The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  Through partially closed eyes, Lauren noted the exchange. Struan was guided by instincts that were centered below the waist, not above the neck, and she had known he would be the easiest to manipulate. Lochiel, as always, would be susceptible to a tearful confession and a humble prostration, and would welcome her back into the fold, as well as giving his hearty blessings to the marriage. Cameron and MacKail were more suspicious by nature and, therefore, would be the most difficult to convince of her reformation.

  To that end, Lauren’s immediate concern was for the insistent pounding in her breast. It had begun the moment she recognized the tall, black-haired Highlander striding down the path and had grown in intensity and purpose each heartbeat since. He was still in her blood, despite the months apart and the creditable efforts of Hamilton Garner to wipe her memory clean. It disturbed her to know the ache was still inside her, the desire as strong as it had been the very first time she had laid eyes upon him. Perhaps she should have left Edinburgh long ago. Perhaps the months of separation from his Sassenach wife had cleared his senses or, at the very least, made him more vulnerable to a soft word and a woman’s ripe musk. Perhaps—

  “Alex! Alex, there you are! I was hoping to speak with you before you left. Damien was—” Catherine skidded to a halt, her cheeks flushed from the brief run, her breath frosting out before her. Her eyes sparkled as they went from Alex to Aluinn to Struan, then apologetically scanned the woman standing beside the wagon before returning to her husband. “Damien was wondering if—”

  She stopped again, took two measured breaths, and looked back at the figure who was partly concealed by Struan’s bulky frame.

  An equally rigid, disbelieving Lauren Cameron stared back in shock, the absolute unexpectedness of seeing her yellow-haired nemesis in the rebel camp almost undoing the brilliance of her performance thus far. She was here! The Sassenach bitch was here! Not in England, not banished from sight and mind, not removed from Alasdair’s presence, as Lauren had supposed her to be. She was here! In Scotland!

  Fury, hatred, resentment rose in Lauren’s throat, all but choking off her ability to breathe. Struan’s arms were still around her waist and she was grateful for their restraint: Without them, she might have lunged for the loathsomely sweet and delicate face, tearing it to bloody ribbons, and happily so.

  Catherine’s emotions were just as much in turmoil. She had been told Lauren had elected to abandon the rebel camp and remain in Edinburgh—where she belonged, as far as Catherine was concerned. For the briefest of instants, before either party had recognized the other, the amber eyes had been fixed on Alexander’s face, the envy and scheming hunger as avidly apparent to Catherine as it had been six months ago. She had grown accustomed to women staring at her husband—she stared at him herself, truth be known—but most did so out of respect and awe for the Dark Cameron. There was no respect in Lauren’s eyes, only lust. The awe translated into desire, as pure and raw as the hatred smoldering in them now.

  “Why, Lauren Cameron,” she managed to say past a brittle smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Wherever did you come from?”

  The pits of hell Lauren wanted to scream, where I’d love to send you right now!

  Instead, she pressed herself deeper into Struan’s embrace and smiled brightly. “Why, I’ve come home, have I na? Where I belong.”

  “Aye,” Struan said proudly. “Lauren’s home tae stay an’ more’s the luck, she’s agreed tae share the name MacSorley.”

  “You are going to marry her?” Catherine gasped, startled again. She felt the subtle pressure of Alex’s hand on hers and covered her obvious slip with another smile. “Well, of course I am happy for you, Struan. Happy for both of you.”

  “Aye. She’s a wild enough tigress tae try tae tame,” MacSorley said, grinning down at his prospective bride. “But I’ll gie it ma best effort.”

  “It’s me who’ll dae the tamin’, Struan,” Lauren murmured suggestively, and with the relish of a hawk swooping down on an unsuspecting victim, Lauren drew MacSorley’s lips into a crushing kiss, using every inch and undulation of flesh at her disposal to strip the imagination of any doubts as to the truth behind her promises. Struan’s arousal was instantaneous and Herculean; obvious enough where it rose up beneath his tartan to have the three clansmen gaping.

  Catherine stared, so long and hard, Alexander had to turn her forcibly around so she had nothing to distract her apart from the humor in his eyes.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “Looking for you?”

  “Something to do with your brother,” he prodded gently.

  “Oh. Yes. I mean … no. No, it’s nothing important.” She started to angle her head around, to investigate the source of the heated gasps and groans, but a firm hand kept her face averted.

  “Let she who is innocent cast the first stone,” he murmured, adding unnecessarily, “Reminds me of another reunion a few weeks ago.”

  Catherine flushed and conceded a smile. “At least ours was private.”

  “Crowds of spectators would not have stopped me.”

  Catherine considered the angular features, the gleaming dark eyes and boldly sensual mouth, and knew he spoke the truth.

  “You are wicked, sir,” she murmured, conscious of his hand straying beneath the shield of her cloak.

  “Just a man in love,” he said, drawing her forward.

  Lauren, out of breath and very much aware of the iron-hard shaft of flesh nearly lifting her off the ground, ended the kiss on a triumphant note. She glanced away from Struan’s steamy determination in time to see Alex and Catherine come together in an open-mouthed, affectionately prolonged embrace. Before she could react, her eager groom-to-be was scooping her into his arms and turning the tables on her seductive prank. He carried her to the nearest available tent, bellowing jovially over his shoulder to the grinning audience that there would be a slight delay before he rejoined the column.

  “Struan, no!” Lauren gasped, her face beet red with dismay. “We should speak tae Lochiel first. Ye said so yersel’!”

  His lips muffled her protests, his hands stilled her thrashings. A startled clanswoman, driven out of her tent by the sight of the giant Highlander flinging his tartan and his woman onto the ground, was only one or two sentences into a scathing protest when the choked, highpitched cries began to bounce and echo off the iced, cavernous valley walls. The sounds sent her scrambling back even further, and it was left to Aluinn MacKail, as peacemaker—and the only one who could keep a straight face—to calm the woman and assure her that neither the tent nor her belongings would suffer any damage, and would be returned in due time.

  The woman could be thankful she did not wait. An hour later the tent was still standing, the walls were still flapping and quivering, and renewed choruses of shrill cries were shattering the hollow silence of the glen. The bemused audience had long since melted away, however, as had every other tent, cart, horse and wagon in the valley.

  15

  In the end, it took five full days for the column of men to struggle through the snow-clogged mountain pass and file into the glens surrounding Inverness. The hills fell away sharply, the intense bluish-white of the deep snow gave way to patches of ground that were brown with dead bracken, gray with silvery heather stalks, soggy with peat bogs that never quite froze over. Tiny stone and sod clachans marked by pencil-thin spirals of peat smoke huddled against sheltered slopes, dotting the valleys and fields. Their curious occupants ventured only as far as their doorways when the rebel army marched past, then returned to their hearths again, dismissing the intrusion as being of no consequence.

  Inverness was the capital city of the Highlands, a small town by comparison to the other major ports of Glasgow and Edinburgh. There were fewer than five hundred houses and three thousand permanent residents, most of them merchants and businessmen, which meant the town was structured around the four main streets that converged in the market square. Export goods and produce from the northern Highlands were brought
to Inverness. Likewise, the ships that traveled from London, Paris, and points beyond all sailed into the blue waters of the Moray Firth and off loaded their cargoes at exorbitant profits.

  The city was strategically important to both the government and rebel forces. The river that flowed through the center of town joined the Moray Firth to Loch Ness, which in turn led to a series of smaller lochs and rivers flowing southeast along the length of the Great Glen, past Fort Augustus—the halfway point—to Fort William, slashing through the Highlands on a sharp diagonal and linking the two major shipping ports. The army that controlled Inverness controlled the Highlands.

  Looking south from Inverness, the mountains were piled hill against hill, woods against woods in every shade of blue, black, and gray. Crouched to the north across the firth were the distant hills of Cromarty and Dornoch, and still more remote, the clustered crust of highlands that marked Sutherland territory. Rising above the town, seated on a steep little hill on the south side of the river, was Fort George, old and crumbling, built in a time when the only threat to the Highlands was expected from the sea. Her guns were all pointed out into the firth, and even though there were barracks for six companies, most of the military personnel felt more secure outside the dilapidated walls.

  To the east of Inverness, the coast road led to Nairn, passing the grand and spacious home of Duncan Forbes, the Lord President of the Court in Session. Culloden House was four miles outside the city, seated on a gentle knoll of land that commanded a view of adjoining parklands, wooded hills, and a wide, sloping plain known by the locals as Drummossie Moor.

  Less than five miles to the south of Culloden was the residence of Angus Moy, Chief of Clan Chattan. A large estate by Highland standards, Moy Hall was built of quarried stone that had weathered to a soft gray tint over the years. The surrounding hills were dark with cypress and cedar, alive with deer and wild game, ribboned with burns that bubbled silver with fat, energetic trout.

  The road leading to Moy Hall wound its way through forests and tiny glens, flung itself around a shoulder of hills, and finally spilled into a wide, sweeping glen, glittering under a thin blanket of snow. A sheepdog, white-muzzled, white-chested but otherwise black as night, sounded the alarm as the prince’s entourage rounded the final bend, and Lady Anne was at the door of the manor to greet him, her tartan trews and belted broadsword traded for immaculately coiffed hair and elegant satin gown.

  The main bulk of the prince’s column had spread out, taking quarters in the neighboring farms and villages, but while Charles Stuart was in residence, Lochiel and his Camerons would make camp in the glen at Moy Hall. Keppoch and his MacDonalds settled to the west of the glen, the Stewarts of Appin guarded the approaches to the east.

  Alexander Cameron at first declined Lady Anne’s invitation of hospitality in favor of remaining in camp with the men. A second invitation, delivered in person by their adamant hostess, could not be honorably refused—to Catherine’s overwhelming delight and relief. She had managed to remain outwardly stoic and silent through the initial decision to refuse lodging, but nearly wept with joy when Alex informed her they would be sleeping under a real roof, in a real bed, between real sheets. Her last intimate meeting with a tub of hot water had been in Glasgow, nearly a month before. The mere thought of a roaring fire sent a feverish flush through her body, one that did not lessen by any degree when she skimmed a hand over the quilted covers of the canopy bed or ran her fingers along the frilly, softly feminine articles of clothing Lady Anne had thoughtfully provided for her use. Since leaving Derby, both she and Deirdre had elected to remain in men’s clothing, finding it far more practical than dragging heavy skirts, and far warmer during the day and night. To that end, she had not felt a silk chemise next to her skin for almost ten weeks, and just the thought of feather pillows and a thick, warm mattress left her trembling with anticipation.

  After so many weeks of hard tent cots and drafty canvas walls, the bedroom Lady Anne had prepared was nothing short of heaven. A large square chamber, it boasted two tall, leaded windows facing east, each with cushioned window seats and thick velvet draperies to discourage any whispers of wind. Taking up one entire wall was a large stone fireplace with a carved marble mantel. Polished oak floors were covered in Turkish carpets woven in soft patterns of blue, gold, and a touch of rose.

  As in most Scottish homes, the furnishings were sparse and functional; on the wall to the left of the fireplace was an enormous wardrobe, on the wall opposite the hearth was a wide feather bed set on a mahogany catafalque, with draperies tied to each post that could be loosened at night to enfold the sleepers in a cozy velvet cocoon. Between the windows, a round, long-legged table held a vase filled with winter roses Lady Anne grew in a sunny garden greenhouse attached to the breakfast room. By the fireplace was a damask settle and a pair of high-backed wooden chairs.

  Absolutely heaven, Catherine thought, nearly speechless with happiness. Left to her own resources while Alex organized the camp, she indulged in a long, steamy bath before a blazing fire, shamelessly calling twice for more heated water. Alex seemed immune to the discomfort of washing in icy streams, but then he was also asleep within minutes of hitting the hard ground, and his body always emitted the heat of a small furnace, whether it was a moderately warm night or howling with a blizzard. Catherine, on the other hand, had been cold since leaving Derby. Her fingers, her toes, the tip of her nose were perpetually pink and chilled, and she had begun to wonder if she would ever feel warm again.

  Her moods, of late, had been growing proportionately erratic as well, a condition noticed by everyone but Alex. His days were mostly taken up with army affairs, and by the time he was able to fall into an exhausted sleep at night, Catherine was grateful just to be able to share the heat of his body. Each day, when Aluinn saw her, the question was in his eyes as to whether she’d had a chance to impart her good news to her husband, but there just hadn’t been the right combination of time or mood.

  She had told Deirdre right away, of course, and the beaming Mrs. MacKail had welcomed the news with smiles, tears, and a frown or two of concern for good measure. Secretly hoping to find herself in a similar condition before too long, Deirdre was happy for Catherine and a little envious. But when she began to dwell on the more practical realities of the situation—the long rough hours of travel in deplorable weather, the inevitable sickness that went hand in hand with exhaustion, poor food, and lack of sanitation—she grew more and more concerned, and agreed with Aluinn that Alexander should be told without further delay.

  “If I wait much longer,” Catherine muttered, inspecting her profile in the mirror (was it her imagination or was her belly developing a distinctly rounded curve to it?), “I shan’t have to tell him anything at all.”

  Tonight, she decided. She would tell him tonight, and hang the consequences. If what he had said, all those months ago, about hating children and kicking small dogs was true … well, he would just have to grin and bear it. There wasn’t much she could do about it, even if she wanted to … which she didn’t. The mere thought of giving birth to a child terrified her, and would terrify her more as the babe grew and swelled within her. But it was Alex’s child, and that made all the difference. She would be strong and brave and … and …

  Something—a tickle of a draft against her shoulder, or perhaps just the instinctive knowledge that she was no longer alone in the room—made her turn slowly toward the door.

  Having just recently stepped from the bath, she was dressed only in a thin chemise as she stood before the fire brushing her hair dry. Alexander, who had come into the room unobserved, had been standing quietly by the door enjoying the view of his wife’s lithe body turning this way and that before the glow of the fire. The chemise had ridden up to bare more of the gently rounded hips and pale buttocks than her modesty might have allowed, but Alex’s dark eyes devoured the pale loveliness, relishing the effect she had on his own body.

  He had been taking her beauty for granted, he was realizing
. The stunningly long, slender legs, skin as white and fine as porcelain, as clear and unblemished as the day he had met her, despite all the hardships she had been through. How long had it been since he had seen her hair out of the thick braid she had taken to wearing? How long since he had seen her trim figure enveloped in anything less than unflatteringly bulky men’s clothing? Even making love, lately, had become a furtive, hasty act, accomplished around barely loosened clothing and beneath mounds of scratchy wool blankets.

  Perhaps that was why he had not noticed the changes. They were slight, to be sure, but to a man who prided himself on having explored and committed to memory every mole and crease, every curve and supple indentation, her secret was as glaringly obvious as if she wore a sign draped around her belly.

  “How long?” he asked calmly.

  Catherine held the hairbrush clenched tightly in both hands, the knuckles turning ivory where they gripped the handle.

  “I cannot be sure,” she answered in a voice that feigned the same cool indifference as his. “But I am praying it happened the night you came to me at Rosewood Hall. I never loved you more than I did that night. Never any less since then, but that was the first night I knew beyond any shred of doubt you were the only man I would ever love. It was the night I knew everything that had gone on before in my life had been meaningless and empty, and anything after—without you—would be without purpose.”

  He had moved closer while she was speaking. The firelight was bathing his face, gilding his skin, his hair in gold, illuminating every feature, yet unable to penetrate the quiet, brooding intensity of his eyes. She could live to be a thousand and never be able to cipher them completely. Her chin suffered a tremor and her blood felt thick and sluggish. She was standing too close to the fire, she rationalized, and the heat was infusing her limbs, melting her flesh, scalding her senses. Blinded by love, she watched his shimmering outline come almost close enough to touch her. Almost.