23
The crofter’s cottage was small and primitive, huddled in the lee of an imposing overhang of rock. The structure was built of sod and thatch, windowless aside from ventilation slits above the stone chimney. The floor was dirt, the fireplace large and smoky and hung one end to the other with assorted pots, forks, and dried meats. The farmer, recognizing the Cameron tartan at once, set out food and drink, boiling vast quantities of water to wash and care for the men’s wounds. A bathtub was an unheard-of luxury in the glen, but Catherine was thrilled with a pan of warm water and a soft cloth. Her torn dress was replaced with one of simple homespun, many times repaired but obviously the best the family had to offer.
Word of the Camshroinaich Dubh’s presence in the glen spread, and within the hour men and women arrived at the cottage bearing baskets of food, bread, ale—whatever they could spare. The clansmen who had won such a resounding victory over the Campbells were toasted time and again, and as dusk began to settle over the vibrant green of the fields, fires were lit, stories were told, and songs were composed to mark their triumph.
Catherine slept through the afternoon and most of the evening. She wakened briefly each time she felt Alexander’s presence in the room with her, but the fear, anxiety, and shock had taken their toll and she could do little more than acknowledge his gentle questions with reassuring murmurs and fall back asleep.
Alex insisted all of the other men have their wounds tended before he allowed the crofter’s wife to strip him of his shirt and cluck over the tears and cuts in his flesh. One particularly nasty slash that wanted cauterizing and a poultice of mustard and cobwebs earned him a long lecture in muttered Gaelic when he refused.
“Thank you, Old Mother, I’ll be fine.”
“Ye’ll be deid, ye dinna get some sleep,” she warned.
“I will,” he promised, his eyes wandering to the slender form already asleep on the single, straw-filled mattress. “Soon.”
“Alane.” The old crone was reed-thin and if she stretched she might possibly stand level with Alex’s waist, yet she had a tongue as sharp as an executioner’s blade. “The puir wee lamb’s exhausted. She disna need ye climbin’ all over her wi’ yer lusty thoughts.”
Alex was permitted no defense, no chance to deny the charge as a bony finger was thrust toward the hearth to indicate where he could spread his tartan. “Mayhap when she wakens, an’ when the thoughts come frae her, ye can gie her a wee cuddle. But no’ afore.”
Alex retreated gallantly, but before he could give way to the overwhelming weariness that gripped him, he went outdoors and spoke to Struan and Aluinn for nearly an hour. When he returned he stood over Catherine, watching her sleep for some time before he spread his tartan in front of the fire and rolled himself in its warm folds. He did not close his eyes for some time, however. He stared at the small bundle of blankets on the bed and relived every moment of every day they had spent together, every look, every touch, every whisper that had changed the course of his life over the last three weeks. He relived them and hoarded them next to his heart, secure in the knowledge he was making the right choice. The only choice.
Catherine woke with a start and for several panic-filled minutes did not know where she was. She heard the crackle of flames in the grate and smelled the musky sweetness of burning peat, but it was only when she saw the outline of the old woman bending over to stir the contents of one of the large iron pots that she remembered.
She was safe. The horror was over. Alex had rescued her, had ended the nightmare, and had admitted to wanting her back—a declaration that almost made the terror of the past twenty-four hours worthwhile.
She stretched carefully, testing the aches and pains that flared along her body. She did not know how long she had been asleep or whether it was day or night. The door to the cottage was closed, but she thought she could see tiny particles of light floating through the smoke that sought escape through the ventilation slits.
“Excuse me?” With one hand she pushed herself carefully into a sitting position, while with the other she held the thin blanket modestly high to cover her nakedness. “I beg your pardon?”
The old woman looked up from the fire.
“My … husband. Is he nearby?”
The crone frowned and said something unintelligible.
“Mr. Cameron.” Catherine tried again. “Is Mr. Cameron nearby?”
“Aye, aye. Camshroinaich.” The woman beamed and patted her shrunken breasts, confirming herself to be of the clan. She bowed her head over the cauldron again, babbling away to herself in Gaelic.
“Oh, dear.” Catherine gathered the blanket around her shoulders and climbed up off the pallet. The woman glanced over and the volume of what she was saying increased, but Catherine only shrugged helplessly and pointed to the door. “I only want to speak to him. Actually, I … I just want to see him.”
The woman clamped her toothless gums together and jutted her chin in a gesture of disapproval as she watched Catherine take short, stiff steps to the door. It was held closed by a crude wooden latch, and as she drew it aside, the door swung outward. Catherine raised a hand instantly to shield her eyes from the flash of bright sunlight; it blinded her for some few seconds, as did the sight of clean blue sky overhead and brilliant green foothills surrounding them. The air was crisp and clear, filled with the sounds of insects buzzing, cattle lowing, and children playing somewhere off in the distance.
It was such a different and welcome scene than what she had wakened to the previous morning, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She let them flow unchecked and could not have moved from that spot had she wanted to, not even when the three men seated beside the narrow sluice of a stream stopped their conversation to turn and stare at her.
Alex stood up immediately and walked up the gentle slope to the cottage. Seeing the shimmering heather of her eyes, he said nothing; he simply took her into his arms and held her until the last of the tremors had faded from her body.
“Has anyone told you you are an exceptionally lovely woman?” he asked softly. “Even when your eyes are running and your nose is red?”
Catherine sniffled and smiled. “And you, sir, have a most unpleasant habit of not being around when I wake up in strange places.”
“Ah. Married life,” he murmured. “The nagging begins.”
“ ’Tis a small price to pay,” she countered, and unmindful of the curious eyes watching them, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him purposefully on the lips. She raised her hands to his shoulders, carrying the edges of the blanket with her so that her slim and naked body was pressed urgently to his. She felt his quick intake of breath and melted willingly against him as his arms moved to draw her even closer. His lips were warm and hungry, his eyes dark and, for once, clearly readable in their intentions.
Their gazes locked, he murmured something in Gaelic to the old woman, and Catherine heard a chuckled response. The crofter’s wife brushed past them, cackling with feigned disapproval as Alexander scooped his wife into his arms and carried her inside.
The firelight cast a soft pinkish glow on their bodies; the heat from the flames was strong enough to reach the corner of the cottage and keep the drafts from chilling their damp flesh. Catherine moaned appreciatively as her hands slipped over his gleaming muscles; she shuddered and bowed her head over the vast plane of his chest, letting her hair sway and drag across his skin. Her mouth reached greedily for the hard bud of his nipple and she sampled it with slow, swirling probes of her tongue. His hands were on her hips and she felt him rise up beneath her, his flesh seeking her moist sheath even as she teasingly wriggled away. She slid lower on his body, her fingers tunneling through the luxuriant mat of black hairs on his chest. Her lips roved shamelessly onto the flat surface of his belly, and her teeth nipped playfully at the descending bands of steely muscle.
For two days now they had rarely left the cottage. Alexander seemed almost desperate to make up for lost time, for the squandered days and nights when they had fought i
nstead of loved. From the quiet comfort of walking hand in hand through the dusk, to the stretching, thrusting power of his body taking her to incredible heights of ecstasy, Catherine was kept in continual awe of her husband, discovering facets to him she had not known existed in any man, let alone the one she had married. But however idyllic her newfound love, she suffered under no illusions. There were still a good many secrets and mysteries surrounding Alexander Cameron, and certainly he would not change overnight into someone who could bare his innermost feelings to scrutiny. Neither could she. But with time she hoped she could break through that formidable wall he had built around his emotions. Already, almost hour by hour, she was coming to know and interpret each glance, each special half-smile, each moment of exquisite stillness that prefaced the urgent hunger in his body.
She felt his urgency now as her lips moved lower and the mighty body tensed beneath a volley of tender, erotic caresses. It was her pleasure to shock him, to feel him curl every one of his ten fingers into her hair, to hear him shiver her name free on a disbelieving breath, and to prolong the rapturous agony until he could no longer bear it. With a deep and heartfelt oath, he groaned and drew her mouth back up to his, rolling with her, silencing her throaty laugh with one powerful thrust after another until she grew faint from the thrill of it.
His cry was harsh, torn from his chest, as she turned to quicksilver, growing hotter and hotter, tauter and more insistent with each vaunted stroke. He could feel the passion rising within her, feel her flesh, warm and sleek as satin, squeeze around him and share a single bright spark of perfect fusion before they were plunged headlong into a whirlpool of colliding sensations.
They clung together, rocking gently in their mutual wonderment as the last of the shimmering vibrations dissipated. Their limbs remained possessively entwined; only their lips gradually relinquished contact as their bodies collapsed, limp and drained, onto the tousled bedding. Catherine was panting lightly into his shoulder, the flutter of her lashes brushing against his neck. Her body glowed and throbbed within his arms, the musk of her skin soaked his senses like an exotic perfume, and Alex felt the unaccustomed prick of tears behind his eyes.
She was so lovely. So young. So untouched by the harsher realities of life—and yet time and again she seemed determined to prove he was the innocent, the more naïve of the two. He had thought her weak and helpless, yet she had saved their lives at the Spean bridge. He had thought her pampered and temperamental, yet there were untapped reserves of strength and courage in the slender body. She had remained brave and levelheaded during the ordeal in the mountains, and by God—he tightened his arms, and his body ached with love for her—she had been willing to sacrifice herself so that he could end once and for all time the nightmare that was Malcolm Campbell. All that, and she could forgive him his ignorance and stupidity, she could tolerate his pride and stubbornness and defy him not to love her. He wished he could take her and run with her. Run far away from the troubles of the world and find a niche of fairytale happiness somewhere where she would never be hurt or frightened again.
Catherine traced her fingertips lightly over the armored muscles that sculpted his chest and listened to his heart thundering beneath, content to know that at least a small part of it belonged to her now.
“I never really loved Hamilton, you know,” she whispered softly.
“I know.” He stroked a hand through her hair and kissed the golden crown. “I would have killed him if I thought you did.”
Catherine propped her chin on her fist and studied him intently. “How did you know? I mean … how did you know this would happen?”
The midnight eyes narrowed as they drank in her naked beauty. “I could be clever here and say I knew it the moment I took you in my arms and kissed you on the terrace. And thinking back, that was probably the precise moment that did us both in. Where did you learn to kiss like that?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
“I have led a sullied and tarnished life these past long years—or haven’t you been listening to what you have been telling me all these weeks?”
“People—” She paused and bit her lip, trying to recall a mote of wisdom she had heard somewhere. “People say all manner of things in anger … or self-defense. Or when they’re trying to hide their true feelings.”
“Ah, but in this case you were not far off the mark. I am stubborn and pigheaded, arrogant and conceited. I have made a career out of searching for the hard life, of putting my anger and my selfishness before all else.”
“True,” she agreed with amazing alacrity. “And thus you should not strive for sainthood now.”
The dark eyes narrowed further. “You should also know that I have had a dozen mistresses over the years—scores, for all that I have lost count—few of whom would have a kind word to say on my behalf. I am a bastard to live with, a man who has spent fifteen years avoiding any kind of commitment, even to myself. During this time, I have never pictured myself in a domestic situation, never wanted to be held accountable for another human life.”
“I suppose you dislike children and kick small dogs?”
“I abhor children and kick animals of any size if the mood comes upon me.”
“Then it will be enough, I think, if you can reconcile yourself to the fact you have a wife now.”
“A wife I did not ask for,” he reminded her, “but won in a duel.”
She inched higher on his chest and let her thigh slide suggestively over the top of his. “You may have won me in a duel, my lord, but I am no mere trophy to be placed on a shelf and forgotten. Take heed as well that I will not endure any further confessions of past misdeeds—especially those concerning females of loose moral persuasion.”
Alex eased his lips free after a long, leisurely kiss and gazed deeply into the sparkling violet of her eyes. Why could he not have stumbled upon Catherine Ashbrooke six months, a year ago? So much wasted time. He would have liked those six months to try to tame her, to be tamed …
“Why are you smiling?”
“Can a man in love with his wife not smile?”
A shiver raced through her body and caused her to suck in a small, tremulous breath. Her chin quivered and her lashes quickly fluttered down.
“What is it? What have I said wrong now?”
“Nothing,” she whispered.
He tucked a finger beneath her chin and waited for the huge eyes to meet his again.
“It’s just … you have not said it outright before.”
He took a deep breath and drew her forward. “Words and I often trip over each other, you must have guessed that by now.”
She nodded and his fingers stroked the curve of her cheek, feeling the warmth generated by his admission.
He kissed the tip of her nose, the soft pout of her mouth. “For some reason, though, at this precise moment, I have never felt less clumsy and so I can admit quite freely that I love you, Catherine. With my body if you will have it, my heart if you will trust it, my soul if you will take it into safekeeping.”
Catherine could do little more than stare, wide-eyed, as his mouth reinforced his words. The scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of him combined to send her senses reeling, spinning out of control even as the words echoed in her mind and made her body flush with pride. He loved her! He loved her!
Alex caught her by the shoulders and pulled her down beneath him, his hand twining itself in the long strands of her hair and forcing her head to arch gently back. His mouth was there, plundering the creamy smooth flesh of her throat and breasts, then it traveled down, repaying her for her previous mischief by reducing her to a quivering, helpless bundle of raw sensations.
The joining that followed was swift and tumultuous, the ecstasy more intense, more protracted, more consuming than she thought a person could bear without perishing from sheer excess, and Catherine reveled in the knowledge that they gave and received equal pleasure.
“Catherine?” His breath was hot against her thro
at, his voice broken with emotion. “Do you believe that I love you?”
“Yes … oh, yes.” She curled her body against his, her heart brimming, her flesh still pulsating gently everywhere he had touched her.
“And if I asked you to do something for me, would you do it without question, without argument?”
“I thought I had been doing just that these past two days,” she murmured shyly.
A wry gust of breath stirred the fine hairs across her neck. “Just because you have proven yourself to be a wanton at heart, young lady, do not presume to lay the blame at my feet.”
“And I suppose you are completely innocent of my corruption?”
“Completely. The skills you have displayed have left me frankly astounded.”
“But pleased?”
“Euphoric,” he admitted, pressing another small sigh into the curve of her shoulder. He allowed the mood of gentle bantering to fade before he repeated his question.
“Without argument?” She pondered the possibilities. “You are not going to ask me to endear myself to someone who is beyond endearment—” She thought of Lauren Cameron, whom they had discussed from opposing viewpoints over the past two days. “Or perhaps tell me for the thousandth time I mustn’t wander anywhere without a regiment of bodyguards? Believe me, you will hear no arguments on that point. When we get back to Achnacarry I shall probably remain locked tight within the castle walls until I am old and shriveled and of no use to anyone but you … and quite happily too, I might add.”
“Catherine—” He folded his arms firmly around her. “I am not taking you back to Achnacarry.”
“Not taking me back? Where are we going?”
For a brief, blissful moment she thought he was going to say he was taking her away—far away—from Scotland, from England, from anything that might threaten to destroy their newfound happiness. But in the next dreadful heartbeat she knew that was not possible. He had already told her he would stand by his brother’s decision to join the fomenting rebellion. He had pledged his word, his honor, and she knew him well enough now to realize he would never break such a bond with his family, not when he had traveled all this way, endured such risks and dangers just to stand by their side. And if that was the case, if he was not proposing to run away with her, and he was not taking her back to Achnacarry …
The Pride of Lions Page 37
