Lord George Murray seemed all alone where he stood at the opposite end of the table. None of the other chiefs could bring himself to meet the Stuart prince eye to eye; none of them could believe him to be still so deluded as to think they could reach London on their own resources.
“Highness,” the general began, “we have had word the Duke of Cumberland—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My esteemed, warmongering cousin has returned to England to take command of Ligonier’s army. But there, you see? His own troops are battle-weary and must endure several days’ hard march to bring them anywhere within striking distance! In that same time we could be in London!”
“We have also confirmed reports that Field Marshal Wade has removed himself from Newcastle-on-Tyne and is preparing to swing his army around and intercept us at Leicester.” Lord George paused for emphasis. “If he does, it will effectively place two sizable bodies of men on the road between here and London, with a third speeding to provide reinforcements. Our army, on the other hand, is hardly sizable, nor do we have any reinforcements speeding anywhere.”
James Drummond, the Duke of Perth, hastened to interject, “We do, however, have confirmation that my uncle, Lord John Drummond, has arrived in Scotland with his regiment of Royal Scots and several contingents of French volunteers. A second army of Highlanders is being formed in Perth at this very moment.”
“Therefore,” Lord George added quickly, seeing the flush darken in the prince’s cheeks, “if we returned to Scotland now, we would have shown our strength without actually having to play any cards. We could winter in Edinburgh as originally planned and strengthen our ranks sufficiently to launch a second invasion in the spring. At that time we would know what had to be done. We would harbor no illusions as to how much support the English would be providing … or not providing, as the case may be.”
“You believe our Highlanders alone cannot defeat the army of a Cumberland or a Wade?” Charles Stuart demanded. “Have you so little faith in your own brave countrymen?”
“Faith in our men and our country is what has brought us all this far,” Lord George stated flatly. “Faith in their courage and their fighting ability leaves me no doubt we could face either one of those armies and win—but at what cost? There would surely be a horrendous loss of valuable lives, and with no hope of replacements, how then could we expect to confront a second or a third force?”
A grumbled chorus of ayes circled the table to indicate the chiefs were in complete agreement with Lord George’s assessment. There was no question they would fight Cumberland’s army if presented with the challenge, but there was also no faith on earth that could make them visualize their meager army emerging victorious over a combined force of over twenty thousand Englishmen.
The young prince looked at each face seated around the table, his complexion white as chalk save for two bright stains high on his cheeks. His voice, when he managed to fling out the words, stung with a sense of betrayal.
“Is there no one among you who will support your prince in his hour of need? Are there none among you who believe, as I do, that our cause is just; that it will, it must prevail?”
The room echoed with the silence of men who had marched hundreds of miles from their homes and families, risking everything, guaranteed of nothing in return. The MacDonalds of Keppoch, Lochgarry, and Glencoe were represented; Lochiel and his Camerons, Ardshiel and his Appin Stewarts; the MacLachlans, the MacPhersons, the MacLeans, MacLarens, and Robertsons; the Grants of Glenmoriston, Lord George Murray’s Athollmen; the regiments of the Duke of Perth, Lord Ogilvy, Glenbucket, and Colonel John Roy Stewart; the Lords Elcho, Balmerino, Pitsligo, Kilmarnock; the MacKinnons, the MacGregors, Clanranald …
“Gentlemen.” Charles Stuart rose to his feet slowly, his mouth pinched into a tight white line. “We are less than one hundred and fifty miles from London. Raise your noses in the air and you can smell the filth of the Thames. Worse, you can hear George of Hanover laughing as he mocks our cowardice for stopping mere feet from his front door! Did you not just hear, with those same ears, of Lord John Drummond’s triumphant arrival from France? Did you not also hear of the treaty signed at Fontainebleau that ensures us the military assistance of the King of France?”
“We heard it,” Lord George said bluntly. “We have been hearing it for months, but where are the men? Where are the guns Louis has promised time and time again?”
“I have it on good authority that there are thirty thousand men amassed at Calais, waiting to embark on a moment’s notice!”
“The moment has long been and gone, Highness. Even a dozen ships with a few thousand men could have been put to good use preventing Cumberland and his troops from crossing the Channel. A blockade could have held them in Flanders indefinitely. No, sire, we can no longer count upon the French nor trust their hollow pledges and treaties. They have proven to be as illusionary as the thousands of loyal English Jacobites we were assured would rise and join us the moment we stepped foot across the border.”
“They will join us! They will!” Flushing an angry red, the prince pounded his fist on the table. “This is what defeats us, this lack of faith! This … this lack of willingness to believe in what we have accomplished, what we might yet accomplish if only our hearts were steadfast enough. Sweet God in heaven, we cannot give up now! The city of London, the throne of England is within our grasp! If we turn back now it will all have been for nothing!”
“Not f’ae nothing, sire,” Lochiel said calmly. “We’ve won Scotland. We’ve won the right tae bring our King James—yer father—home again.”
“Home to what? The shame of seeing his army in retreat? The scorn of the English who will know we had victory within our grasp and gave it up in a moment of senseless panic?”
“It was resolved by the council in Manchester to begin the retreat homeward should there be no further evidence of support by the English.”
“You resolved it, sir!” the prince shouted at Lord George. “Your prince did not! Instead he finds himself begging for a single voice of support for a venture he was assured would be carried by their unflagging faith to the very end. He finds himself facing betrayal and mutiny, arguments, lies, deceit, dissention—all from men in whom he had placed his utmost trust and confidence; men in whom his father, their most righteous sovereign king, had placed his hope for redemption! Where is that loyalty we were most solemnly pledged? Where is the courage we saw displayed so brilliantly at Prestonpans? Where is your pride?”
Complete silence engulfed the room. From his position in the rear, Alex regarded the circle of taut faces, seeing the conflicting emotions in each man’s eyes. The prince had drawn blood, as he had done so many times before to good success, knowing a challenge to a Highlander’s pride and honor was as good as a gauntlet slapped in his face. Some sat motionless, stiff with indignation. Some faltered visibly and began looking to each other, groping for reasonable alternatives.
“We could withdraw into Wales,” the Duke of Perth suggested reluctantly. “Sir Watkins-Wynn has offered the help of his Welshmen should we first be able to secure their border from the English.”
“And you trust his offer?” Lord George said with icy disdain.
“Aye.” Ardshiel grunted. “Who’s tae say he’ll keep his word an’ march anywhere wi’ us, let alone tae London? Who’s tae say how lang it would take tae secure his bluidy borthers, an’ wha’s tae say Cumberland couldna offer him a sweeter deal or use the time equal well in formin’ up his armies tae catch us comin’ back? Trapped in Wales, by the Christ, we could well end up like chicks in a cavie.”
Most of the chiefs grumbled in agreement. One or two voices rose above the others in argument, but these were halfhearted and evidently meant only to impress the prince with a semblance of loyalty. These men, Alexander noted with a surge of resentment, were mainly the foreigners— O’Sullivan prime among them—officers who held French commissions and were soldiers of fortune rather than rebels against the crown. As such, they co
uld argue and debate points of strategy from a military standpoint, without thought of the consequences to their homes and families. They did not face the risk of execution for treason if taken prisoner. They had no personal stake in the country, no property to forfeit, no wives or children to see thrown out of their homes and reduced to a beggar’s lot. It was not that they lacked dedication, or merely mouthed loyalty to the prince’s cause: They were simply men who had nothing to lose by advocating a bolder course of strategy.
The Highland chiefs, on the other hand, stood to lose everything should the prince fail. They argued passionately in favor of retreat, for there was no dishonor in questioning the senseless, needless waste of good men’s lives—and with armies closing in on three sides, there had been nothing in word or deed to suggest such a terrible waste could be avoided. They were not afraid of fighting or dying, only of doing so without purpose.
“Gentlemen.” Charles had calmed himself, the anger in his voice had relented, and his soft brown eyes held a look of desperation. “I implore you to think carefully on the matter. Search your hearts, discuss it among yourselves and if … if you are adamant in this course … if you can foresee no possibility of success, then … then surely I must … I must accede to your wishes. But, I beg you”—a bright flicker of hope sparked in his eyes—“walk among your men. Listen to their voices raised in song and spirit. They have the will to fight, indeed they are impatient to be about it! They have the courage and the hunger to win it all, if we will but let them! Have faith in your men. Have faith in yourselves!”
A final bright stare circled the table before the prince straightened and walked stiffly toward the door. O’Sullivan was quick to follow, almost overturning his chair in haste, as were Sheridan and John Murray of Broughton. Their departure was noted with derision, for it was sure they would be anxious to convince the prince that, although they had not spoken out against the retreat, they privately shared his sentiments. And all, undoubtedly, at Lord George’s expense.
“It does not matter,” the general said wearily, when the supposition was stated openly and bluntly by Lochiel. “Nothing matters but that we salvage what we can while there is still time. If he means to continue the march, we must do so at once to take advantage of Cumberland’s lack of readiness. If we are to retreat, we must commence the action at once, before Wade draws too close.” He paused a moment and for the first time allowed his bitterness toward the prince’s unfounded suspicions rise to the surface. “In the vent of a march forward, my men and I will form the vanguard. If the decision falls to retreat—and I pray God he sees the wisdom of such action—I and my Athollmen will be the last to march along the road, protecting the brave men who go before us. There will be no arguments, no discussions on this point. The decision is mine to make and I have made it.”
Alex, standing behind Lochiel, caught the general’s eye over the silence. “In either case, sir, it would seem to me imperative to know exactly where the government troops are and where they might conceivably be twenty-four hours from now.”
Lord George smiled appreciatively. “And have you someone in mind foolish enough to volunteer for such a task?”
“Two fools, actually. MacKail and I could be on our way within the hour. Give us a dozen or so men from the Manchester Regiment—Englishmen who could move quickly and inobtrusively through territory familiar to them—and we will gather all the information you need.”
“You understand the consequences if you are caught?”
“I understand the greater consequences if we try to move blindly in one direction or the other without knowing what is out there. As for your holding the rear-guard position, sir, I have at least five dozen men under my personal command who march very slowly indeed. We would consider it a personal favor if you could incorporate us into your own brigade—at least until we reach the border.”
Lord George regarded the tall, black-haired Highlander with a mixture of humor and regret. He suspected that if he’d had a thousand men like Alexander Cameron at his disposal, the question of retreat would never have entered his mind.
“Take as many men as you require, and … ahh, extend my heartfelt apologies to Captain MacKail. I’m sure he had better things planned for today than riding about the countryside peeking through hedgebrush.”
With a nod in Lochiel’s direction, Alex slipped quietly out of the crowded, noisy room. A second glance was exchanged almost immediately, and Struan MacSorley acknowledged the silent command from his chief, following Alex out into the cold, damp air.
Aluinn traced a strong, lean finger along his wife’s lower lip and smiled, if for no other reason than to keep himself from shouting his happiness out loud. Deirdre’s eyes were closed, her lashes still dewy with spent tears of wonderment; the skin across her brow and temples was still moist and slightly flushed from her exertions; the wet, clinging tendrils of hair glistened in the midmorning light.
A commotion of horses’ hooves out in the courtyard caused a brief distraction, but it passed, and his attention easily reverted to the moist and supple lips he so adored. Leaning forward, he kissed them tenderly and earned a soft, husky sigh in return.
Deirdre could feel the smoky eyes studying her intently. Her body still tingled, inwardly and outwardly, with the effects of his lovemaking, and she could barely muster the strength to lift a hand and stroke it gently against his cheek.
“Do you have any idea how happy you have made me?” he asked, his lips turning into the palm of her hand. “I keep thinking I will waken any moment and find myself rolled in a cold, coarse length of tartan on the hard ground.”
Deirdre smiled. She could hardly believe she deserved, let alone had won, the love of a man like Aluinn MacKail. Despite his confession in Blackpool—it seemed like years ago—she could never think of him as a tenant farmer. He had traveled half the world with Alexander Cameron, had visited with kings and queens, lived among the nobility of Europe.
Catching the glitter of the gold band on her finger, Deirdre stretched her arm to its full length to admire the acquisition. “When I saw Mr. Cameron in my mistress’s room the other day, I could not believe it. And when I saw you riding up the drive yesterday, I felt sure my heart would fly straight out of my breast.” Her arm was lowered again, curling possessively around Aluinn’s shoulders. “I love you, Aluinn MacKail. I will always love you, as long as there is breath in my body.”
“My love,” he murmured, his lips molding to hers. “And now my life.”
Deirdre moaned softly with the realization that he was still warm and hard within her.
“You didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?” He chuckled, moving his hips in a gentle, languid rhythm.
Deirdre moaned again and shook her head in disbelief. It just wasn’t possible for a body to feel such happiness! It wasn’t possible to feel so fulfilled, so complete, so much a part of someone else.
“There?” he asked on a whisper.
“Yes … oh!”
She shuddered against the deep, repeated thrusts of his flesh and felt the fever rising within her again. Another impossibility, and yet the tremors were building, the flashes of heat and cold were closing together, one upon the other, tightening muscles, nerves, reactions until she was gasping his name, over and over, rising and falling on waves of rapture that came upon her so swiftly, and so sharply she could do nothing to temper them, nothing but ride the crests and swells and pray she would someday learn to give her husband one tenth the pleasure he gave her!
Had she not been too shy to ask, she would have known she had already accomplished her wish. She would have known that each sheet of fiery passion that engulfed her sheathed him in its grip, as well, and left him just as awed, just as dazed, just as determined not to fail her as a lover, a husband, a friend.
Gasping and sweat-slicked, they collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, and it was only a soft, urgent tapping on the door that kept them from slipping into a pleasure-induced sleep.
&nbs
p; “MacKail?” came a familiar baritone. “Are you awake?”
Aluinn took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It took several moments for the room to stop swaying, several more for him to curse through a stubbed toe and limp his way to the door. After a quick glance back at the giggling figure hurriedly covering herself with the bedsheets, he opened it a crack and glared out into the hallway.
Another round of curses was forming in his mind when he saw Alex’s broad back, but when Cameron turned around and Aluinn saw the expression on the rigid features, he became instantly alert.
“How long?”
“Five minutes. Christ, I’m sorry,” Alex said. “But I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
Aluinn nodded. “I’ll be ready.”
Alex glanced along the hall toward Catherine’s bedchamber, and Aluinn was shaken away from thoughts of his own interrupted bliss by the look of complete helplessness on his friend’s face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what to say to her, Aluinn. I don’t even know if I can walk into that room and walk out again without her.”
Aluinn heard a rustle of linen sheets behind him and, a moment later, felt Deirdre’s cool hand on his arm. She gazed somberly up into her husband’s eyes before looking past his bare shoulder to where Alex stood.
“Deirdre … I’m sorry,” he began.
She blanched and tightened her grip on Aluinn’s arm. “Will … will you be coming back?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I honestly do not know.”
“I see.” Her face lost even more color before she spoke again. “Have you been to see my lady yet?”
“No. No, I … I was just …”
“I’ll tell her if you like,” she offered in a whisper. “It might be easier that way … for both of you.”
“I can’t just leave without saying good-bye. She would never forgive me.”
The Blood of Roses Page 22