He scowled and turned toward the door. “You had best get out of those wet clothes. The last thing I need on my hands is a child with pneumonia.”
“I am quite through taking orders from you,” she said through chattering teeth.
He stopped with his hand on the latch and blew out a soft, disbelieving breath. “Either you take those wet things off now, or I’ll rip them off for you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She realized her mistake at once as the door slammed shut again and he strode back to the bed. She lunged sideways to avoid him, but his hands were there reaching for her, hauling her onto her feet. She balled her fists and struck his chest, but he was not deterred in the least. He spun her around and held her bent over one arm while he stripped off her jacket, then plucked and tore at the fastenings of her bodice. When it was loose, the sleeves were peeled roughly from her arms and the ruined velvet discarded on the floor. The lacing of her corset and stomacher succumbed to a perfunctory series of tugs and snaps, and despite the indignity of her position and the shocking extent of his audacity, her ribs expanded gratefully as the last winding was freed and the stiffened buckram tossed aside.
The sodden length of her skirt joined the growing heap of garments on the floor, as did the solitary petticoat she wore beneath, She was appallingly aware of the hardness of his thighs where they pressed against her, but the indignity paled in comparison to the one she experienced when he ran his hands down her legs to remove her garters and stockings.
She gasped as she was turned again, and it was worse—much worse—having to face him while the outrage continued. She could feel the rasping heat of his breath on her skin, see the blazing animal lust in his eyes. He was going to rape her! He was going to strip her, rape her, then kill her as coldly and remorselessly as he would kill a troublesome flea!
“Stop,” she cried weakly. “Please!”
His hands were on the drawstring of her shimmy, the last vestige of modesty in a scandalously immodest situation. The silk was wet and completely transparent, molded to her breasts, her waist, her thighs like a thin film of oil. With a seemingly indifferent twist of his fingers, the string was released, the silk was brushed from her body, and her flesh was exposed to the cruel mockery in the dark midnight eyes.
In the next instant he was tearing the quilted coverlet off the bed. He flung it around her shoulders and started rubbing, so vigorously that she almost forgot her nakedness. When he had chafed some warmth and color back into her chilled flesh, he bundled her into the quilt and plunked her into the chair.
He returned to the side of the bed and stripped off his own jacket, then lowered his hands to the fastenings of his breeches.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she gasped.
“I’m changing into dry clothes. You can watch if you like.”
She averted her head at once and stared wide-eyed at the blank wall. It was, however, a little like watching the reflection of someone in the surface of a pond or in a mirror, for the lamp was behind him and his every movement, as he peeled off the wet breeches, was played out in shadow.
She closed her eyes. “What are you going to do with me now?”
“What do you suggest I do? What would you do with a tiresome, officious nuisance of a woman who is the first to question a man’s word of honor, yet the last to keep her own?”
Catherine started to turn, to challenge the accusation, but caught a glimpse of hard-thewed flesh and jerked back. “I hardly consider myself bound by honor to a murderer and a spy.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Then may I ask by what distorted logic you suppose a murderer and a spy would be expected to honor his guarantee?”
Her hands tightened around the edges of the quilt. How long had it been since Damien rode away? Surely he had reached Wakefield by now. Surely he had roused the guard and they were on their way to rescue her this very minute. She vaguely recalled Cameron giving the order to harness the horses; she had to stall them long enough for the soldiers to arrive.
“Damien knows where you are taking me,” she said, moistening her lips. “If you kill me—or abuse me in any way—he will follow you. He will hunt you down and see that you die a truly horrible death.”
“So you have already said. I gather you have never been to the Highlands, have you? A man can lose himself in the mountains and glens and never be seen by another living soul if it pleases him.”
“Is that why you ran away to France to hide? Is that why you have spent the last fifteen years in exile?”
The shadow thrown by the lamp moved and he was suddenly by her side again, leaning forward, his face mere inches from hers. “In the first place, madam, I did not run. I was sent to France by my older brother, who happens to be the Chief of Clan Cameron. One does not disobey a clan chief. If it had been my choice to make, however, I most certainly would have gone up into the mountains, but then I might not have become so civilized. For that you have my brother Donald to thank … if and when you ever meet him.”
“Thankfully, I will not have that pleasure, for I have no intentions of going anywhere with you, Mr. Cameron, despite whatever foolish promises I may have made. If you are desirous of my meeting any more members of your family, I daresay the only way you will accomplish it is to bind and gag me and drag me behind the coach—which would draw rather more attention to your pilgrimage than you would want.”
Cameron’s fingers curled around the arms of the chair, although the urge to throttle was slowly and unexpectedly giving way to the urge to smile. He had called her bold and brazen, but he was thinking now that the characterization was too mild. She was sitting naked, with only a blanket between her and ruin, yet she dared to defy him with those huge violet eyes and that soft pout of a mouth—both of which were sorely undermining his efforts to ignore the fact that she was sitting there naked in front of him with only a thin layer of blanket protecting him from ruin.
“I am not in the mood for any more games,” he warned softly.
“Your threats are beginning to sound very much like the bluff of a desperate man, Mr. Cameron. I believe my brother was right. I do not believe you could kill me, and since you have, by your own admission, few alternatives remaining, I would recommend that you mount your horses and ride as fast and as far away as they will carry you.”
The smile that had been battling with his better judgment won and spread meaningfully across the rugged face, revealing a dimple in one cheek that seemed entirely incongruous with his nature.
“I think I have at least one other alternative,” he mused, moving his hand from the arm of the chair to the edge of the quilt. Catherine followed the movement, shocked to see how far the blanket had slipped off her shoulder and how much bare white flesh lay open to his gaze.
“A wife,” he murmured, “would be far more obliging to her husband’s wishes if she knew the exact price she would have to pay for her disobedience.”
The shiver that stripped her of breath was not entirely due to the long, square-tipped finger that traced a feather-light path along the edge of the quilt. Her eyes widened, then widened further as she watched him lower his mouth to the curve of her shoulder. She jerked to one side and jumped to her feet, but the quilt hampered her movements and she found herself pressed up against the wall, his big body crowding her into the shadows.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” she gasped. “I’ll scream.”
“Scream away, dear wife. Who will hear you?”
“The soldiers. The soldiers who are undoubtedly surrounding this wretched place this very minute!”
His dark eyes studied the confident set to her mouth, glinting with comprehension after a moment. “Ahh. You think Damien has gone to fetch help.”
“I don’t think it, I know it. He would never just ride away and leave me here with you. He would have ridden straight to the garrison in Wakefield!”
“Where he would find these soldiers you are so confident are lurking in the woods as we speak?” He tippe
d his head up and laughed softly. “My dear Mrs. Montgomery … do you really think we would be here if there was a full garrison of English lobsterbacks less than an hour away?”
Shallow, rapid breaths caused her breasts to rise and fall, unwittingly brushing the already oversensitized peaks of her nipples against his chest each time they did so. Her eyes searched his face, but found nothing to support another charge that he was bluffing.
“We chose this particular inn specifically because the entire regiment is off training in the hedgerows more than half a day’s ride from here. By the time your brother discovers this and decides where else he might apply for help, and by the time he could bring that help back here … why, we wouldn’t have to leave here until midmorning and we’d still be long gone before he arrived.”
He said this with his mouth a mere inch from hers and his dark eyes filling her entire field of vision. “Y-you promised you wouldn’t touch me, You … you gave your w-word.”
“I gave my word not to lay a hand on you … if you behaved.”
Catherine was too stunned by the quiet vehemence in his voice to move, much less breathe, as he stepped slightly back and started unfastening the front of his shirt. She felt her skin shrink and tingle with a thousand pinpricks of numbing disbelief as inch by inch the vast expanse of bronzed muscle was bared before her. Her mouth went dry, her legs began to tremble. Her belly flooded with a molten heat unlike anything she had ever felt before as she remembered the kiss on the terrace and how powerless she had been to stop him from taking what he wanted, to stop herself from giving him even more than he asked for.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”
“You know how to stop me,” he murmured. His hands abandoned his shirt, leaving the edges gaping open over the luxuriant pelt of smooth black hairs. He reached over to cradle either side of her neck and angle her head up. Her breath escaped on a harsh groan and she tried to twist away, but his fingers only raked deeper into her hair, twining around the tangled thickness to hold her fast. His lips began exploring the curve of her cheek, the tender underside of her chin, and she felt the shock ripple the length of her body and back.
“I’ll do anything you want. I’ll say anything you want.” Her plea gave way to a great, violent shiver as his tongue flicked expertly around the dainty curl of her ear. “I’ll … I’ll go anywhere you want me to go, I swear I will, and … and I won’t cause any more trouble.”
“Another promise?” he mused. “Worth as much as the last one? Perhaps I need more than just your word this time.”
The raw edge to his voice made her look up. He was staring back with an intense stillness that made her understand—possibly for the first time—the gravity of her situation. These were desperate men on a desperate flight to the border, and they would let nothing, no one, stand in their way. Moreover, Cameron was right: He was no fop or dandy, no man given to innocent flirtations or easily seduced by the absurdities of social custom. He saw what he wanted and he took it; he had said as much to her father on the terrace. And she could see quite clearly, here and now, that he wanted something from her, something hard and physical and breathtaking in its very honesty. Something her body, she was quite sure, would survive, but perhaps not her soul.
The tears that had been threatening along her lashes spilled over onto her cheeks and ran in two shiny streaks to her chin. “I won’t cause you any more trouble. I won’t try to run away again or betray you in any way. I give you my most solemn word against God, I won’t, only”—she closed her eyes and tried to control the quiver in her chin—“please don’t do this.”
Alexander Cameron was already fighting against an urge so strong it was paralyzing his every thought and emotion. He saw the tears. He watched them collect on her chin and splash onto the milky white half-moon of her breast. It had been so long—too long, he reasoned with the logic of a drowning man—since he had lost himself in the softness of a woman’s body. The need was overwhelming, the hunger almost crippling, and he had to force himself to ease away from her, to back away before the smell, the taste, the feel of her undermined him completely.
“You will need clean, dry clothes,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “I’ll have your trunk sent up.”
He moved back to the bed and retrieved his jacket, waistcoat, and boots. “We will be leaving within the hour. Do not make me come up and get you.”
LOCHABER
August 1745
9
Alexander Cameron reined Shadow to a halt on the rim of a vast amphitheater, the mouth of a chasm that stretched thirty miles to the north to form the Great Glen. The rivers, streams, and cataracts that tumbled down from the formidable reaches filled the basin of the chasm and formed a canal of lochs from Inverness in the north to Fort William in the south. The largest by far was Loch Ness, with waters deep and black and mysterious.
By Alex’s reckoning they were an eight-hour journey from Achnacarry—eight hours filled with the most savage yet unquestionably the most spectacular terrain they would encounter. From where he stood he could see the proud splendor of Aonach Mor rising like a shark’s tooth against the clear blue vault of the sky. To the south and west were the Gray Corries, gnarled and ominous with shadow; over his left shoulder was the jutting majesty of Ben Nevis, the tallest peak in Britain. Directly below where he stood was a gorge, sparkling with the swift-flowing waters of the River Spean, and beyond, the jagged crests and fertile glens that were the ancient landholding of Lochaber. These tall, mystic tracts of mountain were the heart of the Highlands. To Alex, they were home.
Their progress so far, as Iain had predicted, had been slow and dusty over the red sandstone military roads. Traveling by coach with two sullen women had definitely hampered them; on horseback the trio could have covered the distance in a fraction of the time. Weighing heavily on the other end of the scale, however, was the fact that they had been stopped by at least a dozen patrols of soldiers who, after a cursory inspection of the Ashbrooke coat of arms and a courteous introduction to “Lord and Lady Grayston,” had been more concerned with warning them about the dissident Jacobite rebels in the area than verifying their identities.
“We could bring half the French army into Scotland under the petticoats of a well-turned ankle,” Aluinn had remarked after one such delay when the soldiers had actually ridden escort for several miles. “And I confess, I am glad we have those ankles along. These troops are so jittery they’re ready to shoot anything that moves.”
The tension and suspicion they had met while crossing through the Lowlands had been disturbing as well. Hospitality—an inbred tradition to Caledonians—had been given grudgingly and guardedly. The Lowlanders were content with the Hanover government. Their pastures were lush and green, stretching for miles, filled with herds of fat, waddling cattle. The cities were prosperous, the towns crowded with English merchants who spread their money like lard, and to say a word against King George was to spit in the hand of affluence. Clan ties had long since become lax in these border territories, loyalties strained and scattered. A man could better himself on wits and ambition without the support or protection of the chiefs and lairds, and being less dependent on hereditary laws they were less willing to commit themselves to a cause that would see that independence taken away.
Looming above these Lowland pastures, beckoning on the horizon like ancient, twisted hands, were the mist-ridden peaks of the Grampian Mountains. They formed a wall of hostile, impenetrable rock that stood as a clear division between the Highlands and Lowlands. Within these forbidding glens and corries, their inhabitants depended upon strict codes of subservience to the clan for survival. Territories were divided and claimed by power of the sword, disputed by centuries-old blood feuds, guarded and protected in some cases by whole private armies. There were laws—of survival and retribution. The chief’s word was absolute; the Highlander’s pride in himself, his clan, his heritage, was his mainstay. An insult to the humblest of tenants was answered by an armed raid
ing party. A man from one clan found straying on land belonging to another could be hanged without benefit of trial or defense. The history of the Highlands was steeped in bloodshed and violence; it was a land of dark gods and druids, of legends and superstition, where a man was either born to wealth and prominence or born to serve. It was Alexander Cameron’s birthright, and as he stood on the crest of the sweeping vista that stretched out before him, his blood sang and his body throbbed with pride.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Aluinn asked softly by his side. He, too, was staring awestruck at the graduating shades of purple and blue and darkest-black chasms that marked the vastness of Lochaber. “All the memories come back on a single whiff of mountain heather.”
Cameron smiled and dismounted, then patted Shadow on the rump, setting him free to graze on the sweet deer grass. “I’ve been seeing faces in my mind’s eye that I haven’t been able to recall for years. Do you remember old MacIan of Corriarrick?”
“Ruadh MacIan? Who could forget? Arms as thick as tree trunks and hair so red it hurt your eyes.” He grinned suddenly. “I wonder if he ever got around to marrying Elspeth MacDonald. He used to turn as red as his hair when he was anywhere near her.”
Cameron’s eyes crinkled with fond remembrances as he studied the towering cliffs on either side of the amphitheater. There were curls of hazy mist shrouding the summits, and in the foreground a solitary eagle hovered, the sunlight dancing off its wings like liquid silver as it carved a slow, watchful circle on the wind currents.
“What do you suppose we will find when we reach Achnacarry?”
Aluinn glanced over. “According to Iain, nothing much has changed. The war tower still stands, the fruit gardens still bloom, the roses and yews are thriving. Lochiel has planted a new avenue of elms—probably at Maura’s suggestion—to make the approach to the castle less forbidding.”
The Pride of Lions Page 13
