The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  “Well, you needn’t feel deprived any longer,” Catherine insisted. “Not after single-handedly saving Charles Stuart’s life. Lately, though, I find myself almost wishing you had failed. Perhaps, if the prince had died that night, the rebellion might have died with him. The clans would have gone peacefully home, their pride intact, their honor upheld. Alex would have taken me home to Achnacarry; you would be back with Harriet right now. We all could have resumed normal lives.”

  Damien regarded her strangely for a moment, noting the use of the words home and Achnacarry said in conjunction with Alexander Cameron. He smiled his old secret smile, the one he reserved especially for Catherine, and took her gloved hands into his.

  “Alex has made you happy, hasn’t he Kitty? I mean … you don’t still hold it against me that I more or less tricked you into accompanying him to Scotland all those months ago?”

  “It was cowardly and low of you not to confess your involvement with the Jacobites,” she protested. “Even worse, that you did not trust me enough to confide.”

  “I’m sorry. I just did not know how you would react. You were, after all, enamored with Hamilton Garner and had just suffered the indignity of watching your fiancé bested in a duel.”

  Catherine chewed thoughfully on her lower lip. “Actually, if we are making a clean breast of things, brother dear, I suppose it is only honorable that I make a minor confession of my own. Hamilton and I were never actually engaged. He never actually proposed to me—although I am sure he would have, given the proper incentive.”

  Damien’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Which you sought to provide by flirting with Alexander Cameron?”

  “I did not know he was Alexander Cameron, did I? Or that either one of them would display such a poor sense of humor.”

  Damien shook his head. “For a girl who had no idea she was playing with fire, you have managed to come through all this relatively unscathed.”

  “On the contrary, I have come out of it very scathed,” she objected, fidgeting absently with the huge amethyst ring she wore over her gloved finger. “You need only look at me to see the proof. Here I am, standing on a road in the middle of nowhere, several hundred miles from civilized society, in the midst of a raging rebellion. I am better than four months’ pregnant, wed to an enemy of the crown. I am scarred with bullet holes, wanted for the murder of an English officer … How much more scathed could I become?”

  “Anyone else reciting such an enviable litany could have easily become hard and ugly and unforgiving—” He raised her hand to his lips and smiled again. “Instead, you’ve become softer and more beautiful than any other woman I know—with the obvious exception of my own lovely wife, of course.”

  “Of course,” she demurred.

  “You’ve blossomed into a woman, a wife, a mother. You make my own paltry efforts at growing up and accepting responsibility seem pale by comparison.”

  “Damien—you are a lawyer, not a soldier. You excel in fighting your enemies with words, not swords. You will be important to Scotland after this rebellion is over to help pick up the pieces and make the country strong again. Soldiers certainly don’t know how to make laws and run governments fairly. Cromwell tried and failed miserably. So did Caesar and … and …”

  Laughing, Damien pulled her abruptly into his arms for a huge, affectionate bear hug. “Is this what it has come down to—my little sister lecturing me on history and politics?”

  “By the same logic, you would dare to lecture me on motherhood,” she retorted.

  “Ahh, Kitty. Don’t ever change.” His voice had grown softer and he was still holding her close, but his gaze was fixed on Struan MacSorley. The Highlander stood a dozen paces away, frozen into a pillar of stone. His head was cocked to one side and he seemed to be sniffing the wind like a wild forest animal scenting danger.

  Damien scanned the silent ring of trees but could see nothing amiss. They had stopped in one of the few barren patches of grass and rock that bordered the red sandstone road. Ahead and behind was forest, to the left the silvered sheen of Loch Ness was reflecting the slate-gray sky.

  Leaving his sister with Deirdre, Damien strolled casually over to where Struan was standing. “What is it? Do you see something?”

  MacSorley held up his gloved hand, unsure himself as to exactly what had raised the cold crawl of flesh along his spine. When he finally did answer, it was in a low growl, his expression as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “Mayhap ye should take the lassies intae the wood ahind us. Slow like. An’ keep them talkin’ as if they hadn’t a care in the world.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “Take the lassies intae the trees. Take the ponies as well, an’ if there is trouble—”

  The sharp retort of a musket cracked the silence, abruptly ending whatever advice Struan was about to deliver. Almost at the same time, two of the three scouts MacSorley had dispatched forward on the road returned at a gallop, their tartans flying, their shouts raising an alarm above the pounding beat of the horses’ hooves.

  “Sassenachs!” they screamed. There was more, shouted in Gaelic, but the clansmen were already in motion, shrugging off their easy stances and drawing their weapons even as Struan roared to draw their attention to the ring of scarlet-clad soldiers who had appeared at the edge of the forest.

  Damien ran back to where Catherine and Deirdre stood, reaching their side just as a volley of gunfire erupted from the border of trees. Musketballs stung the air like a swarm of bees, thudding into the bark of trees, spitting into knolls of sand and grass. Responding to Damien’s shout, the women threw themselves flat on the ground and crawled frantically for the protection of a large cairn of rocks.

  The answering volley of gunfire from the Cameron clansmen sent a hot wave of acrid smoke into the misty air. Following Highland tradition, they threw the spent weapons aside and drew their broadswords, rushing the line of soldiers before they could reload and redirect a second volley. MacSorley streaked across the narrow clearing and threw himself into the line of militiamen, scattering them like a row of scarlet pins. With an enraged bellow, he slashed his broadsword across the throat of one startled soldier, the force of the stroke carrying it through to the chest of the man who stood alongside.

  Huddled behind the rocks, Deirdre and Catherine watched in shock as swords bit into flesh and hacked at bone and sinew. Men were flung to the ground in a tangle of bloodied arms and legs, pistols were drawn and fired point blank into faces, chests, bellies, and thighs, some crippling the enemy, some crippling the Highlanders.

  Damien lunged into the fighting, his saber dancing and flashing in the dull gray light. More shots were being fired from beyond the trees and he felt something hot and slick tear into his shoulder, but he kept charging, kept slashing at the encroaching wave of scarlet tunics. A searing bite of steel ripped through his thigh and he whirled to meet the threat, but MacSorley was there, his huge broadsword flashing down and across, slicing through tunic and belts, bone and muscle, all but severing the man clean through at the waist.

  Damien grinned his thanks and shook off the annoying sting of his wounds as more soldiers poured out of the woods. The Camerons willingly braced themselves for the onslaught, screaming their age-old battle cry as steel clanged resoundingly against steel. Damien ran forward with the others, blinded by the smoke and confusion, but eagerly throwing himself to the aid of a clansman who had drawn the attention of three soldiers. Before he could effect a rescue, a musketball plowed through the Highlander’s chest, jerking him backward off his feet, freeing all three of his attackers to hunt fresh game.

  Turning on Damien, they drove him back across the road toward the steep drop into the loch. He felt a juddering blow to his lower body and knew he had been hit again. A bayonet was thrust at him from nowhere, and he felt the blade punch into his ribs. Two more slashes opened his cheek to the bone; his saber was torn from his fingers and sent twisting away in a graceful, silver spiral. One of the soldiers
crowded in for the kill, and, cursing his persistence, Damien reached for the pistol he wore tucked into his waist.

  Deirdre, risking a peek above the jagged edge of the cairn, screamed as a militiaman grabbed a fistful of hair and cloak and dragged her out into the open. He drew back his sword, his ugly face splitting into a grin, and was about to strike when Catherine launched herself at his back with a scream of fury. Her weight was sufficient to throw the aim of his arm off before he could complete the fatal stroke, and in a rage, he spun around, his elbow catching Catherine squarely in the belly, sending her sprawling painfully onto the wet ground. With Deirdre flailing and kicking at the end of one long arm, he raised his sword again, taking aim on the tumbled spill of bright yellow hair at his feet.

  Damien saw the sword beginning its slash downward and had just enough time to correct his aim, jerk back on the trigger, and see his shot tear away half the soldier’s face.

  Struan MacSorley was by Catherine’s side in the next instant, kicking the twitching redcoat irreverently to one side as he dropped to his knee beside her, his hands as gentle as if he were handling a newborn babe.

  “Are ye hurt, ma lady? Did the bastard hurt ye?”

  Catherine clung to his arm, her eyes wide, her lungs gasping for breath as she sought to control the blazing shafts of pain in her abdomen.

  “I … I am fine. Where is Deirdre?”

  “Here. She’s right here,” MacSorley reached over, hauling the badly shaken Irish girl into the protective circle of his arm. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

  “N-no. Just frightened.”

  “Aye, well, we’re all that, are we na?” His grin belied the comment, and in the next breath, he was all business again, shouting for a head count among his men. The soldiers were fleeing back to the woods, but there was no way of knowing if they were in full retreat or simply regrouping to launch another attack. Of his own men, almost half were dead or wounded.

  “Christ, but we’ve got tae get ye out O’ here, lassies,” MacSorley said, all too aware of their vulnerable position. Most of the horses had scattered in the eruption of noise and confusion; a few had remained, trembling and walleyed on the road, their fine senses rebelling against the scent of blood and death.

  “I’ll set the men after catchin’ one or three O’ the beasties,” he declared, starting to push himself upright. Catherine’s sharp cry stopped him. Her horrified stare sent his hand to his sword and his gaze to the nearby slope.

  “Damien!” she cried, pushing out of Struan’s restraining grasp. “Oh, God … Damien!”

  She ran to the small hillock of green and slate where Damien lay, his clothes torn and bloodied, his hand clawing into the grass. His face was turned to the side, his mouth gaped open, and a long, glistening thread of pink-tinged spittle hung from his lip.

  “Damien?” she whispered.

  The soft blue eyes were wide and staring, but at the sound of her voice they flinched ever so slightly and rolled toward her.

  “Oh, thank God.” She sobbed. “Thank God! Just lie still, Damien. Lie perfectly still and we’ll help you.”

  The pale blue eyes flickered again. They managed to find hers, to hold steady for as long as it took the blood-smeared lips to form the faintest shadow of a smile. A sigh—the deepest, saddest sound Catherine had ever heard—rattled from the bleeding chest, taking with it the last glimmer of light from the glazing blue eyes.

  “Oh, no,” she cried softly. “No, Damien. No!”

  MacSorley thrust his hand beneath the collar of Damien’s shirt, searching for signs of a pulse. The hand came away slowly and he shook his head in answer to Catherine’s silent plea.

  Her whole body tightened, and it took every last vestige of her strength to hold herself together. She was aware of the ground swaying unsteadily beneath her and the choked cry that brought Deirdre’s hands shooting out to catch her as she pitched forward.

  Deirdre’s cry to MacSorley went unanswered, however. He was staring back over his shoulder at the low green verge of trees where an unbroken line of thirty, forty uniformed soldiers were crouching and taking aim at the battered circle of Highlanders.

  “Dae ye believe it?” Archibald Cameron grumbled, spitting noisily into a clump of nearby gorse. “Callin’ off a battle on account O’ it’s the bluidy bastard’s birthday.”

  Alex and Aluinn exchanged a private glance, both of them grateful for small mercies, regardless of the source. They had been on their way back from seeing Catherine and Deirdre out of Inverness, when a local farmer had inquired why they were not on Drummossie Moor with the rest of the prince’s army.

  Lashing their horses almost to the point of ruin, they had arrived at Culloden House—the prince’s headquarters and now the main encampment for his army—shortly after eleven in the morning, only to have the report confirmed: The prince had indeed ordered his army to gather on the barren sweep of plain near Culloden. He had assumed command of the army and, under no circumstances, would he appear hesitant about meeting his enemy in combat.

  Fully prepared to engage Cumberland’s troops, Charles Stuart had led his army onto the moor just after nine O’clock in the morning, their swords sharpened and gleaming, their kilts throwing splashes of vibrant color against the sullen gray sky. To their right lay a panorama of sprawling green glen, and behind it, the hills of Cawdor, bare and treeless, splotched with wide patches of brown heather. To their left was the Firth and beyond it, the peninsula of the Black Isle. Dotted in between were the ships of the Royal Navy standing silent guard over the exit to the open sea lanes. Crouched on the western horizon were the mountains that formed the Great Glen, their walls and peaks etched with late snow, their valleys and gorges black with mystery and superstition.

  As Alexander and MacKail galloped up the slope that flanked the position of the Jacobite army, it became obvious they were not the only ones who had failed to be informed of the impending battle. The opposite slopes of Drummossie were bare. Cumberland’s army had not yet arrived to take up their positions.

  Donald Cameron, on one of the few occasions in recent memory, had been barely able to retain the calm demeanor that had earned him the respectful title of Gentle Lochiel. His men were exhausted after hurrying away from one bitter disappointment only to stand in the dismal rain and cold to face another. Making matters worse, the prince rode up and down the field, presenting a dazzling and heroic figure in his royal scarlet-and-blue tunic. Carrying a jeweled broadsword in one hand, and a leather targe studded with silver in the other, he had kept hurling insults at the invisible army lined up across the wide moor.

  “Has naebody pointed out tae his Highness there’s naebody wantin’ tae play at war today?” Donald scowled irreverently.

  “Ach, he’s havin’ a rare time, leave him tae it,” Archibald replied, blithely avoiding the cold glare his comment earned.

  But it had been true, as far as it went. The men were cheering and roaring ferociously each time their prince pranced by. Even Count Fanducci, in command of his puny battery of ten mismatched cannon, doffed his plumed tricorn and added his own colorful Italian praises to the bonnie young prince who sought to lead them into history.

  By noon, however, the men were hoarse, their nerves stretched and ragged, and their energy waning under lowering temperatures and a steady, chilling drizzle. By three, it became apparent to even the most diehard individuals that Cumberland’s army had no intention of answering their challenge this day. Adding insult to injury, in honor of the occasion of his birthday on this fifteenth day of April, the duke had generously ordered extra rations of meat, cheese, and rum for his men and relaxed his standing orders banning the presence of women in the camp. While the Highlanders were contemplating the mist and mud on the sodden field at Drummossie, the Duke of Cumberland was contemplating a very delightful set of bosoms seated beside him in the banquet hall of Balblair House in Nairn.

  Hearing of the birthday celebrations, the clan chiefs ordered their men to stand down. Many of them, after
waiting in the cold rain for more than nine hours, were too disgusted and too hungry to linger and wait for further orders. They spread out and foraged for what meat and bread they could find in local farms and villages, then sought the closest warm stack of hay on which to sleep.

  Most of the soldiers returned to Culloden House, awaiting a formal dismissal from the hastily called war council. They were hungry and weary, as well, however, and began drifting away when it became obvious the meeting would be long and heated.

  “Hopefully the cooler heads will prevail for once,” Aluinn said, scratching his back against the rough stone facing of the stable wall. “If Lord George can just hold his temper and refrain from calling O’Sullivan an idiot—”

  “O’Sullivan is an idiot,” Alex countered, going over Shadow’s coat for the third time with a handful of crushed hay. In his own silent way, he had apologized profusely for the way he had abused the stallion’s loyalty and stamina earlier in the day. He had fed the proud beast his ration of oatcakes Aluinn had managed to scrounge in lieu of their own lunch or dinner, and had rewarded the enterprising Laughlan MacKintosh with a gold sovereign for stealing two apples from a farmer’s cold cellar. Hardly king’s fare, but the stallion seemed humbly grateful. He had almost refused the oatcakes, as if sensing he was taking his master’s food.

  Being only human, Alex was as cold and hungry as the rest of the men who were dragging themselves away from Culloden House to find food and a warm bed. More than food, he found himself craving one of his small black cigars, but a diligent search of his saddlebags produced nothing more than a fingerful of shredded tobacco.

  Adding to his discomforts, he had a nagging ache in his temples and a vague sense of disquiet about something he could not quite put his finger to.

  “How far do you suppose they’ve gone?” Aluinn asked absently, kicking at a tuft of grass.

  Alex shrugged and resumed currying Shadow. “If Struan has kept to the schedule, they should be near Urquhart Castle by now, if not there already and bedded in for the night.”