The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  “But … Mr. Cameron … he will send you right back, you know he will. I am not even certain Aluinn will be overly pleased to see me.”

  Catherine wrapped the braid into a tight coil and stuffed it under the crown of a large felt hat. “Come now, Deirdre. We have just done murder; surely we are capable of dealing with the wrath of two self-righteous Scotsmen.” She reached out and took Deirdre’s hand in hers. “We are both in desperate need of their protection right now—do you really think they would refuse us? Can you honestly see either one of them thinking that Derby is a safer place to be than by their sides?”

  “No” came a low male voice from the open door to the hallway. “But I can give you at least one thousand armed reasons why you might never get the chance to ask them.”

  Both women gasped and whirled around. Standing in the doorway, his musket primed and cocked for business, was Corporal Jeffrey Peters, the grimness of his expression erasing any and all hint of youthfulness and inexperience from his face.

  Retreat

  11

  In less than twenty-four hours, the attitude of the Jacobite army had undergone a complete and potentially disastrous turnabout. In Derby, poised to march the remaining one hundred-fifty victorious miles to London, the clansmen had tackled their daily routines with a strength of purpose few men could not help but admire. Hundreds of miles from home, suffering from a constant lack of adequate provisions and shelter, regarded with open contempt and hostility by the English people, they still sang to cover the rumble of empty bellies, danced around the campfires to keep the numbing winter chill out of their bones, kept their weapons honed and their outlooks keen for a confrontation with the Hanover army.

  That was why, when the order to retreat was finally delivered, it was decided only the chiefs and their senior officers were to know their destination beforehand. The army was to be roused before dawn and settled into a brisk pace before the sun betrayed in which direction they marched. If asked, the officers were to imply they were marching out to a meeting with either Wade’s forces or Cumberland’s.

  It was not until a few discerning eyes recognized landmarks they had passed only two days previous that rumblings began to spread throughout the clans that they were on retreat. The rumors were met at first with disbelief, then outrage, and finally, bitter disillusionment. The common soldiers had not been aware of the doubts and fears plaguing their chiefs; they had seen only victory thus far and could not fathom why they were turning away so close to their goal. The pace of the march slowed. Arguments broke out within the ranks, and, for the first time since crossing the border into England, the chiefs were regarded with mistrust and suspicion. Why had they been brought so many miles from home only to retreat with victory within their grasp? Where was the pride, the honor, the glory of fighting behind the Stuart standard when it could be so easily turned and blown back into the wind? Where was the passion and confidence that had led them to an astounding triumph at Prestonpans against odds no sane man could willingly entertain? And where was their prince? Where was the man whose heartfelt pleas and unshaking faith had swept them to victory in Scotland and convinced them of similar possibilities in England?

  Prince Charles Edward Stuart did not make an appearance all day. Acting the part of a man who had lost not only his heart but his courage, he behaved as if the army were no longer his to command, as if their loyalty had been stripped from him by men who wished only to see him humiliated by betrayal and defeat. On the march south to Derby, he had risen each morning at dawn and walked all day on foot alongside the men, suffering the same effects of weather, hunger, and exhaustion. For the first twelve hours of the retreat, he rode in a small covered cart, weeping disconsolately and searching for comfort at the bottom of several bottles of whisky. His attitude was contagious, and a pall settled over the clans; by nightfall, the men had become quiet, morose, and too ill at heart to do more than curl themselves in their tartans and lie staring into the fires.

  In those few short hours the prince had changed from conqueror to fugitive, his army no longer the hunters but the hunted.

  Lord George Murray’s greatest concern in those same twelve hours was the opposite effect the news of their retreat would have on the English forces. Those who had elected to keep a prudent distance from the advancing Highlanders would now have the scent of the vanquished to infuse them with new courage and purpose. Alexander Cameron’s reconnaissance had established Cumberland’s army at Conventry, Wade’s at Doncaster. Less than forty miles separated the two armies. They were on familiar ground, well suited to their artillery and cavalry; as soon as word of the retreat reached them, they would undoubtedly strive with all haste to join forces and intercept the Highlanders before they could effect an escape across the border. Cumberland, although several months younger than his Stuart cousin, Charles Edward, was an experienced commander, a soldier known for his relentless pursuit of his enemies.

  True to Lord George Murray’s promise, he and his Athollmen had taken up the position of highest risk at the rear guard of the army, traveling only as fast as the slowest clan contingent. Alexander Cameron, true to his word, joined his forces with the Athol Brigade and had, in turn, assumed the role of scout and liaison officer between the clans. He had been fielding reports of government sightings all day long, riding out to check the greater percentage of them personally. His mood, therefore, as midnight came and went and still found him poring over maps and charts of the territory they would be passing through come daylight was not exactly sterling. His seemingly endless reserves of strength and patience were rapidly dwindling; he had scarcely spoken a dozen words to anyone all day that were not laced with acid.

  When he heard a muffled disturbance approaching his tent, the expression on his face should have sent any man who valued his neck fleeing—any man, except Struan MacSorley.

  “I ken ye’ve had a long day,” the Highlander said, poking his head beneath the canvas tent flap, “but I thought ye might be interested in seein’ what the pickets found prancin’ along the road a wee while ago.”

  Alex leaned back in his chair and scowled blackly. “Unless it is the Duke of Cumberland and he has come to present a flag of surrender, absolutely nothing could interest me at the moment.”

  Struan arched a golden brow. “Aye, an’ if that’s true, I’ll toss them back soon enough. I’m O’ a mind they’ve a rare tale tae tell, but. Couldna hurt tae listen.”

  Alex swore irritably and knuckled his eyes to rub away the sand and fatigue. “All right. What the hell, I’ve nothing better planned but a few hours sleep.”

  “Aye, an’ growin’ fewer.” With that cryptic comment, MacSorley caught up the tent flap again and raised it to the height of his shoulder. A nod brought three grimy figures into the small space, two dressed in civilian clothes, the third wearing the uniform of a junior officer in the government infantry. Of the three, only the soldier dared to raise his face to the yellowish lantern light—as much for the hint of warmth it offered as for illumination. The other two kept their heads lowered and their eyes downcast so that their features were cloaked in the shadow of their tricorns.

  “Well, well. So this is the vanguard of Cumberland’s army, is it? Or perhaps a delegation from King George asking when we might be wanting the keys to the palace?”

  MacSorley snorted humorlessly and reached over to casually lift away the two tricorns. It took a full minute for the recognition to cut through Alex’s weariness, but when it did, when he saw the thick, glossy braid of blonde hair snake down over the slender shoulders, his expression darkened like a thundercloud about to erupt. It was only with an almost superhuman effort that he was able to control his reaction and keep his voice smooth and level, his hands flat and steady on the table.

  “I trust there is a bloody good explanation for this,” he said through his teeth.

  The soldier, his face flushed and his brow beginning to dot with moisture, snapped to attention at once. “Corporal Jeffrey Peters, sir, at your se
rvice. These two ladies are—”

  “I know damn well who these two ladies are, boy. What I want to know is what the bloody Christ they’re doing here.”

  “W-well, sir, they—”

  “And I would prefer to hear it from them, if you don’t mind!” Alex snarled, glancing at Struan, who had only to rest a hamlike hand on the corporal’s shoulder to intimidate him into instant silence.

  Alexander glared at Deirdre and Catherine in turn, his eyes black with fury, his temper stretched on a thin thread. “Well?”

  Deirdre was the first to meet the Scotsman’s challenge. “We have left Derby, my lord, not by choice but out of necessity. We were hoping we might be allowed to travel north with you.”

  Alex stared. When the seconds ticked away and he had given no response, Catherine’s fingers inched out and clutched Deirdre’s hand tightly for courage. To Deirdre’s credit, she withstood the chilling effects of Alexander’s stony gaze, showing visible signs of faltering only when the obsidian eyes flicked over to Struan.

  “I think you had best find MacKail,” Alex said finally. “He should be privy to this, don’t you agree?”

  “Aye. Shall I fetch this one wi’ me?”

  Alex spared a shriveling glance for the corporal. “God no. He has come this far, driven no doubt by some misguided sense of chivalry. He should at least be here to make the grand offer of having his backside flayed to strips in place of theirs.”

  The corporal swallowed noisily. Struan ducked back out of the tent and Alex, Who had not moved a muscle up to this point, tipped his chair back on the rear two legs and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I had honestly expected better from you, Mrs. MacKail,” he remarked dryly. “I had thought the Irish had a stronger sense of self-preservation.”

  “It is exactly because of a sense of self-preservation we thought to find our best protection with you, sir,” Deirdre answered defiantly.

  “Protection? From what?” he demanded. “The clans have taken advantage of the hospitality of countless estates and homes belonging to the English, with no repercussions to date. If this is some kind of ploy, madam, I’ll warn you both now, it will not work.”

  Although Catherine could not yet bring herself to meet her husband’s eyes, she could feel their probing effect on her knees, which were turning rapidly to butter, and on her stomach, which was beginning a slow, unobstructed slide toward her feet. Their angry heat relented only when the sound of running feet brought Aluinn MacKail’s sandbrown head of hair thrusting under the tent flap.

  “Deirdre!” He gasped. “Good God, it is you!”

  He pushed all the way inside the tent, followed closely by MacSorley and a third man neither of the women had met before—a lean, tall, elegantly middle-age gentleman dressed incongruously in courtly garb. At the sight of the ladies, Count Fanducci removed his plumed tricorn. At the sight of MacKail, Deirdre’s nerve collapsed and she turned into his embrace, her arms thrown about his neck as if she might smother him in her need. Aluinn started to respond in a similar fashion, but a glance in Alexander’s direction halted the movement of his arms and, instead, he reached up and gently pried her wrists down from around his neck.

  “Deirdre … what are you doing here?” he asked, his tone less threatening than Cameron’s, but cool enough to produce a shine of tears in Deirdre’s eyes. “How did you get here? Don’t you know the whole of Cumberland’s army is breathing down our necks?”

  “Th-that’s not entirely true, sir,” Corporal Peters ventured to say. “The main body of his army is still en route to London, to reinforce the guard at Finchley Commons and to act upon rumors of an impending invasion by the French. The duke has but a thousand cavalrymen at his disposal, and they, in turn, are riding to a rendezvous with Marshal Wade. Sir.”

  Aluinn’s gray eyes narrowed as they went from Corporal Peters to Alex. “Who the devil is he?”

  “Corporal Jeffrey Peters,” Alex drawled belligerently. “At our service. Rather, it might be said, at the service of these two”—he paused and searched a moment for an appropriate word—“adventuresses.”

  “Corporal Peters helped us out of an extremely unpleasant situation,” Deirdre said defensively. “Furthermore, he escorted us here at great personal risk. If it had not been for Mr. MacSorley taking the time to recognize us, there is no telling what your brutish guards might have done to the corporal—or to us.”

  “You should not feel so assured of your safety just yet,” Alex warned silkily. “And I am still waiting to hear an explanation as to why you are here. Catherine? It astounds me you have managed to hold your silence this long—is this supposed to be for dramatic effect?”

  Deirdre blanched and pushed angrily away from Aluinn. “She’s not said anything yet, sir, because it would be extremely painful for her to do so. If it is drama you want, I suggest you use your eyes to look at the bruises and cuts on her face rather than to show us how cold and heartless you can be by frightening us half to death.”

  She caught a trembling lip between her teeth and watched as Alexander’s gaze turned slowly away from hers to his wife. After another long, heart-thudding moment of tension, he rose from the chair, his eyes never wavering from Catherine’s downturned face as he advanced around the table toward her. He stopped within arm’s reach, halted by the shock of realizing the darker shadows on his wife’s face were not a result of the angled lantern light. Bracing himself, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head upward, turning it slightly so that the purple bruise on her cheek and the swelling of her eye had the full benefit of the light. Even before his senses had absorbed this new shock, his eyes were drawn lower, to where the pleats of her neckerchief had been dislodged and revealed the ugly black and broken-veined contusions on her throat.

  “Jesus Christ,” Aluinn whispered, moving to stand by Alex’s side. “What the hell happened?”

  Catherine’s eyes swam behind a film of tears as she opened them slowly and looked up at her husband.

  “When we woke this morning,” Deirdre said, “the house was deserted. Most of the servants had left, either to spread gossip or to run away and hide before anyone else decided to commandeer the house and property. There was a British officer … one from the company of militia who had been camped on the grounds prior to your arrival, and he … he was the first to come back after your men left. He must have guessed the house would be deserted for a while. At any rate, he … he took advantage of the fact that my lady was alone and … and …”

  Catherine felt a tremor shudder through the hand that still supported her chin. She had seen anger in Alexander’s eyes before—cool, dispassionate anger used to turn an enemy’s soul to ice. But she had never seen anything comparable to the naked, consuming rage she saw now—a fury focused as much inwardly as it throbbed outwardly, commanding every tautly held muscle in his body, rasping on every short, dry breath.

  “Struan: Have Shadow saddled and ready to ride in five minutes.”

  “Aye. An’ ye’ll be takin’ me along tae see the job’s done right.”

  “No,” Deirdre cried. She grabbed MacSorley’s arm and was dragged several steps toward the tent door before making him aware of her clinging presence. “No, there isn’t any need to go back!”

  “I want his name,” Alex said quietly. “Aluinn?”

  MacKail gripped Deirdre by the shoulders and turned her abruptly toward him. “His name, Deirdre; do you know the bastard’s name?”

  She stared up in disbelief. The face of her tender and loving husband had hardened. The same primitive violence that had flared to life on Alexander Cameron’s face had molded Aluinn’s into something unrecognizable—something she did not wish to acknowledge.

  “Please.” Catherine gasped, the word hardly more than a pain-filled breath of air. She clutched one hand around Alex’s arm, another around Aluinn, and cast a frightened, imploring glance toward Struan. “He’s already dead. The one who did it is dead.”

  “Dead?”
Aluinn asked. “How? By whose hand?”

  Catherine looked up into her husband’s face. “We killed him, Deirdre and I. We had no choice … it was self-defense!”

  Alexander’s composure cracked visibly. “What? What did you just say?”

  “It’s true, sir,” Corporal Peters stammered. “I c-couldn’t believe it either, n-not at first. But it’s t-true. S-so help me God, it’s true!”

  “What do you know about this?” Alex snarled, rounding on the corporal as if in search of some victim for his anger … a victim wearing the uniform of the British army.

  “I was I-looking for Lieutenant Goodwin, s-sir. That was his n-name: Goodwin. I w-was supposed to relay the orders from our colonel as to h-how and wh-where we were to join up with C-Cumberland’s army. I had seen the w-way Goodwin had behaved in Mrs. Montgomery’s presence on s-several other occasions and I … I had my suspicions as to wh-where he might have gone as s-soon as he heard that the reb … er, the Jacobite army had withdrawn. B-by the time I got to the house, sir, it was all over. The ladies had managed to overpower him and—” His voice wavered, his eyes glazed with the memory of walking into the dressing room, of holding a light over what had once been the head of Lieutenant Goodwin, and of having to go through the motions of checking for any sign of life. “I sh-should never live to see another man as d-dead as he was, sir. I swear to God. I’m only sorry I did not arrive in time to deal with him p-personally. But when I saw and heard what he had done to Mrs. Montgomery … well, had it been the king himself, I would gladly have killed him!”

  “Go on, Corporal.”

  “Well, sir, when I heard their story, I knew they could not remain at the manor or risk facing a tribunal. I tried to convince them to go elsewhere—anywhere—Mrs. Montgomery has a brother in London, I believe—but they would have none of it. They insisted on being brought here and from here to make their way under your protection to Blackpool, where they hoped to meet up with Mrs. Montgomery’s husband. It was all I could do to insist they accept my services as escort this far.”