“What the bluidy hell?”
She whirled, her eyes searching the murky darkness, but there was no sound, no movement of any kind—nothing but cold, empty space where her fellow conspirator had stood only seconds before.
“Bluidy bastard,” she exclaimed softly. “Serves ye right ye didna hear the whole message, then.”
With a toss of her frothing, titian hair, she stepped out from behind the rocks and regained the familiarity of the path. She located her bucket—empty, of course—and cursed the need to go back to the stream and fight her way through the crust of ice to refill it.
On second thought, she decided, if MacSorley wanted a wash he could damn well go to the stream himself, or melt snow over the fire. She kicked the bucket under some brush and started back down the path toward the faint sounds of the distant camp. Muttering to herself and massaging the abused patch of skin at the base of her skull, she rounded the final bend and emerged from the trees, halting abruptly in the swirl of clinging mist that had followed her out of the forest.
Standing less than ten feet down along the slope was Struan MacSorley, his arms crossed over his chest, his massive frame silhouetted against the brighter glow of the camp spread out behind him. He was leaning on a tree stump. When he caught sight of her, he straightened, dropped his arms slowly down by his sides and started walking forward to meet her.
Lauren arranged her face in a smile and started to call out a greeting, but a movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention farther along the meandering border of trees. With the field of clear snow to define his shape and the brightness of the campfires to dispell most of the distortion of the mist, she had no trouble in identifying the Sassenach, Damien Ashbrooke, casually emerging from the forest, whistling softly to himself, and hitching his breeches as if he had just returned from relieving himself.
Aluinn MacKail had just relieved himself and was about to mount his horse when he heard the discreet clearing of a throat behind him. Without looking around, he knew who it was and sighed inwardly. Eager, earnest, devoted were all words he could easily use to describe Corporal Jeffrey Peters. In the past few weeks, he had been eager to prove himself a hard worker, earnest about being accepted as one of them despite the distinct shade of gray he had turned upon hearing of the fates of the four hundred men of the Manchester Regiment captured at Carlisle. And there were few, with the exception of Alexander Cameron himself, who were more devoted to Catherine. As Alex, in one of his rare moods of generosity liked to say, his wife had found a stray puppy that night in Derby and it had slavishly followed her home to stay.
The corporal had, by nature, attached himself to the Englishmen who formed their own small contingent of the prince’s army. But every spare moment he had, he was usually dogging Catherine, helping her about the campsite, fetching, carrying, running errands—all for the reward of a smile, which never failed to send him into crimson paroxysms of stuttering rapture. Doubtless he had heard the women would be remaining behind at Moy Hall and was here to plead his case in the hopes he might be permitted to stay and act as Catherine’s bodyguard and champion.
“Mr. MacKail, sir?”
“Corporal Peters.” Aluinn clamped a firm restraint on his patience as he half turned to address the young soldier. “A fine evening for a stroll.”
Peters peered up into the misty web of tangled clouds the moon had spun out across the stars. “Yes, sir. I suppose it is.”
When several moments passed with no further sign of life from the corporal, Aluinn turned fully around. “You wanted to see me about something, Corporal?”
Peters’s head had remained tilted up toward the sky, only his gaze flicked down to MacKail. “Actually, sir, I was hoping to have a private moment to speak to Mr. Cameron, but I haven’t managed to catch up to him at all today.”
“He has been a little busy. Is it something I can help you with?”
“Well … I did want to speak to Mr. Cameron.” “If it’s important, I’ll see that Alex gets the message tonight.”
The corporal bit his lip thoughtfully. “Well … the honest truth is … I don’t know if it’s important or not. I mean, I could be wrong and seeing things that aren’t there, and if that’s the case, then we would have a fine mess on our hands indeed, and all b-because of me.”
Aluinn frowned, stroking absently at the nose of his horse, who seemed to be as impatient as he to get away. Aluinn wanted to spend what time he could with Deirdre, not act as a go-between for some nerve-wrought, loves-smitten rival for his best friend’s wife.
“It has been a very long day, Corporal.” MacKail sighed. “I estimate I have, at best, five hours to spend saying good-bye to my wife, so, if whatever this is all about can wait until the morning—”
“Not what, sir. Who. It has to do with the count. Count Fanducci? The Italian gentleman who—”
“I know who Count Fanducci is, Corporal,” Aluinn cut in, exasperated. “What the devil has he to do with Lady Cameron? If you’re looking for someone to act as your second, lad, you have come to the wrong place.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
The corporal looked genuinely baffled and Aluinn cursed softly. “Never mind. It has been an extremely long day. What about Fanducci?”
“Yes, well, as I said, sir, I could be seeing something that isn’t there. I could be dead wrong in my suspicions, but …”
“But,” Aluinn prompted irritably.
“But … I have reason to believe the count may not be who he purports to be; that his loyalties may not lie where he would like us to believe they lie.”
Mildly taken aback, Aluinn’s hand dropped slowly from the horse’s nose. “I hope your reasons are damned good, Corporal.”
Peters flushed. “That was why I wanted to speak to Mr. Cameron privately. I haven’t said anything to anyone else, and have no intentions of d-doing so, sir. I know too well how ill-spoken rumors can d-destroy a man’s reputation and career.”
MacKail’s gray eyes pierced through the gloom. “Say what you have to say, Corporal, What makes you suspect something is not right about Fanducci?”
“Well, sir.” The corporal moistened his lips and drew himself to attention as if reporting officially to a senior ranking officer. “I had occasion to observe Count Fanducci when he was unaware of my presence. He was sitting by one of the wagons cleaning and oiling his pistols.”
“Not an entirely suspicious act for a gunmaker, I should think.”
“N-no, sir. But the thing is, he was distracted for a moment by one of the men, and as he talked, he reassembled one of the metal fittings on the snaphaunce improperly. I know he did, sir, because after the clansman moved away, he noticed the firelock was not quite seated properly and he had to take it apart and refit it.”
Aluinn frowned again. “Forgive me, Corporal, but haven’t you ever made a mistake while cleaning and reassembling a gun?”
“Yes, sir. Dozens of times. But I do not profess to be a master gunmaker. One would think a master gunmaker would be able to strip and reassemble the firing mechanism of a gun—a gun he boasted of making—in the dark, blindfolded, and with one hand tied behind his back, the other in a splint.”
“One would, indeed,” Aluinn agreed quietly.
The corporal looked visibly relieved. “Then you concur with my suspicions, sir?”
“Now hold on, Peters, don’t go leaping to conclusions. Just because I agree it seems odd for a gunmaker to make a mistake handling a gun—”
“A master gunmaker, sir, handling a gun he supposedly carved, molded, and designed himself.”
Aluinn gave the points a moment of silent thought. “You have, I trust, taken into consideration the fact that Fanducci is an odd sort to begin with—a little eccentric, a little excitable, and extremely European. Having spent a good many years in Italy myself, I can almost say the count is, if anything, reserved by comparison to some of his countrymen. I rather like him, to be perfectly honest.”
“I like him, too, s
ir. Very much so. He’s usually so jolly and dramatic and …
“Yes?”
“Well … I just wouldn’t want anyone to be caught unawares or to be duped into thinking he was one thing while he was really another.”
“A spy, you mean?”
Corporal Peters looked glumly down at his hands. “I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but with so many foreign patriots in the army, it is possible for one or two of them to have been planted here by the government to watch our movements. And just because the count looks and sounds and acts the way we expect him to look and sound and act … well …”
Aluinn’s gaze strayed past the corporal’s shoulders to the hazy lights of the campfires that dotted the glen. Ridiculous? As ridiculous as being duped into accepting a man simply because he showed up at the time and place he was supposed to show up at and, yes, because he looked and acted and sounded the way he was supposed to. Seven months ago, both he and Alex had made a near-fatal mistake in accepting the man who called himself Iain Cameron of Glengarron, because neither of them had considered the ridiculous. Neither one had suspected the Duke of Argyle of substituting one of his own men for Glengarron, and because of their laxness, Gordon Ross Campbell had not only come damned close to collecting the reward for Alex’s capture but had put a shot in Aluinn’s shoulder—a shot that had missed his heart by mere inches.
“I appreciate your coming to me with this, Corporal, and no, I don’t think the notion is the least bit ridiculous that the British have planted spies in our camp. The count is coming with us when we head out to Fort Augustus—you can be sure I’ll keep what you have told me in mind and watch him like the proverbial hawk. In the meantime, you will keep this to yourself?”
“Of course, sir.” The corporal came to attention again, only just discouraged from throwing a full salute by the open grimace on Aluinn’s face. “May I ask, er, if all the Camerons are departing for Fort Augustus?”
“All the men, yes. With the exception of a few guards we’re leaving behind to stay with the women, naturally.”
The solemn, puppy-dog eyes were fixed unwaveringly on MacKail’s face, and Aluinn was hard pressed to confine his smile.
“It occurs to me, Corporal,” he said, reaching nonchalantly to untether his horse’s reins, “that you could be in a position to do me a great favor … not that I have the right to ask it of you, since you have already done me a service I can hardly hope to repay.”
“I have, sir?”
Aluinn smiled. “In case you have forgotten, you also escorted my wife safely out of Derby with Lady Catherine.”
“Oh.” Corporal Peters flushed again. “Of course, sir. Don’t mention it.”
“My wife and Lady Catherine will both be staying on at Moy Hall as guests of Lady Anne. Frankly speaking, I think both ladies might feel slightly more comfortable being left behind if they had a familiar face around—one who did not speak with a Celtic brogue.”
“Oh! Oh, I would be honored to stay with Lady Catherine, sir!” The corporal gasped. “Honored and p-privileged, and … and I would guard her with my l-life, sir! I swear I would not sleep a w-wink the whole time you were away, and I w-would never let her out of my sight!”
“Your dedication is commendable, Corporal, although I don’t think you will have to be quite so … intense. They are perfectly safe at Moy Hall. Lady Anne’s men are within shouting distance, and Lord George’s column is due to arrive in Inverness sometime in the next twenty-four hours.” Aluinn took up the reins and swung himself up into the saddle. “But I feel better already, knowing I am leaving my wife in your capable hands.”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Naturally I would guard Mrs. MacKail with equal diligence.”
“Naturally.” MacKail grinned. “Good night, Corporal.”
“Good night, sir. And good luck at Fort Augustus. Give the Philistines hell, sir!”
MacKail laughed and nudged his horse into a brisk canter. The mist was wet against his face, the air chilly, his thoughts as sharp and piercing as the few stalwart stars that managed to penetrate the scudding haze overhead. The corporal’s suspicions about Count Giovanni Fanducci soon erased the lingering remnants of his smile, and by the time he drew up at the stable yards of Moy Hall, a line of concern was etched deeply across his forehead. The frown, in turn, remained until he had climbed the stairs to the chamber he and Deirdre shared, but his resolve to seek out Alexander Cameron and share this new worry took a decided downturn in importance when he opened the chamber door and won a sweet and eager greeting from his wife’s lips.
17
Catherine put on a brave face, as did all the women who were gathered to watch their men leave for Fort Augustus. The pipers winded their instruments, pumping the sheep’s bladders and forcing the air out through selected holes in the ebony chanter to produce what, to a Scotsman, was music, and to most anyone else, was noise.
“How do you know when they are playing an actual, rehearsed tune and when they are just having a good time?” Catherine had once asked Alex. His answer, laden with frowns and hesitations, was hardly satisfying: “You just know.”
Prince Charles, rising from his sickbed, had given a passionate speech of encouragement to the clansmen, ending with a subtle suggestion that their goal should not simply be to rid the two English forts of their garrisons but to push farther south into Argyleshire and deal with the annoying presence of the Campbells. Lochiel managed to hide his shock well enough. The Duke of Argyle had five thousand men to call onto the field at the snap of his fingers; less than a thousand of them had been sent to Edinburgh to answer Cumberland’s request for men. The combined forces of MacDonalds and Camerons added to only seven hundred fifty—worse odds than those that had turned the entire army around at Derby.
The slope curving away from the majestic stone facade of Moy Hall glowed with tartans of red, blue, green, black, and gold. Only fifty or so of the highest-ranking officers were mounted; the rest of the men marched on foot, with a dozen small carts laden with supplies bringing up the rear.
Damien had elected to stay with Catherine, standing by his sister’s side as she watched the men bid their final farewells and form up in their columns. She picked out familiar faces—Lochiel, Keppoch, Archibald, even Count Fanducci—and tried not to think too long and hard on the possibility she might be seeing them for the last time. No one seemed too concerned about the task ahead. By all reports, Fort Augustus had a skeleton posting of less than sixty soldiers, supported by nothing in the way of artillery or cavalry. But they were still soldiers and they knew how to fire muskets, and muskets could kill, even accidentally.
She absolutely refused to think of Fort William, garrisoned by upward of five hundred men and built on the shores of Loch Linnhe. It could be resupplied daily by sea, if necessary, and a prolonged siege was out of the question. There were heavy guns mounted on the fortified walls and ready access to the four thousand remaining Campbells held champing in reserve less than forty miles to the south.
No, she would not think of Fort William. She wanted them to take Fort Augustus with all due haste so that she could be retrieved from Moy Hall and delivered safely to Achnacarry.
Had it really been seven months since she had first seen the weathered stone masonery and high, buttressed walls of Achnacarry Castle? Was it really seven months ago that she’d walked in the fragrant corridors of the mile-long apple orchard and sat in the garden under the sun-splashed protection of the gazebo—Lady Maura’s pride and joy? Did they think of her—Lady Maura, Jeannie, Aunt Rose—or had they forgotten her the instant she’d sailed out of their lives? Was it possible these feelings of attachment and homesickness burning inside her were real, or were they just born out of a need for something she had never had?
Lady Caroline Ashbrooke had delivered quite a blow by revealing the circumstances of her birth, and yet the news was not as devastating as it might have been had she been raised in an atmosphere of love and security. Her first introduction to either of those two emotion
s had come with her marriage to Alexander Cameron. Losing him once had almost destroyed her; losing him again would take away any reason to go on living.
“You are looking terribly intense, Mrs. Cameron” came a warm whisper against her ear. “Can it be you are going to miss your husband after all?”
Smiling, Catherine leaned into his embrace as Alex wrapped his long arms around her. “Is that why you are taking both Struan and Count Fanducci with you? To remove temptation? Well, it won’t work, my lord. Lady Anne has offered to provide me with a lusty lover if my needs become uncontrollable.”
“She has, has she?”
“And then, of course, I always have Corporal Peters.”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” Alex murmured huskily, his lips nuzzling her throat. “I barely have the strength to keep up.”
“In that case, you should make good use of this week and rest well, my husband, for I am already feeling the lack.”
Alex released her, turned her slowly around, and tilted her mouth up to his for a kiss—one that eventually drew the stares and smiles of every man and woman standing within twenty paces. Aluinn, thinking the idea a fine one, scooped Deirdre into his arms and took up the challenge. Lauren Cameron, her eyes flecked with hot yellow sparks, whirled into Struan’s embrace and kissed him so fervently he had difficulty climbing into his saddle when the time came.
“Mad,” Archibald Cameron declared summarily. “They’ve all gone stark starved mad.”
“Aye,” Lochiel agreed. “But a fine madness, nonetheless. Ye canna say ye dinna feel a wee bit envious, brither dear. Or that ye’ll have nothin’ buzzin’ up yer kilt when ye see Jeannie standin’ at the gates O’ Achnacarry.”
“Jeannie? Faugh!” Archibald denied the notion roundly. “That harridan couldna put a buzz up ma kilt an she had a hive O’ bees atween her legs. Come tae think on it, she does have a mout O’ somethin’ up there, since all I ever come away wi’ is an itch the likes O’ hellfire!”
The Blood of Roses Page 35
