The Blood of Roses (23 page)

Catherine’s gaze was frozen on the letters, her mind racing ahead for a plausible explanation as to why she would have letters addressed to Deirdre in her possession. Or why Deirdre would be receiving letters at all.

A further bubble of panic swelled when she saw Sir Alfred’s attention begin to wander toward the glorious dishevelment of the bed. Shining at her, like the beacon atop a lighthouse roof, was the pooled silk of the nightdress draped languidly over the headboard.

“I’m not sure what influence I could bring to bear,” she said hastily. “Especially since I am not altogether convinced Mother is wrong.”

Sir Alfred’s head swiveled around. “What? What is that you say?”

“I said—” She paused and drew a breath. “I think I rather agree with Mother’s viewpoint. I see no reason to evacuate, no need to run away with our tails tucked up between our legs. In fact, if she wants the company, I shall most happily remain here at Rosewood Hall with her.”

Sir Alfred spluttered incoherently. “Have you lost your mind, child? Do you understand what you are saying? Do you understand what I have been telling you these past few minutes? The rebel army is on its way to Derby. It could well be here in a few hours! The militia is withdrawing; the servants, groundskeepers, even that addled boy who gathers cow droppings for the gardens has fled. You will be completely alone and unprotected here, entirely at the mercy of uncouth louts and barbarians.”

“I’m sure we will be quite safe, Father. The reports I have heard all suggest the prince is a perfect gentleman and quite the congenial houseguest.”

“Houseguest!”
Sir Alfred’s multilevel presentation of chins and jowls shivered with outrage. “You would extend the hospitality of Rosewood Hall to that … that French usurper?”

“I shall even endeavor to keep an accounting of the number of bottles of your fine Burgundy he appropriates.”

Lord Ashbrooke flushed crimson. He flung the bundle of letters aside in a gesture of utter disgust and walked stiffly to the bedroom door. “It is clear to me now that neither you nor your mother is in full command of your faculties. I shall therefore instruct the housemen to come up the stairs at once and collect you both—using force, if necessary.”

“Then by force shall they be met,” Catherine retorted evenly, her fists balling by her sides. “I might remind you we are both of the age of majority; we are neither of us bound by writs of slavery or serfdom and are therefore free to decide whether we wish to remain in our home or run into the woods like frightened children.”

“You will obey me!” Sir Alfred roared indignantly.

“I will obey my own conscience,” Catherine declared calmly.

Sir Alfred’s astonishment was complete. Confronted by this further defection from his circle of authority, he launched himself out the door and ran headlong into Deirdre O’Shea. The tray of tea and biscuits she had balanced precariously in one hand flew up and smashed against the wall in a shower of broken crockery and steaming liquid. Sir Alfred’s wig was carried away on the edge of the platter and landed like a splayed dustmop in the center of the spilled tea.

An even more voluminously roared curse sent the shocked maid scurrying to retrieve the headpiece as Lord Ashbrooke cast a scathing glance back at his daughter.

“My carriage will be departing at the stroke of noon! If your sanity returns before then, you may beg leave to accompany me. If not”—He snatched the wig out of Deirdre’s hand and gestured scornfully, spattering the adjoining walls with a spray of tea—“you may beg your leave of whichever libertine, thief, or cutthroat takes your fancy!”

Catherine watched her father storm off down the hall, but even before he had turned a corner out of sight, she was dragging Deirdre inside her room.

“Mercy, but I begin to understand why Mother has been compelled to turn elsewhere for companionship.”

“Mistress?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Just shut and bolt the door.”

“But the mess—”

“Leave it. It’s not important.”

Deirdre’s brown eyes, keener by far than Sir Alfred’s, gaped at the results of the minor hurricane that had passed through Catherine’s bedchamber. Where there would normally hardly be a crease to show where her mistress had slept in the wide feather bed, there was now an eruption of sheets and bedding. Where her mistress was uncommonly fastidious and neat when it came to her appearance, she now looked like a virago, all flying curls and mottled blushes.

Her first thought—outlandish as it seemed—was that father and daughter had resorted to fisticuffs. Her second, arrived at when her eyes focused on the hanging beacon of silk, was that she had not been mistaken when she had thought she heard someone creeping about in the hallways last night.

Restless for some reason and unable to sleep, Deirdre had been returning from the scullery with warmed milk and honey when she had caught a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows outside Catherine’s room. The door to the servants’ stairwell was situated at the far end of the corridor; also, it swung on hinges that sounded like the wail of a lovesick banshee. By the time Deirdre had set aside her cup of milk and hurried along the hallway to investigate, there was no one there. The door to Catherine’s room, when she tried the handle, was locked, and, apart from the muted crackle of the fire, there were no sounds coming from within.

Deirdre’s sense of unease had remained with her as she had mounted the narrow steps to her own room; had increased considerably when she had chanced to look out her window and seen Lieutenant Derek Goodwin trapped momentarily in a spill of moonlight. He had been crossing the cobbled courtyard and had paused to glare up in the direction of the second-storey windows. Even through the gloom and distance, Deirdre had seen the fury on his face. He was gone a moment later, swallowed into the darker shadows by the stables, but the impression of his anger had lingered for some time.

Now, equally disturbing, was the sight of her young mistress running to the dressing room and flinging the doors wide, laughing as she threw herself into the arms of a tall, half-naked man whose face was briefly hidden behind a cloud of soft blonde hair.

“Mistress Catherine!” Deirdre gasped. And then, when Catherine turned and her lover’s face was unveiled, the maid’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle a further shocked cry. “Mr. Cameron!”

“Mistress O’Shea. A pleasure to see you again.” Alex kept his arms wrapped securely around Catherine as he grinned at the maid. He had hurriedly donned his breeches during Sir Alfred’s visit and shrugged his shirt over his head, but the latter hung carelessly open over the rugged expanse of his chest. Deirdre looked from one glowing face to the other and needed no further explanation for the condition of the chamber or its occupant.

“A pleasure to see you, my lord. And a fine time indeed you’ve chosen to visit us.”

“Is it true?” Catherine asked. “Is what my father said true? Has the rebel army left Manchester?”

“It is as true as when I heard it this morning.” Deirdre nodded. “I came up to the room to waken you, but the door was still locked and I …” The wide brown eyes strayed back to Alexander’s sun-bronzed features. “I’m happy to see you are safe and well, sir, what with all the stories we’ve been hearing. Surely … surely you did not cross through such dangerous country alone?”

“I am sorry to say I did, Aluinn sends his love, however. He could not be spared from my brother’s services, but—” His gaze settled on the foot of the bed where the bundle of letters had been tossed. Leaving Catherine’s side, he fetched the packet and pressed them into Deirdre’s hands with a smile. “Perhaps these can tide you over until he appears here in the flesh—which could be sooner than any of us realizes if he is clever enough to put himself in the advance guard.”

Deirdre stared at the bounty in her hands. Her father, a poor and uneducated Irish gameskeeper, had not seen the value or purpose of sending his daughters to school to learn to read or write, but Deirdre had stubbornly plagued one of her brothers to teach her the basic rudiments. Once, during the long trek north into Scotland when fear and anger had kept her wary of Aluinn MacKail, she had seen him writing in a small leather-bound journal and she had envied his ability to set his thoughts down in such clear, precise script, seemingly without any real effort or concentration. Knowing she held pages and pages of those thoughts, written expressly for her, to her, set her pulse racing and her cheeks burning with nervous excitement.

“What shall I do?” she asked in a whisper.

“Find a quiet corner and read them,” Catherine insisted.

“But … I should fetch more tea—”

“I am not completely helpless when it comes to finding the kitchen,” said her mistress with mock indignation. “Now, away with you. I shall tend to myself and my husband, and I do not expect to see you again until you can quote every single word from every single page by heart.”

Deirdre beamed her thanks and turned back toward the door but halted after only a few steps and glanced back. “Is he well, my lord?”

“Aluinn? Fitter than I’ve seen him in years, benefiting immeasurably from the lack of rich foods and soft beds.”

Deirdre bit her lip. “His shoulder—”

“Fully healed. My word on it. The scoundrel even managed to best me with a sword last time we practiced—and won ten pounds from me in the process.”

The maid flashed a misty smile and executed a quick curtsy before leaving Alex and Catherine alone again. When the door closed behind her, Alex’s smile took a wry twist as he planted a kiss on the frosty blonde crown of Catherine’s head. “It is truly a sad state of affairs to think what you English wenches have done to us. Although, in Aluinn’s case, I can only say it serves him right for being so damned cocksure about
my
fallibility.”

“Does that mean you have no regrets?”

“A wise old warrior once told me the only regrets we should have are for the things we have not done.”

Catherine’s eyes sparkled. “Your grandfather, Sir Ewen?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Lady Maura told me Sir Ewen Cameron was a rather remarkable old fox. She said he defied life and logic and shamelessly took advantage of men, women, and children alike. There was something else, something about dark gods riding on his shoulders?”

“Ahh yes, the druids.” Alex winked conspiratorily. “According to the story, Sir Ewen went up into the mountains one day when he was hardly more than a gillie of fifteen. A sudden storm forced him to spend the night in a cave and when he went back down the mountain, he found he had been gone a month, not a day. His clothes were torn and bloodied, though there was not a scratch to be found on him anywhere. And the sword he carried, when it was examined closely, was discovered to be nearly five hundred years old and the original property of a shadowy ancestor known only as the
Camshroinaich Dubh
—the Dark Cameron. Sir Ewen had no idea how the ancient
clai’mór
had come to be in his possession, but as the legend goes, it was said to be charmed, forged from the same steel the druids had used to make Excalibur. It was also said that no man taking the sword into battle would ever suffer personal defeat, and whether it was the sword or the legend that worked for him, the wily old fox never returned to Achnacarry anything but the victor.”

“Where is it now?”

“The sword? I buried it with Sir Ewen fifteen years ago, after I used it to kill Angus and Dughall Campbell.”

The statement, quietly made, sent a shiver trickling icily through Catherine’s limbs. It was the first time he had ever made reference to the horrific events of that night. Had it not been for Lady Maura painfully recounting the story of Annie MacSorley’s death, Catherine might never have known the origins of the demons Alex had carried around locked inside him. Unfortunately, it also gave birth to some demons of her own, namely, how to combat the memory of a woman Alex had loved with a passion as wild and boundless as his love for the Highlands themselves. There were ways of fighting the Lauren Camerons of the world, but how was one supposed to fight a ghost?

Probing for the reason behind the softly out-of-focus stare, Alexander tipped her face up to his.

“My love for Annie was special,” he told her. “As special as only youth and innocence and a first stolen kiss can be. My love for you is a man’s love, Catherine. You are a part of me and nothing—no man, no king, no war, no ghost—can ever come between us.”

Catherine’s arms went up and around his shoulders, and she clung to his warmth and virility, thrilling to the feel of his lips, his hands, his heartbeat thundering against hers.

You are so right, my love, she thought in wild despair. No man, no king, no ghost is strong enough to come between us; only the indominable splendor of your honor, your pride, and your passion can accomplish that.

Lochiel would remain with Charles Stuart until the end because he had pledged his word to his king. Archibald Cameron would stay because he was a Cameron and because his pride in his name and his clan was paramount, even to life itself. Alexander’s motives were equally pure but potentially as self-destructive. He would stay with his brothers out of loyalty, fight alongside his clansmen out of pride, but if he died, it would be for Scotland, for his love of the barren, windswept moors and jagged corries he had been unable to call home for so many years and wanted so desperately to call home again. His passion was his strength, but it was also his greatest weakness.

The wolves were circling, wary of the might and presence of the kingly beasts who dared to challenge possession of the crown and so far, the lions had proved to be invincible. But should they drop their guard for an instant, or should the scavengers discover the quixotic virtue of their armor, all of the honor, pride, and passion in the world would not save them. It would, instead, be the cause of their ultimate downfall.

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