The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  Her hand fell to the back of the chair that stood beside her, her fingers caressing the rough length of tartan wool she had carried away from Achnacarry Castle. Having been smuggled out of Scotland in haste, and having arrived in Blackpool with only the clothes on her back, she had spent the greater part of the last three days trailing listlessly behind Aluinn MacKail as he emptied nearly every store and dress shop in Blackpool to replenish her lost wardrobe. The silk gown she wore now was more extravagant than anything she had owned before, but she would gladly have forfeited it along with everything else that filled the six brand-new trunks for the right to openly wear the Cameron plaid.

  The soft yellow lamplight reflected off the amethyst ring and Catherine curled her fingers into a fist.

  “What will you do now?” she asked Deirdre.

  “What will I do, mistress?”

  Catherine frowned and glanced sidelong at the startled maid. “You do not have to return to Derby with me if you choose to go elsewhere. There is little point in two of us being miserable.”

  Deirdre’s cheeks flared instantly with two hot red spots. “Wh-where else would I go, mistress?”

  “Back. With him. With Aluinn.” Fresh tears threatened the stability of her voice. “Oh, Deirdre … don’t destroy your chance for happiness because of me. Go with him. Go back to Scotland if he asks you.”

  “He … he has not asked,” Deirdre whispered quietly. “And I do not think he will. He and Mr. Cameron are very much alike, I’m afraid.”

  Catherine’s lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry, Deirdre, to have dragged you into all of this.”

  The Irish girl thrust her chin out stubbornly. “I’ve stood by your side for eight years, mistress. You did not drag me anywhere I would not have gone willingly. And in truth … it has been something of an adventure, has it not? I might even be so bold as to suggest that we could well have lived out the rest of our lives in Derby and not seen one tenth of the excitement we have these past few weeks. I don’t regret it, mistress. You shouldn’t either.”

  Regrets? Catherine wondered. How could she possibly regret the wild, passionate weeks she had spent with Alexander Cameron?

  Raised by governesses and servants, tolerated by an indifferent father and shunned by a mother who preferred not to see the evidence of her own mounting years, Catherine had learned early what it was like to feel alone in a house crowded with people. Somehow she had coped and adapted. For eighteen years she had carefully built walls around her emotions, impenetrable barriers to protect her inner self.

  Those walls and barriers had all been blown through a hole in the wind the moment she had looked into Alexander Cameron’s eyes and recognized a similar look of loss and loneliness aching to be set free. He, too, had been locking away his emotions, throwing obstacles in the path of anything soft and vulnerable that threatened his independence. Two proud, stubborn people … was it any wonder the heavens had seemed to crack wide apart when they had finally come together?

  Should it be any less surprising that the earth had ground to a halt when he had put her on board the Curlew and sent her out of his life?

  He had given his word, pledged on his honor to come for her when the danger of rebellion had passed or been resolved, but she could not grasp hold of a pledge. There was no warmth, no physical comfort, no substance to a few whispered words delivered on a cold, mist-ridden night. She knew she could have been safe and strong if Alex had just trusted her enough to take her back to Achnacarry.

  Instead, she had been shipped off to Derby, exiled back to people she no longer felt tied to or cared about; left to hope and pray for the day when her proud rebel husband would ride his enormous black stallion up the drive of Rosewood Hall and reclaim his wife. If he came at all. If he still wanted to come. If he still believed, after her frosty departure, that there was anything worth coming back for.

  If he survived.

  When they had left Scotland, the Cameron clan had been preparing for war. Hundreds of clansmen had responded to the burning cross Donald Cameron of Lochiel had sent throughout Lochaber; hundreds, thousands more would be rallying around the Stuart standard when it was raised at Glenfinnan. The Highlands were mobilizing for a rebellion, and it would be men like Lochiel and his brothers Alexander and Archibald who would be in the front ranks of the fighting when and if it came to that.

  “Does Aluinn know how you feel?” Catherine asked abruptly, startling a fresh blush into Deirdre’s cheeks.

  “Mistress?”

  “Does he know how you feel about him? Have you told him you love him?”

  The girl’s flush darkened painfully, and Catherine knew Deirdre had not even dared admit it to herself.

  “Oh, Deirdre … go to him,” she urged softly. “Tell him how you feel. Throw your pride at his feet if you have to—” She paused and smiled haltingly. “It seems to be the only way to get through a Scotsman’s thick hide.”

  “But … Mr. MacKail is—”

  “Mr. MacKail is as reckless and foolhardy as Mr. Cameron. The pair seem determined to challenge their destiny each sunrise and laugh at what they have denied the Fates each sunset.” In a softer voice she added, “And you are absolutely right when you say our adventures will undoubtedly stay with us the rest of our lives, but do not turn your back on the greatest one of all. Go to him, Deirdre. If you love him, tell him so; it may be your last chance to do so.”

  Deirdre allowed herself to be led to the door, pausing there a moment to look back at her mistress, to see the sadness that had clouded the normally vibrant sparkle in her eyes. Catherine was so young and so very beautiful; it just wasn’t fair she should have to suffer so. In the beginning, Deirdre could admit to reservations about liking or trusting either Alexander Cameron or Aluinn MacKail, Spies, traitors, mercenaries, fugitives … what was there to trust? And yet part of the excitement and the adventure of the past few weeks had been to witness Catherine Ashbrooke’s transformation from a girl to a woman and to watch a mighty Highland rogue humbled in the process. It was obvious that Catherine and Alexander belonged together.

  Could it be any less of a marvel to admit that she, Deirdre O’Shea, had lost her heart to Aluinn MacKail?

  Aluinn was alone, caught in the process of changing into a clean, dry shirt when Deirdre knocked on the door to his room.

  “Deirdre! Is something wrong? Has something—?”

  “I have come to bid you farewell, sir, since it appears we will most likely be departing Blackpool in the morning.”

  He looked bewildered for a moment, then, aware that his shirt hung open over his chest, pulled the edges together hastily and started to tuck the hem into the waist of his breeches.

  “I’m, ahh, not sure I understand what—”

  “It is quite simple, really,” she interrupted bluntly. “I was only thinking to spare you the trouble of having to find a moment or two in your busy schedule to say good-bye to us tomorrow.”

  His hands idled in their task, then stopped altogether, leaving his shirttails half in, half out of his breeches. His smoky gray eyes narrowing perceptively, he asked, “Are you … angry about something?”

  “Angry?” Her gaze did not waver from his even though she was fighting the urge to turn and flee. “Why should I be angry?”

  Aluinn pointed warily to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No. Thank you. I shouldn’t want to take up too much of your valuable time.”

  He sighed and raked a hand through his sand-colored hair, shaking from it some of the rainwater that still clung to the darkened curls. “This feels like another one of those early conversations we had when I was introduced to the praiseworthy qualities of your left hook.”

  “Laugh at me if you will, sir, but—”

  “That’s twice.”

  Deirdre’s words stumbled together. “—but … I beg your pardon?”

  “Twice you’ve called me ‘sir’ in the past two minutes.”

  “How else should I address you?
I am, after all, only the maid.”

  “Ahh.” He smiled faintly and moved away from the fire. “So, we’re back to that, are we? Miss O’Shea and Master MacKail? The insurmountable barriers of social class, et cetera, et cetera?”

  “They are not imaginary barriers,” she pointed out quietly.

  “No, I suppose they are not. Still, I thought we had risen above them.”

  “My father was a gameskeeper, my mother worked in a scullery for all but the few weeks’ leave she took at various times in their marriage to deliver thirteen children.” A rush of pride made her avert her eyes for the first time. “It would take a good deal more than soft words and catholic generosity to rise above my station in life.”

  “You are shortchanging yourself,” he said softly. “And me.”

  “No.” She shook her head and looked him squarely in the eye again. “It is what I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve worked hard to improve myself, but in ways that are important to me, not to impress anyone else. I’ve taught myself to read and write, and I’ve been a daughter my mother could be proud of, not a trollop who climbs from bed to bed to earn extra pennies in wages. I’m quite happy with who and what I am, and I’ve no great desire to change to suit someone else’s needs to liberate the masses.”

  Aluinn’s grin broadened. “Is that what you think I am doing? Working a little social reform on the lower class?”

  Deirdre flushed scarlet and whirled around. His strong hands grasped her by the shoulders, preventing her from reaching the door.

  “Let me go! I’ll not stand here and be laughed at!”

  “I am not laughing at you, Deirdre,” he assured her, his lips close to her ear. “If anything, I am laughing at myself, at the perfect master of disguise I have become. You see”—the pressure of his hands increased, forcing her to turn and face him—“if birth is how you judge a man, then there is no part of me worth more than a single hair on your head.”

  “I … don’t understand,” she stammered, her deep brown eyes burning him with their intensity, and he seemed to falter for a moment, uncertain of how to begin.

  “You once told me how noble you thought I was for sacrificing my freedom to go into exile with Alex. But my motives, Miss O’Shea, were neither noble nor wholly unselfish. While it was true we were raised together as foster brothers, it is also the plain truth that Alex is the son of the clan chief, and I am only the fifth son of a lowborn tenant farmer. My mother and Alex’s mother happened to give birth to sons a week apart; his mother died, mine was brought in from the fields to be a wet nurse. Because of that, I was accorded all the privileges and comforts of a gentleman’s son, and when the time came to choose between giving up those luxuries or fleeing to the Continent with Alex, well …”

  “But … your loyalty to Mr. Cameron, to his family, is not a fabrication.”

  “No. No, it’s real enough, praise God. I would lay down my life for any one of them willingly and maybe … just maybe that might be enough to repay them for all the good years.”

  Deirdre frowned, saying slowly “I’m sure they do not expect repayment. I’m sure they would not even want to hear you speak this way.”

  “What way is that, Miss O’Shea? That I’m not good enough to rise above my true station in life? That it is just their … catholic generosity keeping me by their side?”

  Her eyes widened and the breath caught in her throat. He had deftly managed to use her own words against her, to show her how foolish her fears were. Her gaze slipped lower on the handsome face as she felt him angle her mouth up to his. Her fingers unclenched, inching their way up to his shoulders as the gentle contact of his mouth sent a wave of heat washing sluggishly through her body. From somewhere she found the boldness to respond, to part her lips in an invitation for the conciliatory gesture to become something much more.

  A shudder rippled through the smooth, steely muscles holding her, and in the next instant he was pushing her away, bracing her at arm’s length as if any further contact might scald him.

  “Wh-why are you stopping?” She gasped weakly. “Don’t you want me?”

  Shock hardened his features briefly. “Not want you? Deirdre … dear God, if you only knew how much I want you.”

  “Then … why are you stopping?”

  “Because …” He dragged his eyes away from hers and stared hungrily at the moist softness of her lips. “Because I’m leaving here tomorrow, and because it wouldn’t be fair to you if I didn’t stop right now … while I am still able.”

  Deirdre tested the resistance in his arms and found them unmoving.

  “Will it be any more fair,” she asked after a moment, “to simply say farewell and ride away in the morning, leaving me wondering, wishing, dreaming after what might have been?”

  “Deirdre—”

  “I’m not afraid, Aluinn. You are a good and gentle man and … and I am more afraid of not loving you. Besides”—her lips trembled into a faint smile—“after the lovely speech you have just given me, how can you possibly turn me out the door?”

  Aluinn raised a visibly unsteady hand to smooth the sable locks of hair back from her cheek. “My greatest fear has been that you would come to me out of some misguided notion of gratitude, or indebtedness. I thought … damn! For once in my life I thought that by the simple, oh-so noble act of not touching you, I could prove I wanted more from you than just … this.”

  “But you do have more,” she whispered. “You have my heart and my soul, both given most willingly, most lovingly.”

  “Deirdre—” He stopped again, his passion waging war with his common sense. “If we just had more time.”

  “But we haven’t. We only have here and now, and if you’re thinking the risk to your own peace of mind will be more than it’s worth to love me, then perhaps they were just a lot of pretty words.”

  She started to pull back, to turn away, but Aluinn’s hands were there to stop her. He drew her slowly forward and his lips sought the soft, dark nest of curls at her temple. The caress, like the touch of his hands, was gentle and caring, unhurried even though the tremors that raged through his body were as obvious and urgent as the need flushing through hers.

  “I have a feeling,” he murmured, “that even if we had a hundred years together, it still would not be enough time.”

  Deirdre slid her hands under the parted edges of his shirt. “Then don’t you think we should take advantage of every minute we have?”

  Aluinn’s reply, muffled against the arch of her throat, was lost as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  The Southern Route of the Jacobite Army

  Derby, September 1745

  1

  Catherine Ashbrooke Montgomery bowed her lovely blonde head and dabbed a delicately worked lace handkerchief at the wetness that collected persistently along her lashes. No one in the crowded chapel took notice, or if they did, they smiled with understanding. After all, it was not unusual for a girl to shed a tear or two at the marriage of her brother and her best friend. The speed with which the event had progressed from announcement to pronouncement was, on the other hand, ample reason for heads to shake and tongues to wag in disapproval.

  Despite the scandalous circumstances, Harriet Chalmers made a glowingly radiant bride. The gown she wore had been her mother’s and was made of silvered cream satin, flounced and scalloped with tiers of frothing Mechlin lace. Only an extremely acerbic eye would remark how the sweepingly wide side panniers had been adjusted slightly forward on the hips to minimize any possibility of the quilted petticoats not falling quite flat from the narrow waist. Only the stiffly busked, starchly righteous matrons would criticize the blush of color in the pale cheeks or smile slyly at the fact that Harriet’s round hazel eyes never once released their intense hold on the groom’s face.

  Catherine had known Harriet for all their respective eighteen years and was well aware of the distress her friend was suffering, but that was not what kept the shine of tears constant in the v
iolet blue of her own eyes. Should anyone have cared to closely analyze her visible signs of agitation, they might have discovered a young woman floundering in a sea of memories that had little to do with Harriet’s wedding and a great deal to do with her own.

  “… take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife …”

  Catherine heard the words as if they echoed through a long tunnel. Her gaze had been drawn upward to the multipaned stained-glass window that framed the altar. Designed to take advantage of the sunlight, the beams streaming through the glass were tinted red, gold, blue, and green. Dust motes swam lazily in the path of the rays, making it appear as if the honored couple, their heads bowed reverently to receive the final blessings, were kneeling in a pool of colored light. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of perfume. A guest coughed discreetly, another snorted at some whispered comment—or was startled awake by some indignant elbow. The minister looked and sounded very pious as he droned the appropriate words, and Catherine found herself staring at his long, bony hands, wondering why they seemed to be pushing through water, not air.

  “… pronounce you man and wife.”

  Damien and Harriet stood and smiled at one another, bathing in the glow of love in each other’s eyes. The guests began to stir, to murmur among themselves and adjust a wrinkled skirt or smooth a ruffled collar. In a few moments they would file out of the chapel and follow the clinging couple along the sun-washed path to where the coaches waited to transport the party from the village to the Chalmers’s estate. To celebrate the wedding of his only child, Wilbert Chalmers had spared no expense in food, entertainment, and lavish decorations. The couple would remain at the estate overnight, then depart for London in the morning, where they would enjoy a brief but undoubtedly blissful holiday before duty called Damien back to his offices.