The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  “God’s teeth, what did the captain of the Fourteenth expect him to do, turn tail and run?”

  “Actually, sir, that’s exactly what did happen. Both regiments broke rank and fled. By the time the officers realized what was happening, the men were halfway back to Edinburgh. Nor did their cowardice end there, for they kept running long after the rebels gave up pursuit.” The corporal’s posture had sagged somewhat during the telling of the sorry events, but now, under Colonel Halfyard’s relentless stare, he stiffened again. “The city fell the next day, sir, on the seventeenth.”

  “Edinburgh? The castle? The entire garrison?”

  “Not the garrison, sir,” the corporal said quickly. “When I left, it was still in the hands of Colonel Guest— eighty years, if he’s a day, sir, and vowing to level the city with his own guns before he will surrender a single man.”

  “A little late for such histrionics, wouldn’t you say? And dare I ask where Cope was during this fiasco, or had his wits abandoned him as well?”

  “The general was landing his troops at Dunbar even as I was receiving my orders to ride south with the news of Edinburgh’s capture. And he has not abandoned anything, sir. He has sixteen hundred infantry and six hundred Horse with him, while the rebels have had to distribute their forces between Perth, Stirling, and Edinburgh to consolidate their position. At last report, there could be no more than fifteen hundred Highlanders occupying the city, and I would happily stake my career on another rider arriving within the week to bring news of the complete and utter defeat of the Pretender’s army.”

  The colonel threw down his cigar and crushed it to shreds under the heel of his boot. “If I hear one single word of what you have told me here repeated, your career will be the least of your worries, Corporal.”

  “I … I was ordered to report only to you, sir. Captain Price thought it best not to alarm anyone until we hear from General Cope.”

  “Captain Price’s caution is well founded. Cope may have the rebels outnumbered, but his troops are green and raw, too smitten by their shiny leather crossbelts and scarlet tunics to want to soil them. If word gets out that the more experienced, seasoned veterans of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Dragoons broke and ran like beaten dogs, their shame could spread to undermine the morale of the entire army! A crucial mistake in any battle is to underestimate the strength and convictions of the enemy. This must not be allowed to happen again! Take yourself back to headquarters on the instant and inform Captain Price I will be there within the hour.”

  “Yessir. On my way, sir.”

  The young officer saluted smartly and hastened back along the pathway, no doubt relieved to be walking away under his own power. After a few moments of contemplating the sky to the north, Colonel Halfyard turned on his heel and followed, his angry footsteps fading away across the gravel.

  When she was sure it was safe to emerge, Catherine stepped cautiously out from beneath the shelter of the arbor, her heart pounding erratically.

  Today was the twentieth. If what the corporal said was true, if Edinburgh had fallen on the seventeenth and General Cope’s army had been but a day’s march from the city, then it was quite possible a battle already had been fought and the outcome decided.

  Yet it was not so much the prospect of fighting that had caused her skin to turn clammy and her breath to rasp dryly in her throat. It was the image of Alexander Cameron seated on the back of his magnificent black stallion, Shadow, that had shocked her the deepest. The combined effect of the mighty black beast and the savage splendor of his master was indeed enough to conjure pictures of the devil himself, and if Hamilton Garner had seen and recognized the pair at Colt’s Bridge, it was no wonder his senses had deserted him. What else would stir Hamilton to such a blind rage he would charge against an enemy single-handed? What else but the sight of the man who had mocked him, humiliated him, and played him for a fool? He had vowed to win his revenge if it cost him his last dying breath to do so, and Catherine had no reason to doubt Hamilton would act upon that hatred if the smallest opportunity presented itself. And if they were to meet in the heat of battle, where there were no rules of gentlemanly conduct, where a sword killed as swiftly if thrust through the back as through the belly …?

  “Dear God,” she cried softly. “Alex …”

  A fresh wave of fear tore at her heart as she lifted her blurred gaze to the serene, compassionate features of Aphrodite. “Please keep him safe for me. Please. I could not bear it if … if …”

  Unable to complete the horrible thought, Catherine covered her face with her hands and ran from the secluded gardens, too distraught to notice the second shadowy figure who was startled into jumping back into his place of concealment as she ran past.

  Damien Ashbrooke had also overheard the report delivered to Colonel Halfyard, though not by accident. He had noted the dusty corporal’s arrival and had followed the pair into the gardens, curious to know what could be so important to pull his uncle away from an expensive bottle of French brandy. It could only be news from Scotland, and, with his own sources becoming unreliable at best, the risk of being discovered among the ornamental shrubs was far outweighed by the need to know.

  Far more than friendship and legal services had fostered his acquaintance with Alexander Cameron. Like so many others, Damien Ashbrooke was not pleased with the idea of the English crown sitting on the head of a pompous German surrogate—one who had not even troubled himself to learn the language or customs of his new country. From secret meetings in darkened back rooms to the secretive toast of passing a wineglass over water before drinking—a token of homage to the exiled Stuart king over the sea— Damien had been swept up in the romance and intrigue. Having been told from an early age that the most rabid Stuart supporters were located in the northern reaches of Scotland, and that these skirted warlords wanted only to force the country back into the dark ages of a feudal society, he was as surprised as Catherine had been to discover they were men of courage, honor, and conviction. They had risen twice before as a country to object to the laws imposed upon them by an English parliament. The first time had been when their king, James VII, had been deposed in favor of William of Orange; the second came in 1715 when William’s daughter, Queen Anne, had outlived all of her seventeen children and Parliament had chosen to ignore the direct and sovereign bloodlines of the Catholic James Francis Stuart in favor of the Protestant George of Hanover.

  Poorly led and badly executed, both Scottish uprisings had failed, yet here they were again, willing to suffer imprisonment, exile, even death to support Charles Stuart’s quest to reclaim the throne of England for his father. Fortunes had been lost, families broken or destroyed, and many brave men cast from their homes and forced into exile in foreign lands. Nineteen Scottish peerages had been abolished during the last rebellion, and some of these clan chiefs still languished in abject poverty thirty years later simply because they refused to repudiate the vows of allegiance they had made to their rightful king. A chance meeting with one of these men, John Cameron of Loch Eil, a Scottish laird living in Italy with the court of King James, had led to an introduction to his youngest son, Alexander, and Damien’s transformation from curious observer to eager participant had been complete.

  The tall, black-haired Highlander had both awed and fascinated Damien. He was a genuine soldier of fortune, someone who had spent half his life fighting wars, dodging assassins, embarking on adventures dangerous enough to curdle a grown man’s blood. It was no wonder Damien had taken a good long look at his own tepid, structured existence and found it wanting. He did not flatter himself to think he could ever come to possess the physical prowess or fighting instincts of either Cameron or Aluinn MacKail, but he could and did contribute talents in other, equally important areas of expertise.

  He arranged for the funding and purchasing of weapons and supplies to be smuggled into Scotland. He organized and contributed to a system of information-gathering that kept the Jacobites aware of any troop movements, naval deployments
, or political maneuverings that might be to their aid or detriment. Conversely, through underground news sheets and pamphlets, the English Jacobites were kept informed of the activities north of the border that might not otherwise become public knowledge. It was Damien who had confirmed the arrival of Charles Stuart in the Hebrides, and it was Damien who had sent word to the Jacobite camp that General Sir John Cope was being dispatched to quell the rebellion before it became a real threat.

  The fall of Edinburgh, the cowardly behavior of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons, the ineptness of General Cope to outwit the prince’s fledgling forces would be information the Hanover government would prefer the general population not to know. The good citizens of London were skittish enough already with the stories of Highlanders seeking to avenge a hundred years’ worth of injustice. Naked, hairy, and breathing fire, the Scots were reported to be ravaging beasts who dwelled in caves and fornicated with sheep, who considered rape, murder, even the eating of human flesh to be a way of life.

  Stepping onto the path again, Damien started back toward the house. He had certainly been startled to see Catherine come running out of the darkness, but she usually could be counted upon to be somewhere she should not be or hear something she should not hear. That much had not changed with the advent of her marriage to Alexander Cameron and probably never would. It was a wonder, in fact, she had not uncovered his, Damien’s, secret affiliations, an oversight he credited to her current distraction. It was better that way, however. Safer—for both of them. He had a feeling, despite the young corporal’s prediction of a victory at Dunbar, that the taking of Edinburgh was just the beginning.

  Glancing up at the brilliant wash of starlight, he cast a silent plea of his own heavenward. A moment later a bright tracer of light seared an arc across the night sky. As he watched the blazing star fall and die, he hoped with all his heart it was not an omen of things to come.

  Prestonpans

  2

  At almost the same instant Damien and Catherine were directing their prayers toward the heavens, an equally impassioned cry was ringing out across a glistening, dewladen moor more than two hundred miles away. With Alexander Cameron’s darkly chiseled features looming over her, Lauren Cameron curled her fingers deeper into the glossy black shanks of his hair and guided his mouth down over the taut and straining peak of her breast. Her body arched and writhed into the eager boldness of his caresses. Her limbs felt engorged with blood, leaden and useless against sensations she had no means of controlling.

  “Oh, God, Alasdair.” She gasped. “God …”

  With a grunt of urgency, his body slid forward, impaling her on a thrust of flesh so hot and turgid the air that had hissed through her teeth was drawn sharply inward again. Her lips trembled open and her eyes quivered shut. Her whole body became engulfed in flames of crimson ecstasy, and when he began to move within her, it was all she could do to claw her hands into the rock-hard flesh of his buttocks and pray she could retain consciousness. A single mass of pulsating nerves, she groaned in awe and braced herself against the quickening thrusts, plunging headlong into wave after wave of intense, searing rapture. Her head thrashed side to side, further scattering the cloud of titian hair beneath them. Her lips moved, but no sounds came forth, and her hands slid on his gleaming flanks as she strained to take more of him, take all of him, unmindful that each shocking impact sent her skidding on the wet deergrass.

  With an echoing groan of mindless pleasure, he arched his magnificent torso upward, no longer concerned with fighting his conscience as a rush of ecstasy burst from his loins. A cry rattled deep in his throat, the shape of it unintelligible as Lauren began to convulse beneath him. So violent were her spasms and so desperate was his own need for release that barely had his senses recovered from one onslaught then he could feel the juices rising in him again … and again … each shuddering eruption prolonged for what seemed an eternity.

  Finally, when the tumult subsided and he collapsed, panting and sweating within her welcoming arms, there were tears of joy and triumph welling hotly along her lashes.

  “I knew ye would come tae me, Alasdair. I knew ye would.”

  The day had begun long before the sun had risen, long before the stars had lost any of their brightness and could still be seen through the lazy mist that cloaked the land. The Highland forces were camped on a field surrounding the small village of Duddington, directly east of Edinburgh. Less than four miles away, near the coastal town of Prestonpans, General Sir John Cope and his government troops were bedding down to a comfortable and refreshing night’s sleep, no doubt chuckling over the fancy display of rebel footwork they had witnessed that day.

  Cope had chosen his position well. He had the sea at his back, a wide clear plain on either flank—ably protected by rows of silently ominous artillery pieces—and an impenetrable morass of mud and swampland guarding against any manner of frontal attack. The rebel army, bristling for a confrontation, had tested Cope’s defenses that day, appearing at first light on his left flank, only to find themselves staring into the black maws of primed and waiting cannon. They had circled back to re-form on his right, a maneuver that had taken three hours to execute and Cope only minutes to swivel his guns to defend.

  Prince Charles had grudgingly but wisely ordered his army back to Duddington where he had then convened his chiefs and generals for a hasty council of war.

  “Gentlemen,” he said loudly, overriding several heated arguments that were in progress over the day’s events. “There must be some way of dislodging General Cope from that plain!”

  “Cope is a seasoned campaigner,” advised Lord George Murray, the prince’s field general. “He knows he holds the advantage of ground and knows he can sit there until the heavens rain solid gold sovereigns if he chooses. He is in no hurry to bring the battle to us, not with reinforcements on the way from London. On the contrary. The longer he sits the stronger, his position becomes and the more confidence his men gain—another factor weighing heavily on his mind, I’m sure, for most of his troops are drawn from militias and have never seen battle before.”

  Lord George Murray was a tall, elegant man in his early fifties, one to whom soldiering came by instinct. He had joined the prince’s army at Perth and, like many of his peers, had staked everything on this venture, but was quite prepared to lose it for the sake of his king and country. He was not prepared to lose it through incompetence, however, or overeagerness—two qualities he had been much dismayed to find in his prince. Charles, being a much younger man, was prepared to acknowledge and follow sound military logic when it was presented to him. But finding himself on Scottish soil, at the command of an army of volatile Highlanders, proved too great a temptation for his sensibilities. He was all for charging straight ahead, taking himself onto the battlefield on his tall white gelding and leading the men to triumph and glory. It had come as a great shock when the clan chiefs had insisted on the appointment of commanding generals, more so when they had specified the need for military experience over zeal.

  Lord George Murray had been enlisted in the government army in the days of Queen Anne’s rule. Even though he had not seen active duty since the ill-fated rebellion of 1715, the chiefs trusted him implicitly because he was one of them, and because he quickly proved to be a brilliant tactician and canny strategist. The prince, no fool when it came to pleasing his chiefs, appointed Lord George to command the army on the field, and Lord John Drummond, the deposed Duke of Perth as his lieutenant general. The Duke of Perth was openly candid about his lack of real experience and acknowledged his appointment had been more for political reasons rather than for any burning military genius he could bring to the field. Lord George, however, took his job seriously and, being a blunt and outspoken man, was not adverse to ruffling anyone’s feathers, even if they happened to be princely. He spoke to the prince sometimes as he would a child, explaining why it was not to the army’s advantage to stage a frontal attack, or why they had to be extremely wary of artillery placements.


  “Cope knows we will eventually have to carry the battle to him,” Lord George said evenly, disregarding the faint lines of rebellion etched around the prince’s lips. “And when we do, his cannon will cut us to pieces before we have covered half the distance across that wide, flat plain.”

  “Your trust in our gallant men is inspiring,” came the moist, nasal twang of William O’Sullivan. He was an Irishman, one of the prince’s friends and advisors, and, because he thought the post of commander should have been his, he attempted to discredit and embarrass Lord George at every turn. He had wasted no time in pointing out to the prince that Lord George’s brother was a prominent Whig and that Lord George himself had been approached by the government and offered a high commission in the Hanover army. He even went so far as to suggest Lord George had secretly accepted and was serving the prince only in order to betray their cause from within.

  “Your faith in our ability,” he continued blithely, “leaves me … quite frankly … breathless.”

  “I have the utmost faith and trust in the courage and ability of our Highlanders,” Lord George retorted. “As it happens, however, I place a higher premium on their lives.”

  “Battles have been fought on plains before.” The Irishman sighed. “I fail to see the dilemma now.”

  “The dilemma, sir, is that we are neither trained nor equipped to meet a disciplined army on their terms. Indeed, battles have been fought on open plains before—battles between evenly matched forces who respect and adhere to the standard codes of warfare. They fire their cannon at each other, then, after their cavalries have made their gallant and impressive contributions, march their infantry out in precision lines, five ranks deep. Have you ever encountered a solid wall of musketfire? A wall that moves slowly, incessantly forward, with the front rank discharging their weapons, falling back to reload at a relatively leisurely pace, while the other four ranks advance and fire in turn? Our army has no cannon, no cavalry to speak of, and pitifully few men who even know how to fire a musket, let alone possess one to carry into battle. Our ranks are comprised of shepherds and tacksmen, many of whom will take to the field armed with only a knife or scythe, or a rusted clai’ mór that has lain buried in the ground for the past thirty years. Any weapons they do come by will be taken from their own dead—the chiefs, lairds, and officers of the clans who, by right of honor and tradition, occupy the front ranks and who, by that same code of honor and tradition, prefer to test their courage and mettle by the blade of a broadsword rather than the more modern efficiency of a pistol. But in order to test that courage and mettle, gentlemen, those same chiefs, lairds, and officers will have to charge across an open field facing cannonfire and sharpshooters, across a distance that they cannot possibly hope to survive, should God grant them wings! And once the chiefs and leaders of the clans have fallen, I have no doubt the shepherds and tacksmen will continue the charge bravely and courageously—but to what end? Even supposing they survive the wall of unrelenting fire, without leaders what will they be fighting for?”