The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  “Deirdre?” She leaned over the prone figure and touched a hand gingerly to the maid’s cheek. There was a flutter of movement behind the closed eyelids and a soft groan escaped the pale lips.

  “Thank God,” Catherine murmured, and focused her concern on the swollen, purpling bruise high on Deirdre’s cheekbone. The skin was cut, and she remembered seeing a flash of gold on Aluinn MacKail’s finger.

  “The beast,” she hissed. “All three of them deserve whatever fate awaits them. Oh, Deirdre, wake up. Wake up! I can’t bear any of this alone.”

  She straightened at the sound of a heavy footstep in the outer hall. The door, with its shattered latch, swung open easily at a nudge from MacKail’s elbow and he entered balancing a tray laden with steaming meat pasties, bread, and cheese.

  “You can take that right back where it came from,” Catherine announced archly. “We want no more samples of your hospitality this night.”

  Ignoring Catherine’s command, he deposited the tray on the nightstand and checked again for the pulsebeat throbbing gently in Deirdre’s throat.

  “I did not mean to hit her. It was an accident.”

  “Tell that to Deirdre when she wakens. If she ever wakens.”

  The soft gray eyes lifted and held Catherine’s for a brief moment before he turned away and, wordlessly, left the room. She followed, slamming the broken door shut behind him, and after a few seconds of thought dragged the chair over and propped it firmly against the broken latch. Satisfied the makeshift lock would discourage any more unannounced visitors, she backed away and glared bravely at the warped planks of the floor, as if she could see clear through them to the room below.

  Fools! Dolts! Did they honestly think Damien would simply ride away and abandon her to their clutches? He had understood perfectly the oblique reference to their summer in Plymouth and was probably even now spilling his story to the garrison commander in Wakefield. An hour, no more, and the cottage and the surrounding woods would be swarming with soldiers. Cameron and his fellow renegades would have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They would …

  They would what?

  Catherine’s heart thudded dully in her ears as she stared at the door.

  They would undoubtedly try to use her and Deirdre as hostages, that was what they would do. They would hold a gun or a knife to her head and use the threat of instant death to buy a safe passage out of the trap. Unless …

  Her gaze flew to the window.

  … unless she and Deirdre could somehow sneak clear of the cottage without their gaolers knowing it. They had been on the verge of escaping when Damien had interrupted them. They could still do it now.

  “Deirdre!” She leaned over and shook the girl’s shoulder. “Deirdre, wake up. Wake up.”

  She patted the maid’s face—slapped it rather hard, truth be known—and rubbed her wrists. She ran to the washstand and soaked a towel in cool water, then draped it across the pale brow. A groan was the only result, that and a slight shifting of head and shoulders as Deirdre tried to avoid the cold, dripping wetness of the compress.

  It was unthinkable to leave an unconscious woman to the mercy of brigands and criminals, and Catherine rebuked herself for even entertaining the thought. On the other hand, if she could get away and find help, and if help arrived soon enough, she could insist that someone shinny up the tree and remove Deirdre before the trap was sprung.

  “Deirdre … wake up,” she cried urgently. “Please wake up.”

  The unfocused brown eyes opened briefly, but the effort proved too much and she slipped into unconsciousness once again. There was nothing more Catherine could do. Even if she could have roused the maid, she doubted if Deirdre would have the strength to make the descent from the window.

  … Simple as climbing down a ladder …

  Chewing her lower lip, Catherine approached the window and contemplated the darkness outside. The moon hung swollen and glistening above the crust of trees, its rays bathing the open ground in a blue-white light, almost as bright as sunlight. The branches of the oak were etched against the light like the bones of a skeleton, ancient and gnarled; there were few leaves or shoots of new growth at window level to hamper her on the way down.

  She gathered the folds of her skirt and tucked the hem into her waistband. On a further thought, she removed two of the bulkiest layers of petticoat, reducing the volume of material she would have to control, not for a moment stopping to actually think about what she was preparing to do. Nor did she spare a thought for the repercussions if she was caught in the act of trying to escape.

  A last glance over her shoulder and a quick, silent word of prayer found her balanced on the sill, then on the outer ledge. From somewhere she summoned the courage to lean forward, to grasp the scabbed branch and swing herself free of the cottage. The branch was thick and she felt reasonably secure after the initial lurch of fear passed. Still, she kept her eyes closed until her heartbeat returned to some form of normalcy, and she tried not to think of the ground so many dizzying feet below.

  In the end it was the image of what she must look like, clinging like a terrified monkey to a vine, that stirred her hands and feet into motion. She began a slow and careful slide along the branch, lowering herself footstep by scraping footstep, until she arrived, panting and considerably damper across the brow, at the junction of the main trunk. There, to her incalculable relief, her slippered toes found more secure holds—it was indeed like lowering herself down the rungs of a ladder—and with an irrepressible sigh of thanks, she found herself standing on solid ground.

  She did not linger to celebrate her victory. The stable was still fifty broad paces or more across the moonlit yard, and she experienced another twinge of panic as she envisioned Alexander Cameron passing by a window, happening to glance out, and seeing a fleet-footed shadow streaking across the open space. But there was no way to avoid the risk. She could not stay fastened to the tree, and she would not get far on foot. The edge of the forest was at least a half mile away, and she had no alternative but to try to steal a horse.

  Swallowing her fear, she dashed across the yard and flattened herself into the shadows of the crooked, moldering barn. Thankfully the doors were not in the direct wash of moonlight; she would be able to get inside without being seen from the inn. Flushed and fighting for every breath, she cursed her lack of foresight for not removing, or at least loosening, the laces of her stiff pasteboard stomacher; her gasps were nearly as loud as the rusty groan of the hinges as she cautiously worked one heavy door open wide enough to slip inside.

  It was utterly dark and smelled thickly of horse. She inched along the wall, stumbling almost right away over a stave that bent her toe and made her cry out sharply with the pain. She bent over to retrieve it and took a few costly seconds to allow her eyes to adjust to the heavy gloom. Again, luck was on her side, for the roof was so rotted in places that it let in slivers of moonlight, enough for her to see there were six rudimentary stalls built of fieldstone and timber. The ceiling overhead was a hanging garden of leather reins and harnesses. The Ashbrooke carriage had been rolled inside, out of sight, and stood like a silent black shadow in the middle of the barn.

  Catherine crept to the closest stall and pulled up with another cry as the velvet snout of Cameron’s stallion loomed out of the darkness and shrilled an angry challenge. Stumbling away, she made a wide berth around the front of the stall and ran to the next, where one of the matched bays was tethered. She slipped the rope latch off the post, then on a further thought ran quickly to each of the other stalls—excluding that of the black demon—and opened them as well, taking precious seconds more to unfasten halter knots and set the animals free.

  She was returning to the bay when a lanky shadow detached itself from the barn door.

  “An’ just what the hell d’ye think ye’re doin’?” Iain Cameron’s voice was pure belligerence and sent Catherine shrinking back against the stall door. “Surely ye werena thinkin’ o’ ridin’ out in the middle o’ the
night wi’out so much as a fare-thee-well?”

  She heard a coarse chuckle as he moved forward. “Caught ye red-handed, did I now?”

  “Stay back,” she warned. “Stay away from me.”

  “Or ye’ll do what? Scream? Aye, ye could scream an’ bring ma cousin out here on the run, but could ye explain any better tae him how ye came tae be here in the fairst place? Or why? You an’ me, now … we should be able tae come tae some mair … pleasurable arrangements. Ye’re supposed tae be on yer honeymoon anyway, are ye no’?”

  “Don’t … come any closer.”

  “Oh … I plan tae come a mout closer, Mistress High an’ Mighty. I plan tae come so close yer thighs’ll squeak wi’ happiness—”

  Catherine swung her arm up and out, wielding the stave in the direction of his head. Not as quick with his reflexes as he might have been before the meeting with Alexander Cameron’s fist, Iain saw the stave coming at his face but was too late to duck and avoid it completely. The blow knocked him sideways, and he staggered against the wall. It stunned him long enough for Catherine to run to the bay, untether it, and pull herself up onto its back. Iain shouted and lunged after her as she bolted past, but the noise only startled the other animals into pushing out of their stalls and thundering toward the open doors.

  Catherine did not look back. She bent low over the neck of the bay and fought to keep her balance as she urged him to a gallop along the road. Her last clear image was of the door to the inn bursting open, spilling harsh yellow light and two running figures into the courtyard.

  Pleading for more speed, Catherine held on for dear life, her hands twined around fistfuls of the brown, wiry mane that whipped and stung her face with each racing stride. Fear scalded the back of her throat, and the cold wind brought tears to her eyes. Her hair streamed out behind her in long yellow ribbons; her skirt was peeled back above her knees and snapped out in velvet folds behind her. She knew the moon was still her immediate enemy, and she had to decide quickly whether to remain on the open road or try to weave her way through the bordering blackness of the forest.

  A sense of impending danger made her fight the wind and motion to glance back over her shoulder. The horse and rider chasing her were plainly visible—as visible as she no doubt was to him—and she realized her mistake in not freeing Cameron’s stallion.

  Gouging her heels cruelly into the bay’s flanks, she ignored the dangers of hidden foxholes and overgrown roots, and steered the terrified animal off the road. The trees closest to the road were widely spaced and allowed enough moonlight to filter through the branches overhead to guide their way safely, but deeper into the wood she had no choice but to sacrifice speed for caution. Low-hung branches slapped her and snatched at her hair. The land dipped and twisted, and for long stretches at a time the light was so dim she could only pray and trust the horse’s instincts. They plunged across a shallow stream, sending gouts of water glistening off each pounding hoof, then tore through a dense sea of ferns and saplings, scattering any number of sleeping creatures into the night.

  The angry hoofbeats behind them were gaining, and Catherine urged the bay to greater speed. She lost her sense of direction and cut a wide circle back the way they came, no longer able to distinguish trees from shadows. They found the stream again, only this time the land took a sharp dip into a narrow gorge, and the bay screamed as it lost its footing on the crumbled embankment. Catherine heard a loud crack, and the world slid sideways. Her hands lost their grip on the reins and she was flung into space, spinning through the blackness as the ground rushed up to meet her. Her own scream was cut short as she slammed into a bed of moss, the angle so steep and slippery that she skidded again, tumbling with the momentum of the fall until a final spin sent her over a lip of hard stone and into the icy, rushing water.

  The water was only waist deep, but the current was strong and swept her beneath the surface before she was able to find her footing. She grabbed for a handhold, but the bottom was covered with inches of slime, the sides mud and loose stones. She managed to halt her forward motion long enough to thrust her head above water, drawing no more than a scant breath of air before she was pulled under again. Her skirt quickly twisted around her ankles like a corkscrew, and her body was dragged over stones and rocks, bouncing painfully from one side of the stream to the other. She surfaced again in time to see a huge, jagged boulder rushing up to meet her, and just as she braced herself for the impact, a rough pair of hands caught her under the arms and hauled her clear of the current.

  Coughing, choking to catch a clear breath of air, she swung her arms in a desperate attempt to free herself as Alex Cameron pulled her up onto the bank. Her hair was plastered over her face, blinding her, but she imagined she could see his dark, satanic features leering down at her, imagined his fists bunched and raised to carry through the threat he had issued back at the inn.

  She screamed hysterically and lashed out, managing to land a solid blow to his jaw. Without hesitation he struck back, the flat of his hand stinging smartly across her cheek. The shock of it startled her, stunned her, cleared her head enough that she allowed him to lift her the rest of the way onto the embankment and carry her back to where her horse lay thrashing and screeching in agony.

  One of his forelegs was broken, snapped like a twig. The bones were gleaming through the torn skin and tendons, and each writhing movement produced a scream and a spray of warm blood. Cursing profusely, Cameron knelt beside the suffering animal and unsheathed a knife from the top of his boot. He made two swift, deep slashes in the straining throat, then remained on his knees, stroking the horse’s sweat-flecked coat until the legs had shivered to a lifeless halt.

  Angry enough at that moment to have willingly used the same knife on Catherine, he did not trust himself to speak or to look her directly in the eye. Instead, he jerked her up onto her feet and half-carried, half-dragged her to where Shadow stood nervously prancing from one foot to the other, his fine, chiseled head held high in distress.

  “Easy,” Cameron said. “I won’t let her ruin you too.”

  He slung Catherine’s soaked and shivering body across the stallion’s bare back, then swung himself up behind her, guiding the horse slowly and carefully back through the forest toward the road. Catherine, faint from nausea, sick at heart over the bay, and still coughing up water, was too weak to do more than collapse against the wall of the Highlander’s chest.

  Back at the inn Aluinn MacKail was waiting anxiously in the yard. “Is she all right? Where is her horse?”

  “She’s fine; the horse is dead,” Cameron said bluntly. “And it’s unfortunate it didn’t end up the other way around.”

  “What did she think she was doing?”

  “I have no idea.” He jumped to the ground, hauling Catherine after him. “But I’m damned well going to find out. Where is Iain?”

  “Running down the other horses.”

  “When he finds them, tell him to get them in harness; we’ll be leaving within the hour.”

  He scooped Catherine into his arms and carried her into the tavern. He did not take her to her room, but to the one next to it where she had seen him meeting with his two companions. He kicked open the door and flung her down on the bed, glaring at her for a full minute before he turned and slammed the door shut behind them.

  “Well?” He planted his feet wide apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “I presume you have some explanation that will convince me not to wrap my hands around your throat and throttle the life out of you.”

  Catherine pushed herself upright, her lips blue and trembling. “G-go to h-hell.”

  She tried to brush back the tangled mass of hair from her face and shoulders, but there was too much of it, thick and wet, clinging to her skin.

  “Hell will most likely be my final destination, madam, but in the meantime it happens to be Scotland, and I will only warn you once—”

  “Warn me? A spy, a m-murderer, a traitor to king and country, and … and you dare to warn me?�
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  His gaze flicked briefly to the torn gap in the front of her bodice. The pure whiteness of her skin was marred by an angry red scratch, and he suspected it was not the only blemish she had earned through her recklessness. “You could have gotten yourself killed tonight.”

  “Then I would have saved you the trouble, wouldn’t I?”

  The dark eyes narrowed. “As much as I feel that the inclination could change over the course of the next few days, I am not in the habit of killing women … or children, as the case may be.”

  “N-no. You only kidnap them and amuse yourself by frightening them half to death.”

  “Madam, if I truly wanted to frighten you—”

  “You would do what? Run my fiancé through with your sword? Beat my maid unconscious? Threaten to kill my brother if I object to being taken hostage against my will?”

  Cameron’s lips flattened against a curse. “Mistress Ashbrooke … you are a bold, brazen, overpampered piece of irresponsible foolishness, suffering under the delusion that all of mankind was placed on this earth for the sole purpose of catering to your every whim. I imagine you use people as it pleases you, for as long as it pleases you, then discard them like so much rubbish when they are no longer useful. I doubt very much whether you have ever gone hungry a day in your life, or know the meaning of the word fear—real fear, the kind that gnaws at your belly and leaves you too weak and shaken to even cry. But if you want to find out how that feels—” He leaned ominously closer. “Keep pushing me into a corner.”

  His patronizing tone infuriated her, but something in his eyes made her wary of the fine balance he maintained between savagery and civility. His hair was blown wildly around his face; his brows were a straight black slash that knew how to express only two emotions: anger and disdain. He was too tall and too thick with muscle. His jaw was too square, his mouth too full, and his eyes … his eyes were too insolent by far.

  She clasped her hands around her upper arms and shivered. “You have delivered your lecture, sir. Was there anything else?”