“Such as?”
“Oh … cooking and tending the wounded.” He nuzzled his mouth against the plump swell of flesh beneath his cheek. “Tending the needs of the healthy.”
Catherine tilted her head forward, the better to see the angular planes of his face. “Dare I ask what that entails?”
“There is always a certain degree of tension in a camp full of men—especially before a battle. It makes sense practically and militarily to provide some sort of outlet.”
“Mmmm. Are you justifying their presence … or confessing to something?”
“As a matter of fact”—he raised his head briefly and smiled—“it so happens I have been the flattered recipient of several interesting offers since the army began its march.”
“Have you now,” she said dryly.
“Yes, indeed. And I considered each one quite seriously; weighed the advantages and disadvantages—warm nights versus cold, the young and energetic volunteers versus the older, more experienced veterans—that sort of thing, you know.”
“And?” she demanded.
He smiled and settled his head comfortably again.
“Naturally you chose the young and energetic ones. It would be more in keeping with your character.”
“Would it?” He frowned, as if debating the notion. Helping him mull it over, his hand slid upward and began toying with the button of the nipple that loomed in his direct line of view. “Am I as flawed as all that?”
“Flawed,” she agreed, trying to ignore the immediate, tingling response that coursed through her veins. “Unconscionable. Brutish. My first mistake was in not obeying my own well-bred instincts to have you shot as a poacher the first time we met.”
“Your first mistake?” He wet the tip of his finger and touched it upon her breast, making the outthrust nub sparkle in the firelight. “You mean you are admitting to having committed more than one mistake in your lifetime?”
“The second was trusting the word of a spy and womanizer when he vowed to return me to the bosom of my family as chaste and pure as the day I was stolen away.”
“Chaste and pure?” he mused, widening the ring he painted on her flesh. “I might argue that eighteen-year-old virgins, pure of intent, chaste of deed, do not wear gowns that erode a man’s sanity. The night of your birthday party, when you lured me out into the garden with your wily feminine ways, it was all I could do to keep my eyes above the level of your pretty neck … and my hands to myself.”
“As I recall,” she countered evenly, “you failed miserably at both.”
“Ahh, yes,” he murmured. “But I wanted to do so much more. And very nearly did, as I recall, that night in Wakefield. Now there was a test no healthy man should have to endure: legally wed, abroad for the first night of wedded bliss, a lusciously naked woman swooning in his arms … damnation! I should apply for sainthood.”
“If I was swooning, sir, it was because I was terrified for my life. Being chased through the woods at night, half drowned in a raging river, then forcibly stripped naked by a man known for his perversions rather than for his gentility … it hardly creates a mood for romance.”
His mouth, having succumbed to the sweet temptation of a nipple, relinquished it again with a loud, wet thwick!
“Perversions, madam? Me? Do you not call it more perverse for a young woman of quality to intrude upon a man when he is attempting to bathe the grime of a difficult journey from his person? Not only intrude, but parade before him in a gown sheer enough to read the pages of a book through.” He glanced upward at the silk nightdress that had ended up draped over the headboard of the bed. “Not quite sheer as this fine piece of nothing, I grant you, but equally debilitating on the senses of a man who had not seen anything half so lovely in some time.”
Catherine gripped the sheets again as the hungry tug of his lips descended to her breast once more.
“There is no defense you can offer in excuse of your behavior that night at Achnacarry. You took advantage of me, sir. You admitted it yourself the next morning.”
“You wanted to be taken advantage of,” he insisted, his thigh intruding between hers in such a way as to make the hairs across the nape of her neck prickle to attention. “And your body admitted it repeatedly all through the night.”
“I was … acting under the influence of Archibald’s wine.”
“Whereas I was drunk on your beauty, your spirit”—he tilted his head up and his teeth flashed in a rakish grin— “your willingness to learn. And such a willingness it was, as I recall. How could any mere mortal ignore such academic inclinations?”
“You are ignoring them now,” she whispered, pressing unabashedly against the firm presence of his thigh.
His expression grew speculative as he contemplated the lush moistness of her mouth. Shifting his position on the bed again, he rolled onto his back and gently carried her with him so that she ended up lying atop his body. Smiling, he drew her knees higher, positioning them on either side of his waist.
Catherine pushed herself upright, sitting motionless astride him and wondering what wickedness he was after. While she wondered, she studied the molded bands of muscle that formed his rugged torso and could not resist stroking her hands along his arms, across his shoulders, down through the dense mat of curling black hairs that clouded his chest. Discovering the hard bead of a nipple, she leaned forward and razed it with her teeth and tongue, tormenting it with the same deliberation he had used against her earlier. She pounced hungrily on its twin and felt his fingers curl into her hair; she heard the thundering beat of his heart and felt his need rise up beneath her with growing impatience.
She was glad she had refrained from braiding her hair earlier in the evening. It streamed over her shoulders, gilded by the firelight into a bright silver cascade that clung to the weathered surface of his body like finespun webbing. It also hid her face from view as she slid lower on his body, leaving the precise mechanics of her assault to his imagination. As it was, he gasped her name on a shiver of incredulity, his body arching into her ministrations, his teeth clenched in an agony of pleasure.
While he still had hold of his faculties, he drew her forward. Blinded by the veil of her own hair, Catherine felt his hands slide down to her waist and lift her onto the virile strain of his flesh.
Her lips trembled apart and the breath became trapped somewhere in her throat. His hands remained firmly in place, coaxing her hips slowly to and fro, each stroke taking the solid, throbbing penetration deeper than she would have believed possible.
“A lesson worth remembering,” he said huskily. “Never challenge the teacher.”
Catherine’s lips moved, but somewhere along the way she had lost the ability to produce sound. She could sense his eyes on her, watching her through the glimmering waves of her hair, his lips thinned to a calculated smile.
A shudder, like a powerful current, sent her head arching back against a rush of heat so exquisitely pure Alex had to brace himself to counter the stunning effects.
“Do you … have any idea … how that feels?” She gasped.
“No. Tell me.”
She arched again, and this time Alex removed his hands from around her waist, setting her free to move at her own pace and rhythm. He caught up her breasts in the palm of his hands and caused another cry to break from her throat.
“Tell me,” he urged again, conscious of the heat pouring over and into his own loins.
“It feels … oh, Alex, it feels the way I have wanted it to feel every night and day we’ve been apart. Is it wrong of me to say that? Is it wicked of me to think and want such things?”
“If it is,” he murmured shakily, “then we are both condemned to moral hellfire, my love, and at the moment, I can think of no happier fate to share.”
Catherine gasped, concentrating her every thought and sensation around the rich, sliding heat of his flesh. All the weeks of separation vanished as if they had never been; the doubts, the fears, the worries fled with each driving thru
st. She groaned as Alex’s hands circled her hips again, holding her, steadying her so that her pleasure was intense and protracted.
Catherine reached forward, her hands leaving the slick surface of his chest to claw for support against the wall of cushions behind him. She began to push herself greedily into the encroaching waves of ecstasy, crying out hoarsely as a shower of erotic sparks signaled the end of reason. Alex might have delayed her yet again, but she shook off his good intentions and pleaded instead for him to hold her, to help her, to share in the rising tumult of pleasure.
Shattered by the wildness in her eyes and foiled by the stunning demands of her body, Alex relinquished the slender threads of command and wrapped his arms around her. With a coarse and triumphant cry of his own, he surrendered to the drenching heat and, in moments, there was no air left to breathe, no sound left to hear, no motion in the universe beyond their fused shuddering bodies.
6
Catherine levered an eyelid slowly. Sunlight was pouring through the window, bathing the room in the warm, bright glow of midmorning. The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking away the final few minutes before the tenth hour, the curtains were drifting faintly with a breeze that carried faint sounds from the gardens and stables. The french door stood open barely an inch. There were no clothes lying on the floor, no breeches, boots, coat, shirt … even the letters she had scattered onto the carpet were gone.
“Alex!” She gasped and sat bolt upright. She whirled, dreading the sight of an empty bed beside her, and was so shocked to see a pair of bold indigo eyes calmly watching her, she gasped again and sent both hands up to cover her trembling lips. “You’re still here!”
He lazily arched a black brow. “You sound disappointed.”
“No! Oh, no, no … I just thought … I mean, I saw the open door and … and—” She stopped and bit down hard on her lower lip. She had been too afraid to ask during the night how long or short their time together would be. She was afraid to ask now.
“In all honesty,” he said, stretching to flex the corded muscles in his arms, “I only meant to stay a few hours. However, due to the devious machinations of an incredibly energetic young woman, I found myself too drained to take advantage of the brief hour before dawn when the night was at its blackest. Curse my luck, as well, it turns out to be a gloriously sunny day—far too sunny to attempt to dash across an open field in plain sight of a militia encampment, despite the borrowed uniform.”
Catherine could scarcely believe her ears. “You mean—”
“In simple terms, madam? I am your prisoner. At the whim of your mercy—or devilment—for the remainder of the day and the better part of the night … er, assuming you desire my company, that is.”
“Desire your company?” She flung herself into his arms with a small cry. “If I thought it would keep you here, I would burn your clothes and tie you hand and foot to the bed.”
“An interesting proposition,” he mused. “Perhaps when all of this is over, we might explore it more thoroughly.”
Catherine snuggled against him, conscious of the heady, masculine scent of his skin and the total incongruity of his raw animalism surrounded by frilled and feminine furnishings.
“I wish it was over now,” she said fervently. “I wish all this dreadfulness would just end. I wish I’d never let you put me on that ship out of Scotland. I wish you would have believed me when I said I did not care about the danger or the risks, that I just wanted to stay at Achnacarry where I belonged.”
Alexander touched his lips to her forehead. “Catherine, Achnacarry is less than twenty miles from one of the strongest English garrisons in the Highlands. With Fort William so close, I could not have left you there alone.”
“But I wouldn’t have been alone. I would have been as safe as Lady Maura and Jeannie—”
“We have already been through this.” He sighed.
“Maura, Jeannie—even Rose all know what to expect. They were raised on bloodshed and violence, and for them, living behind fortified castle walls is a way of life. Jeannie comes from the mountains; she could disappear into them again and survive in the caves for months on end, if the need arose.”
“You talk as if Achnacarry is being held under siege. The prince has won the Highlands. His army is in control of Scotland. What possible threat could there yet be from a couple of small English garrisons?”
Alex threaded his fingers into the silky skeins of her hair and drew her mouth up to his. “My beautiful innocent. Possession of the Highlands means nothing so long as the prince is here, in England. The tables could turn so easily, so quickly—how could I live with myself knowing I had gambled the life of a lamb into the clutches of wolves? No. You are safe here and here is where you will stay, by God, until this affair is resolved one way or another.”
“But—”
“No buts, madam. And no further arguments. I believe I told you once before I would have nothing to do with a nagging, disobedient wife.”
Catherine slumped back down onto his chest again, but her hands curled into a fist and her voice was tart with sarcasm. “Yes, my all-powerful, all-knowing husband. If you think me so weak and helpless that I cannot draw a breath without your wisdom and protection, then by all means, it must be so.”
Alex frowned. “I have no doubt you could go back to Achnacarry and cope with whatever might occur, whether it be a raid by the Argyle Campbells or a siege by government troops. I’m sure you could learn how to help repel an attack on the castle walls, or how to cauterize an open wound, or sew a man’s intestines back into his belly, or even to slit his throat to give him a swift and merciful death instead of a slow, agonized one.” He paused to let the ugly reality of his words sink in. “I’m sure you could do all that and more besides, but the simple truth of it is”—he tucked a finger under her chin and forced her to look up into his face—“I don’t want you to. There isn’t any need for you to see the pain and ugliness of life’s harsher realities.”
“Only a need for me to be available for a little rough and tumble whenever you happen to be in the mood, or in the neighborhood?”
Alex was silent a long moment. “If that was all I wanted, I could have had it from anyone, any time, and not gone through the bother of taking on a wife.”
“Then tell me: What do you want? You say you love me, you say you want to protect me and keep me safe—and heaven knows, I do feel safe and warm and loved when I’m in your arms—but there has to be more to a marriage than possession and protection. I want to feel that you trust me, that you want to share … not only your life with me, but your thoughts, your hopes, your fears. I want to know that what you say to me and confide in me isn’t just what you think I want to hear or should hear—I could have had that from a dozen Hamilton Garners, any time, anywhere. I want more, Alex. I want to know what makes you happy, what makes you sad; what worries you, what angers you.”
She reached up and tenderly brushed aside a heavy lock of raven hair. “I know you love me, Alex. The proof is in the way you look at me and touch me and … and I hear it in your voice even though the words are sometimes strange and forced. You said yourself you weren’t a poet, but if you will recall, I did not fall in love with one. I fell in love with a man who was blunt and honest, caustic and infuriating, and so absolutely sure of himself he puts the rest of the world to shame. That was the man I fell in love with, and that, my lord, is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. If I wanted something else—a philanthropist or a gallant who only wanted to set me on a safe little shelf and protect me from reality, I would have cringed away from you as if you were a carrier of the plague. I certainly never would have defied you to the point where you had no choice but to take me to Scotland with you.”
The dark eyes gleamed. “You say that as if you planned the whole thing.”
“Good God, no,” she exclaimed, then flushed at the profanity. “I did not plan any of it … well … maybe just at the very beginning, when I thought I could use you to make Ham
ilton jealous.”
“You succeeded,” he said quietly.
She bowed her head to recoup her train of thought. “What I am trying to say is maybe I did not know it consciously at the time, and maybe I fought against it because I knew you represented the end of everything orderly and predictable in my life.” She raised huge, shining eyes to his. “But you also made me come alive, Alexander Cameron. You swept away all of the pretentions and … and the deadness.
“You showed me exactly how empty my life had been without you, how false my values were, how little self-esteem I had. I was Catherine Ashbrooke—rich, spoiled, and selfish, and I had everything yet I had nothing. The Catherine Cameron who spent two wonderful days locked in a damp stone cottage on the edge of a Highland moor had nothing, yet it felt as if the whole world was spread out before us. I could have stayed there with you, quite happily, for the rest of my life. Because we shared, Alex. We shared the truth, the pain, the reality. You may have a dangerous and unpredictable temperament; you are certainly stubborn and proud, and make me want to scream sometimes just because you are who and what you are. But you are also honest to a fault, direct, loyal, gentle, and compassionate— and I do not think you would want a wife who was afraid to be all of those things herself.”
Alex remained silent for so long, Catherine imagined she could hear the actual voices warring back and forth within his conscience. If she was wrong, if he only wanted a pretty parlor dressing and a soft and willing body in his bed then she had lost him. If he patted her on the head and smiled his way through a heart-warming accolade, then she might as well have lost him.
His hands were the first thing that moved. They slid up from where they had been resting on her shoulders and gently, thoughtfully cradled her face between them. His gaze was somber and guarded, as unreadable as always, yet she thought she saw a glimmer of self-effacing humor as he angled his mouth down over hers. The kiss had none of the passion or urgency as those he had caressed her with during the night. Rather, it was a simple, basic affirmation of his love.
The Blood of Roses Page 14