Deirdre brushed her fingertips across her lips and blushed profusely.
“You should not have done that, sir,” she whispered.
“There are a good many things I should not have done in my life,” he replied sincerely. “That was not one of them. And my name is not sir, it is Aluinn. Al-oo-in. You have to wrap your tongue around the middle part a bit; it’s the Gaelic word for—”
“For beautiful,” she said on a rush. “Yes, I know.”
The gray eyes gleamed softly as they held hers, and for the moment the world did not exist beyond the cocoon of pale yellow candlelight that encased them.
“I … I must go,” she said. “I have been neglecting my mistress terribly.”
“Will you come back? Will you come back and sit with me when you can?”
The question dusted her cheeks with roses again and he thought to himself: My God, but she is lovely. Born to a king instead of a gamekeeper, she would have slain half the hearts in Europe.
“Will you?” he asked again.
“If you wish me to, sir,” she murmured.
“Aluinn,” he reminded her gently. “And I do wish you to. Very much.”
15
Wary of the wintry frost that emanated from her mistress, Deirdre worked quickly and diligently to shape Catherine’s long golden mass of curls into a reasonably artful presentation. Her task was severely hampered by her subject’s frequent need to pace from one end of the room to the other, by an impatient hand flinging finished sets of curls into disorder, by twists and turns that tore the combs and pins out of the maid’s hands before she could position them.
The toilette at last finished, Catherine stood broodingly silent as Deirdre fetched a borrowed chemise and pantalets, then assisted her into snowy-white stockings and lace garters. She sucked in her tummy grudgingly and braced herself against a bedpost while the heavily boned corset was girded tight around her midsection. Deirdre hauled on the laces, squeezing much of Catherine’s natural waistline up into her chest, shaping her torso into a highly prized but hellishly uncomfortable funnel so narrow it could be spanned by two large hands. To contrast the trimness, wire panniers were positioned like baskets over each hip, held in place with satin tapes, and covered by three billowing layers of petticoats. Still gasping from the pressure around her ribs, Catherine rounded on the bed with a curse that made the Irish girl look up in surprise.
“Do you see what she had the nerve, the utter gall, to loan me?”
“Beg pardon, mistress? She?”
“That red-haired Scottish virago.” Catherine was momentarily lost under the voluminous folds of silk as the gown was lowered over her head. “She did it deliberately, I know she did. It is six months out of style, and I am certain I saw a gravy stain on the bodice. Good God!”
Deirdre joined her mistress in staring at the shocking expanse of pale flesh exposed by the plunging neckline. Very little remained to the imagination, whereas a great deal was left to chance. Her breasts sat like two half-moons, propped and plumped in such a way as to make the viewing of her toes impossible. At the smallest movement of her arms forward or back, her nipples were in peril of springing over the edge of the pale green silk.
Catherine ventured to the mirror and her mouth went slack. She looked like one of the preened and painted courtesans who frequented the royal court and vied for the paid attention of lewd, gout-ridden ministers!
“Will you be wanting a shawl, mistress?” Deirdre asked hopefully.
Catherine was about to reply wholeheartedly in the affirmative, but a movement in the reflection of the mirror caught her eye and her attention was distracted momentarily by the figure who stood quietly in the doorway.
Since their arrival at Achnacarry, Alexander Cameron had elected to retain the English style of clothing—the plain frock coat, dark breeches, stark white shirt and neckcloth. For this, his first dinner at home, he had been provided with a more formal, richly shaded coat of sky-blue velvet, the cuffs of which were turned back almost to the elbow and trimmed with wide gold braid. The coat was left open over a gold-and-royal striped satin waistcoat buttoned high to the throat and seating a dazzling white, multitiered lace jabot that matched the fountainous spill around each wrist. Around his waist he wore a length of scarlet-and-black tartan, pleated into a kilt and held in place by a polished leather belt. The end of the tartan was brought up and draped across one shoulder, pinned to the coat with an enormous silver brooch studded with topazes. His face had been shaved clean of the slightest shadow; his sable hair had been molded into curls at his temples, with the remainder tied back in a neat queue.
For a long moment Catherine almost did not recognize her “husband.” Even the most grudging appraisal would deem him magnificent; he looked as if he could stand atop a mountain and command the sun to rise and fall at will.
Yet despite the change in his appearance the eyes remained the same. Black and bold, they studied Catherine’s reflection, leaving her with the distinct impression that her own assessment had been too kind.
“You might want to take Deirdre up on her suggestion,” he said politely. “The dining hall is apt to be chilly.”
“In that case—” Catherine ignored the delicate lace offering Deirdre held out and forced Alex to step aside as she swept past him out the door, “if I turn blue, someone is bound to take pity on me and send me back to my room.”
Not a single word was exchanged through the twisting, turning descent from the tower. The only sound along the vaulted stone corridors was their footsteps—his firm and regulated to keep pace with her smaller, softer taps. It was only when they approached the main receiving room, guided there by the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, that Catherine’s nerve faltered and she started to hang back.
Cameron’s hand was instantly under her elbow, steering her forward.
“Don’t worry,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “We Camerons have pretty well forsaken the rite of offering sacrifices to the dark gods. I think.”
They entered a room full of glittering candlelight and splashes of brightly hued tartan. Almost immediately, at their appearance, all conversation ground to a halt, and one by one the heads swiveled and stared at the couple in the doorway. Catherine felt the first blush of color in her cheeks recede, only to rise again, darker and hotter as she imagined most eyes were on her. The Englishwoman. The Sassenach.
Archibald and Donald stood together by the huge marble fireplace, their heads bent in conversation with their brother, John Cameron of Fassefern. Catherine recognized him from the miniature in the gallery and her opinion did not change, for of the four brothers he was the least attractive. Slighter in build, with thin, bony knees, he did not do near justice to the black-and-crimson tartan.
The same could not be said for the women. They were all elegantly gowned in silks and brocades, laying rest to yet another of Catherine’s preconceived notions that Highland women would still regard Elizabethan bombazine and Norse braids as the height of fashion. And in spite of her prior reservations, there were several décolletages equally as shocking as her own. Lauren Cameron, for one—Catherine’s feline instincts had spotted her at once—dared not bend over so much as an inch else she risked spilling herself into someone’s eager hands.
“I hope we have not kept everyone waiting,” Alex said, trying not to notice the shine of tears in Donald’s eyes when he and Maura crossed the room to greet them. He had made the right choice in wearing the clan tartan; if he needed more proof it was in the bone-crushing grip his brother used to shake his hand.
“Welcome home, brither,” Lochiel rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “This is as it should be at long last, by God. The Camerons togither, strong an’ united. Let no man, king, or government step between us again!”
A round of passionate “ayes” rose to the ceiling beams. From somewhere two crystal glasses appeared and were thrust full into Alex and Catherine’s hands.
Donald raised his in a toast. “The Camerons!
”
“The Camerons!” Family and guests responded and as one tilted their glasses and tossed back the golden liquor in a single swallow.
Catherine, acutely aware of the eyes watching her every move, drained her glass as she had seen the other women do and was feeling quite proud of herself … until the liquid fireball plunged down her throat and sucked the air from her lungs with such a vengeance, her knees buckled beneath her. Unable to catch a breath through the flames, she grabbed frantically for Alex’s arm and would have fallen had someone not cried out to him to catch her.
“Oh dear!” Maura’s face swam before her. “Who gave her the whisky?”
“Wisna me,” Jeannie declared at once, looking as innocent as a cat with feathers clinging to its lips.
“The poor child has probably never had anything stronger than canary wine. Someone fetch some water, quickly.”
“Here, gie her this.” Auntie Rose pushed a glass into Maura’s hand. “Ye canna gie her plain water, it’ll only bring the uisque back up again. A wee dram o’ claret, that’ll dae it. Just a wee sip tae clear the throat.”
“A small sip,” Maura cautioned, holding the goblet to Catherine’s lips. Thankfully the remedy worked; the sweet red wine doused the embers in her throat and returned some of the sensation to her mouth and tongue.
“My Lord,” she gasped. “What was that?”
“Only the finest uisque baugh in all the Heelands, lassie,” Archibald Cameron boasted proudly. “A man can drink ten pints an’ still stand tae piss in the mornin’! Goes off like a cannon when ye mix it wi’ the black powder. Tha’s how ye test the virtue o’ prime uisque, if ye didna know. Ye mix it wi’ gunpowder, light it, an’ if it disna explode, it’s no’ warth the effort tae swallow it. Aye, an’ may God strike me deid, Donal’ has lost near a score o’ good stillmen over the years—been blown clean tae hell an’ gaun wi’out even a footprint left ahind tae tell the tale.”
“Footprints me arse,” Jeannie scowled. “I’d as like tae mix a wee bit o’ powder up yer kilt an’ see what the virtue is there.”
Lochiel cleared his throat over the laughter and smiled. “Well, now, I believe we are all present, an’ I, f’ae one, have the appetite o’ ten men.”
He raised his hand in a signal to someone out in the hallway, and the seams of Alex’s coat suffered another moment of stress as Catherine reacted to what sounded like the screams of a tortured animal. Looking quickly around, she was confronted by the innocent sight of a piper filling his instrument with air. As soon as the bladder was inflated, the raw screeching assumed a clean and distinct wail, one that was no less fearsome in substance but was at least recognizable as music.
“The pipes are inviting us to dinner,” Cameron murmured in her ear.
“Inviting? It sounds as if they are trying to frighten us away.”
“That was the original intent of the piob’rachd—the clan marching song—to throw terror into the hearts and souls of the enemy. Ten pipers playing at the head of a column of clansmen can do as much damage to an adversary’s nerves as a battalion of artillery.”
Catherine did not doubt it.
“And this is a cheerful tune they’re playing,” he added.
She looked up and nearly returned his smile. But then Donald was beside her, offering his arm, escorting her out of the receiving room at the head of a solemn procession that followed the piper along the hall and down the short flight of stairs to the great hall. Two long oak tables had been set up to accommodate the family and guests. The smaller of the two was mounted on a foot-high dais that ran the width of the room. The second ran at right angles and stretched the length of the hall, providing seating for the nearly fifty aunts, uncles, cousins, children, and friends who had gathered to celebrate the homecoming.
One by one the deep-chested, long-winded Scots rose to offer toasts or speeches or to recount various historic moments in the clan’s past. Many of the speeches were unintelligible to Catherine, for they were delivered in rousing Gaelic with much gesturing and shouting. She had been seated on Donald’s right, with Archibald on her other side and John of Fassefern’s wife Elspeth opposite her. A short, stout gentleman addressed only as Keppoch sat between Elspeth and Jeannie Cameron, and across from him was Auntie Rose, who never missed an opportunity to exchange winks with the futsy old fox. Lady Maura was seated well along at the far end of the table, with Alex on her right and his brother John to her left. By leaning forward ever so slightly and peering through the tines of a candelabra, Catherine could frame almost all of Alexander’s face. A small flick of the eye, however, and she had an exasperatingly unimpaired view of Lauren Cameron, who had somehow managed to win the seat next to Alex.
When the speeches drew to an end, more pipes heralded the arrival of the first course of the meal. The dish was unfamiliar to Catherine, but proved to be a delectably creamy soup of lentils and potatoes playing host to chunks of tender pink salmon. There immediately followed platters of roast duck drowning in a rich butter sauce, potato scones browned and crisped in bacon fat, mutton pies smothered in gravy; puddings, sausages, and crusty pasty shells stuffed with spiced venison. Various wines accompanied each course, and due to the diligence of Dr. Cameron, Catherine never found her glass wanting. By the time she had allowed for a sampling of everything, she was regretting the effort Deirdre had expended lacing her into her corset.
“Ach, so ye like our Heeland victuals, dae ye, lassie?” Keppoch caught her eye and winked. “Aye, I were in London no’ long ago an’ found the townsfolk too purse-proud tae make but one sauce, an’ that they poured on everythin’. The English,” he said, expanding his remarks to enlighten everyone at the table, “have a hundred opinions, but only the one sauce. They come up here an’ tell us wha’ fine silver an’ gold they have, such fine glasses, such fine linens. I once’t bade ma clansmen tae stand round the table, each wi’ a taper in their hands, an’ demanded tae be shown a finer lot o’ candlesticks in all the land! That’s wha’ should matter tae a laird—the wealth o’ stout lads he has willin’ tae walk intae battle ahind him. Nae gold, nae silver. Men!” He paused and drilled a sharp eye in Lochiel’s direction. “Aye, an’ ye may have need o’ such wealth afore too long, Donal’. It willna take a kick in the heid f’ae Argyle tae know that wee Alasdair has come home.”
Lochiel nodded. “I’ve already warned The MacDonald an’ The MacNachtan tae be on the watch, them bein’ on the border o’ Campbell land. Nae doubt the Duke will be sniffin’ after blood.”
“Squint-eyed bastards,” Jeannie declared to no one in particular. “High time someone hung the lot o’ them.”
“Mayhap someone will, hen,” said a sage and tipsy Auntie Rose. “Mayhap soon.”
“Aye—” Jeannie brightened a moment. “The Prince has called f’ae an army, an’ when he gets it, ye’ll see, he’ll send all the vermin back tae England where they belong.”
“Whisht, woman,” Archibald commanded. “Hold yer tongue.”
“I’ll nae hold ma tongue!” she countered indignantly. “There’s been far too much holdin’ o’ tongues already!”
“We will not hold war councils at the dinner table,” Maura said firmly. “Nor will we start any arguments.”
“I’m no’ arguin’,” Jeannie insisted. “I’m only statin’ fact. Wee Tearlach has summoned the chiefs tae meet wi’ him, an’ they have tae go. They have tae go!” She glared directly at Lochiel and added with a snort, “They canna say they dinna want tae go, an’ they canna send an auld daft cow tae do their talkin’ for them—”
“Jeannie!” Archibald’s face was glowing red. “Mind who ye’re talkin’ to!”
“No,” Lochiel sighed. “Let her speak. She’ll burst otherwise.”
“Aye, I’ll speak. F’ae every man, woman, an’ bairn who lost kin in the last rebellion, I’ll speak. Yer faither wouldna turn his back on a Stuart! Yer faither wouldna question the right or wrong o’ it, nor send the poor wee lad cringin’ into the ground wi’ shame!”
Lochiel pushed his plate away. “My loyalty tae King Jamie has never been questioned, nor has my respect f’ae his son. Have I no’ worked all these long years tae find some way tae bring them both home again?”
“Wi’ words,” Jeannie spat. “But ye canna fight the Sassenach wi’ words!”
“We could if they had yer breath ahind them,” Archibald roared. “Now hold yer silence, dragon, afore ye send me cringin’ tae the ground wi’ shame.”
“Me shame you?” Jeannie’s eyes bulged with defiance. “You, who rode tae Arisaig wi’ yer tail tucked up atween yer legs where yer manhood should ha’ been? You, who told the Prince he wouldna find a home here an’ tae go back tae France?”
“I told him the bald truth, woman! I told him we couldna form an army wi’ naught but a handful o’ rusted clai’mors an’ a few score matchlocks.”
“Bluid an’ courage will form an army,” Jeannie persisted.
“Aye. The bluid o’ Scotland’s youth an’ the courage o’ fools like you!”
Jeannie surged forward in her chair, and for a moment Catherine thought the tiny firebrand was going to fling herself across the table and physically attack her husband. She was already shocked by the very notion of a woman daring to be so outspoken in front of friends and neighbors as well as family. No one else seemed too outraged by the impropriety, however. They sipped their wine or picked at their sweet cakes as if it were a common-day occurrence with the doctor and his wife.
“Dinna listen tae any o’ this, Donald,” John of Fassefern said, sucking a piece of meat from his teeth. “Ye’ve made the wisest decision an’ now ye must stand by it. Ye always said there could be no uprisin’ against the Hanover government unless we had solid support from France. The Prince knew that. He knew it afore he came, yet he came anyway, wi’out the men he promised, wi’out the guns or the powder. Since he didna keep his pledge tae the Highland lairds, it stands the Highland lairds shouldna be bound by a pledge tae him.”
The Pride of Lions Page 24