The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  “You moved,” she gasped. “You lose.”

  The curve in his mouth scorned her briefly before he turned his attention to the shiny amber puddle between her breasts. His lips and tongue chased greedily after the spreading runnels of brandy, licking it eagerly from her flesh, tracking down every last drop and drizzle with meticulous care. He suckled the sweetness from every ridge and wrinkle on her nipples, then lured great mouthfuls of opulent flesh into the well of his mouth, holding it there until she was shivering and arching into each rolling thrust of his tongue.

  Smoothing his hand over the gentle roundness of her belly, he followed the path the brandy had taken between her thighs. His fingers stroked into the dampened thatch of tight gold curls and he lavished the trembling folds of flesh with the liquor, his forays at first light and charitable, but as the first waves of pleasure rippled through her body, he deepened his strokes, introducing more brandy, more pressure.

  Catherine tensed around each deep stroke, her hips rising and falling, her cries turning to pleas, her nails threatening to tear ribbons of skin from his arms and shoulders. Only then did he shift the weight of his body between her thighs, thrusting himself and the heat of the brandy deep, deep inside. He was in no hurry to ease her torment, however, and curled his fingers into her hair, forcing her to look up into his face, his eyes dark and gleaming, watchful … waiting …

  And Catherine knew, suddenly, why. The warmth from the brandy began to flare along the length of his flesh, spreading outward and inward until its effects could even be felt flushing across the surface of her skin. Her cry was urgent, desperate, her eyes wide in amazement and disbelief, feeling every inch of his fullness where it stretched and swelled and throbbed within her. He seemed to know the precise moment when the heat became too much to bear without movement and he began thrusting with strong, powerful strokes. She tightened around him, lashed herself around him, convulsing wildly, fiercely, joyously around each rise and fall of his hips until the pleasure crested in a blur of unrelenting ecstasy.

  Gasping, straining to share every last shiver of molten heat, they clung to each other, reeling under the exquisite sensation of knowing they could never again become two separate beings, could never exist one without the other. Startled groans and wet, slippery flesh sent their bodies rolling apart, damp and panting onto the cool bed sheets.

  “You cheated,” she said through a gasp.

  “Especially not one who feels he must win at every game, at any cost.”

  He laughed and drew her into his arms, brushing the pad of his thumb gently over the tears that spiked her lashes. “Buaidh no bas,” he said with a grin.

  “Which means …?”

  “Victory or death. No room for surrender … or fair play.”

  Catherine smiled wistfully and curled up against the welcoming curve of his big body. She was already painfully aware that he was not a man given to surrendering—in matters of love or war. But with the one there did not always have to be a clear winner or a clear loser; there were times when both of them benefited immeasurably from the other’s stubbornness.

  In war, however, the rules were more defined. Someone won, someone lost. The more stubborn the contenders, the more bloody the defeat.

  Victory or death. There would be no such thing as compromise, not for a man like Alexander Cameron, and not for a nation of men and women who lived and died on the strength of their courage and honor.

  Three rooms away, Aluinn MacKail and Deirdre were snuggled together before a blazing fire, their hands laced together, their bodies huddled one against the other beneath a cozy quilt. They were putting the time they had left together to similar use; they were naked and flushed with the afterglow of their lovemaking, relaxed and pensive as they studied the leaping flames in the hearth.

  “You think there will be a battle, then?” Deirdre asked, breaking the silence for the first time in many minutes.

  “The Prince is determined. He says he is tired of tucking his tail between his legs and running away like a frightened puppy.”

  “What do you think?”

  Aluinn sighed and twined his fingers tighter around hers as he lifted her hand and brushed it with his lips. “What do I think? I think I am one of the luckiest men alive at the moment. Good friends, good food, a beautiful wife curled on my lap like a kitten—” His mouth reached for hers and found it supple, willing, and pleasantly aggressive. “What more could a humble man ask for?”

  “A cause he still believed in?” Deirdre suggested gently, her hand combing through the sand-colored locks of his hair. Watching his smile fade, her heart throbbed painfully in her chest. She felt so close to him, in mind and spirit, that she could feel his pain and sadness no matter how hard he tried to conceal it behind smiles and casual bravado.

  “You no longer believe Charles Stuart can win, do you?”

  He sighed and turned his gaze back to the fire. “To be honest, I haven’t believed it since the day he led the army across the River Esk into England. Up until then he had a chance. A damned good chance too; all he had to do was listen to the wind and hear which way it was blowing.”

  Deirdre frowned and bit her lip. She loved this man with all her heart and soul, but sometimes he forgot she was just a gameskeeper’s daughter who spoke and thought in plain terms.

  “Which way is it blowing now?”

  “Well … the prince’s purse is empty, and has been for weeks. He cannot pay his army, he cannot buy food, he cannot replace guns and ammunition—of which he had precious little to begin with. Clans have had to forage for food and supplies, and some of the humblies have been without shirts, shoes, or coats since the campaign began. Council meetings are hardly more than glorified verbal brawls; the chiefs cannot even agree among themselves anymore. The men are tired. Lord knows, they’re half starved with that imbecile Murray of Broughton in charge of provisions. Lochiel and Keppoch returned to camp today, after pressing their men into a forced march from Fort William. They were issued a biscuit each and a mug of sour ale and told it would have to suffice until stores could be replenished.”

  “I did not know things were so bad,” Deirdre said, feeling guilty as she glanced over at the remains of the huge meal she had prepared for Aluinn. He had scarcely tasted the mutton or touched the boiled fowl, and had only forced himself to pick at the cheese and fresh-baked bread at her insistence. “Why does he not end it? Can he not see his men are suffering, his cause is losing?”

  “End it? You mean surrender? Charles Edward Stuart? He still thinks the French are on their way to assist him. He is convinced they will land in force, any day, despite the fact that the French ambassador got down on his knees and begged the prince to retreat and use what few resources he has left to save himself. Even if he could be persuaded, though, where could we retreat to? The northern Highlands cannot support an army living off the land, there is nothing but rock and heather and miles of moorland. We cannot go south, we cannot go east or west without Cumberland snapping at our flanks.”

  “And if you stand and fight?”

  Aluinn stared at the flames, watching two yellow fingers dart back and forth along the top of the burning log before colliding midway and bursting into a fountain of sparks.

  “We’re still short of men. MacPherson is on the way with eight hundred, but God knows where he is right now or how long it will take him to get here. We’ve sent messengers after Fraser and his men to recall them; the same with Cromarty and his fifteen hundred fighters. At the moment, if pressed, we could muster about five thousand if we had to, but I suspect that is a very generous guess.”

  “How many men does Cumberland have?”

  “Ahh, now that depends on whose report you would care to believe. O’Sullivan’s man—he who still swears the English are trapped by floodwaters at the River Spey— numbers the duke’s forces around seven thousand. The report we received this evening suggests it is closer to ten.”

  “What has Lord George Murray recommended?” Deird
re asked, astonished by the disparities and the confusion.

  Aluinn smiled wryly. “Lord George, with his usual aplomb, has recommended to O’Sullivan that the next time he has a surgeon bleed him for migraines, he should present his jugular to the knife for more widespread relief.”

  “Oh, dear, they are not squabbling again, are they?”

  “Again? They’ve never stopped. And unfortunately, the prince’s desperation makes him more inclined to listen to O’Sullivan’s cloying flattery than Lord George’s bare facts. He’s allowed himself to be convinced it was his military genius that took Inverness and Lord George’s incompetence that lost us the advantage after Falkirk. He has also been pursuaded to relieve Lord George of his command and lead the army into battle himself.”

  Deirdre straightened in surprise. “But he cannot do that, can he? He has never actually led the men into a real battle before, has he?”

  “Lord George has always given him a wing to command—usually somewhere in the second line, in the rear, well out of harm’s way. But it is, in essence, his army to command and lead.”

  “What will Lord George do?”

  “He won’t roll over and play dead, that’s for sure. Not after he has brought us this far. And certainly not after he heard O’Sullivan’s proposed choice of battlefields.” Aluinn’s hands moved restlessly beneath the quilt and he snorted derisively. “The stupid Irish bastard has the prince believing the moor below Culloden is the ideal field on which to win victory and glory. Lord George rode out and took a look at it today and came back white as a ghost. It’s flat and treeless—perfect for Cumberland’s artillery, among other things. The alternative Lord George has suggested—has pleaded for, in fact—is a glen just this side of Nairn, where the land is gorged and hilly, broken by swamp and bogland—ideally suited to the way our men fight, and with ample protection from the bloody artillery.”

  “The second choice sounds more logical by far, even to me,” Deirdre said. “And I know as much about soldiering as I do about … flying. Why is the prince being so obstinate?”

  Aluinn averted his gaze from the fire and studied his wife’s solemn, heart-shape face. He hadn’t realized how much he had been rambling on and quite frankly did not want to continue. He was suddenly very much aware of Deirdre’s naked bottom resting on his lap and of the small but perfectly shaped breasts peeping over the edge of the crumpled quilt.

  “Because,” he murmured, nudging aside the quilt to caress the velvety soft cap of her nipple, “if the prince is here, occupying the high ground above Nairn, and Cumberland is here—” He traced an imaginary line from the plumpness of her breast up into the seductive little hollow at the base of her throat. “In theory, Cumberland could easily split his forces, sending half to keep the prince’s army preoccupied here”—he retraced his line to her nipple—“while the other half”—his finger touched the hollow again and began a slow descent downward, bypassing the swell of her breast to follow the deep cleft down beneath the quilt—“could march right past him and take Inverness.”

  “I see,” she whispered, her eyes widening as his fingers probed the terrain designated as his hypothetical Inverness. “And he would not be able to do so if the prince’s army stands at Culloden?”

  “Culloden”—his fingers rose again and trailed a slow circle around the delicate indent of her navel—“lies directly in the way of any army marching upon Inverness. Cumberland would have to take the moor first, or, if it looked as if he might be successful, we would have the option of falling back to Inverness, in which case, it would then depend upon how much resistance he encountered … and if Inverness was willing to be occupied.”

  Deirdre’s soft brown eyes were glowing as she adjusted her position slightly to allow easier access to the invading army.

  “I do not know about your Inverness,” she murmured against his lips, “but mine is downright eager to be occupied.”

  Aluinn’s free hand moved up into the froth of glossy chestnut curls at the nape of her neck, holding her fast while his mouth earnestly accepted the capitulation.

  21

  Catherine’s party left Moy Hall at dawn. Despite the presence of twenty heavily armed clansmen who looked as if they chewed trees for amusement, and despite the presence of Deirdre, Damien, and the surly familiarity of Struan MacSorley, a cold and deplorably lonely sense of isolation rode with her. Alex and Aluinn had escorted their wives as far as the junction of the military roads outside of Inverness. In stark contrast to the cheerful displays of bravado fronted by all parties, Catherine’s heart had remained lodged firmly in her throat; Deirdre had hardly spoken two words all morning.

  MacSorley was clearly not happy at having been assigned the duty of escorting the women to Achnacarry. He could smell a battle brewing and had five weeks of pent-up frustration that wanted venting. Lauren’s betrayal and treachery had struck him hard; her death had been necessary and justified, but as the days passed, he had shifted the blame for her actions squarely onto the shoulders of the English bastards, who had obviously corrupted her with visions of wealth and luxury. Struan had no intentions of obeying Alexander Cameron’s orders to remain at Achnacarry after delivering his charges safely. His one good hand and sword arm were still worth ten of any other men, and he had a deal of vengeance to wreak upon his enemy.

  Archibald had mended the wounded hand as best he could, but the tendons had all been severed, and consequently, as the fingers healed, they curled into a stiff, frozen claw. To compensate for the loss of articulation, Struan had fashioned a rigid leather gauntlet that fit snugly over the hand, wrist, and forearm, turning the damaged limb into a fearsome club. The back of the glove was studded with inch-long metal spikes that could rake away a man’s face with a single, vicious swipe—not that anyone had dared aggravate him to the point of testing it.

  Damien Ashbrooke was also less than thrilled to be on the road to Lochaber. He had argued for two solid hours against his banishment, but Alex, as usual, had had the final word. Damien would be of more use at Achnacarry, he had been told, especially since it was a forgone conclusion that Struan MacSorley would be returning and, undoubtedly, bringing most of the castle guards with him. Furthermore, if there was a battle and if the English gained the ground, the rebel army would most likely fall back along the shores of Loch Ness, and it would be prudent to have someone positioned at their backs to warn of any threat from the south.

  Dawn had arrived drenched in mist and rain, and the morning had not seen much improvement. The ground was slippery with mud, the air pungent with damp and wood musk. MacSorley rode in the lead like a drowned, shaggy bear, his hair glued to his face in wet shanks, his breath steaming out in vaporous curses to convey each order and observation. The mist distorted heights and distances, gave shadows movement, and colors a disturbing lack of density. Frequent halts were called in order for scouts to ride ahead to ensure against any unpleasant surprises on the road, although for the entire morning, they had not seen another living soul.

  Had they been able to imitate the gold-breasted eagles that often soared by overhead, Achnacarry was less than forty miles along the chasm of the Great Glen. Without wings, however, they were forced to follow the rough trails and tracts that snaked up, down, along, and around the rolling hills and dark forests flanking Loch Ness, and they would end up traveling closer to sixty.

  The loch itself was deep and cold. At times, the black water lapped against the horses’ hooves as they descended a steep turn in the trail; at others, it loomed stygian blue, dozens of feet below a sheer, razor-backed fall of rock. On such a dreary day, there were patches of mist floating out across the surface of the water on which ghostly galleons seemed to echo with the eerie laughter of their phantom crews. Wet and thick, the mist never lifted out of the hollows and thickets. Passing through a bank of fog was like passing through a curtain of fine rain, after which a myriad of tiny droplets clung to clothes and skin in a layer of glistening dew.

  Catherine took no notice of
the rain, the mist, or the breathtaking scenery. She and Deirdre rode side by side in silence, alone with their private thoughts and miseries.

  It was late afternoon when Catherine’s sides began to cramp from the long hours in the saddle. While Struan sent out his scouts, Damien helped the women dismount, concern for his sister’s delicate condition breaking through his own brooding lethargy.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, noting how gratefully she clung to his arm for support. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I am not. I should not be traveling in my condition, never mind on horseback and in the abominable cold.”

  Damien glanced at Deirdre—whose face remained carefully blank—before scowling back at Catherine. “You are as healthy as a mule, young lady, and just as singular in character. I am no more pleased at being here than you are, but since I am, I intend to see you safely to Achnacarry if it is the last thing I do.”

  The slump disappeared magically from Catherine’s shoulders and she squared off before her brother, her eyes threatening mutiny. “I shall inform Harriet of how hateful you have become in the past few months. A veritable tyrant. I shall also advise her to seek a divorce with all due haste.”

  “You do that,” he agreed dryly. “I have no doubt you, of all people, can be very convincing when it comes to counseling marriages.”

  The defiant gleam persisted for a moment, then was lost to a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. You must miss her terribly.”

  Damien’s gaze drifted south as if he could see through the impeding barrier of mountains and across the endless miles. “I do,” he murmured. “It was a wretched thing I did, leaving her alone like that, yet she was so wonderful about it. She knew it was tearing me apart to stand by and do nothing while so many others were willing to risk everything they had.”