The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  “A damned nuisance,” she retorted, jumping to her feet. “And one that shall end here and now.”

  “Frankly, I would not say anything about it, if I were you. The old Catherine Ashbrooke we all knew and loved would probably have demanded an entire regiment to escort her on a walk through the gardens. You would not want to lapse too much out of character, now would you?”

  Catherine opened her mouth to toss back a retort, but thought better of it and sank back down onto her seat on the log.

  “Was I really so tiresome?” she asked, chewing on the tip of a gloved finger.

  “You were just young and foolish and more in love with who you were supposed to be than who you actually were.”

  “A sage observation, brother dear. Considerate of you not to mention it before now.”

  Damien shrugged. “I was confident it would pass. And I can see by the look in your eyes, every time you say your husband’s name, that it has.”

  “Alex,” she whispered. “Oh, Damien, I must see him. I must!”

  “He will be relieved to hear it. I had the distinct impression he was not altogether certain what to expect by way of a reception. He seemed to dwell particularly upon the chilliness of a certain young lady’s departure from Scotland and her reluctance to acknowledge even the tiniest bit of good judgment on his part for taking such swift action to see to her safety.”

  “He thinks I am still angry?”

  “In truth, I think the two of you have more in common than you realize. He paced a rut in my floorboards telling me how it would have been better for all concerned if he had never accepted the challenge from Hamilton, never taken you out of England, never so much as spoken to you, let alone touched you. I told him he was absolutely right, of course.”

  Catherine’s heart missed a beat. Her chest, her shoulders were suddenly so heavy under the weight of her emotions, she felt doubled over. “Is that why he did not come here?” she asked softly. “Is that why he went to London first?”

  “Actually, he went to London because he wasn’t sure you were here.”

  “Not here? Where would I be?”

  “Considering half the shires are evacuating before the descending hordes, it was not an altogether unreasonable concern.” He paused and tilted Catherine’s chin higher so that she was forced to meet the rarefied blue of his eyes. “He wasn’t even sure if you were living here as a widow or as the wife of an absentee merchant.”

  “He didn’t know? All this time and … he didn’t know!”

  “How could he, Kitty? He has been fighting a war, remember?”

  “Well, yes, but he promised. He gave me his word of honor.” Tears began to shimmer along her lower lashes. “Damien, please, you must take me to him. You must!”

  “I can’t do that, Kitty.” He held up his hand and pressed a fingertip over the protest forming on her lips. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know where he is.”

  “Then how …?”

  “He, on the other hand, knows where I will be staying tomorrow night—”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “—after I leave here. And that is where he will go in search of your answer.”

  “Answer? Answer to what?”

  “To this—” Catherine stared, her eyes rounded with disbelief as her brother reached to an inside pocket of his frock coat and withdrew a folded, sealed sheet of paper. She gaped at the letter, then up into his handsome face, and his expectant smile faded under the hot flare of violet sparks that burned away all trace of tears in her eyes.

  “Do you mean to tell me you have been standing here for ten minutes with this in your pocket!”

  Without waiting for a reply, she snatched the letter out of his hand and pressed it to her bosom for a long, breathless moment before daring to break the wax seal. Her hands were shaking as she unfolded the single sheet, and she had to read the opening salutation twice before she could focus clearly enough to read the strong, bold script.

  My dearest Catherine …

  She stopped, clutched the letter to her breast again, and felt Damien’s arm circle her shoulder.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered. “I’m all right.”

  He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, then walked a few paces away to give her some privacy.

  My dearest Catherine,

  I pray Damien has found you well and in good spirits. We had heard most of the gentry were relocating and so I did not hold much hope of seeing you. I was happy enough and relieved just to hear that Mrs. Montgomery was visiting at Rosewood Hall while her husband is out of the country.

  Somehow, a piece of paper seems hopelessly inadequate for expressing what I want to say. I should have had Aluinn’s talent for poetry to know how to properly tell you what is in my heart. Instead, I shall simply have to be content with the truth, blunt as it may be. Not one single hour of one single day has gone by wherein I have not thought of you. I sometimes find myself wondering if it was all a dream, if I only conjured you out of a desperate need to have something warm and loving in my life again. If I am dreaming, I pray I never wake up. If I am awake, then I pray you dream me into your arms and, one night soon, God willing, we shall waken together.

  Your devoted servant, A.C.

  Catherine’s lips trembled as she read it a second and third time. “Damien … Damien, I must go to him. We can take precautions, we can—”

  “It isn’t safe, Kitty—”

  “I don’t care! I’m tired of being safe! I am going with you and there is nothing you can say or do to prevent it! I listened to logic and reason and concerns for my safety once before, and see where it has gotten me?”

  “If you won’t think of your safety, then think about his.” He recognized the determined set to her jaw and took her hands into his. “I have had more inquiries in the past two months as to the whereabouts of the mysterious Raefer Montgomery than I could tally on five pairs of hands.”

  “Good gracious, what has that to do with—”

  “Some were just the usual curiosity seekers, those who had heard about the duel and wanted the gory details. But there were others not the least bit interested in the duel but damned persistent when it came to questions about his current and past affiliations—including his marriage and his lovely new wife. At the same time, I’m hearing another name discussed in the coffeehouses and men’s clubs—Alexander Cameron—complete with questions and curiosities.”

  Catherine felt the warmth drain out of her face. “What do you mean?”

  “The Camerons are a large and important clan. Without The Cameron of Lochiel backing his cause, the prince might not have found himself ten men willing to support a rebellion, let alone thousands. As for Alex’s importance, well, it might interest you to know that your husband has won himself a great deal of attention. He and his men were instrumental in taking Perth, Stirling, and Edinburgh. At Prestonpans, it is said he single-handedly led a charge against heavy artillery, and instead of being blown to hell and gone like any other mortal man, he captured more Hanover cannon than they have men knowledgeable enough to shoot them. Shall I go on?”

  “You seem to be quite well informed about what goes on in the Jacobite army,” she said tersely.

  “It is my luck to be privy to information London prefers to keep close to its breast, including the stories and rumors of a certain legendary figure who is quickly assuming the title ‘invincible.’ The result, my dear sister, is that any lobsterback worth his salt ration would trade his firstborn son for the honor of capturing or killing Alexander Cameron.”

  “I still fail to see what that has to do with me.”

  “Frankly, I’m worried that it may have a good deal to do with you. And Alex was worried as far back as August, when he sent you out of the country in hopes of throwing the hounds off the scent.”

  “Damien, for heaven’s sake, will you stop talking in riddles.”

  “You are a clever girl, Catherine, figure it out. You married a tall, strappingly
handsome, black-haired rogue whose skill with a sword was sufficient to win honors from the master of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons. Moreover, after the much-celebrated duel and much-gossiped-about nuptials, the pair of you disappear without a trace for over a month. Coincidentally, during the same four-week period Alexander Cameron—another tall, strappingly handsome, black-haired rogue—reappears in the Scottish Highlands after a prolonged absence on the Continent. Once there, does he keep his presence low-key and unremarkable? Heavens, no. He acts out a fifteen-year-old vendetta against the nephew of one of the most powerful Hanover chiefs in Scotland, doing so while in the act of rescuing his beautiful, golden-haired English bride.”

  “Damien … you know all the details and I know all the details, but who on earth is going to take the trouble to run back and forth between Scotland and England to link the two stories?”

  “You met some of the Duke of Argyle’s kinfolk,” Damien said bluntly. “And you still require an answer to that?”

  “But it was a personal matter between Alex and Malcolm Campbell. Campbell is dead now; that should be the end of it.”

  “Should be,” Damien agreed. “And possibly would be if we were talking about proper English gentlemen here, but we’re not. We’re talking about a race of people who were born fighting. Highlanders take their honor very seriously; an insult to a fourth cousin twice removed is still an insult to the clan chief. When Alex killed Dughall and Angus Campbell fifteen years ago, the Duke of Argyle had enough influence to run him out of the country and keep him out. He posted a steep enough reward on Alex’s head to entice a constant flow of Campbell clansmen to the Continent to try their hand at collecting it. Now, with Malcolm’s demise, the insult to the clan has doubled and so has the reward. Alex is worth twenty thousand gold sovereigns to any man with enough guts or cunning to creep up on him in the dark of night and stick a knife in his back.

  “If that were not enough,” he added grimly, “I am hearing nasty rumors laced with words like ‘assassin’ and ‘paid killer,’ and if that is the case, you can bet they’ll be probing for any obvious weaknesses in our valiant friend’s armor.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Meaning any weakness. You just happen to be foremost in my mind, for obvious reasons. Which is why I am here—despite the freezing weather and its possibly detrimental effects on my future ability to add to my family— acting the part of matchmaker, secret agent, buffoon—”

  Catherine threw her arms around her brother’s neck and hugged him fiercely. “Never the buffoon, Damien. Never. And I know how truly worried you must be. It worries me too, but”—she eased herself to arm’s length—“you must also know I have to see him. Even if it is only from a distance and only for a few brief moments.”

  Damien offered up a wry smile. “Oddly enough, he said almost the exact same thing … and I did not believe him either.”

  She flushed and lowered her arms from around his shoulders. “Well then, big brother, what do you suggest we do?”

  “We do nothing. You return to the house and go on about your business as if nothing has happened.”

  “But—”

  “I, in due course, shall meet with your husband as per his instructions, and together we shall decide the best and safest way to arrange a meeting. I want your promise on this, Kitty. I want your word that you will not try anything foolish, like following me or venturing out on your own. Rumors of other unpleasantries aside, there is still an army headed this way, and it isn’t just the gentry fleeing before them. Cutpurses and thieves are flocking south in droves, hoping to loot the empty houses before the rebels get there. I would not want to have to go through all of this trouble just to see you ending up in a gutter somewhere, with your throat slit ear to ear.”

  “Spoken with true, tender sentiment,” she mused.

  “Spoken by a man who knows his sister well enough to be wary of any promises given too lightly.” He tilted her face upward again, his hand as firm and uncompromising as the stern set to his jaw. “Alex knows what he is doing. And we both know, if there is any chance in hell of him getting you alone for five minutes, he will.”

  “It’s so hard,” she said, her chin quivering slightly. “Knowing he is close by yet knowing I may not see him.”

  “Oh … I think you will see him. It’s just a question of whether you see him on his own or riding into Derby at the head of the rebel army.”

  5

  “We shall have to evacuate,” Sir Alfred declared, thumping an authoritative fist on the mantelpiece.

  Lady Caroline Ashbrooke, seated on the opposite side of the drawing room, noted the proximity of his fist to a delicate porcelain figurine and smiled tightly. “Now, why on earth would we want to leave Rosewood Hall?” she asked calmly.

  “Leave? Of course we must leave! If what Colonel Kelly says is correct, we could be overrun any day now. Manchester has fallen, by God! Not a whimper, not a whinny. Not a single shot fired! Why, the sniveling cowards had the utter gall to ring the church bells in welcome. Cheered and rang the church bells, by Jove, and some say there were men lining the streets waiting to join the Pretender’s scurrilous pack of Jacobite dogs!”

  Sir Alfred, spitting profusely in his vexation, paused to empty the contents of a glass of raw spirits. The ladies present took up their fans, their eyes darting from one face to the next, uncertain as to how they should react to the news. The men looked plainly uncomfortable.

  “Manchester,” Sir Alfred continued, wiping at an annoying dribble of liquor on his chin, “is less than fifty miles from here. What steps are being taken to ensure the safety of our homes and families?”

  The question was directed to one of the three officers present, representatives of the two companies of militia camped on Ashbrooke property. The commander, Colonel Braen Kelly, was a compact, square-faced man given to serious breaches in attentiveness when positioned anywhere near a well-endowed guest of the opposite sex. Aiding the colonel in his daily task of recruiting and organizing the local populace into a defensive force were two regular infantry officers, Lieutenants Goodwin and Temple. Lieutenant Temple was innocuous enough to blend in with the furnishings. He rarely spoke, rarely wore any expression other than that of acute boredom. His counterpart was Lieutenant Derek Goodwin, a sensation with the ladies despite the overly tarnished reputation that had followed him out of London.

  Since Colonel Kelly was, at the moment, preoccupied with adjusting the angle of his overview into Mistress Pickthall’s cleavage, Lieutenant Goodwin elected to offer an answer to the irate squire.

  “I assure you, Sir Alfred, every possible step is being taken to guarantee the safety of all families and properties in the shire. There have been incidents of looting and mischief, but on the whole, we have no real reason to believe the rebels wish to cause harm. One of the Pretender’s greatest axioms is his intent to win the English people to his cause. He could not possibly hope to do so if he went about burning homes and stripping warehouses to the bare walls.” The lieutenant paused and added silkily, “Not that I believe he has a chance of winning so much as an English flea to his cause.”

  A round of appreciative giggles rewarded his humor and the lieutenant glanced at Catherine to see if she had noticed.

  “Hang the fleas!” Sir Alfred trumpeted. “Look around you, man. What of my valuables? What can you possibly do to guarantee this … this candlestick, for instance?” He picked it up from a nearby trestle table and raised it in his clenched fist, shaking it so the flames leaped and the wax splashed onto the floor. “Who is to say it will not capture the eye of some Highland brigand and end up in a wagon bound for Inverness? For that matter, hang the gewgaws! I have a cellar full of vintage wines and brandies that have been collected over generations. The Scots can sniff out spirits like a dog sniffs after a bitch! The work of generations, I say. Gone in a sniff!”

  “Now, Alfred,” Lady Caroline murmured. “You mustn’t work yourself into a state over a few musty barrels and a rack of ol
d green bottles. It would probably improve your spleen immeasurably to have your cellar emptied for you.”

  “There you are,” Lord Ashbrooke declared in disgust. “Women have no sense in these matters. Had I used the example of Paris gowns instead of fine liquors … well, we should undoubtedly have heard quite a different sentiment!”

  “Why, naturally, my dear.” Lady Caroline smiled. “Gowns are works of art. Quite irreplaceable, especially now that you men have insisted upon this silly blockade of the coast.”

  “Silly blockade?” Sir Alfred knocked his temple, setting his wig at a slight angle in the process. “You see what I must endure? Silly blockade, madam? You would prefer the French to land on our shores and drape you in the fleur-de-lys!”

  “If it would mean a fresh and ample supply of silk, I should be most happy to greet our foreign cousins.”

  Another round of repressed titters left Sir Alfred red-faced and spluttering. Lady Caroline returned to her conversation with one of the ladies seated in her small group, sparing an occasional glance toward the pianoforte where the lean figure of Captain Lovat-Spence stood.

  Catherine saw the tiny sparks of silent communication pass between her mother and the captain. She lowered her lashes at once, puzzled that she should no longer feel as much resentment as sadness. Was this her mother’s way of enduring a loveless marriage? At one time Caroline Penrith must have been as spirited and gay as her beauty and easy laughter intimated. An arranged union between two families had robbed her of any chance to follow her heart, arid certainly, Sir Alfred could not have been an easy man to live with all these years.

  Flushing at the ungenerous thought, Catherine sipped her wine and tried not to compare her mother’s loveless union with Sir Alfred with her own passionate union to Alexander Cameron. Was that the reason behind her mother’s constant parade of lovers? Was she searching for passion?

  You are being a harsh judge, said the tiny voice of her conscience. Especially since you think of little else yourself these days.