In their haste to reach the bed, neither had completely disrobed. Catherine still wore her chemise and bodice, although both were loose and gaped open over her breasts. Her skirt had been discarded, but his impatience had allowed him only to push her petticoats above her hips and free one slender leg from the pantaloons. Alex still wore his shirt, the linen spread open across the breadth of his chest with the excess shoved up beneath his arms.
Her eyes wandered lower and she stared. Despite their previous night of passion, when she had been left with the distinct impression there could be no possible secret or mystery yet to discover, she realized she had never seen a man’s naked body in the full, uncompromising light of day. By candlelight, or by firelight, her modesty had been greatly spared. There was no such vestige of charity now, and her cheeks flushed a hot, bright crimson as she studied the sleeping male form, measuring it and charting it as might an artist who was planning to transfer the bold contours to canvas.
Aside from the sheer physical beauty of Alexander Cameron, there were harsher realities revealed by the daylight. Dozens of scars, both fine and wide, threaded their way across the hard surface of his flesh. The thigh cut by Hamilton Garner’s saber bore an older welt, the skin shiny and pulled flat over the surrounding tissue. His ribs, his arms, even his belly wore the telltale signs of the life he had led in his fifteen-year absence from Achnacarry.
The love in her heart swelled to epic proportions, and she could not resist stealing a tender kiss from the wide, full lips. She carefully disentangled herself from the circle of his arms and left him to sleep, deciding she would make his excuses to the family and bring him a tray of food later.
Moving quietly so as not to disturb him, she slipped her skirt back on over her petticoats and repaired the froth of confusion he had made of her chemise and bodice. A quick glance at the mirror told her she would never be able to offer simple conversation as an explanation for their prolonged absence, but she worked a few minutes with a brush and comb to restore at least a modicum of propriety to her appearance. In truth, she did not care if the whole world knew what she and Alexander had been doing in the tousled arena of the bedchamber. Nor did she feel the least bit embarrassed that she had shamelessly seduced him into her bed. If there had been any lingering question as to how she felt about herself or her husband, it had been answered most thoroughly in his arms, and that was all she knew or cared about.
She had professed to love Hamilton Garner, but that love had been as phony and pretentious as the rest of her sorry existence. Her heart had never beaten wildly out of control at his approach, her skin had never prickled at the sound of his voice, her bones had never seemed to melt from within at his touch. All these things happened, and happened with shocking intensity, whenever Alexander was near her—even from that first moment she had laid eyes upon him in the clearing. She could no longer deny it or argue the logic of it: She was in love. Honestly, completely, painfully in love. And such a sweet pain it was! Sweet and all-consuming, from the tenderness between her thighs to the ache within her heart. She would gladly forsake anything to hold on to this feeling. She would willingly live in a little sod cottage if he asked it of her and if he was there to share it with her.
She finished her repairs and was crossing on tiptoes to the door when she saw Alex raise a hand and rake the hair back from his temple.
“Catherine?” His voice was slurred, heavy with fatigue.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered and went over to the bed. She pulled the quilt over his body and, on a sudden impulse, bent down and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
The dark eyes showed surprise … and pleasure.
“What was that for?”
“You,” she said simply. “Because you thrive on challenges.”
“I do?” he asked warily.
“Indeed. And here is a new one for you: I love you, Alexander Cameron. More than common sense or decency should allow. Your strength frightens me and your stubbornness angers me, and I believe you to be a truly dangerous threat to a woman’s inbred gentility, but there you have it. And unless you are prepared to give me several honest and convincing reasons why I should do otherwise, I intend to remain here at Achnacarry as your wife, as your lover if you will have me, as the mother of your sons, of which—please God—there will be many.”
His eyes widened and he started to push himself upright, but Catherine was already at the door. She heard him call out, but she dared not stop or go back. She had said it and she meant it, and it was up to him now whether they used the smuggler’s ship to send out a second explanatory letter to Damien or a bound, gagged, and screaming Catherine Ashbrooke Cameron.
Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking as she ran through the long gallery and down the narrow secondary corridor that opened into the courtyard. She ran across it and through the judas gate into the rose gardens, slowing down only when she entered the path she normally followed to the tranquil solitude of the shoreline.
When she was into the small band of trees that fringed the banks of the loch, she heard footsteps coming swiftly up behind her. She took a deep breath to brace herself for the inevitable arguments and turned steadfastly to confront her husband—but it was not Alex who came to a grinning halt behind her. It was not Alex who reached out his arms to her, and it was not Alex who clamped a brutal hand over her mouth to stifle her scream of horror.
Alex cursed as he threw back the quilt and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. A wife! A lover! A mother, goddammit! Where had all that come from?
“Catherine!”
The roar of his voice died away without producing any results, and he cursed again as he spread the six yards of tartan on the floor and rolled himself in the pleats, securing it about his waist with a leather belt.
She loved him, did she? She was going to stay at Achnacarry, was she? Didn’t she know there was a war about to break out? Didn’t she know her position here in the Highlands could only get worse, not better, regardless of whatever support and protection his own immediate family might be able to offer?
What the hell had happened during his absence?
He sprang to his feet, flinging the surplus length of tartan over his shoulder as he bolted out the door.
She loved him. Of all the stupid, untimely …
His mind replayed her impassioned speech word for word as he ran through the gallery and checked several of the main rooms. A startled servant gaped at his bare chest and his bare feet and pointed out a window, telling him she had seen Catherine run out into the garden, and in a swirl of crimson and black plaid he followed.
He was not entirely blameless, he reasoned as he pushed through the judas gate. He never should have touched her. He should have cut off his hands first before surrendering to the temptation of all that silky white flesh. He never should have kissed her. He never should have looked into those treacherously beautiful eyes of hers and imagined seeing a plea there … a plea to be taken and held and loved.
His footsteps slowed on the gravel path.
So he had bedded her, what of it? He had bedded dozens of women over the years, some equally as lovely and seductive as Catherine Ashbrooke. What made her different? What set her apart from the rest? Why the devil had he gone through with the marriage when he could easily have slipped away into the night and never seen her again? And why, in God’s name, had he gone up to her room today? He had wanted her too badly, needed her, truth be known, in ways he did not even want to think about … and hadn’t thought about until just this minute.
A wife? A lover? A mother for his children? Not since Annie’s death had he even allowed such thoughts to enter his mind.
Annie. There was the real hell of it. He could hardly remember her face anymore, aside from the impression of sweetness and sunshine. When he tried, all he could see was Catherine dancing under the glitter of candlelight at Rosewood Hall, or Catherine in the forest, standing in a pool of sunlight, or Catherine looking up at him, her eyes
round with wonder as she discovered ecstasy in his arms.
Aluinn had said it was time to let the ghosts rest. Perhaps he was right.
And she would be safe here. Achnacarry could be changed into a fortress at the turn of a key, isolated and inviolate.…
“Catherine?”
He listened for a reply, but there was only the furious squawking of birds in the trees somewhere off to his left. He ignored the irritating little prickle at the nape of his neck and listened to his heart instead. It was beating against his breastbone, demanding to be heard. He had kept it prisoner too long, denied it the softness and tenderness and trust.…
“Catherine?”
The breeze snatched his voice and carried it into the stand of trees. He saw the glitter of sunlight reflecting off the water of the loch, and he pictured Catherine sitting by the shore, prim and stiff with rebelliousness, waiting for him to present her with all his righteous arguments as to why he should send her away and why she should go.
He paused at the edge of the garden and plucked a snow-white rose.
A wife, a lover, a mother for his sons …
Alex stopped. This time the uneasy feeling was too insistent to ignore. He stared hard into the trees on either side of the path and tried to determine what it was that was out of order, but he could see nothing. He could hear nothing but the faint lapping of water against the shore and the incessant screaming of the birds.
His hand fell to his waist and he gaped down in shock as he realized he had been so distracted in his haste to dress and chase after Catherine, he had neglected to bring along a weapon of any kind—a precautionary habit that had become as instinctive to him as eating or breathing during the past fifteen years. And looking down, he saw something else. A bright patch of color where there should have been only the drab brown and green of the hedgerow.
Alex bent down and clutched the dainty satin slipper in his fist, and again his eyes bored into the maze of trees and glittering slivers of sunlight. There was no movement, no sound. He pushed aside the bushes that bordered the path and almost missed it: a long, shiny thread of silver-blonde hair caught on a branch.
“Catherine—”
There was more. Freshly scuffed earth and the clear imprint of boots had left evidence of the struggle that had taken place before they had managed to quiet her. Alex whirled and ran back to the garden, shouting the alarm to the guards on the castle walls before he had even cleared the trees.
21
Struan MacSorley was just pacing himself toward the final rush of orgasm when he heard the alarm sound in the courtyard. His eyes bulged wide and he sucked in an enormous breath as he caught Lauren midstroke and tossed her summarily off his thighs. She gasped and scrambled blindly to reseat herself, but he was already off the cot, unmindful of his nudity or glaring tumescence as he took up his sword and flung himself out the door.
He was back less than a minute later.
“What is it?” she cried. “What’s wrong?”
“Get yersel’ dressed an’ out o’ here, lass,” he ordered sharply. “There be Campbells on the land.”
“Campbells? Here at Achnacarry? But how—”
“Are ye deif, woman? Dinna stan’ there askin’ daft questions.” He flung himself on his tartan and rose seconds later fully covered. “I said get dressed. They’ll be countin’ heids in the great hall an’ yers had best be among them—wi’ all yer claythes on.”
Lauren glanced down along her flushed and gleaming body. “Surely they havena come tae attack the castle? An’ how did they get so far onto Cameron land?”
“The point is tae no’ let them get off again—an’ no’ wi’ Alasdair’s wife.”
“The Sassenach? They’ve taken the Sassenach?”
“Aye, that they have, sneakin’ thievin’ swines.”
Lauren sank back against the wall, her eyes shimmering with the excitement that raced through her body. She could scarcely believe it. She could scarcely believe it had happened so swiftly.
“Gie us a wee kiss f’ae luck, lass,” MacSorley demanded, scooping her lustily into the circle of his arm. He was about to promise a finish to what they had begun, but halted when he saw the malicious little smile playing on her lips. “Here now, why d’ye look so pleased wi’ yersel’?”
“Pleased?” She blinked and tried to concentrate on his craggy face. “I’m no’ pleased, Struan MacSorley. But I’ll no’ lie by sayin’ I’m sorry it were her they took instead o’ … instead o’ Lady Maura, f’ae instance. Or one o’ the ithers. Or even me.”
“Aye, well … the Sassenach is still a Cameron,” he grumbled, “an’ it shouldna be so easy tae lift her out o’ the gardens.”
“Nae wonder they took her there; it’s where she spends most o’ the day. She has naught tae do wi’ anyone ither than tae peer at us down her long English nose an’ laugh ahind our backs. Why, she thought I were a laundress the fairst day she were here. Told me so tae ma face, she did, an’ me there tae lend her claythes an’ welcome her tae the family. Welcome her, hah! She never wanted tae come tae Achnacarry; she were brung here against her will. Kidnapped, she was, an’ used as hostage tae see Alasdair an’ Aluinn through the patrols.”
Struan’s eyes narrowed. “What are ye talkin’ about? What do ye mean she were brung against her will?”
“She didna come tae Achnacarry by choice,” she repeated tersely. “She has neither a love f’ae Scotland nor a love f’ae Alasdair. She keeps a separate bed an’ bars the door at night. I heard them fightin’ the fairst night. I heard her talk about her fiancé back in England. A sojer! A lieutenant in the dragoons! She threatened tae send f’ae him, tae send f’ae her fancy sojer an’ his whole regiment o’ lobsterbacks if Alasdair didna let her go home!”
The wiry froth of Struan’s beard split over an ugly scowl and he gripped her tightly by the shoulders. “Ye’re speakin’ through yer teeth, woman. Why would he bring her here an’ call her his wife if it werena true?”
“I dinna ken the answers, Struan, only more questions. Were I you, I’d be askin’ them too. I’d be askin’ how the sojers knew tae find them by the Spean. An’ why did the Sassenach stop Alasdair from killin’ Gordon Ross Campbell when he had the chance? I might even go so far as tae ask how the Campbells knew she’d be alone in the garden today, an’ how they were able tae take her wi’out a sound in the full daylight.”
“I dinna like what ye’re sayin’, lass,” Struan hissed, his breath hot on her face.
“I dinna like the idea o’ the pair o’ ye ridin’ out after her, wi’ most o’ the men still away wi’ Lochiel an’ scarcely a han’ful left tae chase after God only knows how many Campbells. I dinna like tae think it might be the Sassenach’s way o’ winnin’ her revenge, tae set a trap f’ae Alasdair an’ turn him over tae Argyle.”
He relaxed his grip and stepped back from the cot, his every instinct fighting against the ring of truth in her words. But the facts were there. Had he and Alex not spent the better part of two days negotiating passage back to England for the lass and her maid? Struan had not questioned his reasons and no explanations had been offered, but Alex had seemed almost relieved when the arrangements had been finalized—as if he could not wait to get his bride out of Scotland.
Something was not right, Struan admitted, but just what that was he couldn’t say.
Lauren studied the changes in his expression intently. “Are ye thinkin’ on Annie, yer own sweet sister deid these many years? Are ye thinkin’ on what she would make o’ such a shameless bed o’ lies?”
“I’m thinkin’,” he said evenly, “that ye’ll wish it were you an’ no’ the Sassenach stolen by the Campbells if I hear ye’ve breathed one word o’ this tae anyone else. Anyone, d’ye hear me?”
“Aye, Struan, I hear ye.” Rising onto her knees, she pressed her moist, imploring lips over his. “Struan … dinna be angry wi’ me. I couldna bear it if ye were angry wi’ me f’ae speakin’ the fear that were in ma heart.”
His eyes lost some of their fierce glaze and his hands closed around her arms again, this time lifting her so that her mouth was crushed brutally against his. She clawed her fingers into his shoulders and matched the violence of his kiss, groaning as she did so.
“Ye will be careful, will ye no’?” she cried softly. “If it is a trap—”
“If it’s a trap it will be sprung on the one who laid it. Now, get dressed. Lady Maura will be needin’ ye.”
Lauren watched him snatch up his blue woolen bonnet and set it on a slouching angle over the straw-colored hair. Without a glance he left her, his angry steps fading away on the cobblestones.
She released a long, pent-up breath and massaged the tender flesh of her upper arms, cursing him for the bruises that would be there come the morning. She did not particularly relish a lover with an unpredictable temper. A violent passion was one thing, threats of violence against her person were quite another.
Deep in thought, she dressed and slipped out of the guardhouse unnoticed. Instead of following instructions and making her way to the great hall, she veered toward the dingy, sooty structure that housed the castle smithy. There was no one working over the coal pit, no clang of hammer on anvil, and she moved on quiet feet through to the small chamber in the rear.
He was there, asleep in a curled fetal position, an empty jug of whisky cradled in his arms. Lauren stared at the thin, bony frame of the man and felt a shudder of revulsion ripple through her. She could scarcely believe she had let him crawl over her body or that she had allied herself with such a vile, foul-smelling creature. But it had been a necessary evil. Doobie Logan was the lowest form of life imaginable to a Highlander—a clansman who spied and informed on his own kin to their enemies. Logan was paid well by the Campbells to keep them abreast of the comings and goings at Achnacarry. Lauren had passed him the odd tidbit—like the decision to send young Iain Cameron to London to meet the Camshroinaich Dubh—and she had been paid extremely well, though the price Logan had demanded in turn for keeping her secret as a fellow conspirator had made her scrub her body raw afterward.
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