The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  Lady Maura Cameron did not wait for a formal introduction, but stepped forward and took Catherine’s hands in hers.

  “You must excuse our manners, dear,” she said. “We have all been anxiously awaiting Alexander’s arrival and, well, naturally we should have suspected he would not be able to resist doing it with a flourish. But we are all so happy he brought you home to us. Welcome to Achnacarry.”

  Archibald had rejoined the group and was presented along with his wife, Jeannie, who murmured a civil enough greeting under Lochiel’s warning eye. Sons, daughters, aunts, and uncles started to push forward, their curiosity getting the best of them, but Lady Maura stopped the crush, slipping her arm around Catherine’s waist and urging her into the warmth of the castle.

  “That is enough for now,” she declared, her own cultured accent hinting at an English education. “Can you not see the poor child is cold and hungry? Jeannie—to the kitchen with you and see if there is some broth left from supper. Archibald—hadn’t you best finish your preparations in the surgery before you start celebrating? Aluinn MacKail will not want a foggy eye and an unsteady hand attending him. Donald—”

  “Aye, love. Aye, ye’re right. There will be plenty o’ time on the morrow f’ae greetings an’ the like.” He took Alex’s arm and steered him to the door. “Yer old rooms in the west tower have been shaken out an’ made fit f’ae a king … although … ye might be wantin’ something more … comfortable now.”

  “The tower is fine,” Alex said firmly.

  “I’ll have plenty of hot water sent up,” Maura said, giving Catherine a little squeeze for encouragement. “A long bath and a change of clothes can work wonders on the spirit.”

  “I … I h-have no other clothes with me,” Catherine stammered, glancing back at Alex even as she was being bustled away. “We were forced to abandon my trunks.”

  Lady Cameron smiled. “In a household the size of this one we should have no trouble outfitting you until our seamstresses can make up for your loss. We have a storeroom full of silk and brocade and the latest patterns straight from France.”

  “I … I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “Nonsense. You are family now. What is ours is yours.”

  Any further protests were forgotten as Catherine’s eyes adjusted to the brighter lights inside the entryway and she found herself being led along a richly paneled hallway hung with tapestries and paintings that depicted several centuries of Cameron pride. The vaulted ceiling rose three full stories, with every square panel of polished wood displaying the family history in pictures, woven and painted. At the end of the long corridor was a wall of glass windows that soared as high as the ceiling and offered a breathtaking view of the loch and surrounding mountains.

  Conscious only of putting one foot in front of the other, Catherine followed Lady Maura as if in a daze, her head turning to the left to stare in awe at a vast array of swords, axes, and medieval armor, then to the right to admire the artifacts and treasures that filled the twelve-foot-high niches in the walls. The floor was covered in oak strips, sanded and polished to such a high gloss it reflected the arms and armor, the colored standards and family crests. The great hall was aptly named, for she had seen no other like it.

  Once up the stairs she was taken along a second hallway not quite so impressive in decoration but equally rich in paneling and smaller tapestries. She passed several minor passageways and entrances to stairwells and was afforded brief glimpses through open doors into the library, receiving room, and dayroom. They were all proportionately large and well-furnished, and Catherine was struck again by the incredible size and substance of Achnacarry.

  When they turned down the long gallery that bridged the two outer courtyards, Catherine drew to an abrupt halt. Between the many multipaned windows were hung life-size oil paintings of the Cameron men and women and, beneath each, clusters of miniatures representing members of that particular figure’s immediate family. It was an amazingly well-documented chronicle of the Cameron clan, and it caught Catherine’s attention despite her weariness.

  Maura raised the candle she was carrying and aimed the brighter light at the series of portraits that were holding Catherine’s gaze the longest.

  “The large one is of John Cameron—Donald and Alex’s father. He lives at present in Italy, with the court of King James.”

  Catherine recognized familial traits in the strong jaw and ironlike gleam in the brooding eyes. She vaguely recalled Alex mentioning that his father, a staunch Jacobite who had been attainted after the 1715 rebellion, had chosen to share the exile of his Stuart monarch rather than swear an oath of allegiance to the Hanover king.

  “Donald keeps in constant touch, naturally, and the clan makes a fine distinction between Old Lochiel and Young Lochiel, but … he’s a proud and stubborn old Scot, our father-in-law. He vows he will not come home until a Scottish king sits upon the throne again. He refuses any money Donald sends and lives in Italy like a common courtier rather than the Chief of Clan Cameron. You would like him, I think. His sons share a good many of his qualities.”

  Catherine studied the noble features more closely and agreed they were as strong and uncompromising as his sons’. His cornflower-blue eyes and chestnut hair had been passed down to Donald and Archibald, while his massive shoulders and powerful presence were more dominant in Alexander. There was a miniature of a fourth son in the cluster beneath the portrait, one who shared the fair coloring but whose features were thinner and sharper, almost unpleasant.

  “John Cameron of Fassefern,” Maura explained. “He should be here by tomorrow; you will meet him then. He is … somewhat less committed in his politics.”

  “A bald disgrace, ye mean,” Jeannie declared, coming up behind them. Ambling along beside her was a petite, white-haired woman introduced simply as Auntie Rose.

  “The Camerons are a very old clan,” Maura continued, ignoring the interruption. “The very first Cameron of Loch Eil was slain by Macbeth in 1020, but he fought so bravely and so well to defend his land that the king honored him and pronounced him ‘the fiercest of the fierce’—a motto the clan adopted and has kept ever since.”

  Catherine’s gaze wandered to another canvas, and she felt the blood react oddly in her veins. The intensity in the blue-black eyes sent a shiver along her spine and gave her a chilling sense that the man in the portrait was alive and breathing and poised to leap down off the wall.

  “Sir Ewen Cameron,” Maura explained. “Your husband’s grandfather.”

  “Grandfather? But I thought—”

  Maura raised the candle higher. “There is an incredible resemblance, isn’t there? Even as a boy Alexander was mistaken for the son rather than the grandson, a fact the old rascal never denied in the company of beautiful young women. They are the only two of many generations of Camerons to possess the black hair and eyes—a legacy from the dark gods, or so the legend goes.”

  The silky hairs across the nape of Catherine’s neck rippled to attention. “The dark gods?”

  “Druids,” Maura said, smiling. “They either charm you or curse your life at birth; they watch over you with a keen eye or laugh cruelly at each mistaken step. They certainly watched over Ewen. He was brash and arrogant, brave to the point of lunacy. He was the only Highland laird who dared to refuse to submit to Cromwell’s rule after King Charles was defeated back in 1649. He refused to take an oath of allegiance to a ‘white-collared, cattle-lifting prelate’ and even sent a demand to the new Parliament for remunerations, accusing the so-called New Model Army of destroying some of his fields and carrying away valuable livestock without paying for it.”

  “What did Cromwell do?” Catherine asked, having heard stories about the English reformer’s swift and harsh justice for all rebels.

  “He paid it. He also issued strict orders to his generals to stay clear of Cameron land.”

  Catherine studied the darkly handsome face again while Maura added softly, “They were inseparable, Ewen and Alex. I am surpris
ed he has not told you all about the old warrior.”

  “To be honest—” Catherine set her jaw and turned to face Lady Cameron, the need to terminate the entire farce once and for all burning at the back of her throat. “To be perfectly honest—” The soft brown eyes were waiting expectantly, and her resolve faltered. “We have not known each other very long; he has not told me very much about anything. In fact, I had no idea what to expect when we arrived and, well, frankly … I had imagined all manner of … of …”

  “Naked, bearded mountain men?” Maura’s laugh was directed more at herself than at Catherine, at some memory from her past. “I spent eight years in London attending school. I know all too well the image most Englishmen have of Scotland and her people, and in some instances it is well-deserved. We are a proud and touchy breed, especially here in the Highlands where a man will draw his sword rather than shrug aside an insult. There are blood feuds that have been carrying on for centuries, some so long no one remembers the original cause of the dispute.”

  “Like the Campbells and the Camerons?”

  Maura drew back and for a moment looked as if she might drop the candle. It surely wavered in her hand, dripping hot wax over her fingers, but she did not seem to notice.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I only asked because it was Campbell men who attacked us on the road today and a Campbell who seems bent on seeing Alexander hanged for murder.”

  This time Maura blanched. Her gaze flicked past Catherine’s shoulder to the other two women, and she indicated by a firm shake of her head that they were not to say anything.

  “Lady Cameron, I—”

  “No. No, you have not said anything wrong, dear. I was just not prepared. But of course, if Alexander has not told you anything about the family, you could not possibly be expected to … to know that I am a Campbell. Or that the Duke of Argyle is my uncle.”

  An image of the coarse, foul-breathed sergeant flashed through Catherine’s mind, and she found it difficult if not impossible to believe there could be a blood connection between him and the delicate, gracious woman who stood before her. Even more disconcerting was the realization that one of Maura’s relatives had fixed the price on Alexander Cameron’s head, and that he had been directly responsible for the treachery of Gordon Ross Campbell.

  There was simply too much going on that she did not understand, too many complexities she did not want to understand, and her sense of isolation, her exhaustion, her aching weariness came reeling down upon her with a vengeance and she raised a trembling hand to her temple.

  “Ye think tha’s a shock, hen?” Auntie Rose muttered, her accent thick as soup. “Anyone tald me fifteen years back oor Alasdair would ha’ taken himsel’ anither wife, I would ha’ called the bastard a liar an’ sent him tae the devil masel’. I still canna believe it. He kissed the dirk f’ae wee Annie MacSorley an’ swore he’d take nae ither, an’ I canna believe he didna keep the oath.”

  Maura hushed the old woman in Gaelic, ignoring courtesy for the sake of expedience, but the damage was already done. Auntie Rose had said another wife, meaning … Alexander Cameron had been married before?

  Catherine stared at Maura, then the elderly aunt. Rose was flushed and still muttering to herself, and it occurred to Catherine then to wonder if part of the animosity she had sensed in the courtyard was not so much because Alexander Cameron had returned with an English wife, it was that he had returned with any wife at all.

  13

  Catherine slept eighteen hours straight through, waking at four o’clock the next afternoon without the slightest desire to rise from the heavenly comfort of the feather mattress. She lay in a huge catafalque bed and studied her surroundings with a slumberous eye, feeling at first she must still be asleep, immersed in a dream where she was playing the role of a medieval princess. The walls of her bedchamber certainly gave the impression of an ancient castle tower. They were built of naked stone blocks, devoid of even the thinnest layer of plaster or paint to seal the cracks in the mortar. There were no curtains, no tapestries, no rugs of any size or thickness on the rough plank flooring to alleviate the starkness. The tower was part of the breastworks of the original keep, dating back God only knew how many centuries, and the only source of air or light in the ten-foot-thick walls was a long, thin window corbelled out from the outer face of the stonework. The embrasure was deep enough to stand in, the window itself elaborately molded with carved stone tracery. No glass had been fitted to the panes, but there were heavy wooden shutters that closed from the inside and an inches-thick wool tapestry that could be lowered over the opening to keep out the winter winds.

  Apart from the antiquated bed—a monstrous thing at least twice the size of her own at Rosewood Hall—the only other furnishings in the spartan chamber were a large armoire and dresser, a pair of boxlike dressing tables, and two deep, high-backed wing chairs. There was no fireplace, no immediate source of heat other than a small portable iron brazier that Maura had sent to the room during the night.

  The chamber next to hers, however, was the fireroom, appropriately named for the predominance of a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling fireplace that supplied heat for the three rooms located in the tower. A brass and ebony bathtub was the only permanent fixture of the fireroom, and it was there that Catherine had scrubbed away the aches and pains, the weariness, the horror of the day’s events. She had soaked until the steam and heat had made her light-headed, and then she had consumed an enormous meal of hot beef broth, fresh baked bread, roasted meat, and thick yellow cheese. Stuffed, warmed, and clean, she had fallen into bed and was asleep before Maura and Rose could even draw the quilts over her.

  Now she stretched and wriggled her toes, groaning inwardly at the luxury of snowy-white sheets and a soft, dry bed. It was the first time she had felt safe or comfortable since leaving Derbyshire, and the mere thought of stepping down onto the bare plank flooring drove her deeper into the nest of blankets.

  “These were Sir Ewen’s rooms,” Maura had explained. “He preferred the old ways, as he liked to call it, acknowledging his roots, not giving over to the luxury and corruption of modern conveniences. He claimed it kept a man honest having to empty his own chamber pot in the morning. When he died Alexander moved his belongings in here and took the tower rooms as his own. He said he could look out the window in the evenings and see the old gaisgach liath—the gray warrior—riding through the mists over the loch.”

  Catherine wrinkled her nose disdainfully. She hadn’t been impressed by either the sentiment or the view. She was not particularly fond of heights, and the tower seemed to be perched at the very edge of the spur of land. As to the jagged, mist-shrouded peaks that lay beyond, she had had enough of mountains and landscapes and breathtaking tableaux to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

  What she did want, and what she would probably not be able to get enough of over the next few days, was another bath. She had no idea how long she would be kept prisoner in this castle keep, or if the return journey to Derby would be as primitive or as miserable as the trek here, but she intended to make use of every opportunity for comfort while she had it. She could still feel a crawling sensation where the blood of their attackers had splashed on her skin. Worse still were the prickly suggestions that her scalp was not entirely free of guests.

  A sudden spate of vigorous scratching sent her hopping out of the bed. She was wearing a loose cambric nightdress laced modestly high at the throat and fitted snugly to her wrists with a profusion of satin ribbons. A heavy woolen robe had been draped over the foot of the bed for her use, and she was just tying the belt around her waist when she heard the door to the chamber rasp open.

  Standing in the entryway was a young woman Catherine had not seen before and certainly would have remembered had they been introduced. Tall and slender, she had the complexion of someone accustomed to sun and wind and fresh country air. Her long hair was lush with natural waves, a fiery titian red with streaks of sun-bleached gold. Her eyes were large
and almond-shaped, of no distinct color but rather a shifting blend of green and gold and brown. She stood with one hand on her hip, a stance that had apparently been cultivated to best display the astonishing fullness of her breasts.

  “So. It’s true, then,” the newcomer mused in broad Scots. “Alasdair has come hame wi’ a new bride.”

  Catherine could think of no immediate response as the girl came slowly into the room—undulated was a more apt description of the way her hips swayed side to side beneath the butternut homespun of her skirt. She smiled, her tiger eyes sparkling as she scanned the shapeless folds of the wool robe.

  “No’ much tae look at, are ye? Just a wee snip o’ a thing. Must be the English weather grows ’em small. Ma name’s Lauren, tae save ye askin’. Lauren Cameron, cousin tae yer husban’ Alasdair. I ken that makes us cousins as well … by marriage.”

  “I’m … pleased to meet you,” Catherine murmured hesitantly.

  “Mmm.” The girl approached the foot of the bed and seemed amused to see only one side of the bedding rumpled. “Ye spent yer fairst night at Achnacarry alone?”

  Catherine lowered her lashes. “I imagine my … Alexander had a great deal to discuss with his brothers.”

  Lauren nodded. “Aye, so they must’ve. I ken he kept company wi’ Lochiel till well past midnight, an’ then later, when the coach arrived, he stayed wi’ Archie an’ helped sew up the holes in Aluinn MacKail’s chest. Still an’ all, ye think he might ha’ found time f’ae a wee visit. The ghost o’ the auld Dark Cameron could have come an’ snatched ye awa’ durin’ the night.”

  “Mr. MacKail … he is still alive, then?”

  “O’ course he’s alive. He’s a Cameron, is he no’? The ither side o’ the hedge, so tae speak, but still a Cameron, an’ no’ likely tae give a Campbell the satisfaction o’ killin’ him so easy.” She swayed her hips again and ran her fingers down one of the carved bedposts. “He an’ I might ha’ wed had he stayed in Scotland. Or mayhap Alasdair an’ I. Camerons usually wed their own kind, so they do.”