The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  He brooded a long moment over the thought, and Catherine used the time and the morning sunlight to study the hard lines of his face. There were shadows circling his eyes that had not been there before, lines etched across his wide brow and carved alongside the stern set of his mouth that had not been there when she had thought him to be merely a spy and murderer … when he had claimed not to have had a conscience, and she had believed him.

  “I love you, Alexander Cameron,” she said evenly. “I will love you regardless of the life we must share; if we live in a castle or a cottage.”

  “We Camerons may not even have a cottage or a clachan to call our own if the rebellion is lost and the leaders penalized into forfeiture.”

  “Donald could lose Achnacarry?”

  “It almost happened once before, after the rebellion of 1715, when our father led the clan into the uprising for the Stuarts. The leaders were given the choice of the hangman’s noose or exile if they refused to swear allegiance to King George. In most cases, where the chief was stubborn or adamant, there was a son or brother he could order to pay lip service to the government’s demands and, in that way, save the lands and titles even though he himself would have to accept banishment.”

  “Your father is still in France, is he not?”

  “Italy, with King James. There were many chiefs who later petitioned for pardons, with the Stuart king’s permission, and returned to Scotland, but we Cameron men are a stubborn lot, as you might already have guessed. Old Lochiel remains in exile and declares he will continue to do so until there is a Stuart king on the throne again.”

  “The pride of lions,” Catherine murmured, winning a curious glance from her husband. “It was something Lady Maura told me: an affliction most Scots seem to possess.”

  “Aye, well, this time there may not be any cubs to retain title of the lands if it comes to that. No sons or brothers untainted by Young Lochiel’s actions.”

  “But isn’t there a brother who refused to join the prince? Your brother John?”

  “John is not a zealous Jacobite,” Alexander said guardedly. “Nor has he ever displayed any overt support for the Hanover government. If the wind changes, however, it is conceivable he could protect himself by sending a few men to fight against us, but if he does, he would lose all credibility within the clan. They would never accept him as chief.”

  “Would they accept Archibald, or you?”

  The dark eyes glowered briefly. “Neither Archie nor myself would ever consider holding the title as long as Donald was alive—not that we would ever have to make such a decision. If we are forced to retreat back to Scotland in defeat, we would be returning for a very short time only. Forfeiture, exile, prison … even the noose are probabilities too real for my liking.”

  “They cannot hang everyone who has participated in the fighting!”

  “Cut off the head and the body dies. They only have to hang the leaders to see the whole clan system collapse.”

  Catherine shivered and sought comfort within the warm circle of his arms.

  “Here now, cheer up,” he said soothingly. “We Camerons should not be left entirely destitute. Not unless the lovely Mrs. Montgomery has been imprudent with her husband’s life savings.”

  “She has squandered every penny,” Catherine replied morosely, burying her face deeper into his shoulder. “I’m sure Damien told you everything in great detail.”

  “As a matter of fact, your brother tells me you have not drawn a single ha’penny. Master Montgomery would not be pleased to think of his wife doing without.”

  “The only comfort Mrs. Montgomery has lacked and craved was the presence of the errant Master Montgomery by her side.”

  “He is here now,” Alex said softly. “And has been doing his utmost to make up for everything you may have lacked and craved.”

  His hands skimmed up her naked body, running up beneath the tousled gleam of her hair until they were situated one at the nape of her neck, one beneath the delicate curve of her chin. They held her through a stunningly passionate kiss, but when he would have sent them roving farther afield, she broke free and pushed herself upright.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Have I said something wrong?”

  In silence, she shook her head, her eyes very large and deeply hued—a storm warning he had seen often enough to be placed on his guard.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  Catherine’s lips put an abrupt end to his speculation. The kiss was bold, as aggressively thorough as his had been. By the time she was sated and drew away, it had the fine hairs on his forearms rising on tiny bumps.

  “Forgive my ignorance, madam,” he said haltingly. “But have I missed something here?”

  “A question, Sir Rogue. One that you neatly refrained from answering.”

  “To win such a reprimand, I should gladly avoid it again.”

  She dug her fingers savagely into the tender flesh over his ribs. “The offers of comfort you were so flattered to receive—you failed to mention if they were also too appealing to resist.”

  His gaze fastened on the seductive pout of her lips. “Suppose I said I accepted every one of them?”

  “I should call you a liar and a braggart,” she retorted evenly. “As well as a perverted, lustful beast.”

  “Perverted and lustful?” There was a wry crook to one dark eyebrow. “Just because I have not been able to keep my hands off you for more than a few minutes at a time does not necessarily mean I am always desperate for such attention.”

  “Not necessarily?”

  “On the other hand, I have it on good authority that to deprive myself of physical relief could result in seriously harmful effects. Count Giovanni Fanducci is a living example of the restorative and beneficial powers of a good woman’s attention. When we first encountered him, our inclination was to keep all the pretty young lads hidden from his sight. A few nights with Ringle-Eyed Rita, however, and—”

  “Who is Count Giovanni Fanducci, and what is a Ringle-Eyed Rita?” Catherine demanded.

  “The count is a volunteer. He joined us after Prestonpans and made an immediate impression on the majority of the prince’s army by drinking Struan MacSorley into a stupor that lasted three days. Conversely, the count was not only able to put our golden-haired friend under the table, he was seen and heard shortly thereafter collecting his wager in the arms of a certain Ringle-Eyed Rita—so named because of her knack of being able to—”

  “Never mind! There is no need to elaborate.”

  “Not that I have personal knowledge of her talents, you understand.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or the opportunity to explore them. Not since our Italian friend has found his way onto the scene at any rate-much to Struan’s displeasure.”

  “I thought Struan MacSorley and dear Lauren had an … understanding.”

  Alex’s smile faded slightly. “Aye, we all thought so. Especially when she insisted on accompanying the clan when we left Achnacarry.”

  Catherine stiffened, all traces of humor vanishing at once. “Lauren is traveling with the army? She’s traveling with you?”

  “She was,” he admitted, wary of the feline sparks snapping to life in Catherine’s eyes. “But only as far as Edinburgh. She was born there and made no secret about wanting to return. As near as anyone can recollect, she slipped out of camp the eve before the battle at Prestonpans and has not been seen or heard from since.”

  Somewhat mollified, Catherine allowed herself to be drawn back into her husband’s arms, but the specter of Lauren Cameron kept her from enjoying the comfortable haven. Wild titian red hair, a complexion warmed by the sun and weather, eyes the color of amber—there had been a distinct and open challenge in the way Lauren Cameron had presented herself as a sultry rival for Alexander’s attention. Memories of her voluptuous body and brazen sensuality had not been the least of Catherine’s worries over the past few months.

  “Is that a jealous scowl I detect misshaping
your pretty face, or is it some after-effect of your last night’s meal repeating itself in your spleen?”

  “Jealous? Me? Of that … that …”

  Alex laughed and muffled her stammerings beneath his lips. “You may believe this or not as you see fit, but I scarcely even noticed Lauren—or anyone else, for that matter. There, you see what you have done to me? Gelded me. Deprived me of one of man’s most basic and revered instincts.”

  “Good. As long as you remain deprived, we shall have no quarrels.”

  “Does that order extend to include food and drink as well? Half a dozen buckets full of hot soapy water would not go unappreciated either, unless of course you are bent on keeping me earthy and well sweated to discourage outside interests.”

  “How thoughtless of me!” she cried, pushing herself upright. “You must be starving!”

  “I was starving; now I am merely ravenous. Aside from being here with you, there are three things I fantasize about the most: a hindquarter of beef dripping with gravy, blackberry pies fresh from the oven, and being able to bathe in something other than ice-cold river water.”

  “You shall have all three,” Catherine declared, leaning down to bestow a fleeting kiss on his cheek. Naked, she jumped down from the bed and padded barefoot to the dressing room, her long golden hair swinging on each step, the curls dancing brightly as she passed through a streamer of sunlight. Alex propped his head on his folded arms and openly admired the luscious curves and gazellelike grace of his wife’s body; she was intelligence, beauty, and passion combined—how could he ever have contemplated giving her up?

  He had spoken the truth earlier when he’d said he only meant to stay a few hours. He had been gone nearly a week from the prince’s camp, and it was inexcusable for him to be delaying his return for purely selfish reasons. But when he had held Catherine in his arms and heard the need trembling in her voice, the thought of leaving, the idea of rushing back to a cold bedroll on the hard ground, and the company of men snoring and coughing and breaking wind loudly enough to bring down the walls of Jericho … well, it suddenly was not important anymore. Lochiel could manage without him for another twelve hours. Or fourteen.

  “Do you intend to lie there grinning, sir, or do you think it possible you could bestir yourself to help in some small way?”

  Catherine was glaring at him, her eyebrow raised inquisitively. Alex swung his long legs over the side of the bed and joined her in the dressing room, following her pointed finger to where the large copper and enamel bathtub was pushed into the far corner.

  “If you will place it before the hearth, my lord, and see to building up the fire, I shall find Deirdre and enlist her assistance in fetching those buckets and buckets of steaming hot water.”

  “Deirdre?” Alex frowned as if he had never heard the name before. “Damnation! I knew there was something else I was forgetting.”

  He walked back around to the far side of the bed and retrieved the scarlet tunic from the chair. Patting the inner pockets, he found what he was looking for and produced them with a flourish. “Aluinn’s threat of violence was uncommonly graphic in the event I neglected to deliver these to Deirdre.”

  “These” proved to be letters, almost as thick a packet as those Catherine had flung on the bed the previous evening.

  Alex had the grace to flush sheepishly when he saw the look on his wife’s face.

  “Aluinn MacKail has never been at a loss for words, regardless of the situation. They flow from his pen in torrents, more so now that he is in love.”

  “Perhaps he could give you lessons,” she said quietly, staring enviously at the twine-bound bundle. In the next instant, she was regretting the petty outburst. She was married to a man who loved her, something not one woman in ten could boast with any truth these days, regardless if she had volumes of letters and sonnets in her possession.

  Setting aside the jar of bath salts she had been holding, she went to Alex and ran her hands up around his neck and pressed her soft body up to his with a message as clear and urgent as the one in her eyes. The letters fell forgotten onto the floor as his arms went around her, and he was about to scoop her up and carry her back to the bed when a brusque tapping on the chamber door brought an abrupt and breathless halt to the embrace.

  “Deirdre!” Catherine gasped. “I shall send her to the kitchens for food and hot water.”

  “Tell her not to hurry,” he murmured, his voice sending a liquid thrill down her spine.

  “I thought you were ravenous.”

  “I am.”

  The second knock was not as subtle, nor as easy to ignore.

  “Y-yes? Deirdre?”

  “It is your father,” a gruff male voice replied. “I must speak to you at once.”

  The latch on the door rattled impatiently, sending Catherine’s heart up into her throat. Alex was already in motion, gathering up his clothing, boots, and swordbelt and carrying them into the dressing room. He tossed Catherine the key to the door as he passed, then vanished into the tiny antechamber.

  The latch rattled again. “Daughter?”

  “J-Just a moment, Father,” she cried, smoothing back her hair with one hand while she snatched up her robe with the other. A glance into the cheval mirror nearly caused her to swoon: Her lips were lush and swollen, her hair so tangled it would require a solid hour of brushing to tame. And … oh sweet merciful heaven! The bed looked as if a war had been waged beneath its scalloped canopy—linens, blankets, and pillows were tossed every which way. Sir Alfred was no fool. Even as she dashed madly from one side of the bed to the other, attempting to restore some semblance of order, she knew it was futile. He had noted Lieutenant Goodwin’s attentiveness last night and would undoubtedly draw his own conclusions as to why she had withdrawn from the parlor early.

  Catherine yanked the satin sash painfully tight about her waist as she approached the door. Her hand was trembling so badly it took two attempts before the key fitted into the slot, and when she finally managed to open the door, her smile was as brittle and unnatural as her high-pitched voice.

  “Father,” she shrilled. “What a surprise.”

  Sir Alfred’s complexion was ruddier than usual, his stride brisk with agitation as he propelled himself through the doorway. His frizzed gray wig was set on a slightly unbalanced angle on his otherwise bald head; his shirt, waistcoat, and breeches were the ones he had been wearing last night and looked as if they had been slept in.

  He barged straight past Catherine without seeming to have seen her, and came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room. His back remained to her long enough for Catherine to pat a few more strands of hair into place, but she quickly whipped her hand down by her side as he turned to confront her.

  “I trust I am not disturbing you? I know the hour is early yet.”

  “N-No. No, you are not disturbing me, Father. I was awake. I was, er, just about to take a bath.” “Mmmm. Good. Good.”

  Catherine moved slowly away from the door. She could never, in all her years, recall Sir Alfred paying a visit to her rooms. Nor, for that matter, could she remember him ever apologizing for disturbing anyone.

  “Father … is something wrong? Is something troubling you?”

  “Wrong? Trouble?” He stared, frowning as if he could not recollect what had brought him here. “Trouble,” he said again, this time pacing to the foot of the bed.

  Catherine’s composure was shattered a second time when she noticed the neatly bound packet of letters lying on the floor not two inches from the toe of Sir Alfred’s buckled shoe.

  “There could very well be trouble,” he bellowed, jerking his daughter’s gaze back up to his face. “Word arrived late last night that the rebel army has moved out of Manchester and is headed this way. Moreover, it is rumored that over fifteen hundred erstwhile loyal citizens actually joined the papist locusts and have taken up arms against King George! It is inconceivable such a thing could have happened—worse still, that it could possibly happen here!”


  “Here, Father? You believe the rebels will come here, to Derby?”

  “What is to stop them?” he demanded in a rage. “The army has deserted us, the militia is folding camp and retreating before them with such haste they are uprooting whole trees from the gardens!”

  “Father, there is no point in bringing a fit down upon yourself. Here, sit down, and—”

  “A fit? A fit? Why the deuce should I not suffer fits? That papist princeling has left a wasteland behind him, a veritable wasteland, I tell you. He has caused whole towns and villages to be razed to the ground, and he has driven the decent citizens into hiding for mortal fear of their lives. I warned them. I warned them all what they could expect from thieves and savages, but did anyone listen? Parties, teas, luncheons—that is what they threw instead of cannon-balls. Now we must all pay for their ignorance and pay dearly!”

  “Father, I have heard the stories your so-called authorities seem determined to spread, and frankly, I find them not only hard to believe but downright contradictory. Why should a city welcome the prince’s army with bells if it anticipates chaos? Why should the citizens join his army if they burn and level everything behind them? If this were true, would we not see more evacuees fleeing for their lives instead of just the rich transporting their gold and silver to safety?”

  Sir Alfred glared caustically at his daughter. “You have learned bold lessons from your brother on the art of arguing, I see.”

  “I am not arguing, Father. I am merely questioning your sources.”

  “Sources be damned! The reality, daughter, is that my Lord Cavendish, the Duke of Devonshire, is insisting upon a full evacuation of Derby—a decision with which I wholeheartedly concur. I have spent the better part of the morning arranging my affairs so that we might take our leave with all due haste.”