Catherine stiffened. “You have killed too many men to keep count?”
“It is difficult in the heat of battle to accurately judge how many of your cartridges strike home.”
“Battles? You were a soldier?”
“For a while. I have been a little bit of everything for a while. My turn. How long were you engaged to your hot-headed Lieutenant Garner? I only ask because the news seemed to be as much of a surprise to him as to the other members of your family.”
Two bright splotches of crimson stained Catherine’s cheeks in response to his sarcasm. “If anyone looked surprised it was because we had not intended to blurt the news out quite so …”
“Unexpectedly?”
“Melodramatically. And certainly not over a spectacle such as a duel.”
“Then you are in love with him?”
“What possible business is that of yours?”
“A question with a question, madam?”
She ground her teeth together. “Am I in love with Hamilton? If you must know … yes. Desperately. And if you think he will let this incident go unavenged—”
“Desperately, you say? How does one love someone desperately?”
“With one’s whole heart and soul,” she replied tartly. “And to understand that, you would have to have a heart, naturally. My turn: If you have stayed away from your precious Archberry for the past fifteen years, why come back now?”
“It is my home. Why shouldn’t I come back?”
“But why now? Why come back to Scotland in the midst of so much upheaval? You don’t believe in the Stuart cause, yet you risk your life to spy for them. You don’t even believe the Pretender has a chance of winning back the throne—I heard you say as much at Rosewood—yet you are carrying information home about troop strength and military deployment. Not the kind of news one gathers if one does not believe a war is imminent.”
“Perhaps not. But then neither is the latest Paris fashion relevant to putting bread and meat on the table when your people are starving and their homes are being burned over their heads.”
“Then you admit you do believe in the Stuart cause?”
Cameron pursed his lips and started to reach for another cigar. He saw the look on Catherine’s face and dismissed the impulse with a sigh. “I believe the Scots do not know the meaning of the word compromise. Simply put, King James is a Scot. He is the monarch to whom all of Scotland pledged allegiance before the English decided they did not like his religion or his manners. A rather shoddy way to treat a king, wouldn’t you say? To banish him and invite his cousin and her foreign-born husband to fill the vacancy on the throne?”
“It was perfectly legal.”
“It certainly was … after the English Parliament passed the Act of Succession to make it so. But suppose they made a law declaring that all blonde-haired, blue-eyed vixens must remain in a convent until the age of thirty-five? It would be legal to lock you away, but would it be morally right?”
“That is an outrageous example,” she said, scoffing.
“No more outrageous than dictating to a man how he must pray to his god.”
“We are speaking of kings, not gods.”
“Granted, but whatever happened to the divine right of kings, whose ancestors were supposedly descended from gods? I’m not saying all monarchs are holy, but do we have the right to chop off their heads or banish them to perdition whenever one comes along who does not meet our approval? There have been kings through the ages—murderers, thieves, rapists—guilty of far worse crimes than James Francis Stuart, and I’m afraid in that sense I have to agree with the Jacobite standpoint insofar as an oath of allegiance to one king cannot arbitrarily be redirected to another just because you don’t like the first one. The Scots have pledged their loyalty to King James, and it is a matter of honor and pride that they uphold it.”
“As simple as that?”
“War is never simple, nor are the reasons for it.”
“Then you believe there will be a war?”
“If certain irritants have their way I can see trouble ahead, yes.”
“But not all of Scotland is united behind the Stuarts.”
“Not all of England is especially pleased with the Hanovers.”
She scowled at his quick tongue and wondered again at the smile lurking behind his eyes. “They dislike and mistrust papists, however. You will never see England accept another Catholic king, divine right or no.”
“My, what religious tolerance you have, dear lady. Do Catholics have horns and forked tails?”
“If you are anything by which to judge, I should say yes.”
“But I am not Catholic, nor is my family or clan.”
“So you are saying you won’t fight for a Stuart restoration?”
He sighed good-naturedly. “Religion is not the only issue here. There is also the little matter of summarily declaring Scotland to be part of a union with England; of stripping her own Parliament of any real powers; of placing English mayors in her cities and building English forts garrisoned with English troops to police us. They have stolen our land, taken over our merchant trade, and seek to dictate what we may grow and sell and buy. They lure settlers away to work their colonies, only to have them slapped in irons and indentured to blue-blooded, upstanding English colonists. We are a stubborn lot, we Scots. We tend not to take well to slavery or to having someone else govern our destiny.”
“Even so, the Highlands attempted an uprising thirty years ago and it failed miserably. What makes anyone think another one can succeed now? You don’t believe it. That night at the inn you said something about a world full of righteous fools chasing each other around in circles and you wanted no part of it.”
Alex laughed outright; he couldn’t help it. And under different circumstances Catherine might have enjoyed the deep, lusty sound as well as the complete change it made in his appearance. The dimple reappeared and the lines across his forehead vanished. His eyes sparkled and a hint of ruddiness crept up beneath his tan, drawing attention to the length of his lashes, the glossy thickness of his hair, even the roguish shadow of stubble on his jaw.
Conversely, of course, it drew the curious stares of both Aluinn MacKail and Deirdre O’Shea, which made Catherine fidget uncomfortably on her rock.
“By God—” He brought his mirth under control with an effort. “A woman who actually listens and thinks and reasons.”
“Just because women wear skirts and pin their hair in curls, it does not follow that we are deaf, dumb, or blind.”
“I promise never to make such an assumption again,” he said, wiping at the dampness around his eyes. “Not around a Highlander, at any rate. Some of the men can fix themselves up as pretty as the women.”
Catherine had to look away and pinch her lips to keep her own smile from completely destroying her credibility. When she had the urge under control again, she looked back and frowned. “You still haven’t answered me. Will your family fight in a war if it comes to that?”
“In all honesty, I do not know. One of my brothers—Archibald—is a physician, dedicated to saving lives, not taking them, but his temper is as unstable as the uisque baugh he brews. Another—John—has openly declared all along that he will not declare either way. The eldest, Donald, is the clan chief, The Cameron of Lochiel, and it will be his decision that will affect the way a thousand clansmen behave over the next few months. So far he has been a strong advocate for peace, and so long as he stands fast, the Highlands will remain quiet.”
“He carries that much influence?”
“Influence, good judgment, common sense. A third of the Highland clans look to Lochiel for guidance. An equal number of cooler heads in England look to him for sanity. He knows a rebellion now would be ill-fated and probably disastrous to Scotland in the long run. But he is also a man of intense honor and pride. I think if his loyalties were challenged point-blank, all of the good, sane intentions of the world would not save him … or his enemies.”
For a brief moment Catherine was allowed to see yet another side of Alexander Cameron. This one did, indeed, appear to have a conscience, as well as affection, love, and concern for a family he had been forced to leave behind fifteen years ago. Was that why he was returning now, despite the dreadful risks? Having never experienced family ties that could be so strong and binding, Catherine could not understand how they could reach out and beckon to a man years and continents away. Moreover, she did not necessarily want to believe that a sentiment so basic and lacking in ulterior motives could be responsible for Alexander Cameron’s journey. It would make him more human and less the monster she had willed him to be.
The sun was warm, and the black hair at Cameron’s temples glistened with tiny beads of moisture. The saber slash was all but healed. In a week or two there would be nothing to mark the wound but a thin white line cutting through the tan. The fine linen of his shirt was almost transparent, affording a breathtaking reminder of the hard, sinuous muscles in his arms and across the breadth of his chest. He possessed the deadly grace and power of a panther, and Catherine was just as wary of the danger as if she were sitting in the open wilds. He would fight. Despite his reservations and his cautions and his logical arguments, she did not think he was a man who would stand by and watch others throw themselves onto the swords of their enemies.
An image of a violent, bloody battlefield flashed before her without warning. Acres of green piled with bloody corpses, echoing with the sounds of screaming and dying men. In the midst of it all, a tall, black-haired warrior, his back toward her, was laughing out a curse as a dozen scarlet-clad soldiers slashed at him with bright, gleaming swords.…
The image was so real that Catherine gasped aloud and dropped the knife she had been holding. Cameron turned at the sound and his eyes went to her hand, where a dark red bead of blood was swelling on her fingertip.
“I … I cut myself,” she stammered, and reached hastily for her napkin.
The image of the battlefield faded away against the backdrop of the azure blue sky, but a haunting chill persisted, and she could not help but wonder if she had somehow glanced through a curtain and seen the past—or if it was something the future held in store.
10
“I’ll carry those for you.”
Deirdre looked up at the sound of the voice. Aluinn MacKail had come up behind her and stopped a few feet away. During the past ten days she had scarcely glanced in his direction, much less acknowledged any of his embarrassed, apologetic smiles. Several times he had attempted to engage her in conversation, but she had always presented a cold shoulder and walked away without uttering a single word. Each time the coach stopped she simply glared a warning that he should not even dream of offering her assistance to step down, and when it was necessary for her, as a servant, to remain with the other “servants” in the Earl of Grayston’s entourage, she gave both Iain Cameron and Aluinn MacKail the full benefit of her seven years of watching Catherine Ashbrooke handle insolent underlings. She affected a stare as cold and remote as a mountain glacier.
For Aluinn it was a distinctly new sensation. He possessed a certain careless charm that most women found irresistible, and he had never been reluctant in the past to capitalize on it. Catherine’s first impression of him as a scholar and philosopher was not entirely off the mark, for he could speak six languages fluently and was not averse to composing lines of poetry when a beautiful day or a ravishing woman inspired him. He was no less dangerous than Alexander Cameron, possibly even more so because of his deceptively soft-spoken manner. Where Cameron was seen instantly as a powerful adversary and potential danger, Aluinn was apt to disarm an opponent with a rueful smile seconds before cutting him to ribbons with his saber.
Raised as foster brothers since infancy, he and Alex were not equals in the finest sense of the word. Alex was the son of the clan chief; Aluinn was the son of a tenant crofter. They had been weaned on the same breast milk, however, and raised as playmates and companions until it was time to share the same tutors, attend the same schools, vie for the same pretty lasses as they vaulted through adolescence. When Alex had been sent into exile, Aluinn had neither balked at nor questioned the need to accompany him throughout the fifteen long years of wandering. They were bound together by obligation, loyalty, and friendship, and either would have given his life for the other without hesitation.
Deirdre knew none of this, of course. She viewed the pair as Catherine did: as criminals. Worse for Aluinn, she saw him as a lowly worm who had raised his fist and struck a woman unconscious. The bruise on her cheek may have faded, but the anger of the Irish gamekeeper’s daughter was as livid as ever.
“It is over a mile to the bottom of the hill,” he explained, his handsome, boyish face reddening slightly under her steady glare. “You might find your case a little heavy by the time you get down there.”
Deirdre clutched the portmanteau tighter in her hands. It was never far from her side, certainly never out of her sight whenever any of the three brigands was nearby.
“I am quite capable of walking the distance unassisted. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
She started to brush past, but his hand shot out and grasped her by the arm. “Look … I can understand why you are angry, and believe me, I have been angry with myself ever since … well, ever since it happened. I didn’t mean to hit you. I have never hit a woman before in my life.”
Her fawn-brown eyes glittered with contempt, and he cursed under his breath. “All right, you win. I’m a cad. A blackguard. A bounder. You’re absolutely right. I beat women every morning before my tea and toast. If it will make you feel any better you can take a swing at me. Right here—” He turned his head and angled his cheek toward her. “Go ahead. Your best shot.”
There was less than a moment’s hesitation on Deirdre’s part before she swung hard and sharp, catching his smooth-shaven cheek with the flat of her hand. The slap startled him—stunned him more likely, since he had not expected her to take him up on the invitation. Throwing charm in the face of a woman’s temper had never failed him before, and he found himself gaping after the slender figure as she stormed away, his vanity stinging almost as badly as his cheek.
“Makin’ friends, are ye?” Iain chuckled as he walked by. “Waste o’ time tae sweet-talk a lass like tha’. She’d take tae ye better if ye just threw her on the ground an’ jumped atween her thighs. I warrant they’ve spread plenty o’ times afore now.”
Aluinn’s frown darkened at the younger man’s crudeness, but his retort was cut abruptly short by the sight of riders approaching along the road.
“Alex! Company!”
Cameron was beside the coach in a few long strides, his eyes narrowed against the shimmer of heat rising off the sun-baked road.
“They have the look o’ the Watch about them,” Iain muttered, already swinging his lanky frame up into the driver’s box. He passed a long-barreled musket down to Aluinn, who checked the charge of powder before sliding it beneath the canopy on the boot of the coach. Alex whistled softly for Shadow and retrieved his own brace of steel-handled dags out of the leather saddle pouch.
“We’ll try to talk our way through it first,” he said grimly, cocking each pistol and checking the priming pans. “The two of you stay near the coach and don’t make any unnecessary moves unless you see a signal from me.”
Catherine was standing with Deirdre when Alex returned to her side, her eyes widening when she saw the guns.
“Who are they? I thought we were relatively safe now.”
“Those are Argyle militia. The Black Watch. Aptly named since they are comprised mainly of thieves and cutthroats, castoffs who enjoy terrorizing local farmers for a few coins here and there.” He ordered Deirdre back to the coach, saying, “I want you to stay out of sight. Keep your eyes on Aluinn, and if anything happens get on the floor of the coach and stay put until it’s clear. Catherine, I’m sorry, but you will have to stay with me. Chances are they have already seen you anyway”—he nodded a
t the blaze of yellow and green stripes in her skirt—“and any sudden dash for the coach will only make the bastards more curious than they are by nature. Follow my lead and act as normal as possible … but if I tell you to run, make for those trees and for Christ’s sake, keep your head down.”
She was staring at him. “Argyle. Isn’t that the name of the man who has posted the reward for your capture?”
“Indeed, it is. And yes, our impending visitors would undoubtedly sell their firstborn sons for the honor of presenting my head to the Duke of Argyle. I have no intentions of letting that happen, however. It’s much too nice a day to die.”
She still did not move, and Alex put a hand on her wrist to pull her back down onto the blanket. “Just relax. We’re having a picnic, remember?”
“How do you know who they are? How do you know they are from Argyle?”
“The tartan.”
Catherine squinted to see along the sandstone road. She could barely distinguish the drab red coloring of their jackets, much less determine the pattern on the short woolen skirts they wore. But they were soldiers and they represented the law; there were also eight of them against the three renegades, odds that brought a blush of excitement to her cheeks. Cameron was so close to his final destination, this might be her last chance to stop him.
“I wouldn’t even think about it if I were you,” he advised quietly as he concealed his pistols beneath the folds of his jacket. “Whatever else they might be, Watchmen are not known for their kindness or their gratitude. They might thank you for turning us over, but they would repay you by raping you raw and stealing everything of value you have in your trunks. Even then, if they thought you were worth something they would keep right on amusing themselves with you until someone showed up with a ransom. The choice is yours, of course. You can trust them, or you can trust me.”
The Pride of Lions Page 15
