The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  The Highlanders had fought like demons from hell, Lovat-Spence assured the avid audiences, descending from nowhere and leaving a charnel house of screaming, limbless bodies, writhing in a sea of their own blood. The screeching wail of the rebel pipes had haunted his every waking and sleeping hour since that fateful day, as had the memory of their gleaming, blood-smeared bodies charging out of the morning mists.

  Nothing, the captain confided passionately, could ever equal the sheer terror he had felt that morning. He had fought but to this day could not recall actual details of how he had earned his wound (a dramatic pressing of a hand against his upper thigh had sent two abigails fluttering after their mistresses with unstoppered bottles of smelling salts) only that he had been collected up with the others and placed in a hospital tent.

  To his amazement (and additional agonies of delight for the ladies), the Stuart prince himself had visited the wounded men, inquiring after their needs. With grudging respect, the captain related how the prince had not taken a scrap of food or refreshment until such time as the last wound had been cleaned and bound and each man assured a comfortable night’s sleep. Neither had his officers shown a lack of concern. Lord George Murray had billeted himself with the captured English officers in a house nearby, remaining with them throughout the night, sharing a bale of hay for a bed, so that his presence would deter any thoughts of mischief the celebrating rebels might have had.

  Many, if not all, of the prisoners—over seventeen hundred—had been released within a few days or permitted to escape. There had simply been too many for the rebels to attempt to feed and confine. The officers had been released on their own parole after swearing an oath not to actively participate in any further military encounters against the prince.

  “An honorable and generous release,” he conceded, “although there were some who only took the gesture as a further insult and were no sooner away from the Pretender’s camp than they beat a straight path for the nearest government garrison.”

  The captain had paused during this particular dissertation to glance at Catherine.

  “A former acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Montgomery, was one of the officers who did not consider a promise made to a rebel to be one worth keeping.”

  Catherine had felt the color seep into her cheeks and the owlish eyes of everyone present in the drawing room turn to her in breathless expectation.

  “Captain Hamilton Garner was not pleased with the cowardly way his men behaved. Why, after his dragoons fled, he fought with the infantry, urging them to continue alongside him until every last man but himself was slain.”

  He paused so the ladies could gasp in wonder at the brave captain’s demonstration of courage, and again Catherine felt their gazes upon her—most of them scorning her for having summarily dallied with Hamilton’s affections.

  “At the first opportunity, Captain Garner and several others broke out of the compound where they were being held and made for Edinburgh Castle, which as you know, is still in the capable hands of Colonel Joshua Guest. A stout old soldier,” Lovat-Spence remarked with a smile, “quite adamant about the castle remaining in the proper hands. Since the prince does not possess any heavy siege equipment he can do little against the well-provisioned garrison; any attempts to blockade the castle instantly bring the guns firing down upon the open city. I should think Captain Garner will find a kindred spirit in the general. It was rumored—unconfirmed to my express knowledge, but quite possible—that the captain has already been promoted to the rank of major in recognition of his outstanding valor on the field.”

  The captain had regaled the small crowd for another two hours of selected memories, but Catherine had barely heard any of them. The descriptions had remained vivid in her mind long after she had retired and that night, like so many others that had gone before, she dreamed of a battlefield. Dreamed she was on the battlefield, hearing the screams, running on ground that had been trampled red with blood. She dreamed she had run past the splayed bodies, through the muck and tangled grasses, past fighting men locked in mortal combat and panicked horses trembling in a sweat of sour white foam.

  It was always the same. The same dream, the same battlefield. Each time she had it, the sequences seemed to grow longer, although she never seemed to get any further than a screamed warning, a glimpse of someone high on a hill surrounded by a glittering ring of raised swords. Alexander was always just starting to turn, his dark sapphire eyes searching for the source of the scream … when she wakened, drenched in sweat, utterly drained and shaken as if she had indeed been running for miles on end.

  It had been because of an almost desperate need to feel the sunlight on her face, to smell the crisp, clean air, and to escape to the haunting beauty of the still, silent forest that Catherine had ridden away from Rosewood Hall that morning.

  Somewhat calmer now, she led her horse along the dappled pathway, the only sound being that of the hoarfrost crunching underfoot. Why she found solace and comfort in retracing the steps that had led to her initial meeting with Alexander Cameron, she did not know. Was it because, secretly, she hoped to find him in the clearing again? Or that by some miracle he had come back to her and was waiting to carry her away just as he had promised?

  No. If that was what she thought and hoped, then she was dreaming again.

  Her heart and thoughts heavy, she rounded the final copse of evergreens and stood at the outer rim of the clearing, almost in the exact spot she had halted the first time she had seen Alexander. The pond where he had been bathing was crusted with a thin rime of ice, the mossy banks were frozen and coated brown with fallen leaves. Even though it was winter, the sunlight was still strong enough to cause a fine layer of mist to drift over everything, appearing thicker where the beams were broken and stippled with shadows.

  Catherine could still feel his presence. She could still recall with startling clarity every detail of their first encounter—her shock at seeing a half-naked man bathing by the pond; the first riveting moment when their eyes had met; the seemingly endless eternity before her heart had commenced beating again. In her confusion and foolishness, she had accused him of treaspassing, poaching … anything that had come to mind in the heady rush of excitement. It had been a defensive measure, taken against an intoxication the likes of which she had never felt before and doubted she would ever feel again.

  Catherine closed her eyes, reliving the sensation of his hands stroking down her body, of his mouth winning her capitulation. He had possessed her completely, body and soul, flesh and spirit, and had branded her forever a woman. His woman. Even if he never came back into her life, he had spoiled her for all others. His passion, his strength, his tenderness could have no equal. Never.

  “Catherine?”

  She opened her eyes slowly, not daring to move or breathe. It was a trick of the wind, it had to be—a torturous murmur of frosted air that carried the echo of a voice, nothing more.

  “Catherine?”

  She gasped and whirled around. Louder this time, the voice had not been a trick of the wind nor a taunt of her imagination. It was real! “Alex?”

  “Catherine, are you here?”

  With a sob she ran back along the path. She saw a cloaked figure standing partially concealed behind two tightly interwoven evergreens and hesitated the merest fraction of a second before flinging herself into his outstretched arms.

  “Damien! Oh, Damien, it’s you! You’ve come home! You’ve come home!”

  “Good heavens.” Her brother was taken aback as he cradled the sobbing bundle against his chest. “For a greeting like this, I would make a point of coming back to Derby every other day. Here now, what’s all this? I know it’s been almost two months since I removed myself to London, but—”

  Catherine lifted her tearstained face from his shoulder. For a long moment, his confusion was genuine, but then he looked around and cursed his own stupidity.

  “Damn, Kitty. I’m sorry. I should have waited and called at the house, but I wasn’t thinking.
I saw you ride out of the stables and wanted to see you alone, without Mother or Father badgering me with endless questions … and, well … I guess I just didn’t think.”

  Catherine sniffed loudly. Having brought no handkerchief with her, she patted Damien’s breast pocket and relieved him of his. She held the linen to her nose and blew, looking up into her brother’s face as she did so and nearly gasping aloud. He looked dreadful! His complexion was sallow and unhealthy, his eyes were clouded with fatigue that could not be the mere result of a hurried trip from London.

  “Dear God,” she cried. “Has something happened to Harriet?” Reaching out, she clutched his arm, nearly tearing the seam of his cloak in her anxiety. “Is she ill? Has something happened to the baby?”

  “No! No, Harriet is fine. Honestly. She’s fine. Plumper around the middle, of course, but otherwise shamelessly content.”

  Catherine swallowed a deep gulp of air to regain her composure. “Then what is it? Why are you sneaking about the woods like a thief?”

  Damien arched an eyebrow wryly. “I think I prefer your first greeting, thank you. And since when is it a crime to seek out the bosom of one’s own family, on one’s own land?”

  “Damien Ashbrooke, the only bosom you have cared to seek out for the past few months has belonged to Harriet.” She finished wiping away the streaks of tears from her cheeks and glared up at him accusingly. “And what leads you to believe Father would badger you with anything less than a trowel after the argument the two of you had following the happy occasion of your wedding? You have been carved up and served for dinner in absentia more often than a joint of mutton.”

  “I gather he is still angry over my decision to take permanent residence in London? It never seemed to bother him before I was married.”

  “Before you were married, and while you were sowing your wild oats all over hell and gone, he was perfectly content to keep you and your scandals in London. But, may I remind you, you are his son and heir. You are respectably—if somewhat hastily—married with a possible son and heir of your own on its way. He assumes there is just as much law to be practiced in Derby as in London and as much determination in your soul to preserve the fortunes of Rosewood Hall as there was in the souls of twelve preceding generations of Ashbrookes.”

  “Kitty—” He sighed. “I am abandoning neither my heritage nor my duty. I am twenty-four years old, hardly the age to consider retiring into dotage. I have a thriving practice in London that I am not prepared to forfeit just yet. I am fully aware of my responsibilities as an Ashbrooke— good Lord, they have been drummed into me since birth—but I am also concerned with my responsibilities to my wife and child.”

  “Bravo.” Catherine smiled. “Well said, my brave and beautiful brother. And said well in the seclusion of the forest.”

  “I have said the exact same thing to Father’s face.”

  “Indeed you have. Unfortunately, he isn’t nearly as astute or sympathetic as the trees, nor as perceptive as your little sister. There is something more going on behind all this skullduggery, and if you don’t out with it soon, I shall go after you with a trowel of my own.”

  Damien laughed softly. “Obviously, my concerns for your welfare have been unfounded; you haven’t lost the edge to your wit yet. Has all been forgiven, or have you just managed to stay out of Father’s way?”

  It was Catherine’s turn to sigh. “He has been so damned civil since you confided the extent of the absent Mr. Montgomery’s wealth that one would think he had orchestrated the whole affair himself. Hearing him wax profound on his new son-in-law even has me listening in awe sometimes and wishing I could meet the fellow myself.”

  “Better that than the alternative. Father can be a self-righteous swine when he wants to be.”

  “Swine is hardly the word I would have used to describe a man who forces his only daughter into marriage with a complete stranger. He should just dare to lecture me on my behavior.”

  “Meaning … what?”

  She glared up at him again. “I haven’t been following in dear Mother’s footsteps, if that’s what you are asking, though not for any lack of opportunity.”

  “It never occurred to me that you might. You do, after all, have Alex.”

  “Do I? Where?” She looked around angrily. “Are you seeing someone here that I am not?”

  “Kitty—”

  “Don’t Kitty me. And don’t patronize me either. I haven’t seen Alex, haven’t heard one single word from him in over three months.”

  “He hasn’t exactly been languishing on his laurels all this time. And if you love him—”

  “If I love him? If I love him?” She clasped her hands tightly together in frustration. “You have no idea how many times I have asked myself the same question. Do I love him? Do I even know him? I spent less than five weeks with the man—half of the time plotting how to turn him over to the authorities and collect the reward! The rest of the time …” Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head slowly. “I was so frightened I think I could have convinced myself I loved Attila the Hun if he had rescued me from Malcolm Campbell.”

  “Kitty, you don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t I? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know anything anymore. Who is to say I would not have been just as happy—or as miserable—married to Hamilton Garner? At least I would know where he was and know what he was doing all these miles from home. Good God, how I would know! Every time I turn around someone is talking about Hamilton Garner. Lo—the brave hero! Did you know he was promoted to major? I could have been the wife of a respected army officer, boasting night after endless night of my husband’s accomplishments. Instead, I find myself spending so much time in my rooms I have begun to tat the cobwebs into lace. Have I spent one moment at Rosewood that hasn’t been plagued with doubts and fears? Is he alive? Is he dead? Did everything happen the way I remember it, or am I seeing things, believing things that just are not true, not even real? Does he think about me? Does he wonder how I spend my days and nights? If I have enough to food to eat? If I am warm or cold? Am I one tenth as important to him as … as …”

  “As he is to you?” Damien provided softly.

  She looked up at him and scowled. “Do not put words in my mouth, Damien Ashbrooke. Especially when you cannot possibly be sure of what they are.”

  He sighed expansively. “Very well. I guess I was wrong. I guess I should not have told him you wanted to see him.”

  Catherine grew very still. It came together, like two tin pans crashing in the silence, why Damien had followed her into the woods instead of meeting her at the house; why he looked so tired, so haggard, so … worried!

  “It’s Alex, isn’t it?” she said on a breath. “You’ve seen him. Has something happened? Has he been hurt?”

  “No! I mean, yes, I’ve seen him, but no, he hasn’t been hurt. Well, not that you would notice at any rate. He was wounded at Prestonpans, but—”

  A roaring filled Catherine’s ears. The roaring was Damien’s voice and she could see his lips moving but the words were running together in a series of distorted sounds and echoes.

  She swayed forward slightly and he had to reach out and catch her about the waist to prevent her from falling. He led her to a nearby tree stump and made her sit down. Watching the color come and go in her cheeks, he searched beneath the frilly jabot at her throat until he found and unfastened the top three buttons on her jacket.

  “Wounded?” She gasped. “You said he was wounded?”

  “He has a few new scars to show you. Nothing serious. Nothing missing, nothing broken, nothing twisted out of shape or disfigured. My word of honor, Kitty. He’s fine.”

  “Wh-where did you see him?”

  “He showed up in London a few days ago. Completely unannounced, of course, and walking bold as brass through Piccadilly Square as if he owned the place. He stayed a few hours, gave me a list of errands as long as your arm to run, then vanished again, he and that great bloody stallion of his.”


  “Alex was in London? He went to see you?”

  “I am still his lawyer, and I do still have control over the majority of his financial holdings.”

  She stared, barely absorbing the logic of his explanation. To reach London, he would have had to pass by Derby … wouldn’t he?

  “His business was urgent,” Damien said, reading the question in Catherine’s eyes. “He could not afford to stop or delay on the way there. However—”

  “He is coming here on the way back?” she cried.

  “That, ah, was his intention. Until I, in a more rational state of mind, managed to dissuade him.”

  “You did what?”

  “Well, for one thing, there is the trifling matter of the two companies of militia Father has so generously invited to encamp on our grounds.” The point, well made, was also thickly coated in sarcasm. At the first news of the Pretender’s intent to march south, Lord Alfred Ashbrooke had run, wig askew, to Colonel Halfyard’s headquarters and demanded armed protection for his property. “A tinker cannot get close to the house without running a gauntlet of questions and accusations. I was stopped four times in the final mile.”

  “I could meet him.” She gasped. “Anywhere!”

  “Anywhere and everywhere is swarming with soldiers. And I wasn’t the only one who followed you away from the stables. A rather priggish-looking lieutenant stopped me at the edge of the forest and would have run me through with his saber if I hadn’t been able to convince him I was your brother. If you don’t believe me, look behind you … carefully. You can just catch a glimpse of a red tunic here and there through the trees. Lord help both of us if we don’t walk away from here arm and arm singing praises to the king.”

  Catherine felt a surge of anger. “Father! How dare he have me watched!”

  “Undoubtedly for your own protection,” Damien said gently. “But a distinct nuisance, nonetheless.”