The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  Catherine felt her husband’s body tense. Through her tears she saw Maura holding something wrapped in a dirt-encrusted length of tartan. As she watched, the folds were loosened and the polished, dazzling brilliance of a sword was introduced into the murky light of the forest.

  The clai’mór was ancient, the hilt wrought in gold, protected by a basket-shaped guard of filigreed silver studded with topazes. With the point of the blade touching the ground, the cap of the hilt rose well above Maura’s shoulder and was almost too heavy for her slender arms to balance as she held it out to him.

  “Take your grandfather’s sword, Alex. Use it as it was meant to be used.”

  The steel was polished bright enough to reflect a blurred image of his face as Alex took it and tested the unfamiliar weight in his hands. It reflected the memories as well. Memories of Annie MacSorley and the Campbell brothers, of Aluinn MacKail and their shared fifteen-year-long exile. He saw the faces of Struan MacSorely and Damien Ashbrooke, but none were stronger at the moment than the wizened, crinkled features of the sage old Highlander whose affinity for the dark gods had won him dubious distinction as the Camshroinaich Dubh.

  He removed his own broadsword and replaced it with the gleaming clai’mór.

  “Alex … please …”

  He looked deeply into Catherine’s eyes and took her into his arms for one last embrace before he mounted the chestnut and wheeled away into the mist and shadows.

  Watching him ride away, Catherine faltered and felt Maura’s arm go around her shoulders.

  “Hamilton will kill him,” she whispered. “He isn’t strong enough.”

  “If you believe in him, he will be strong enough,” Maura said. “But you must believe it with your whole heart and soul so that Alex feels it and is able to use the power of Sir Ewen’s sword.”

  Catherine looked at Lady Maura in astonishment. “Surely you do not believe there is any magical power in that sword? It is only a piece of steel, for pity’s sake.”

  “I agree completely. Undoubtedly Ewen found it while he was trekking in the mountains and concocted a wondrous legend about it to inspire his men before going on raids. The real magic of it Catherine, has always been in here.” She laid her hand gently over her breast. “It was Alex’s love for Annie that gave him the strength to wield the sword against the Campbells fifteen years ago, and it will be his love for you that gives him the strength to meet his destiny today. He knows you are waiting here for him; you and your son. That would be magic enough for any man.”

  Catherine held Maura’s gaze a long moment before turning to look back along the empty forest path. Already the mist had resettled around the bases of the trees again, closing in the gap briefly caused by the passage of Alex’s horse.

  “Signora Camerone, please,” the count said, moving to her side and indicating the path back up the mountain. “We do as-a you husband wish, no? We go back up to the caves and-a wait.”

  Catherine squared her shoulders. Maura, ever practical, especially now when future provisioning was so uncertain, bent to retrieve the tartan the sword had been wrapped in. The count signaled to the other clansmen to retreat back up the hill, and Catherine, on impulse, was able to reach across and withdraw one of the fancy snaphaunces from his belt.

  Fanducci’s reflexes were lightning quick, but Catherine’s, driven by fear and desperation, were quicker. She stepped back and had both serpentine flintlocks cocked before he could make any move to disarm her.

  “Don’t!” she warned, leveling the gun at his chest. “Please. You have been a good friend to Alex and I don’t want to have to hurt you, but believe me, I will.”

  “Catherine!” Maura gasped.

  “I’m not going to hide away in a cave to wait for news of my husband. I’m going back down the mountain. If anyone tries to stop me or stand in my way, I’ll shoot. I swear to God, I will.”

  “What are you going to do when you get down the mountain?” the count asked calmly.

  “I don’t know. I just know I can’t walk away and leave him all alone down there.”

  “Signora—”

  “Catherine, they will kill you if you go back,” Maura cried, trying to reason with her, but Catherine shook her head vehemently.

  “They won’t kill me, I am much more valuable to them alive. I am the daughter of Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, a prominent member of Parliament. My mother is Caroline Penrith, the king’s own cousin. They wouldn’t dare kill me.”

  Lady Cameron clasped her hands together, wringing them in frustration.

  “Maura … I must go back. If I can’t stop this terrible thing from happening, I can at least be there to see they do not go back on their word. I know Hamilton Garner. He will declare himself the winner only if Alex is dead at his feet. But if he loses, I don’t think his word is enough to bind the rest of his men. They know full well there is still a price on Alex’s head, and it’s good to any man who brings him back dead or alive. Alex is prepared to die for his honor and his family name—I can accept that. But he could never bear to be thrown into chains and put on display like some wild, caged animal.”

  The count, studying Catherine’s face intently, extended his hand slowly. “Give me the gun.”

  Catherine grasped the butt tighter in both hands, raising the barrel so that she was aiming between the two crystal-clear blue eyes. For a long, breathless moment, Damien’s face swam before her, but she shook away the unexpected image and backed away another determined pace.

  “Catherine … give me the gun,” he commanded. “You cannot go down there alone.”

  She bit down on the corner of her lip until she tasted blood, but her aim did not waver.

  “You are a very brave, very resolute young lady … but also very foolish, no?” The handsome face relaxed into a wry smile. “Together, we would not-a be so foolish.”

  “T-together?”

  He raised his hands, palms out. “Please, signora. The gun, she is-a very temperamental. A shiver, no more, and she goes off like-a the whore in-a the boy’s school. Please.”

  Catherine lowered the barrel a fraction. “No tricks?”

  “No tricks, signora. Your husband has-a been my good friend too. Together we make sure he’s-a no cheated.”

  Catherine’s arms fell down to her sides. The count leaned over and eased the snaphaunce from her ice-cold fingers, and, with his piercingly sharp gaze still scrutinizing every minute detail of her face, he smiled. “I think, signora, you have the little blood of larceny in-a you veins, no?”

  “More than you know,” she agreed, thinking of Lady Caroline’s confession.

  “Si More than you know.” He straightened and uncocked the hammers before replacing the gun in his belt. He crooked a finger at one of the nearby clansmen, noting the instant flash of suspicion in the violet eyes. It faded as soon as she realized he was only calling for horses.

  Maura’s shock was complete. “You cannot be serious! You are not really taking her back down there!”

  Fanducci assisted Catherine into the saddle then doffed his tricorn in a sweepingly graceful bow to Lady Cameron. “Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci never goes-a back on his word, signora—something you Scots teach-a me very well. Don’t worry. I won’t-a let anything happen to Signora Catherine.” He snapped his fingers and pointed collectively to the closest group of clansmen. “You, come-a with us. The rest, take Lady Cameron back to her husband. In-a one hour, if-a we don’t come back, you bring-a down the mountain!”

  Hamilton Garner paced the carpet of silvery, flattened heather, pausing now and then to scowl toward the upper end of the meadow. He wasn’t coming back. The black-hearted, conniving bastard wasn’t coming back! What in God’s name had made him believe the Highlander was good for his word?

  “Sir?”

  “What is it, Corporal?” Garner snapped, turning to see Corporal Jeffrey Peters looking past him, staring at something higher up on the slope.

  Hamilton spun around and felt a gratifying spurt of pleasure rippl
e through his loins. A lone figure stood poised against the distended wisps of mist, his wild black hair flung forward against his cheeks and throat, his long, powerful legs braced wide apart. The cloak he had worn earlier was gone. He was dressed in black breeches and a white linen shirt, the latter fitting loosely across the massive shoulders and left open at the throat to reveal a wealth of curling black hair on his chest. Held in front of him, his hands draped almost leisurely across the hilt, was a sword that looked as if it had been forged in Dante’s Inferno.

  Tall—almost as tall as its owner—polished to a mirror brightness, it identified the warrior of legend, the Dark Cameron, and commanded the attention of every man present on the field.

  Hamilton Garner was forced to admire the effect. The combination of black hair, black eyes, black boots and breeches, made a startling contrast against the dazzling white shirt, the gold-and-silver sword, and the drifting banks of mist behind him. It was enough to give a stouthearted man pause, never mind the rabble Garner had collected in his troop. Even the Argyle Campbells, bestial brutes throughout the campaign, full of boasts on what they would do if ever turned loose in Lochaber, were standing wooden and silent, their ugly faces shining under a patina of clammy sweat.

  Garner inflated his chest with a lungful of crisp, pungent air. When he was finished with Cameron, they would all be looking at him with the same awe and respect. They would cheer him as they would cheer any man who would dare slay a dragon, and there would be no limit to the heights to which he could rise. Cumberland had been the hero of the hour at Culloden, but he was bulbous and grotesque, and commanded his popularity through military discipline. He, Hamilton Garner, was the golden-haired savior, walking alone onto a field of honor to do battle with the envoy of the Prince of Darkness.

  Peters muttered something in Hamilton’s ear, but the major brushed aside the interruption, wanting nothing to detract from the lush sense of anticipation surging through his veins. His smile curved into an avaricious grin as he unbuckled the scabbard housing his own slim rapier and called instead for one of the five-foot-long broadswords he had familiarized himself with over the months. If Cameron preferred Highland steel for this, his final battle, then Hamilton Garner had no objections. The hours he had spent retraining his army in their methods of countering the awesome weapons had turned his arms to marble, increased his prowess and stamina tenfold. Indeed, if truth be known, he preferred the bloody savagery of the double-edged blade to the swift, clean efficiency of a dueling rapier. This would be his finest performance to date, and he had no desire to end it quickly or compassionately.

  After unbuttoning his tunic, Garner tossed the garment aside in a dramatic swirl of scarlet. As an afterthought, he removed the neatly powdered and curled periwig so that his pale-gold hair was bare to the morning light. He adjusted the froth of lace at his throat and smoothed the white quilted satin of his long-skirted waistcoat.

  “Corporal Peters, you will temper the enthusiasm of the men; I want no repeat of what happened at Culloden, no interference from any quarter. Is that clearly understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir. But in the event … er, in the event the rebel should gain an advantage—”

  Hamilton glared at the younger officer. The boyish face had suffered hideous scarring from the fall he had taken several weeks before at Moy Hall, and his desire to avenge himself upon those he blamed for the disfiguration was nearly as great at Hamilton’s.

  “Corporal, if I am not able to deal with an exhausted, half-crippled adversary, then he deserves every advantage he can win. As long as I am on my feet, however, you will refrain from interfering.”

  Peters’s persistence was not daunted by the glint in Garner’s eyes. “But if you are no longer on your feet, if the Scotsman—”

  “If he wins, Corporal,” the major interrupted, “I will expect you to carry through with your orders. This”—he pointed the tip of his sword across the field—“is a private matter and has nothing whatsoever to do with General Cumberland’s specific directives.”

  A second officer, standing alongside Peters, snapped to attention and saluted. “The destruction of Achnacarry Castle, aye, sir. The orders will be carried out.”

  “Your enthusiasm is commendable, Wellesley. As for the rebel—” Garner’s gaze shifted back to Peters. “Should the inconceivable happen, Corporal, I would expect to have his soul join mine in hell within a matter of moments following my demise.”

  Peters smiled slowly. “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Hamilton Garner fixed his attention once more on the Highlander. Clearing his mind to concentrate on the task ahead, he pushed everything, everyone aside and primed himself by reliving the duel they had fought in the courtyard of Rosewood Hall. With a fencer’s instinct, he had identified and isolated all of Cameron’s distinctive moves. The way a man fought was as idiosyncratic and personalized as the way he made love, and, having replayed the humiliating moments leading up to and including the stunning coup that allowed Cameron his previous victory, Garner was confident that this time, there would be no unexpected surprises.

  Nor was he intimidated by the size of the ancient clai’mór Cameron had brought to the field. Hamilton suspected the sheer weight of the weapon would likely tear whatever shreds of muscle still remained intact in the damaged arm; the pain alone would be monstrous and debilitating, not to mention draining on the power of the good right arm. The Scot could boast a deservedly respected reputation with a rapier, and all things considered, he might have been wiser choosing the lighter weapon.

  Garner halted a sword’s length from his adversary.

  “It is refreshing, if not surprising, to see you are a man of your word.”

  Alexander offered up a lazy smile. “Shall we skip the pleasantries, Major? As you may recall, my wife is not known for her patience and is most anxious for me to rejoin her.”

  Hamilton countered with an equally slow, insolent smile. “I will be most happy to convey your regrets when I see her, Highlander. As for displays of patience—”

  In a move so quick Alex almost missed it, Hamilton’s sword came up and across in a cutting arc that would have opened Cameron’s belly had he been a heartbeat slower to react. He raised his broadsword in time to block the slash, but the resulting shrill of steel scraping on steel sent a chilling warning along the spines of both men. Neither one could afford to make the smallest mistake, the slightest miscalculation. There were no rules, no judges, no expectations of gentlemanly conduct, and in the end, there would be no mercy for the loser.

  Metal bit into metal again as both men lunged and swung their mighty weapons. The sound of clashing steel shivered in the air and reverberated off the stones and mist until it became a continuous ringing in the ears. The swords were so heavy to wield and recover that the combatants appeared to be moving through liquid, smashing one against the other, thrusting, attacking, circling with huge, windmilling strokes as they probed for any opening or weakness.

  The dragoons on the field below became a rapt audience. A gentle trough in the ground briefly swallowed the two swordsmen from view, and, after nudging one another in frustration, the soldiers broke formation, surging up the slope, shouting and wagering among themselves as to which man would go down first. The major’s skill was legion among the ranks of the dragoons and the exploits of the Dark Cameron had been whispered around the campfires for months. No one wanted to say he had missed a single detail of the final encounter, and for the time being, no one clouded his enthusiasm or sense of gamesmanship with anything so petty as politics. Both men were championed equally; both soon carried the stakes of several months’ pay on their shoulders.

  For his own part, Garner had not been foolish enough to underestimate the determination Cameron would bring onto the field. Yet he was frankly astounded at the power he felt behind each savage strike; it showed in the rage he unleashed with each thrust, the oaths he grunted at each expenditure of effort.

  And Alex, having no doubt whatsoever that
Garner would not have taken up the challenge with a clai’mór unless he damned well knew how to fight with one, was nevertheless taken aback by the skill the Englishman displayed in adapting to completely new tactics. He had targeted Alex’s weaker left arm from the first stroke and was wearing away at it again and again, forcing the wounded forearm and wrist to bear most of the pressure. As a result, Alex could feel Archibald’s meticulous stitchwork tearing apart. His arm was screaming with the pain, and the tightly bound bandaging was starting to leak fresh blood onto his sleeve. Within the first half dozen strokes, each two-fisted swing of the broadsword sent a thin spray of blood droplets fanning off the ridge of his knuckles. Within the next, his face poured sweat; his hair and shirt became soaked with it. The tremendous muscles in his thighs and calves bulged with the strain of absorbing shock after shock, slash upon hacking slash, and he knew if he did not find an opening soon, he would not have to trouble himself over the pain or fatigue much longer.

  Hamilton, bloodied at hip and shoulder, was also forced to draw on his reserves sooner than he had anticipated. The man was not human! He not only continued to return as good as he was given, but, through several attacks, he forced Hamilton to defend rather than parry and to retreat in unseemly scrambles across the wet grass.

  Their blades crossed again, the impact shuddering through both straining bodies, the force of the concussion sending an exchange of blood and sweat across the narrow gap that separated them. Cameron broke away first, swinging his sword and body to the side in an attempt to throw Garner off balance, but the major was ready for him, cutting back with a deadly blow across the level of the knees. Alex had to leap back to miss it, and as he landed, his foot sank into a spongy pocket of earth and his ankle twisted out from under him, sending him crashing heavily onto the wet grass.

  Garner lunged. Alex was already rolling, springing to his feet again, but the stumble had cost him. He felt the flat of Garner’s blade strike his left shoulder and the point slash down, ripping through the flesh on his upper arm and slicing through the already gored bandaging on his forearm. Somehow he managed to retain his grip on the clai’mór and somehow he managed to stagger to his knees. He knew his back, thigh, and ribs were all fatally unprotected, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Garner moving in for the kill.