The Pride of Lions (33 page)

“Angus Moy is very conscious o’ his responsibilities as The MacIntosh. He would never deliberately pit one clan against anither within his own sect.”

“Responsibilities!” Jeannie was on her feet again. “A clan’s responsibility is tae their chief, an’ the chief’s responsibility is tae the kirk—tae Scotland! No’ the ither way around!”

“What I dinna ken,” Keppoch said, ignoring the outburst, “is why these lairds think they’ll fare any better if they declare f’ae German George. They canna ha’ forgotten how every clan—Whig or Jacobite—was treated after the ’15. It didna matter if a clan fought wi’ or against The Stuart, they were all orthered tae disarm. They were all stripped o’ their weapons an’ powers, all treated wi’ contempt an’ mistrust … an’ it willna be any different now.”

“Most o’ the chiefs know that,” Lochiel agreed. “An’ they dinna want tae see this country torn apart again.”

“Men like Duncan Squint-Eyed Forbes should’ve had a musket fed doon their throats years ago,” Jeannie grumbled. “Turnin’ men against their own kind! Cowards!”

“His methods may be wrong, but he wants peace in the kirk as badly as we do,” Lochiel said. “He disna want tae see brither fightin’ brither, Highlander fightin’ Highlander. He knows as well as we do that a war now means the end o’ any chance we might have o’ a free an’ independent Parliament in Scotland.”

“We may have lost that chance the minute Prince
Charles set foot on Scottish soil,” Alex said softly, having held his silence until then. “If he stays, or if he manages to convince even a handful of clans to form up behind him, it will be all the excuse England needs to cross our borders in strength. Parliament has already voted to reinforce the garrisons at Fort George and Fort William. I saw evidence that half of England is mobilizing its militia … the other half have never stood down from the alert caused by that fiasco last February when the Prince nearly drowned himself in the Channel.”

“The Prince promises us there is an army o’ Englishmen waitin’ tae join his cause.”

“If there is, I didn’t see them,” Alex said dryly. “What I did see was an army of fanatics warning the common people of the swarms of naked, bloodthirsty cavemen who will be pouring out of the mountains and across the border to rape their women and sacrifice their children to the druids.” The ebony eyes bored into the silent figure beside Lochiel. “You will never convince them we only want to be left alone to live in peace. You will never convince them that we shouldn’t be conquered and
civilized
as it suits them.”

“The Prince already has pledges,” Archibald said glumly. “Clanranald, Glenaladale, Kinlochmoidart … they’ve all answered his summons an’ fallen f’ae the laddie’s charm. Aye, an’ a grand charm it is, brithers. He has his father’s face, his father’s eyes, his father’s knack o’ lookin’ right into yer soul an’ twistin’ it out yer throat again. Ye were wise tae send me in yer stead, Donald. I dinna think ye could ha’ resisted him.”

“My mind is firm on where I stand, where the Camerons stand. This I have told him an’ it willna change.”

“Then dinna go within a mile o’ him,” Archibald ordered, “f’ae I ken ye better than ye ken yersel’, an’ if this Stuart prince once sets eyes on ye, he’ll have ye weepin’ an’ gratin’ an’ doin’ whatever it is that pleases him tae have ye do.”

Lochiel frowned. “It would please me, brither, tae
share a dram o’ that wine ye seem tae be hoardin’ tae yersel’.”

Archibald chuckled, and the topic slid painlessly into less volatile areas. Catherine hadn’t dared look up during the entire exchange; she could scarcely believe they were debating the rebellion so openly, discussing treason so freely, and she could only wonder what kind of men could even dream of challenging the might of King George’s armies.

She stole a glance along the table and thought she had at least part of the answer. Alexander Cameron would fight the devil, she was sure, and with little more provocation than a change of mood. He argued calmly, logically, and eloquently against war, yet she had seen firsthand the darker side of him, the violent side. Could such violence and logic coexist for very long inside one man without tearing him apart?

What went on behind those impenetrable, unreadable eyes of his? Had anyone ever been close enough to the man to be able to read his thoughts or understand his moods? Had anyone ever
wanted
to understand him? Each time she thought she had found a flicker of tenderness lurking inside, he proved her wrong. He baited her, he played with her emotions, he teased her unmercifully … and yet after the attack on the coach, when he had held her in his arms, she had never felt so safe, so protected in all her life.

Her gaze wavered slightly as Lauren Cameron’s laughter broke into her thoughts. The virago was all over Alex, brushing up against him each time she thought of another probing question to ask him about his travels. He didn’t seem to be objecting. Another inch or two, in fact, and his nose would become permanently wedged in the cleft between her breasts.

Catherine reached for her wineglass. The
Camshroinaich Dubh
. The Dark Cameron. Dark gods and druids, ghosts in the mist and visions of bloody battlefields …

Invade England! How she wished Hamilton Garner
were here in his fine scarlet tunic and white breeches. He would show them all how laughable their plotting and debating was, how useless their speculations. A handful of blustery Jacobites would not even make it as far as the River Tweed without reeling back in awe at the sight of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons!

Hamilton!

Where was he now? Had he recovered from his wounds? Had something terrible happened—infection, fever, or worse? He surely would have come after her if he had been able, for there was no question of him abandoning her to the likes of Alexander Cameron. And
Damien!
Had something happened to Damien? Why had he not been on the road behind them? She had, indeed, left markers and messages, too many for the Highlander to have found them all. Why, then, had there been no sign of pursuit?

She stared glumly at her empty wineglass.

It was too late, that was why. She was irretrievably trapped in this medieval mountain fortress. The inhabitants—some of them anyway—might be friendly enough, but she was nonetheless the intruder here. The stranger. The foreigner. The
Sassenach
. She would be watched wherever she went, whatever she did. Even if rescue
was
just beyond the bend in the road, she had little hope of reaching it.

What were they laughing about now? She concentrated all of her attention on Alexander’s mouth, but that was a mistake, for it made her remember how it felt, warm and wet, fastened hungrily around her breast.

She gasped, startled to see a spreading red stain on the linens in front of her.

“Oh! How clumsy of me!” She righted her glass and reached hastily for her napkin to soak up the spill before it ran down onto her skirts.

“Are ye all right, hen?” Rose asked. “Ye look like ye swallowed a cherry pit.”

“I … I’m fine. Really. I was just … clumsy.”

“Aye, ye’re tired, lass, an’ wi’ good reason,” Lochiel said. “I’m surprised ye insisted on comin’ down f’ae dinner at all. We told Alex tae leave ye be.”

“She would not hear of it,” Alex said, his voice coming from over Catherine’s shoulder. She turned around, startled by his sudden appearance by her side, and found herself staring up at two of him.

“I … am a little tired,” she confessed through a gulp of air.

“Of course you are,” Maura said, standing immediately. “How thoughtless of us to keep you here so long. Alex, you must take her up to bed at once.”

16

C
atherine heard the command and stumbled slightly over the hem of her skirt as he helped her to her feet. He laughingly thanked Maura for the suggestion and bid a good evening to everyone on her behalf, his arm like a steel band around her waist, holding her steady as he steered her through the hall and up the flight of stone steps.

“You do not have to leave with me,” she protested, trying unsuccessfully to pluck his arm away. “I would not want to be accused of spoiling your evening.”

“How very considerate of you. But I prefer to make sure you get where you are going.”

“Are you implying”—she stopped abruptly and swayed dangerously close to the wall—“that I am not in my proper senses?”

Alex smiled despite himself. Her eyes were large and dark, the centers so dilated there was only a thin halo of violet around the rim. She was flushed and warm, and her breasts were fluttering against the confines of her bodice like trapped birds longing to be set free. He had partaken liberally himself at the dinner table, and his blood was not as cool as it should have been—not if he had to resist the lure of those fiery eyes and luscious pink lips for very long.

“I should have warned you the wine was nearly as potent as the whisky. Archibald oversees the making of both.”

“You, sir, make far too many presumptions. If anything, I found the burgundy weak and lacking in body, its effects disappointing.”

“Disappointing? In that case, perhaps it has just been your father’s fine gin you have been missing since we left Derby, not your gallant lieutenant.”

“Vile,” she seethed, and with a flounce of her wide skirts detached herself from his arm and marched ahead, making only one wrong turn before she located the gallery leading to the west tower. Cameron lagged behind, smoking one of his cigars as he mounted the steps to the bedchambers.

The one Catherine had been occupying was in darkness save for a single beam of blue-white moonlight that streamed through the window. She stood in its path, silhouetted by the shaft, shimmering in a glaze of luminescence.

“Deirdre?
Deirdre?
Sweet Mother Mary, where is that girl?”

“Anything I can help you with?” Cameron asked from the door. His features were in shadow, his broad frame lit from behind by the sconce out on the landing. The blood pounded into Catherine’s temples as she saw the tip of ash on his cigar glow brightly for a moment, then fade again.

“You can snuff out that dreadful black weed and light one of the candles,” she said sharply. He gave no indication he was about to oblige either request until she sighed and added a grudging “Please.”

“Certainly.” He went back out to the landing and returned with the taper from the wall sconce. He found the night candle and lit it, then set the taper in an empty stand.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And thank
you
.”

“For what?”

“For tonight. For behaving as if everything was as it should be. I can appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to sit through the dinner conversation without once speaking your mind.”

Catherine regarded him suspiciously, not knowing if she had just been complimented or insulted.

“And despite my earlier reservations,” he added, pausing to let his eyes drift across her bodice, “I believe you managed to win me the envy of every warm-blooded male in attendance.”

Catherine held her breath. Compliments? Flattery? What was he up to?

“Thank you for escorting me up the stairs. I can manage on my own now.”

“Are you sure? I am … not unfamiliar with women’s clothing and … without a maid to help you …”

Catherine felt the dark eyes on her breasts again, stroking them like a pair of hands. Was that it? Was he regretting he had not carried through with his threats earlier in the day? Was he wondering, speculating, on just how much effort it would take now to overcome her defenses?

“I assure you, Mr. Cameron,” she said with ice in her voice, “I am quite capable of tending to myself.”

He shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. “I was only trying to be friendly. If you change your mind, or if you need me for … well, anything at all … I am right across the hall.”

“If I change my mind, sir, I shall fling myself out the window and let the wind undress me.”

“An ingenious solution, I’m sure. Perhaps a tad melodramatic, but as always, a credit to your vivid imagination. Good night.”

He was still smiling to himself as he walked into the smaller chamber across the hall. The minx had a spark to her, there was no denying. She managed constantly to get under his skin and rouse more than just his anger in these verbal jousts. Too much more and he could not be held accountable for his actions. He had come damned close that afternoon.
Damned
close. And he had been feeling slightly off balance ever since.

The hell of it was, he still could not pinpoint what it was about her that attracted him. They were as opposite
in character as a man and woman could be. She was spoiled, proud, haughty, and stubborn. She provoked him deliberately, repeatedly, secure in the belief that she was immune from any manner of retribution, smug in her conviction that she was above anything so base and repulsive as physical desire. Yet there were times—coming more and more frequently—when the icy facade showed cracks. When he sensed she just needed to be taken into someone’s arms and held.

Someone’s?

His?

No. In spite of Aluinn’s rose-tinted view of the world, there was just too much of the past to overcome. The pain, the memories … they were too strong. The guilt was still too near the surface even after all these years. Annie would still be alive if not for him. She would not have suffered degradation and pain at the hands of the Campbells if they had not been able to use her love as the ultimate weapon against him. He never wanted to place himself or anyone else in such a position again. Love was a weakness he could not afford.