“He’s all right,” Alex said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “He’s been unconscious for the past mile or so. We should have stopped to rest, but—”
Maura looked up at Alexander Cameron and felt a deeper tearing in her heart. His tartan was crusted with blood, pierced by bayonet, sword, and musket shot. His left arm was bound in foul-smelling rags, the fingers protruding stiff and blue with cold. There was a week’s growth of beard on his cheeks and circles so deep and black under his eyes it looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month. His teeth were clenched tightly together in a futile attempt to control the tremors that wracked his body, but a blind man could see he was flushed and burning with fever.
“We must get you inside where it’s warm,” Maura said, taking command at once. “We must get you all inside where there is hot food and proper medicines.”
“Catherine?” Alex asked, shuddering as yet another racking bout of nausea threatened to topple him. He fought it, conquered it, but when he opened his dark eyes again, Maura obviously had not heard him and had turned her attention to the flock of servants who were suddenly clamoring to be of help. He shook off a concerned pair of hands and forced himself to place one foot before the other, determined to walk into the castle under his own power. Catherine was there, waiting. Catherine would take the pain away. Catherine would hold him and soothe the heartache; she would understand and share the sense of overwhelming loss he felt. She was his life, his sanity. God … how he needed her.
Achnacarry, May 1746
25
Alex paced most of the morning away in a deep, black rage. Three weeks! He had been laid up with fever and illness for three weeks and as yet had heard no word of Catherine or Deirdre or the fate of the small party he had dispatched to Achnacarry in Struan MacSorley’s care. At first, he had not believed his ears when Maura told him his wife had never arrived. The shock had pushed him over the edge, and he had tried to run back out the gates of the castle—intending what? To run all the way back to Inverness to look for her? At the time, it had seemed the only possible thing to do.
The combined effects of his wounds, the raging fever, and the arms of four burly clansmen had finally brought him crashing to the ground. He had lain unconscious for a full week afterward, and then had been so pitifully weak he could barely manage to relieve himself without the indignity of helping hands or soiled bedsheets. Maura had placed him in the chamber adjacent to Donald’s so she would have easy access to both brothers. Archibald—miraculously unscathed even though he had been in the thickest of fighting—divided his time among Donald, Alex, and the scores of wounded men who passed through Achnacarry’s gates on their way home.
When Maura was not with her husband or her brother, she was with Jeannie and Rose in the kitchens baking bread and ensuring there was a steady supply of hot food on hand at all times. The men who came to Achnacarry were starving, and not one was turned away without clean, warm clothes, full bellies, and stout words of encouragement from Lochiel. They had fought well. They had worn the Cameron badge of oak proudly and upheld the honor of the clan despite the defeat of the army at Culloden. The prince was safe. Friends had taken him high into the mountains and would guard him until a ship could carry him away to France. He could ask nothing more of his loyal Scots.
When Alex was strong enough to walk ten paces without bringing the tapestries and wall hangings he was clenching down around his head, he informed Donald he was going back to find Catherine. He swore he had seen Struan MacSorley appear on the field at Culloden and that Struan had saved him from certain death at the hands of the dragoons. Struan had not been seen since. No one knew or had seen anything of the giant Scot either before or after the battle.
“I know MacSorley,” Alex said. “He wouldn’t have left Catherine anywhere that was unfamiliar or unprotected. He wouldn’t have returned to the battle unless he knew she was safe—knew they were all safe.”
“If he was there at all, brither,” Lochiel said quietly.
“What is that supposed to mean? You think I imagined him there on the battlefield?”
“Men have imagined stranger things.”
“Not this time,” Alex insisted quietly. “And if Struan was with me there, it can only mean Catherine and the others are somewhere between here and Inverness.”
Lochiel knew it would do no good to argue with Alexander. Undoubtedly he would do the same thing if it were Maura out there somewhere, and all the reasoning, rationalizing, and cautioning in the world would not stop him from going after her.
“Pray God they did not return to Moy Hall,” he said aloud, and instantly regretted his slip. Not only had the MacKintosh estate been among the first visited and searched by Cumberland’s dragoons, but they’d had word that Lady Anne had been arrested and taken to prison in Inverness. Moy Hall had been ransacked, and any servants who had been foolish enough to stay behind had either been shot or thrown into jail with their mistress. Both Lochiel and Alex had admired Colonel Anne’s courage, and to think of her behind bars in some fetid stone cell was an affront to every Scot, whether he be Jacobite or Hanover.
So many names, so many stories of horror and atrocities—from the nine-year-old lad and his father who were run down by dragoons and slain on the field they were plowing, to the woman who had given shelter to several wounded clansmen, only to have the government soldiers come and drag them into the yard where they were shot before her eyes. Two thousand already dead, more killed every day as Cumberland sent companies of soldiers into the glens and villages to search out anyone still boasting loyalty to King James. The duke had declared the lands, holdings, and titles of the Jacobite leaders forfeit, meaning that looting, raping, and theft had been sanctioned by the victorious general. He was sending out companies of soldiers to clear the land systematically, to search for rebels and confiscate any property or livestock of value to the crown. It would only be a matter of time before they came to Achnacarry.
“I wish there was something I could do tae help, Alex,” Lochiel said, staring glumly at the bulky bandages around his legs. Archibald had worked day and night to fit the splintered bones together and keep the ravaged flesh from becoming poisoned with gangrene. It would be weeks before Donald would be able to walk again—if ever.
“You’ll have enough to do here, if the soldiers come.”
“Aye. When they come, but. We’re no’ that remote a few good Campbell bloodhounds couldna point the way.”
“Will you fight?”
Lochiel lay back against the pillows. He had lived at Achnacarry all his life, and it had been his and Maura’s home for sixteen years. His brother Archibald and his family—uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews—and nearly a hundred men and women lived and worked within the stone walls. It was their home too.
“I had a dream the ither night,” Donald said, his blue eyes filming over with tears. “I dreamed I were walkin’ in the garden, out tae where Maura was waitin’ f’ae me in the gazebo. All the beds O’ roses she planted over the years … they looked different somehow. Changed. It wisna till I bent over tae pick some that I saw what was wrong. They were all red. No’ a yellow or pink or white one among the lot. They were red, Alex. Red wi’ blood. An’ where I picked it, the stem were bleedin’. The blood O’ the roses fell on ma hands an’ I couldna rub it off. I dinna think it will ever come off, whether we fight again or na.”
His eyes lowered to hide his tears, and Alex turned slowly away from the bed. Back in his own room again, he pulled a leather knapsack out of the wardrobe and threw it onto the bed.
“Going somewhere?”
Alexander glanced over his shoulder and saw Count Fanducci lounging easily against the opened door frame. Having come away from Culloden with only the torn remnants of the clothes on his back, he looked somewhat subdued in a borrowed shirt and plain breeches. Standing there, with the muted light from the hall behind him and the blurred beams of daylight washing over him from the window, there was something about his face that prodded Alex’
s memory, but the moment passed as the count pushed away from the door and strode over to the bed.
“Ahh … shirt, coat, boots, and-a breeches,” he mused, inspecting the assorted garments Alex had collected and laid out on the bed. “Inglaz-y clothes and the Inglaz-y accent will only take you so far, signore.”
“I have to try.”
“Si, si. You worry after you beautiful wife. But what-a good can you do her in-a prison?”
“I’m aware of the risks, my friend,” Alex replied evenly, thrusting an extra shirt into the knapsack. He winced as a sudden jab of pain shot up his bandaged left arm, reminding him he had only minimal strength in his hand, and then only at a tremendous premium in pain. The rest would come back in time, or so Archibald claimed. The trouble was, of course, he didn’t have any more time. If Catherine was in trouble. If she was alone or afraid. If she needed help …
He stopped and squeezed his eyes shut to block out any further ifs but was only partially successful.
If only Aluinn were here with him, the two of them could have set everything to rights again. Aluinn would not have attempted to delay him or talk him out of going. He would have been just as eager to be out looking for his wife. Good God, Deirdre was out there somewhere with Catherine. So was Damien Ashbrooke. So were twenty good clansmen. Surely they hadn’t just disappeared off the face of the earth; not if Struan had managed to make it back to Culloden.
“He was-a the good man, signore,” Fanducci said quietly. “I’m-a sure she’s safe.”
Alex looked up, unaware that he had been gripping the shirt so tightly a seam had given way. And unaware his thoughts had been stamped so clearly on his face.
“I liked them both: Signore Struan and-a Signore MacKail. They were the very brave men. They would have-a died very well.”
Alex said nothing. There was nothing he could say without admitting to either man’s death.
“The soldiers, signore,” Fanducci said, clearing his throat and twisting at the end of his moustache with a thumb and forefinger. “They might-a not believe one crazy Inglaz-y on the road, but say if they meet one-a crazy Inglaz-y and-a one … mmm … only slightly crazy Italiano?”
Alex glanced up. “You truly would be crazy, Fanducci, if you volunteered to come with me.”
The count shrugged. “Back home, in-a Italy, they think the Fanduccis are all a little crazy. Besides, I’m-a counted fourteen holes in my clothes when I come-a here. Fourteen chances they had to kill me and-a still they missed. I’m-a don’t think either one of us is fated to die by the Inglaz-y hand, do you, signore?”
“Not until I’ve finished my business with them, at any rate,” Alex agreed. “Very well, if you are fool enough to risk it, I welcome your company.”
“Bene!” Fanducci rubbed his hands together gleefully. “You give-a me ten minutes?”
Alex smiled faintly. “I’ll give you five.”
Unfortunately, no more than three minutes passed before the guards on top of the tower walls were sounding the alarm.
The English had come to Achnacarry.
Alexander approached the clearing with caution. He held up his right hand to halt his group and sat perfectly still on the back of a handsome chestnut stallion—a horse much smaller and more compact in form than his much-missed Shadow, but one that was made more imposing by mere association with the Dark Cameron.
Alex’s men fanned out on either side of him—thirty, in all—looking as gloweringly ominous as if they had never tasted the bitter gall of defeat. Count Giovanni Fanducci reined in by Alex’s side, his shoulders caped against the late-afternoon chill, but the copious folds of cloth thrown back at his waist to pointedly display the gleaming snaphaunces tucked into his belt.
The clearing was no more than a hundred yards across at its widest, ringed in thick-trunked oak trees that made the forest seem dark and oppressive, despite the trickles of sunlight filtering through the hazed gloom. Hamilton Garner and his men lined the opposite side of the glade, their leathers polished to a gloss, their peaked tricorns level as a row of pickets on a fence. Their scarlet-and-blue uniforms, starched white neck stocks, and chinking brass scabbards made an impressive show as they stood across the quiet fogged clearing, but for the first time since charging the battlefield at Culloden, they stirred under a distinct sense of unease. This was Cameron land and these were Cameron clansmen they faced, some of the fiercest fighters they had encountered throughout the rebellion. The forest around them at once felt too dark with shadows, too close with dampness. To a man, the dragoons longed to run their fingers along the constricting edge of their collars to facilitate their breathing.
Several Argyle Campbells, traveling as guides to the English soldiers, sucked in their breaths and fingered the triggers of their muskets as they watched the Camerons file into the clearing. They remembered the old vendettas, and each considered it a personal affront that Alexander Cameron still lived.
Hamilton Garner measured his enemy carefully. The Highlander had taken a saber wound to his left arm that should have disabled any other man, yet he held the reins easily, casually, as if he were none the worse for wear. Perhaps there was something in the Highland air, Hamilton surmised, that bred such resilience and arrogance. It had taken nearly twenty men finally to bring down the leonine giant who had come to Cameron’s rescue at Culloden. Even then the brute hadn’t died, but had crawled up the slope under cover of darkness and managed to drag himself as far as a small barn some distance along the road to Inverness. The dragoons had found the body the next morning, stone cold, bled almost dry from the countless crippling wounds.
Garner dismounted and handed his reins to an aide. He crooked an amused brow in Alexander Cameron’s direction and began walking slowly into the center of the clearing.
Alex swung himself off the chestnut’s back. The strain of his weight was concentrated briefly on his damaged left arm, but if he felt the stabbing pain, he gave no outward sign of it. He tossed the reins to Fanducci, clamped his teeth securely around the butt of a small black cigar, and strode to where the dragoon major waited.
“You are like a cat with nine lives,” Garner commented dryly. “You keep landing on your feet, reappearing where you are least expected.”
“You wanted a meeting,” Alex said brusquely. “Say what you have to say and be done with it.”
“I was under the assumption I would be negotiating with your chief, Lochiel.”
“My brother is indisposed. Whatever negotiating you have come to do, you can do it with me.”
Garner took his time replying, absorbing the undercurrents of tension, relishing the feeling of power.
“As you may already have guessed, I have come on instructions to arrest your brother, Lochiel, and return him to Inverness to trial. The name of Dr. Archibald Cameron also appears high on my list, along with those of a dozen lesser officers of the clan. Having come to know the way you people think, I have no doubt you believe it is your duty to resist unto death. For my part, I could care less if the bodies I transport back are alive or not, but you might want to take this opportunity—the only one I am prepared to offer, by the way—to end it peaceably. There is no possible way you can avoid the inevitable. I have three hundred men with me, cannon and shot enough to blow the walls of your impregnable castle to kingdom come. However, as much as I should enjoy seeing you crushed slowly under the exploding rubble, I am under orders to be as expedient as possible in concluding our business here in the Highlands.”
“Expedient?” Alex’s white teeth flashed in a grin. “A quaint word for slaughter, theft, and destruction.”
“It is the duke’s wish to be able to return to London with a solid guarantee that your countrymen will have neither the heart nor the means to rebel against the crown in the future.”
“So you burn the cottages, kill the crofters who work the land, and rape the farms of their livestock and crops? An admirable plan for restoring peace and winning confidence for the throne.”
“You
invited retribution when you sought to rebel against the crown.”
“Your crown, not ours.”
“A matter of semantics.”
“A matter of freedom, and of the right to choose our own king, make our own laws, not obey those of England’s making.”
“As you say, admirable sentiments, but misplaced. In war, there can be no place for sentiment, and freedom is the natural forfeit of the defeated. Give it up, Cameron. Surrender now and I can promise leniency for your men. Prolong it, and I will guarantee a corpse swinging from every bough in the forest. The officers and leaders, naturally, will be taken back to the proper authorities, regardless of whether they succumb to force or surrender willingly, but for someone who professes to hold such concern for the common masses, I should think you would be anxious to place their welfare before your own.”
Alex removed the cigar from between his lips and inspected the glowing tip of red ash for a long moment. “And is that all you want? The surrender of the castle, the submission of the chief and his officers … nothing else, Major? I notice you did not mention my name on your list. Does that mean I am free to go?”
Garner’s eyes sparkled coldly. “It means there might be a way you could win your freedom.”
“Ahh. You have a codicile to the terms of your … generous offer, I presume?”
“One you should not find too taxing on the imagination, Cameron. Shall we call it a chance to settle our own personal differences? No interference from any quarter this time. No saviors, no avenging angels.”
“No bullets in the back if it looks like you are about to lose again?” Alex added silkily.
Hamilton’s lips pinched at the insult. “The man acted against my direct order. I wanted you to myself then, and I still do now, by God. You can even pick the time and place, if it makes you feel more secure.”
The Blood of Roses Page 50
