherine backed up a step, the fury blazing from her eyes like darts of fire. “Haven’t you a single shred of common decency in your entire body? How can you expect me to attend something as … as frivolous and … and as ludicrous as a dinner party after everything I have been through?”

“I have been through exactly the same things, madam, only without the luxury of a bath and twenty-four hours of sleep. And the longer you stand there arguing with me, the less likely it appears I shall get to indulge in either.”

Catherine set her teeth on edge. “You can sleep until next year for all I care. I have no intentions of accompanying you anywhere. Not to dinner, not to breakfast … not
anywhere
!”

“You were the one who announced before God and man that you were my wife,” he reminded her coldly. “You were also the one who insisted on being treated accordingly—
for however long I am forced to endure the indignity
. Those were your exact words, were they not?”

“That was yesterday. I was angry and frightened and …”

“Yes?”

She squared her shoulders. “And today I have a terrible headache.”

“I’m sure it will feel better when you have something to eat.”

“I am not hungry. I do not feel well enough to eat.”

He arched the slash of his eyebrow. “If you are ill, then it is my husbandly duty to remain here and offer you what comfort I may.”

“I plan to go directly to bed.”

His grin turned wolfish. “I have no objections to comforting you there.”

“You are bovine and disgusting.”

“And you, madam, are coming to dinner with me if I have to strip you and dress you myself—and we both know the consequences if you call my bluff.”

She clutched the edges of her robe tighter. “Get out. Get out of my room, get out of my sight at once, or I swear I shall scream the roof down.”

“Scream away. The walls are ten feet thick, the floors six. I doubt if anyone but the ghosts will hear you.”

“If you force me to go to supper with you,” she warned venomously, “I will tell anyone who will listen how you kidnapped me and held me hostage; how you hid behind my skirts so that you and your fellow criminals could sneak back into the country like the true cowards you are.”

He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “Is this before or after I tell them you are an English spy who duped me into marriage so you could come north and send detailed information back to your dragoon lieutenant?”

“No one will believe that for a minute,” she countered hotly.

“No? They know me a fair sight better than they know you, and they are already splitting at the seams to know what would have inspired me to marry you. Being compromised and forced to do so at gunpoint would explain a great deal. And if they needed any more proof of your devious nature, I could produce the dozen or so furtive little notes you left behind at every tavern and inn we
passed. Notes in which you sought to leave a message in one form or another to help your lieutenant find us.”

The blood drained from Catherine’s face in a rush. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. As you said, I likely would have done the same thing in your position.”

Her knees faltered and she had to grasp the back of a chair to keep from falling. He said it so casually, so coldly, mocking her even as he shattered whatever hope she may have had that her family would not think she had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

“Why did you not say something?”

“It hardly seemed important. Annoying, perhaps, but not important. And it was a useful diversion. It kept you happy and out from under my skin by letting you believe you were being so very clever.”

His arrogance warmed her cheeks, and in a move swift and unexpected she swung her hand up and slapped him squarely across the face. His head remained turned to the side for almost a full minute, and when he finally did turn slowly back to face her, the dull red imprint of her hand was staining his cheek, glowing through the ruddiness of anger.

“By Christ, woman,” he said softly, “you have more spirit than I would have credited to you. Far, far more than is healthy or wise to keep throwing at me.”

“What would you have me do? Throw it under your feet to be trampled upon and ground into the dirt? Is that how you prefer your women: groveling and spineless, so frightened of your bullying ways that they shrivel and turn to dust before you?”

Cameron flung his cigar aside and wrenched her forward into a crushing embrace. “Since you ask, madam, I like my women with fire and spirit. I like them blonde. I like them slender and willowy and soft in all the right places. I like them with eyes the color of wildflowers and an insolent little pout of a mouth that begs to be kissed—
kissed so thoroughly there isn’t the breath or wit left for words.”

His mouth, hot and possessive, flavored with the musky sweetness of whisky, came down on hers, forcing her lips apart without any pretense at civility. His breath was fierce where it rasped against her skin, his tongue was bold and demanding as it invaded her mouth, thrusting and probing with a mindless violence that sent shocked reverberations through her body, even to the soles of her feet. One of his hands twisted itself in the tangled mane of her hair, the long fingers ensuring she could not pull away or avoid the relentless plundering. His other hand moved to her waist and started tugging at the ends of her belt, loosening the wool enough to insinuate itself beneath the robe and seek the rounded swell of her breast.

Catherine’s smothered cry was ignored, as was the barrier posed by the cambric nightdress. One swift, savage tug tore the ribbon fastenings and his hand was there, holding the cool heaviness of bare flesh, his fingers kneading and shaping the velvet-soft nipple into a hard, rucked peak.

She groaned again and this time her knees did give way, but he was there to support her, deepening his kiss, teasing her flesh until she could scarcely breathe, scarcely think beyond the waves of hot shame that engulfed her.

“Why don’t we stop playing games, Catherine,” he muttered coarsely, his mouth spreading the flames along the slender arch of her throat. “You want me to honor my promises? So be it. I will honor them … starting with the ones I made in your father’s study to take you as my lawfully wedded—and bedded—wife.”

“No,” she gasped. “No—”

“Your lips keep saying no, Catherine, but your body wants more. Much more.”

“I want nothing from you,” she cried weakly. “Nothing …”

He pushed aside the offending layers of wool and cambric,
and his lips closed around her breast, suckling it hard and deep into the heated wetness of his mouth. She tried to scream, but the breath was not there to do it; she tried to push against his chest, but her fingers betrayed her and curled around the silk of his shirt, clinging to him through wave after wave of dark, throbbing pleasure. Her mind was fighting the conquest, but her body was reveling in the possession, shuddering with the raw desire to feel the roving heat of his mouth elsewhere, everywhere, scorching a trail of shocking caresses over flesh that had never known, never dreamed, such intimacy was possible.

She heard a sound, a deep, ragged groan, and realized it came from her own throat. Her eyes fluttered open to find his darker ones staring down at her, studying her with an intense stillness she dared not challenge. She could feel his every muscle tensed and straining; she could see in his eyes that he wanted her, that he was fighting the hunger in his own body even as he fought to deny its existence, and, far from frightening her as it should have done, it made her feel more like a woman than she ever had before. A single stroke of his hand had rendered her past flirtations infantile and meaningless, her profound insights into passion as lacking in substance as the breath wasted in uttering them.

Alexander Cameron
was
passion, raw and primitive, and she knew full well she would be lost to the power of it the instant his flesh touched hers again.

But he did not touch her again. He lowered his hands by his side and took a precisely measured step back.

“You will oblige me by dressing for dinner,” he said tautly. “You will accompany me to the party later this evening, and you will be on your very best behavior or so help me God”—he waited until the shimmering liquid in her eyes was blinked free—“I shall assume you have no further desire to see your England or your precious Lieutenant Garner ever again.”

With the tears still bright along her lashes, Catherine
tilted her head defiantly upward. “At the cost of your own soul, Mr. Cameron?”

“I have no soul, madam. It died in my arms fifteen years ago.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “You are indeed a loathsome creature. You have no scruples, no morals, no faith, no conscience … not one single redeeming quality that should permit you to walk upright on two legs.”

Alex stared a moment, then offered a sweeping bow. “A man always appreciates knowing where he stands in a woman’s estimation.”

“You stand, sir, with one foot on the road to hell, and I do not envy anyone who chooses to stand alongside you.”

Alex walked angrily alone to the north tower, though Catherine might have been beside him for the echo of their conversation that kept repeating itself in his head. He had sobered considerably since leaving her chamber, yet there was no help for his blood, which continued to race and pound throughout his body. And no help for the lingering taste and scent of her that clung to his every pore. He had come close—closer than he even cared to think—to simply throwing her across the bed and getting her out of his system once and for all. Was that the answer? Would the physical possession of her body ease this nerve-grating frustration he felt whenever they were in the same room together? Or would it only make matters worse? Those eyes, that mouth … she defied him at every turn, baited him to do his worst, and by God, if he did not find some way to get her out of Scotland, out of his life soon, he would …

He would what?

He paused on the threshold of MacKail’s chamber and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. There was only one candle alight; the glow it shed barely reached beyond the canopied bed. As he walked toward it the answer to his
question eluded him, though the frown stayed etched across his brow.

“Problems?”

Alex looked down at the pale figure and was surprised to see Aluinn’s gray eyes sharp and clear, as free of congestion as if he had slept for days instead of hours.

“Problems? Not really. Go back to sleep.”

“Just how am I supposed to do that with you hovering over me like a carrion crow every time I turn over?”

“All things considered,” Alex said dryly, “I should think you would be far too ill to be so witty.”

“With Archie dispensing almost as much whisky as laudanum?” Aluinn shifted his weight on the pillows, wincing as he jarred the heavily bandaged shoulder. “He is threatening to have me dancing to the pipes by week’s end, and frankly, I have no reason to doubt him.”

“Seriously, how are you feeling? How bad was the damage?”

“Seriously? I feel like a mountain dropped on me. As for the arm, Archie seems to think it shouldn’t lay me up too long. The shoulder will be stiff for a while, but the strength should come back. Thank God it was the left side and not the right. I would hate to think my days of jousting at windmills are over.”

Alex smiled and helped himself to a dram of whisky from the bottle beside the bed.

“No, thanks,” Aluinn said to the offered glass. “But you go ahead. Have you caught any sleep yet?”