The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  Seeing where his gaze was temporarily stalled, Lauren shifted her knee so that the petticoat was displaced further, baring more of the smooth, warm flesh.

  With an effort Alex moved forward again, glancing at the night table where a partially full bottle of whisky stood.

  Lauren smiled and drained the last few drops from the glass she was holding. “Shall I pour ye a wee dram? Ye look as though ye need it.”

  Like a cat, she curled her legs beneath her and rose up on her knees. She poured the whisky without waiting for his answer and held it out to him, poised in the candlelight like some heathen nymph. He took the glass from her fingers, conscious of the way the silk molded to her breasts—breasts that were large enough to produce an involuntary dryness in his mouth.

  “I suppose … I should ask what you are doing here, in my room, in my bed.”

  She pursed her lips and her eyes feasted openly on the aggressive breadth of hard, muscular chest and shoulder. “Why, I wouldna want tae be accused o’ refusin’ yer invitation. A fine welcome home tha’ would be.”

  “Invitation?”

  “Mair than the one, I warrant.” She sidled closer to the edge of the bed. “Though it’s hard tae keep count when it’s yer eyes doin’ the talkin’.”

  “If I gave you the wrong impression this evening, I’m sorry. You are a beautiful woman, Lauren, and I apologize for looking. But that’s all I was doing: looking.”

  “Mmm.” She raised her hands to the silver and topaz brooch that held the length of tartan pinned over his shoulder. She unfastened it and let both the clasp and the wool fall to the floor.

  “I am a married man,” he reminded her quietly.

  “Aye, married. But why are ye here, then? In a separate room, a separate bed? An odd way f’ae a new husban’ an’ wife tae behave, is it no’?”

  Alex glanced down. Her hands had not been idle. The pearly buttons of his waistcoat had been unbound, the jabot loosened and flung to the floor. Her fingertips slid up the fine linen of his shirt and began searching for the fasteners.

  “We could just talk, o’ course,” she suggested with a sigh. “If tha’s what ye’d truly rather do.”

  “What I would truly rather do—” His tongue ran across his lips and his gaze fell to the voluptuous display of firm white flesh. The silk of her chemise seemed to be caught on the jutting, wine-red nipples, and he knew the smallest brush of his fingertips would free them. “What I truly want is to get some sleep. I haven’t had much in the past few days.”

  Lauren purred sympathetically and pressed even closer, using his distraction to peel away the heavy velvet of his coat and waistcoat. She had worked his shirt open to a point below his ribs, and she ran her hands over his bare flesh, her fingers combing through the thick black hairs, her lips parted as if the sensation was too much to bear.

  The sultry amber eyes lifted slowly to his, and Alex felt himself being drawn into the smoldering pools of green and gold and hazel. It would, he reasoned, be one way to prove that Catherine Ashbrooke meant nothing to him. A way to prove it was only the tension and excitement of returning home that had stirred his blood, not the thought of sinking himself into all that soft white flesh, of hearing her cry out his name, of seeing her passion shimmer to life in the depths of the dark violet eyes.

  Lauren leaned forward and closed her mouth around the dusky island of his nipple, tracing warm, wet circles over the sensitive flesh. Alex grasped her by the shoulders, his fingers tightening reflexively as his body fought the undeniable rush of erotic pleasure.

  “I don’t think you want to be doing this,” he advised, his voice rough and low.

  “I ken exactly what I want, Alasdair. What you want too.” She groaned deep in her throat and dragged his mouth down to meet hers. Her body pressed urgently against him, breasts, belly, and thighs all joining in the conspiracy to undermine him. There was no hesitation, no modest apprehension as her tongue darted between his lips, taking possession of his mouth with a wanton assertiveness that brought Alex’s senses crashing back down around him.

  He broke free and thrust her away to arm’s length. The glazed tiger eyes looked mildly startled as she stared up at him, her mouth slack and wet.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked on a gasp. “Why have ye stopped?”

  “It isn’t difficult to stop something that hasn’t started.”

  Her hands, quick and deft as hummingbird wings, darted beneath the pleated folds of his kilt. “Has it no’?”

  “Lauren—” He grasped her wrists and eased her hands gently away. “I am extremely tired. I am also slightly drunk, or I would have turned you over my knee and sent you packing ten minutes ago.”

  “But ye didna,” she said with a sly smile. “An’ ye canna tell me ye have a warmer bed tae lie in this night. Ye look tae me like a man in need, Alasdair. I need too. I need a real man, one who can take me away from this place. Ye dinna belong here, Alasdair, an’ neither dae I. Ye’ll never be happy, no’ wi’ this ruin o’ a castle, no’ wi’ yer simperin’, yellow-haired Sassenach wife.”

  “I think I’ve heard about enough—”

  “D’ye know what they dae f’ae a night’s pleasure here, Alasdair? They sit around the fire each an’ every night an’ talk of auld times, o’ kings long forgotten an’ glories long deid. They live in the past, all o’ them. They spoke tonight o’ bluid an’ courage like as if the glens were full o’ both—but they’re no’! The kirk is full o’ raggedy crofters an’ bandy-legged shepherds who’ve never seen a broadsword, much less raised one in battle. Run wi’ me, Alasdair, afore it’s too late. Take me away from here!” Her eyes sparkled and her hands wrested free of his grip to stroke brazenly between his thighs. “Ye’ll no’ regret it, I promise ye.”

  Alex did not answer. Instead, he walked away from the bed and crossed to the low dressing table. He snatched up a couple of fresh cigars and closed them in his fist as he walked back to the bed.

  “You found your way here without any difficulty. I assume you can find your way out again?”

  Lauren sat frozen on the rumpled sheets, her eyes narrowing as she watched him pick up the whisky bottle and stalk toward the door. The shock stained her cheeks red and brought her hands up to sit angrily on her waist.

  “Where de ye think ye’re goin’? Tae yer sweet an’ lovin’ wife? Ye think ye’ll get what ye need there?”

  Alex paused at the door and glared back over his shoulder. “What I need is a long, hot bath, and what I want is for you to be gone when I get back. If you’re not, I can promise you, I won’t be quite so polite ejecting you.”

  Lauren’s hands curled into fists. “Bastard! There’s no man alive ever turned me out o’ his bed!”

  “Then I’m glad I could provide you with a new experience.” His sarcasm was rewarded by the smashing of glass as she threw her empty whisky tumbler across the room. It crashed against the wall beside his head and a tiny fragment sliced through his wrist, leaving a thin thread of blood in its wake.

  “And a good night to you too,” he murmured, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The faint sound of breaking glass drew Catherine’s attention away from the window, where, seated on the cold stone bench, she had been staring vacantly out at the night vista, not really seeing the loch or the mountains or the swollen, glistening beauty of the Highland moon.

  Sighing, she began to pull her hair out of its stiff coils, dropping the steel pins beside her, uncaring as to whether they landed on the seat or the floor. When her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders, she stood and reached around for the laces that held her bodice bound rigidly in place, but her movements were so sorely restricted that after a few feeble tugs she had to rest her arms and wait for the blood to flow into her fingers again.

  On the third attempt—one away from tearfully executing her threat to launch herself through the window—she succeeded in slipping the last knot and unwrapping the layer of shiny green silk. Another minor struggle with more lace
s and the relief was palpable as the pressure of the whalebone corset and stomacher was released from around her ribs. She groaned aloud as she flung the wretched garment aside, and she spent several blissful moments massaging her flesh and relishing the ability to breathe deeply again.

  Leaving a trail of cast-off petticoats, wire panniers, chemise, stockings, and slippers, she groped through the rack of borrowed garments in the armoire until she found a clean nightdress. The giddy effects of the wine had abated and her temples throbbed. She sought out the china basin to splash some cool water on her face and found both the bowl and pitcher empty.

  “Oh, Deirdre …” Her shoulders slumped wearily and her lips formed around a silent oath.

  She took the pitcher and padded barefoot to the door. The circular landing outside her room was dark and the door directly opposite was closed, emitting only a thin blade of light along the lower edge. Seeing a shadow cut back and forth across the light, she tiptoed noiselessly to the fireroom, not wanting to give Alexander Cameron any excuse to come to her rescue again. She was mildly surprised he had not returned to the party downstairs, surprised he had not returned to the fawning attentions of Lauren Cameron. There had been no mistaking the seductive invitation in the large amber eyes, no mistaking his interest, either, each time he drew a breath and pondered the enticing depths of the virago’s cleavage.

  “What do I care?” she asked herself irritably. “They deserve each other.”

  She pushed the door to the fireroom carefully open and shut it behind her again, pausing to assure herself she had not been detected. She turned and was several steps into the steaming hot room before she realized her precautions had been in vain. Alexander Cameron was there, relaxing in the brass bathtub, his eyes closed and his head tilted back on the rim as he savored the clouds of steam rising around him. In one hand he nursed an almost empty glass of whisky, in the other, a fresh cigar. The huge cast-iron pots that were kept filled and suspended over the fire were sitting empty on the hearth.

  Catherine dared not move, dared not breathe. The door had made no sound on its rope hinges, and her bare feet had not disturbed so much as a dust mote. But even as she hesitated, poised to fly back to safety, the ebony crescents of his lashes rose slowly, warily, the dark eyes rooting her to where she stood.

  Fully expecting to see Lauren Cameron standing there armed with her bruised vanity and a more substantial reserve of weaponry, Alex was taken aback to see Catherine, scantily clad and clutching a porcelain pitcher to her bosom as if it were her heart sprung from her chest. He lowered his cigar and checked the flow of resentment that surged through his bloodstream. Two beautiful women in a highly provocative state of dishevelment presenting themselves before him in less than a ten-minute span—if he did not know better, he would swear it was a conspiracy.

  “If you have come in here with the intentions of interrupting my bath, I give you fair warning of violence. I have waited the whole blessed day long for these few minutes of privacy and will relinquish them for nothing less calamitous than an earthquake or flood.” He shifted slightly, sending more billows of steam into the air as he stuck his cigar back into his mouth and closed his eyes again. “On the other hand, if you would care to join me …”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The whiteness of his teeth flashed in a grin as he lifted his glass. “In a drink, of course. There should be another glass around”—he waved the tumbler absently—“somewhere.”

  “No,” she said on an exasperated sigh. “I do not wish to join you in a drink.”

  “Mmm. You’re absolutely right. You have had quite enough already.”

  Catherine gripped the pitcher closer, the temptation to throw it almost too much to resist. “I supposed you had gone back to the party.”

  “The idea of a hot bath and cool sheets appealed to me more.”

  “Cool sheets? I should have thought you would have taken up the offer of warmer ones, what with all the attention being lavished on you tonight.”

  The dark eyes opened a sliver.

  Catherine moved closer to the fire, blithely unaware that the brightness behind her rendered the cambric of her nightdress all but invisible.

  Cameron groaned inwardly and closed his eyes again. “Do I detect another confrontation in the air, madam? If so, be so kind as to fetch the bottle down from the mantel.”

  “I would sooner say what I have to say to you while you are still relatively sober, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, but if you want me to hear anything you have to say, I suggest you move away from the fire. The view from here is extremely distracting.”

  Catherine glanced down. Then stepped quickly into the shadows by the hearth.

  “Thank you. Now … what is it you wish to discuss so earnestly? Not my sleeping habits, I warrant.”

  Catherine set the pitcher aside and clasped her hands together. “I do not wish to discuss anything. I insist on knowing exactly when you plan to honor your word and send me home again.”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You insist, do you?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I insist. You gave your word not only to me, but to my brother as well. You promised to send me home as soon as we reached your Archberry safely. Well, we are here and we are reasonably safe … although for how long is a matter of conjecture, what with all this talk of rebellion and crusading princelings.”

  Cameron delayed his response long enough to exhale a long streamer of smoke. “It might please you to know Donald thinks I have exhibited extremely poor sense of judgment by bringing a new wife to the Highlands at this time—a new English wife, at that. He did not put it into so many words, of course, for he is far too thrilled to see the yolk of wedlock fastened around my throat, but he does have an uncanny way of saying a great deal by saying nothing at all. In other words”—the dark eyes smoldered thoughtfully up at her—“even if you were my loving wife, and we were passionately—or should I say desperately—infatuated with one another, there would be little argument or opposition to my sending you back to Derby, at least until the troubles are resolved one way or another.”

  Catherine chewed her lower lip, trying not to notice how the water made every single muscle across his chest and shoulders gleam like polished bronze. “Is that what you intend to do? Pretend you are sending me away for my own safety?”

  “It is a logical solution.”

  “But one that would leave them with the impression we are still married, even after I am long gone.”

  “I said it was logical, not perfect.”

  She watched him reach out and tap the ash from his cigar. His hair was wet, clinging to his neck in glistening black streaks. The steam was blurring his features, softening them, and she had forgotten—or perhaps just refused to remember—the first time she had seen him in the forest glade, how the sight of all that sculpted muscle had taken her breath away. He was a frightening and dangerous man, full of contrasts, full of surprises. A man who could maneuver the graceful steps of a dance as easily as he could execute the deadly steps of a sword fight. The thread separating the savagery from the beauty was fine indeed, and she glanced at the door, suddenly so very far away.

  She moistened her lips. “When would it be … logical, then … to send me away?”

  He ignored her, ignored the question, and she laced her fingers tighter together.

  “If you haven’t the time to deliver me to the border yourself, you could let me send for Damien. He will be worried sick by now, and I’m sure he would sooner come fetch me himself than trust my safety to strangers.”

  “Are you forgetting the patrol we met on the road?”

  “Of course I’m not forgetting. How could I forget? I shall carry the horror of that single day with me the rest of my life!”

  “What makes you think your brother would fare any better?”

  “I … don’t understand.”

  “Come now, Catherine. You may not understand Gaelic, bu
t surely you grasped the drift of what the sergeant and his men had in mind for us? A stupid Englishman and his wife … a little fun and entertainment to while away the afternoon. After they finished robbing, raping, and killing us, they intended to blame the ambush on the rebels—popular scapegoats these days, I’m told.”

  “Damien and … and Hamilton will both come to fetch me. And Hamilton will bring a regiment of dragoons with him if necessary.”

  “I have no doubt that man would start the war himself, if necessary, and take the greatest pleasure in doing so. But your fiancé’s misguided ardor is not my biggest concern.” He rolled the cigar between his long, square-tipped fingers and studied the curling ash. “Just out of curiosity, has it occurred to you yet that your name and description—everything about you, in fact—is probably known by now by every Campbell, every Watchman, every militiaman and English soldier garrisoned between here and the Tweed? Even if your brother managed to make it through the patrols—and that is a very big if—what makes you think either one of you would make it out of the first glen alive? Do you understand, Mrs. Alexander Cameron, what I am trying, in my clumsy way, to tell you? I would imagine the Duke of Argyle and his kinsmen break out in rashes just thinking of what they would do to you if luck were to throw you into their hands.”

  Catherine stared at him aghast while the last few drops of blood drained from her face.

  “Then why?” she cried softly. “Why did you bring me here if you knew … if you even suspected there would be a chance I could become trapped here?”

  His dark eyes avoided her—possibly the first time they had done so. “To be quite honest, I have been asking myself that same question since we crossed the border.”

  Catherine recoiled from the unexpected contrition in his voice. It was another trap, another ploy to make him seem human, to unsettle her, to throw her off guard.