She thought of home, of Derby and Rosewood Hall, of Damien and Harriet—even of Hamilton Garner. But they all seemed so distant somehow, as if they had been part of a life she had lived years, not mere weeks, ago.
What would Damien do when he received her letter? He would be relieved to know she was safe and coming home at last, but would he also be able to read between the lines and know something had happened between her and the man she had sworn to hate to her dying days? Damien had admitted to befriending Raefer Montgomery. What had he said—? That the name might change, but not the character of the man. He had obviously found qualities to like and trust in Alex, and as his lawyer he would surely have been privy to information concerning not only his business assets, but his personal life as well. Was there something she should be reading between the lines? Something she had missed in their relationship? Something that did not quite ring true about their confrontation in Wakefield?
Catherine was not permitted to explore the thought further. A soft tapping on the bedchamber door announced the arrival of Deirdre, who seemed surprised to find her mistress awake and sitting by the window.
“Shall I bring you a cup of hot chocolate? It is a dreadful, dreary morning, is it not?”
Catherine stared out the window again. The mist formed an opaque wall she could not see through, but she imagined the still, inky waters of the loch below and the jagged beauty of the mountains beyond. If she tried very hard she could even see a horseman riding along the crest of the clouds, his black cape flowing behind him, a giant black stallion prancing beneath him.
Go to him. The harm is done; what more could happen from a simple farewell?
“Pardon me? Did you say something?”
Deirdre looked over and frowned. “I asked if you wanted your meal up here or if you intended to join Lady Cameron and the others in the breakfast room.”
“Oh.” She delayed giving a direct answer and sighed. “How is Mr. MacKail this morning?”
“Angry as a mule with a burr under his tail. He actually tried to get up out of bed to join the others, daft man. Dr. Archibald had to pour a whole vial of laudanum down his throat to stop him. I don’t suppose it helps, his room being directly over the courtyard with all the noise and fuss.”
Catherine pricked to attention. “Can you see anything from there? I mean, the fog is so thick.…”
“Oh, yes, mistress. His is a small room only a storey above the ground. You cannot see across the court, but you can see quite clearly into it. And they are making ever so much noise.” Deirdre saw the look on her face and ventured to add, “Mr. MacKail is sound asleep. He would never know you were there if you wanted to take a peek from his window.”
“I … I don’t know. I …”
“After all, it is rather an important errand they are setting out on. A bit of history in the making, I should think, riding out to tell the Stuart prince to go home to Italy.” Seeing Catherine’s further hesitation, she took up a velvet robe and draped it over her shoulders. “We would have to hurry if we’re not to miss them leaving.”
MacKail’s room was not very far and the window was, as Deirdre had said, directly above the courtyard. The dripping fog had cloaked everything in a light haze, but there were enough torches lit to burn away the moisture, at least around the men and horses. Impervious to the rain, Donald Cameron stood near the center of the yard, dressed in all the pomp and splendor befitting an influential Highland chief. His hair was tied back with a black silk ribbon, his head covered by a bonnet trimmed with the eagle feather that marked his rank. His jacket, waistcoat, and trews were tartan, as was the voluminous length of wool draped regally over his shoulder, but each was a different pattern and blend of colors so that he glowed crimson, black, yellow, and green from head to toe.
Surrounding him, waiting the order to form and march, were a dozen personal servants, several pipers, the clan bard—who would record every word of the momentous occasion for posterity—and no less than sixty heavily armed clansmen led by the lion-maned giant, Struan MacSorley. Catherine did not envy Lochiel and his entourage their trip over hazardous mountain passes and rocky gorges in this weather. The thickening mist showed signs of returning to a full-fledged rain before too long, and the lingering effects could well hang over their heads for the entire journey.
Inwardly, Catherine could admit to some curiosity over the man they were riding to meet. She had heard all the stories about the Stuart prince—how handsome he was, how witty, how charming and eloquent. She could also not help but feel some sympathy for him, having come all this way only to be told by men like Lochiel that there was no chance for a rebellion to succeed, not without committed help from France and from dissidents in England.
Was there ever a royal family so plagued by misfortune? James I of Scotland had been murdered, James II killed by an exploding cannon, James III slain in a rebellion of his own nobles led by his son. James IV had fallen in battle at Floddenfield, James V had died of shame after his army deserted him at Solway. Mary, Queen of Scots, had been forced to flee her country and her throne, only to be considered a threat by her cousin Elizabeth and imprisoned for nineteen years before eventual execution. Her son James had in turn been named King of England and Scotland after the Union of the Crowns, but both he and his son Charles I ruled so arrogantly and despotically, the Puritans had ousted them in a civil war. After eleven years of suffering Cromwell’s purges the crown was restored to the Stuart heirs, but upon Charles’s death the throne was taken by his brother James II, a staunch Roman Catholic. In desperation Parliament asked William of Orange, then married to James’s Protestant daughter, Mary, to come to England and seize the throne in his wife’s name. The invasion of the Orangemen sent James II fleeing to France and brought about a law in England decreeing that all future monarchs had to be of the Protestant faith.
During his daughter’s reign, James died in exile. Louis XIV of France was quick to support James’s son, the thirteen-year-old James Francis Stuart, as rightful King of England, as much to stir up old hostilities as to win an ally in the exiled youth and his mock court. In 1702 the English throne was again bereft of an heir, but the government ignored James III’s claim in favor of Mary’s sister, Anne. James was passed over again eleven years later when Anne died without issue, and so desperate was the English Parliament to avoid another Catholic king, they traced back nearly a century to find a descendant of James I’s Protestant daughter ruling the state of Hanover in Germany. In 1714 the elector of Hanover was crowned George I, and a year later James Francis Stuart made his first serious bid to reclaim the throne.
It was probably true, Catherine reflected, that the people of England would have preferred the son of James II to the doughty, fifty-four-year-old foreigner who spoke no English and surrounded himself with a pompous German court. But James Francis Stuart was Catholic and refused to appease Parliament by converting to the Protestant faith. Moreover, his roots were firmly in Scotland and raised fears of a definite shifting of power to the north.
The Scots, naturally, took this as a further slap in the face. In the rebellion of 1715, ten thousand loyal clansmen took to the battlefield at Sheriffmuir in support of King James. Catherine’s father and uncles had joined most of England in lining up behind King George to defend the Hanover claim, dealing the Jacobites a bloody and costly defeat that had sent the Pretender back to France to lick his wounds.
But how, in reality, had he expected any other outcome? England was master of the sea, boasting an empire of colonies in America, the West Indies, and India. Could it have afforded to allow the comparatively small nation of bristling Scotsmen to displace its king and put one of their own on the throne, regardless if their claim was legitimate or not? Could it afford to do so now?
Catherine knew the answer, just as she was beginning to understand why Alexander Cameron had come back home after so many years away. It had nothing to do with politics, certainly nothing to do with religion. It had everything to do with family, w
ith pride, with his identity and self-respect as a Scot and a man.
Having grown up well-schooled in her father’s prejudices and staunch political beliefs, Catherine had been content up to now to recite them blindly, barely giving any thought to whether there was as much wrong on both sides as there was right. She gave it serious consideration now, however, realizing how difficult it must be for proud men like the Camerons and the crusty Keppoch she had met the other night to go to their brave but foolhardy prince and tell him there would be no grand restoration forthcoming.
You are beginning to sound as if you hold some sympathy for these rebels, her conscience chided silkily. That could be dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.
Catherine ignored the little voice and leaned forward to press her forehead to the window. She had caught sight of a familiar figure striding through the wisps of fog, and her eyes followed him now, her mind gone completely blank of any other thoughts. He was dressed like everyone else, in a woolen kilt and short frock coat. His head was uncovered and his hair unbound, the long, thick, ebony shock curling against his temples in the dampness. Stopping by Shadow’s side, he began to check the tension of the cinches, and the stallion’s elongated, graceful head turned, nudging him with affection. Alexander murmured something in the huge beast’s ear and produced an apple from somewhere under the folds of tartan slung over his shoulder.
As Shadow munched, Cameron’s gaze strayed upward toward the windows. Catherine flinched back, not wanting to be seen, and her attention was caught by a poignant exchange taking place on the torchlit steps. Lady Maura and her husband were standing there, his hand resting lovingly on her cheek as they smiled softly at each other, unmindful of the milling, bustling confusion that surrounded them.
After Maura tenderly kissed his palm Lochiel mounted his dapple gray, giving the signal for the rest of the horsemen to follow suit. The pipers filled their chanters and struck the first few chords of a lively marching tune, the notes swelling and echoing off the wet stone walls.
Alex drew his horse in line behind Donald and next to Struan MacSorley. At the last possible moment there was a flash of titian red, and Lauren Cameron ran out of the crowd of wives and well-wishers. She stopped between the two men and made a demand that won a laugh from both of them. Alex bent over first and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. She looked disappointed and pouted at MacSorley, who roared and scooped her into his saddle with a swirl of skirts and bare, thrashing legs. His mouth plunged down over hers, kissing her with enough enthusiasm to rouse a prolonged and ribald cheer from his men. The hand around her waist slid boldly up to cup a breast, while the other disappeared beneath her petticoats long enough to start her legs wriggling and squirming again in a squealed, falsely modest effort to break free.
Catherine backed completely away from the window and let the curtain fall back into place. Her throat was tight and her eyes ached with a dull throbbing. The previous night she had willed Alexander into Lauren Cameron’s arms with haughty contempt, but somehow she did not feel so haughty now, knowing that when she was gone and out of the way, Lauren—or someone else like her—would be more than eager and willing to fill Catherine’s place in his bed. He had demonstrated with breathtaking intensity that he was a healthy, virile man with appetites that could not go unappeased too long. The thought of his arms around someone else, of his body straining and thrusting into someone else …
She had to put those thoughts behind her. She would need all of her strength, all of her concentration to face the ordeal that surely awaited her at Rosewood Hall. She would also have to deal with the reality that she was no longer Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke, the most sought-after heiress in three counties. She was Catherine Ashbrooke Montgomery, and widow or not, the damage to her reputation had been a fait accompli the moment she had ridden away from Rosewood Hall. Had she herself not always been among the first to laugh and gossip with relish over the merest hint of scandal involving any of her peers? Had she not regarded it as a solemn duty to defame a rival’s character, however flimsy the evidence of misconduct might have been against her? In this case there would be no shortage of former victims positively drooling for a chance at revenge. Two weeks … two hours in the company of a man like Alexander Cameron would have sealed her fate in stone.
There was nothing she could do about it. Her only defense was stupidity. She had started by flaunting herself at him at the birthday party and compounded each error thereafter by challenging him at every turn, deliberately poking and prodding his temper until she’d left him no choice. She had acted childishly, tormenting him with a naïveté that, in hindsight, she could only regard with wonder. Add to the list ignorance, stubbornness, conceit, duplicity … all of the fine qualities he had accused her of possessing from the outset. And yet, if he was so clever, why could he not now see the doubts that were tearing her apart?
“It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “It just isn’t fair.”
“Eh? Ye want some air?”
Catherine looked up, startled by the sound of Auntie Rose’s voice so close to her ear. Even more startling was the fact that she was seated before the fire in the family retiring room, that she had been so totally immersed in her own misery for the umpteenth time since Lochiel’s departure from Achnacarry three days earlier that she was unaware of her surroundings or her company.
“Ye look warm, hen,” Rose said solicitously. “Aye, ye’ve been sittin’ here long enough tae roast yer cheeks a rare shade o’ pink.”
Maura glanced up from her needlepoint. “Would you care for another cup of chocolate, or perhaps some wine?”
“Chocolate?” Rose’s button nose wrinkled in disdain. “Bah! Devil’s brew, tha’. Pour us oot a wee dram o’ uisque, there’s a good lassie. Do more good f’ae the soul than all the sweet brown coo’s milk in the world.”
Grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs, Catherine set her own square of neglected stitchery on the arm of the chair and crossed to the sideboard. She glanced askance in Jeannie’s direction, but the doctor’s wife was sound asleep in a chair by the window, her mouth quivering open on each rattled breath.
“Some o’ us dinna have the stamina,” Rose declared cheerfully and bent her snowy head to the length of lace she was tatting.
Catherine smiled and unstoppered the decanter, but before she could finish pouring, her gaze was attracted to the bright square of light glowing through the high, narrow window. It had rained the first two days and nights of Lochiel’s absence. As strong and well-fortified as Achnacarry was, the damp had found its way through the doors and windows, rendering most of the rooms—especially those in the more ancient sections—cold and musty and unfriendly. Today, even though the clouds seemed to have lifted temporarily and the fire was blazing hot and crackling, Catherine’s mood failed to rise accordingly.
“Pour some f’ae yersel’, hen,” Rose ordered. “It’ll dae ye nae harm on a foul day such as this.”
“Lady Cameron?”
“No, thank you, dear. I still have some wine.” Her glass from the noon meal sat by her elbow, the contents not diminished by more than a mouthful over the last hour.
“Aye, love, aye,” Jeannie said, snorting herself back awake. “I’ll have a wee one. Ma throat’s dry as an auld sock.”
“Nae wonder f’ae that,” Rose commented. “Ye’ve snorked enough air this part hour tae pipe us all the way tae Glas’gy.”
Catherine delivered their glasses, but did not return to her seat. “I think I shall take advantage of the break in the weather to walk outside.”
“In this damp? Quickest way tae rot yer lungs, hen,” Rose cautioned.
“Nonsense.” Maura laid her embroidery aside. “I feel like a little fresh air myself—assuming you would not mind the company.”
“Not at all.”
Catherine had found herself growing sincerely fond of Donald’s wife. It had been at Lady Cameron’s insistence that she leave the dreary loneliness of her room and join the others for mea
ls, for the afternoons of sewing, and for evenings of lively conversation. Her discomfort had quickly been eased when she realized the gossip revolved mainly around harvests and sheep shearing, the children’s tribulations and education—everyday problems concerning everything from pending marriages to the market price of wool. Normal and civilized. There was the expected amount of discussion surrounding Charles Stuart’s presence in Scotland, but, oddly enough, not nearly as much as what dominated the parlor conversations in Derby. For Catherine, who had assumed all of Scotland was frothing at the mouth in anticipation of swarming south and invading England, it came as an unsettling revelation to know that so many advocated peace. They were not warmongers and savage barbarians thirsting for blood. In many ways, in fact, their family lives were more serene, more sociable, less pretentious than those she witnessed in Derby and London.
She thought of the dandies in their tight fawn breeches, stiff neckcloths, wigs, and smelly pomades, and compared them to the Cameron clansmen and neighbors who had gathered to celebrate Alexander’s homecoming. Their clothing was drastically different to be sure—there was hardly a frock coat, neckcloth, or scented handkerchief among the lot. But their smiles were honest, their laughter genuine and robust. The Cameron family had shown no reluctance or lasting hostility in welcoming Catherine among them. Would Sir Alfred or any of his influential, socially prominent, civilized peers have acted the same had she introduced a black-haired, kilted Scottish renegade to the table at Rosewood Hall?
The Pride of Lions Page 29