“You seem to be quite well-informed about what goes on in the Jacobite army,” she said tersely.
“It is my luck to be privy to information London prefers to keep close to its breast, including the stories and rumors of a certain legendary figure who is quickly assuming the title ‘invincible.’ The result, my dear sister, is that any lobsterback worth his salt ration would trade his firstborn son for the honor of capturing or killing Alexander Cameron.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Frankly, I’m worried that it may have a good deal to do with you. And Alex was worried as far back as August, when he sent you out of the country in hopes of throwing the hounds off the scent.”
“Damien, for heaven’s sake, will you stop talking in riddles.”
“You are a clever girl, Catherine, figure it out. You married a tall, strappingly handsome, black-haired rogue whose skill with a sword was sufficient to win honors from the Master of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons. Moreover, after the much-celebrated duel and much-gossiped-about nuptials, the pair of you disappeared without a trace for over a month. Coincidentally, during the same four-week period Alexander Cameron—another tall, strappingly handsome, black-haired rogue—reappears in the Scottish Highlands after a prolonged absence on the Continent. Once there, does he keep his presence low-key and unremarkable? Heavens, no. He acts out a fifteen-year-old vendetta against the nephew of one of the most powerful Hanover chiefs in Scotland, doing so while in the act of rescuing his beautiful, golden-haired English bride.”
“Damien … you know all the details and I know all the details, but who on earth is going to take the trouble to run back and forth between Scotland and England to link the two stories?”
“You met some of the Duke of Argyle’s kinfolk,” Damien said bluntly. “And you still require an answer to that?”
“But it was a personal matter between Alex and Malcolm Campbell. Campbell is dead now; that should be the end of it.”
“Should be,” Damien agreed. “Would be if we were talking about proper English gentlemen here, but we’re not. We’re talking about a race of people who were born fighting. Highlanders take their honor very seriously; an insult to a fourth cousin twice removed is still an insult to the clan chief. The reward on Alex, in fact, has doubled to twenty thousand gold sovereigns. I’m hearing nasty rumors laced with words like ‘assassin’ and ‘paid killer,’ and if that is the case you can bet they’ll be probing for any obvious weakness in our valiant friend’s armor.”
“Meaning me,” she said softly.
“Meaning any weakness. You just happen to be foremost in my mind, for obvious reasons.”
“I know how truly worried you must be, but … you also know I must see him. I must, Damien. Even if it is only from a distance and only for a few brief moments.”
Damien smiled wryly. “Oddly enough he said almost the exact same thing … and I did not believe him either.”
She flushed and caressed the letter where she still held it against her breast. “Well then, big brother, what do you suggest we do?”
“We do nothing. You return to the house and go on about your business as if nothing untoward has happened.”
“But—”
“I, in due course, shall meet with your husband as per his instructions, and together we shall decide the best and safest way to arrange a meeting. I want your promise on this, Kitty. I want your word that you will not try anything foolish like following me or venturing out on your own.” He tilted her face upward again, his hand as firm and uncompromising as the stern set to his jaw. “Alex knows what he is doing. And we both know, if there is any chance in hell of him getting you alone for five minutes, he will.”
The fire was little more than a sporadic ripple of flames at the ends of the half-charred log when some faint scratching sound disturbed the silence of the sleeping house. Catherine stirred and sought a warmer hollow in the mattress, not wanting her dream to be interrupted. It had been the same for the past two nights since she had seen Damien in the forest, the dream so vivid, so real, she could feel the searching fingertips skimming over the taut peaks of her breasts, the naked, heated flesh pressing against hers, the long, wickedly skillful fingers stroking deftly into the aching juncture of her thighs.
She also knew the dream would not last, and she whimpered softly in her sleep. All the craven sensations, so long denied, were flooding her loins, coursing through her body like waves of thick, rich cream. There was pressure where she longed most to feel it, and she parted her thighs willingly, undulating against the insistent, probing tension until the sheer silk of her nightdress was wet with her need.
The pressure was so real—the pleasure so intense—she cried out and pushed herself closer to the source of warmth. And for as long as it took her to realize that it was not a dream, that she was not alone in the bed, her body continued to respond, to plead for a deeper intimacy. But then her eyes snapped open. The very real presence of muscle and bone and hard male sinew brought a jarring halt to all sensations in her body, and a scream of pure terror bubbled to her lips. She struck out with her fists, pushing and writhing against the great wall of naked muscle that threatened to crush her. She managed to land a solid blow to his temple and was gathering strength for another when she heard a softly murmured Gaelic oath.
Her fist froze in midair and her eyes widened. Certain her mind was playing some dreadful hoax, her body tensed and her heart skipped several beats.
“A hell of a greeting for a wife to give her husband,” Alex murmured, his hand firmly in place over her mouth. Indeed, as she continued to stare up at him in shock, the hand slid around to cradle the side of her neck, and the pressure of his fingers was replaced by the possessive warmth of his lips.
“Alex?” she gasped. “Oh, God … Alex?”
“You were expecting someone else perhaps?”
To Peter, my mainstay, who puts up with the insomnia, the forgotten meals, the constant doubts, and biweekly threats to heave the typewriter through the window … any window.…
To Lesley, who says she has yet to see her name in any of my books, and to Suzie and Lindsay, whose mother insists they be twenty-one before they find out if they are in any of my books.
To the various friends and acquaintances who step lively through these pages, I hope they realize they do so out of affection.
And to my son, Jeffrey, who was just a little boy the last time I looked up from my desk and now … well, he calls me Shorty.
Books by Marsha Canham
Midnight Honor
Pale Moon Rider
The Blood of Roses
The Pride of Lions
Across a Moonlit Sea
In the Shadow of Midnight
Straight for the Heart
Through a Dark Mist
Under the Desert Moon
The Last Arrow
About the Author
Marsha Canham has written eleven historical romances for Dell. She has received numerous writing awards and lives outside Toronto, Canada.
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