The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  Catherine’s cheeks grew warmer. Since her meeting two days ago with her brother, she had been in an agony of suspense—waiting, watching the road for signs of a messenger. In two days there must have been a hundred callers at the door. The sound of each hoofbeat on the gravel carriage path sent her flying to the window; each knock on the heavy oak doors found her poised on the landing, her hands clutched around the banister as if to crush it.

  Alex was nearby. He wanted, needed to see her as desperately as she wanted and needed to see him. How many times had she read and reread his letter? How many hours had she stood at her bedroom window and imagined herself back in the tower room of Achnacarry Castle ensconced in the enormous tester bed with her husband? Certainly there was more to love than passion, but dear God, how wonderful it would be to feel his arms around her, to hear his voice ragged with desire, to know the tremors in her body were shared by an equal longing in his.

  How does one love someone desperately? he had once asked her, mocking the use of the word and the sentiment behind it, even as he had shown an unusual curiosity over both. He had used the same word in his letter: desperate. Was he asking her, or reminding her? And did she remember her answer from that day so many lifetimes ago?

  “With one’s whole heart and soul,” she whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Catherine glanced up, startled. Lieutenant Derek Goodwin was standing by her side, his mouth arranged in a smile that suggested he knew exactly what she had been thinking about.

  “I … was merely agreeing with my father … wishing … with my whole heart and soul that these troubles were behind us.”

  “A needless plea,” he assured her warmly, “for I shall consider it my sworn duty in life to see that not a single strand of your hair falls victim to more trouble than a noisome breeze.”

  Catherine managed a smile and leaned away from the intimacy of his murmured pledge. She had not even been aware she had spoken out loud, much less that anyone had been standing near enough to overhear her. So near, in fact, she could smell the pungent, stale odor of an overpowdered wig.

  “Your glass is empty; may I refill it for you?”

  “Oh. No, no, thank you, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I haven’t much of a head for strong spirits tonight.”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Montgomery, I find you hold your spirits very well indeed. I should think any other young and … highly desirable beauty such as yourself would be all but crushed by the loneliness of having a husband abandon her so soon after the nuptials.”

  “I was hardly abandoned, Lieutenant,” she replied evenly. “My husband is a businessman. He could not ignore his business ventures for pleasure.”

  The slick smile widened. “One cannot imagine the proceeds of any business being half so rewarding, nor the labors half so fruitful”—his eyes slid to the dusky cleft of her breasts—“as those ventured within your arms.”

  Amazed and annoyed by his boldness, Catherine’s eyes sparkled a warning. “I assure you my husband’s energies are limitless. I have not felt shortchanged, at any rate.”

  “Not even on these cool, wintry nights when your only source of excitement is found within the pages of a penny novel?”

  “Penny novels can be extremely exciting, Lieutenant. More so than some of the company I find myself enduring.”

  Lieutenant Goodwin warmed to the repartee. He had accepted his posting to Derby with something less than enthusiasm, knowing it was a punishment for having dallied with the affections of his former commandant’s nubile young wife. Nubile young wives were a particular hobby of his. He collected them the way some men collected weapons after a skirmish, to remind them of battles fought and won. Wives were never screaming virgins. There was never any danger of being set before an altar after the fact, and they rarely reported their misdeeds to their husbands, not even when his methods of persuasion were … less than conventional.

  Goodwin’s disposition toward his present posting had altered considerably the instant he had laid eyes upon Catherine Montgomery. Blonde and willowy, in possession of a body that was made to burn a man’s honorable intentions to cinders—she was not the kind of woman who should remain four days, let alone four months without the vigorous attentions of a man. She was also, if the stories he had heard were true, married to a man she hardly knew and held no particular affection for. Her reputation as a coquette belied the calm, serene beauty who stood before him now. He could well imagine a similar stance—eyes slightly downcast, lips forming a pout, fingers drumming a silent tattoo on the stem of an ivory fan as she stood watching two men duel for the privilege of claiming her as a prize. Was that it? Did she enjoy playing games? Had she ridden into the forest the other morning fully expecting someone to follow her? Did she expect someone to follow her now as she snapped open her fan and stood up?

  “I find the air in here has grown a trifle stifling. You will excuse me?”

  “Allow me,” he said, and tucked his hand under the crook of her arm to steer her toward the door. The cool, vaulted silence of the hallway was a welcome relief from the noise and press of warm bodies, and Catherine breathed a sigh of genuine relief.

  “Thank you for escorting me, Lieutenant,” she said, turning so that his grip on her arm was subtly broken. “It has been a very long day and I suddenly find myself extremely tired.”

  “You are retiring for the night?”

  “I thought I might, yes.”

  “I … was hoping we could continue our conversation in private.”

  Catherine cast a cool glance down to where his fingers had curled around her wrist. “I was quite convinced our conversation was over. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “But I do mind,” he interrupted. “I mind very much, Mrs. Montgomery, wasting my time on a flirt and a tease.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come now, Catherine. We’re alone now. You can stop pretending. I know what you want, what you have been missing these past few months, and believe me, I am more than willing … and eager … to fulfill your every wish.”

  Catherine had half a mind to be amused rather than outraged. Did they all assume, because Lady Caroline had no qualms about cuckolding her husband in open company, the daughter would behave in a similar fashion?

  “I am truly sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but I doubt you could measure up to one tenth of my husband’s capabilities. However, I’m sure you will find the taverns and brothels in Derby teeming with women more suited to your talents.”

  Goodwin’s complexion darkened to a dull, throbbing red, but before he could say any more, the doors to the drawing room swung open and several laughing guests swept into the hallway. One of them, a young corporal by the name of Jeffrey Peters, veered instantly toward the lieutenant.

  “Oh, I say sir. Colonel Kelly sent me to fetch you. He says we mustn’t wear out our welcome.” He paused and bowed gallantly in front of Catherine. “A perfectly splendid evening, Mrs. Montgomery. As usual.”

  Catherine extricated her wrist from Goodwin’s biting fingers. “You are always welcome, Corporal Peters. No more so than tonight.”

  The corporal’s pimpled face flushed a deep crimson, and in an agony of embarrassment, he turned to his senior officer hoping to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Instead, he was nearly induced to swallow it from the sheer force of the icy hatred emanating from the hazel eyes.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Goodwin said tautly. “You were dispatched to find me and so you have. You may return to Colonel Kelly and inform him I shall rejoin him directly.”

  Corporal Peters started to turn away when Catherine reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “I shall bid you good night now, Corporal, since I am feeling the effects of an aggravatingly long day and probably will not return to the drawing room.”

  The corporal bowed and smiled. “Good night, Mrs. Montgomery. I trust you will feel better in the morning.”

  “I am sur
e I will. Good night to you as well, Lieutenant. And better luck elsewhere.”

  Goodwin stared after Catherine as she walked away, his body still reacting to the fragrance of her hair, the imagined feel of her warm, naked skin rubbing up against his. She obviously liked playing the fox, leading the hunters on a merry chase, smug in the knowledge that she could retreat into her lair at any time. Well, this hunter knew exactly where the lair was, knew her rooms were isolated at the far end of one wing of the house with nothing but empty chambers on either side.

  Run and hide, my luscious little fox. Stoke the fires and warm the sheets, for you’ll not be spending another cold night alone.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she, sir?”

  “What?” Goodwin whirled around, surprised to see the corporal still beside him. “What the devil did you say?”

  “I … I w-was merely complimenting M-Mrs. M-Montgomery’s beauty, s-sir.” The corporal strained over each word, cursed by an impediment that made him stutter at the least sign of pressure. “I m-meant no offense.”

  Goodwin raked his gaze along the corporal’s thin, lanky body. “And just what would you know about women, beautiful or otherwise? I thought pretty little things like yourself gravitated toward your own kind.”

  Corporal Peters paled. After a long moment, and with a visible effort, he drew himself to attention.

  “The c-colonel is waiting,” he said tersely. “Sir.”

  Goodwin laughed and, adjusting the lower edge of his red woolen tunic, he strode toward the door of the drawing room. Corporal Peters lingered long enough to force his fists to unclench, then followed.

  “Deirdre, if something doesn’t happen soon, I shall go completely mad.”

  The slender, dark-haired maid smiled solemnly and dragged the brush through the long, shiny mass of her mistress’s hair. “You will hear something from Mr. Cameron soon, I’m sure of it.”

  “But it has been two whole days! Why would he have sent Damien so soon unless he was confident of being able to make arrangements right away? Something has happened. Something dreadful. I just know it.”

  “Nothing has happened,” Deirdre insisted, and set the brush aside. “You have said yourself, a dozen times, he is too clever to be taken by surprise.”

  “Damien is not so clever,” Catherine remarked dryly. “Suppose he was followed and watched?”

  “Why would anyone follow Master Damien?”

  Catherine’s only answer was a sigh.

  “Indeed,” Deirdre said, “something may have gone wrong with their plan. After all, there are troops moving every which way across the country. Perhaps their original arrangements had to be delayed or amended.”

  “Or abandoned altogether,” Catherine said miserably. “My husband is far too impatient to let such a trifling thing as a wife delay his return to the battlefront.” Her sarcasm was not as believable as the second, heartfelt sigh that drew her forward onto her elbows. “Did I tell you what Damien said about him? The risks, the chances, the foolish … brave exploits he has taken upon himself to perform?”

  “Several times, mistress. And with more pride shining in your eyes with each telling.”

  Catherine glared at the maid’s reflection, then rose from her seat before the dressing table. “Pride indeed. How proud can a widow be?”

  Pacing over to the long double french windows, she opened them on a sudden impulse and strolled out onto the narrow stone balcony. The air was cold, the breeze scraping an instant chill into her flesh as she gazed out over the moon-washed courtyard.

  “Come inside, mistress, before you catch your death!”

  “He’s out there somewhere, Deirdre. I can feel it.”

  “As surely as you’ll feel a fever in your brow by morning if you don’t come back by the fire at once!”

  Catherine scanned the twinkling darkness of the landscape one last time before surrendering to Deirdre’s orders and returning to the hearthside. Scolding under her breath, the maid closed and securely latched the windows, then, as if the cold air had had time to sabotage her earlier efforts with the warming pan, she scooped fresh coals into the covered copper pot and passed it slowly between the bed-sheets.

  “Shall I braid your hair, mistress?”

  Catherine’s gaze went from the hypnotic flames in the grate to the gilt-edged cheval mirror. She was wearing a voluminous muslin dressing gown, the sleeves of which were long and full, ruffled with tiers of lace. The collar was high under her chin, trimmed with tiny satin bows and chains of delicately embroidered flowers. Her hair, brushed full and glossy, spilled over her shoulders in a golden cascade that stopped a scant inch shy of the wide satin sash that circled her waist.

  “A vestal virgin could not look so pure.” She grimaced. “I should think Lieutenant Goodwin would have enjoyed sacrificing me tonight.”

  “Goodwin? What has that wretched man to do with you?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” Deirdre said with a frown. “The first day he was here he strutted into the servants’ quarters and looked the women over as if he were making his selection. A couple of the younger girls who were fetched from the village to help the regular staff were plainly smitten by his looks and his uniform, and I suspect he has had his merry way with more than one of them. Has he dared try his bold ways with you, my lady? If so, Sir Alfred should be told at once!”

  “I am confident it will not be necessary to call upon my father’s … paternal indignation. I was none too gentle on the good lieutenant’s vanity this evening; he may think twice before accosting me again. Do you think I should cut it?”

  Deirdre, her thoughts chasing after Lieutenant Goodwin, momentarily lost the drift of conversation. “Excuse me, mistress? Cut what?”

  “My hair.” She gathered handfuls at the nape of her neck and piled it high on the crown. “Harriet writes it is all the rage in London. Cap curls, she calls it.”

  “Hmph. And if the plague visits the city again and everyone has to shave their heads bald, will that become the rage as well?”

  “It was just a thought,” Catherine said meekly. “Ah well, I suppose vestal virgins must maintain their image.”

  “Vestal virgin,” Deirdre muttered, and was there in an instant to take the robe from her mistress’s shoulders as Catherine slipped the sash from around her waist. The wry comment turned into an instant gasp of disbelief as the nightgown worn beneath was revealed. “Miss Catherine!”

  The gown was silk, so luminous it might have been woven from liquid moonlight, so sheer where it flowed over breasts and thighs it silhouetted the curves and shadows like silver Stardust. It was definitely not the gown of a vestal virgin, and certainly not the modest lawn negligee Deirdre had laid out earlier.

  “Mistress Catherine! Wherever did you find such a … a …”

  “Shameful, wanton piece of frippery?” Catherine supplied, executing a graceful pirouette before the mirror. “I borrowed it from my mother’s wardrobe, where else?”

  “Lady Caroline!”

  “She has scores just like it. I borrowed two, in fact, and I doubt she’ll miss either one.”

  “But … surely you don’t intend to actually … I mean, what if someone should see you in it? It isn’t even … why, it isn’t decent, mistress.”

  Two thin slivers of silk passing over the bare shoulders were all that held the filmy garment in place—not that it mattered. The brazen display of pale ivory flesh and contrasting rose-tipped breasts showing through the translucent fabric was enough to send a fainthearted Deirdre to the window again to draw the curtains tightly together.

  “Who in heaven’s name is going to see me?” Catherine demanded wearily. “We’re two full storeys above the ground, and the only man I would want to see me is goodness knows where. I just … I don’t know. I just wanted to feel … different tonight. Special.”

  “Well, you certainly look that. As special as any doxy plying her wares on a waterfront brothel.”

  “Are you insinu
ating my mother does her shopping there?” Catherine inquired, smiling as Deirdre flushed uncomfortably. “I thought a higher class of bordello, at least.”

  “Into bed with you now, mistress, or you’ll catch your death for sure.”

  Obediently, Catherine removed her dainty satin slippers and lifted the cloud of silk so that it floated down around her as she settled against the pillows. Stretching her arms and legs, she savored the erotic texture of the material where it brushed her skin, sighing as she envisioned what further erotic sensations a pair of broad, masculine hands might make. She reached beneath the pillows and retrieved the much-read, fully memorized letter Alexander had sent her. After reading it again, she pressed it next to her heart and smiled up at Deirdre through a wavering shine of tears.

  “If I could just see him. Just for a moment. If I could just be certain …”

  “Certain of what, mistress? That he loves you?” Deirdre’s soft brown eyes filled with compassion. “You worry needlessly. Of course he loves you. And he’ll send for you soon, I know he will.”

  Catherine blinked away her tears and grasped Deirdre’s cool hand. “How selfish I must sound, carrying on so, when you must be suffering equally without Aluinn MacKail.”

  “’Tis true, I … I miss him,” Deirdre admitted in the barest of whispers.

  “Perhaps they are together,” Catherine said encouragingly. “Lord knows they are never more than a stone’s throw apart, especially when there is any chance of adventure.”

  “Perhaps,” Deirdre agreed, not sounding the least convinced. She returned the faint pressure of Catherine’s hand before releasing it and moving away from the bed. As she snuffed the candles one by one, her thoughts wandered here and there, distracting her, stretching a chore that should have taken seconds into several minutes. By the time she had added a final log to the fire and returned the brushes and combs to their proper place in the dressing room, Catherine was fast asleep, the letter still held possessively to her breast.

  The fire was little more than a sporadic ripple of flames at the ends of the half-charred log when a faint scratching noise disturbed the silence. The blade of an infantry bayonet intruded its way between the panes of the french doors and crept slowly upward, pausing when it found its way blocked by the brass latch. Seesawing carefully against the bolt, it managed to raise the brass bar from its seat and scrape it upward so that when the handle turned, the door opened without protest. The serrated knife was resheathed in its pocket in the wide leather belt before the door opened further and a cool gust of wind accompanied a shadowy figure into the bedchamber. After securing the panes behind him, he stood for a moment, concealed by the floor-length velvet draperies, listening for any sign that his entry had been detected.