Catherine sighed and drew a borrowed wool shawl closer about her shoulders. She and Maura exited the castle by a small judas gate and began to stroll along the graveled path of the formal gardens. The air was drenched with the scent of briar roses, their clustered heads drooping with the weight of the recent rains. Rooks and curlews wisely kept to their shelters beneath the arbors, but the sound of their quarreling was as incessant as the patter of dew dripping off the branches at each quiver of a breeze.
Catherine stopped to pick a rose, one that was pure white with just a blush of creamy pink in the center. She tilted her head to the side as she did so and noticed the two clansmen following at a discreet distance. Their eyes were not on the two women, but on the surrounding border of forest, the sloping shoreline, the hills in the distance, and their hands were never far from the dags and broadswords they wore belted prominently around their waists.
“You get used to them,” Maura said casually. “You even appreciate them sometimes when you have an armload of flowers or fruit.”
Catherine doubted if she could ever get used to the idea of bodyguards and was about to resume walking when one of the men smiled and offered up a small wave. With some surprise, she recognized Aluinn MacKail.
His wound, according to Deirdre, was healing remarkably well, with equal credit going to Archibald’s doctoring skills and the stubborn Scotsman’s own determination. Twice in the past two days Catherine had seen him wandering the halls of the castle, and while he never remained overlong in their company, he joined the ladies and Dr. Cameron each night for their evening meal. He appeared to be a particular favorite of Rose and Jeannie, being cavalier enough to laugh at their bad jokes and roguish enough to embellish their good ones. His manners were as impeccable as his social skills, for he could pluck a word of flattery out of the air and bestow it on the least-suspecting person with hardly more effort than a quick, easy smile. The children all adored him; the servants fussed around him like royalty. Catherine could scarcely fault Deirdre for falling under his spell. He was handsome, charming, boyishly sincere …
Yet he had also demonstrated that he was capable of extreme, cold violence. Even if they had not witnessed his abilities in the attack at the River Spean, the very fact that he had spent fifteen years in Alexander Cameron’s company revealed far more about his character than two brief weeks of casual acquaintance would impart.
His loyalty to Alexander was unquestionable, and Catherine was surprised enough by his appearance in the garden to wonder if some of that silent diligence had shifted to her during Alex’s absence. Why else would he be out in the cold and the damp, assuming the menial task of a guardian?
“This was always one of my favorite retreats,” Maura said, drawing her attention to the ornate iron bench and arbor positioned in the center of the garden. “When it seems the whole world is conspiring against me, I come here and just enjoy the roses and the birds and the vines growing overhead. It is very peaceful, and so very pretty in the sunlight.” She laughed and glanced wryly up at the dirty banks of clouds swarming overhead. “Unfortunately that is not the case today.”
“I can’t imagine you troubled or needing solace from the world,” Catherine said shyly.
“When you have four children pulling at your skirts at one time and a husband raging about like a fifth child in a tantrum, I shall remind you that you said that.”
Catherine’s smile faded and she lowered her lashes, not quickly enough, however, to avoid Maura’s soft frown.
“What is it, dear? Is something troubling you?”
Catherine studied the rose in her hand. She wanted very much to confide in someone, to pour out all of her doubts and fears … but she simply did not know how or where to begin.
“Men can be such strange creatures,” Maura said, guessing at the cause of Catherine’s crestfallen mood. “Strong, domineering, and so unbending at times it makes you want to take them by the throat and scream. At others they are so childlike, so lost and groping for a few words of reassurance, it can make you weep. It can make you angry too, especially if you happen to be feeling lost and lonely yourself.”
Catherine swallowed hard, but said nothing.
“The Cameron men,” Maura continued, “are particularly stubborn and strong-willed. A curse of their bloodlines, I believe. There isn’t a one of them who you could say had a true grasp of the word compromise, certainly not if it applies to their own behavior.”
“Donald seems very loving and gentle.”
“Donald? Yes, he is. Loving and gentle. But there are times when the sheer strength of that love frightens me half to death.”
“How can love be frightening?”
“When it consumes you. When it blinds you to all other considerations. When you can no longer distinguish right from wrong, love becomes a terrible burden and it can destroy you as readily as it can save you.”
Catherine pondered the words carefully, then sighed. “I don’t think I would ever want to be that much in love.”
“My dear, you do not have a choice. Sometimes it just happens, whether you want it to or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether it makes you happy or not. And believe me, the harder you fight it, the harder you fall. Donald Cameron was the last human being on this earth I wanted to find myself falling in love with. I was raised knowing all Cameron men were heartless and despicable, all the women wore black and conjured spells over iron cauldrons. Heaven only knows what Donald thought of us Campbells. You cannot begin to imagine the shock waves that tore through both clans when we announced our intentions to marry, but I fought it as long as I could, I truly did. I refused to see him, refused to think about him, I even threw myself wholeheartedly into a courtship with another man. But Donald was always there, standing between us.” She paused, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “I agreed to meet with him one last time, thinking I could get him out of my system. I listened to what he had to say and he listened to what I had to say. We argued. We discussed all the logical, sensible reasons why the union simply could not work … and then … he touched me. That’s all he did, he just … touched me. Here, on the cheek—” She pressed her fingertips over the faint blush, and her smile blossomed with the memory. “I knew then I would die if he ever took his hand away.”
Catherine remembered the scene she had witnessed in the courtyard prior to Lochiel’s departure. He had laid his hand on Maura’s cheek, and she had kissed his palm in a way that suggested she felt the same way now as she had all those years ago. Not a showy, flamboyant gesture by any means. Not as brassy or brazen as Lauren Cameron’s display.
Thinking of Lauren brought another memory to the surface.
“Who was Annie MacSorley?”
“What?” Lady Cameron looked badly shaken.
“I know she was Struan MacSorley’s sister, and I gather she and Alexander were betrothed at one time—”
“Handfasted,” Maura whispered, her face draining of color as if a vein had been severed. “But I should not be the one to tell you about her—”
“Please.” Catherine impulsively took Maura’s hands into her own. “I am trying so hard to understand. To understand him.”
Lady Cameron nodded slowly. “Perhaps we both need to talk about it. I’ve tried to block it from my mind for so long … we all have. But if Alexander is to have any peace, we must all find a way to put the ghosts to rest. Dear Lord, but I wish the men were here. I have a feeling we are both going to need the support of a strong pair of arms before we are through.”
Thirty miles to the west at that precise moment, Donald Cameron was having much the same thought. He wished Maura were by his side. She was his strength, his logic, his compassion.
It had taken the slow-moving train the three full days to reach the coast, winding through the luscious green glens of Lochaber and Rannock, climbing and snaking its way around fairy-tale gorges, ravines, and waterfalls only to approach a desolate and wind-ridden coastline that was a smuggler’s paradise. In one of th
e small, rarely frequented inlets, the Prince’s ship, the Du Teillay, lay at anchor, a modest three-masted brigantine much abused by the seas and offering the barest of comforts to her royal passenger.
Lochiel’s entourage had been stopped twice in the descent to the harbor: once by an armed band of MacDonald clansmen whose chief had assumed the responsibility of protecting the Prince; once by a dour-faced Highland laird who had himself been summoned for an interview with Charles Edward Stuart.
“Aye, he’s a likable enough laddie, Donal’,” the old man had said. “A Stuart through an’ through. He’ll have the royal crest carved on yer arse afore ye even ken there’s a knife up yer kilt.”
Donald’s frown—it had rarely left his face since their departure from Achnacarry—grew bleaker as he studied Hugh MacDonald’s belligerent scowl. Known as Glengarry, the laird was an old warrior, a friend and strong ally of the Camerons. His loyalty to the Jacobite cause, like Lochiel’s, had never been in question, but also like Donald’s, it was tempered by reason.
“Glencoe has already been an’ gone,” Glengarry continued wearily. “Aye, an’ his kinsman, MacDonald of Scotus. We’ve all told the lad the same thing: Go home. The time’s nae right. Aye, we can fight in the mountains an’ we can raid oor neighbors tae the south, but it willna be shepherds an’ yellow-bellied merchants waitin’ f’ae us ayont the Tweed. It will be German George’s artillery an’ stiff-backed scarlet troops, heavy armed an’ eager tae spill oor bluid.”
“Does he bring any encouragin’ words from France?”
Glengarry screwed up his face. “He brings wha’ he wants tae bring. Nae troops, nae weepons, nae gold. Just a blind eye an’ a swelled heart, an’ faith he’ll have an army o’ Heelanders followin’ him tae the gates o’ London.”
“Has there been any word from The MacLeod or The MacDugal?”
The old man leaned sideways in his saddle and spit noisily onto the ground. “They didna trouble themsel’s tae reply tae the fairst two letters Wee Tearlach sent them. The third time it were young Clanranald hisself took the summons tae Skye, an’ he come back wi’ a message f’ae the bonnie laddie tellin’ him since he came wi nae troops, nae guns, nae money, he shouldna be surprised tae find nae army waitin’ f’ae him.”
Lochiel felt a crushing pain in his chest. MacLeod and MacDugal had been two of the most outspoken Jacobite supporters, boasting about how many men they could bring into the field to lead a Stuart uprising. With them both reneging so openly it meant others of lesser conscience and means would not hesitate to follow their lead, placing the greater burden of responsibility on Lochiel and his fellow moderates.
Confirming Donald’s worst fears, Glengarry touched the side of his nose. “There are more than a few good men waitin’ tae see how ye call it, Donal’, afore they commit their own minds one way or t’ither. Dinna lead them wrong. Dinna choose in haste or we all suffer f’ae it. If ye believe we can fight an’ win, so be it; we’re wi’ ye. If ye dinna think we have a whore’s prayer f’ae saintdom, then we willna think any the less o’ ye f’ae yer courage in tellin the lad it’s so. I’m an auld mon, a foolish mon who dreams o’ seein’ a Scottish king on a Scottish throne again. I’d pledge ma soul tae the devil just tae see the Sassenach bastards driven back across the border where they belong. But I wouldna want tae be doin’ it just so’s the wee prince can sip his wine in comfort in Winchester.”
Donald’s heart had been leaden as he watched Glengarry ride away. If every laird in Scotland felt the same way, if that was all they were being asked to fight for—a free and independent Scotland—how different the circumstances would be! There were thirty thousand fighting men in the Highlands alone. United behind that single purpose, they could form an impenetrable wall across the border that no English—or German—king in his proper senses would dare challenge.
But that was not the Stuart dream. They wanted all of it: Scotland and England united under one monarch. It was an unrealistic goal and the one that was doing the most harm to the Prince’s cause. And in the eyes of the English it was also the single most damning factor, one that would unite all of England against them.
Glengarry had said a dozen lesser chiefs had eagerly pledged their support already, but only because—he suspected, unkindly—they knew their numbers would not influence the greater scheme of things one way or the other. It was an unfair judgment, for their homes and lands and responsibilities were taken every bit as seriously as his own, but the harsh reality was that these same lairds could only pledge perhaps a hundred, two hundred, men at most. And two hundred fighting men out of thirty thousand simply did not tip the scales. As chief of the Camerons, Lochiel controlled the lives and destinies of five thousand men, women, and children. He could not enter into any commitment lightly, even though it galled him to think that someone, somewhere, might regard his act of caution as cowardice, his efforts at diplomacy merely a ruse to ingratiate himself with the Hanover government.
“Ah, Maura, ye were right,” he whispered. “All those years ago ye were right.”
Alexander leaned forward, and Lochiel waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. “ ’Tis naught but somethin’ Maura said tae me on our weddin’ night. She said we Highlanders possess the pride o’ lions. Like lions, we have nae fear tae temper our actions, only pride tae govern them.”
Stubborn Scottish pride, Catherine thought and dragged the stiff horsehair brush through her hair so furiously the strands crackled and flew about in a spray of sparks. Why had he not told her the truth behind the murder charges? Why had he not explained the reasons for his exile and the persecution by the Campbells that made it necessary for him to travel in disguise? The story of Annie MacSorley’s death had stunned Catherine. Where she had once feared to discover Alexander Cameron’s human qualities, she now knew he was not only human, but deeply scarred and terribly vulnerable.
Snatches of conversations and arguments came back to haunt her. The wretchedly caustic voice of her conscience, so recently awakened, gleefully took advantage of her new flood of guilty feelings and reminded her of each insult she had hurled, each accusation she had spat, each occasion when she had called him cruel or heartless or incapable of expressing an emotion. Cruel? Heartless? Without emotion? He had killed two men for the love of a woman, accepted banishment from his home, his family, for the sake of averting a bloody clan war, and then tried his utmost to exorcise the demons that had haunted him by throwing himself into every reckless, dangerous enterprise he could find.
Catherine sighed and stared at her reflection. It was too late. What good did any of this remorse do her now? Nothing had changed. The same pride that had kept him silent before would continue to keep him silent now, even though he might be suffering from the same confused feelings she was having.
Why don’t you just admit you are in love with him?
Catherine’s eyes widened in shock. “No! I’m not!”
Oh, I think you are. And I think you have been fighting it for some time now … since the moment you saw him in the forest.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There is no such foolery as love at first sight. For all I know there is no such thing as love. Not for me. Certainly not for him.”
Two of a kind, are you?
“Two complete opposites, as he has told me often enough.”
People say all manner of things in anger … or self-defense. And as virginal as you may have been in body, you must know his actions were not those of a man who simply craved a night of pleasure. You saw it in his eyes, remember? You saw it, and you reached out to him as desperately as he reached out to you.
“No!” She pushed away from the dressing table and paced to the window. The storm that had been threatening earlier was lashing across the land in full force. The heavens cracked time and again with lightning; the thunder rolled over the castle battlements like muted cannonades. Trees were bent, whipped in half by the wind’s fury, and the loch was churned white with spume, the surface bubbled with the driving rain.
Pride, Catherine. Or perhaps he doesn’t know how you feel.
“How I feel?”
A jagged fork of lightning streaked across the night sky, strafing the crust of mountains, illuminating the landscape, and causing the castle foundations to tremble with the impact. Catherine reached out to catch the window shutters and lifted her face to the icy pinpricks of rain and wind.
Could you do it? Could you give up the parties, the seasons at court, the social prestige? Could you forfeit the simple things, like new ribbons for your hair whenever the fancy took you? Could you forsake all of it for a chance to share the life of a man like Alexander Cameron?
“I … I don’t know if I’m strong enough—”
You can be strong enough if you want him badly enough. It isn’t only his pride standing in the way, you know.
Catherine opened her eyes and stared out at the raging storm. The front of her dress was soaked, her hair was wet and plastered to her skin.
“If I thought … if I dared believe …”
Believe it, Catherine. And tell him before it is too late.
“Too late?” she whispered. “What do you mean, too late?”
There was no answer. There was only a sudden, blinding flare of lightning, so bright she had to throw her hand up to shield her eyes. It left an image seared on her mind of the same battlefield she had glimpsed once before. Standing alone, surrounded by a sea of clashing swords, was the same tall warrior she had seen the first time, only now, as he turned toward her, she could see his face. There was no mistaking the square, rugged jaw or the blazing midnight eyes. And no way to warn him of the glittering ring of steel closing in around him as he raised his fists and clawed the sky with the bloodied talons of his fingers.…
The Pride of Lions Page 30
