The Blood of Roses (67 page)

“Going somewhere?”

Alexander glanced over his shoulder and saw Count Fanducci lounging easily against the opened door frame. Having come away from Culloden with only the torn remnants of the clothes on his back, he looked somewhat subdued in a borrowed shirt and plain breeches. Standing there, with the muted light from the hall behind him and the blurred beams of daylight washing over him from the window, there was something about his face that prodded Alex’s memory, but the moment passed as the count pushed away from the door and strode over to the bed.

“Ahh … shirt, coat, boots, and-a breeches,” he mused, inspecting the assorted garments Alex had collected and laid out on the bed. “Inglaz-y clothes and the Inglaz-y accent will only take you so far,
signore
.”

“I have to try.”

“Si, si.
You worry after you beautiful wife. But what-a good can you do her in-a prison?”

“I’m aware of the risks, my friend,” Alex replied evenly, thrusting an extra shirt into the knapsack. He winced as a sudden jab of pain shot up his bandaged left arm, reminding him he had only minimal strength in his hand, and then only at a tremendous premium in pain. The rest would come back in time, or so Archibald claimed. The trouble was, of course, he didn’t have any more time. If Catherine was in trouble. If she was alone or afraid. If she needed help …

He stopped and squeezed his eyes shut to block out any further ifs but was only partially successful.

If only Aluinn were here with him, the two of them could have set everything to rights again. Aluinn would not have attempted to delay him or talk him out of going. He would have been just as eager to be out looking for his wife. Good God, Deirdre was out there somewhere with Catherine. So was Damien Ashbrooke. So were twenty good clansmen. Surely they hadn’t just disappeared off the face of the earth; not if Struan had managed to make it back to Culloden.

“He was-a the good man,
signore,”
Fanducci said quietly. “I’m-a sure she’s safe.”

Alex looked up, unaware that he had been gripping the shirt so tightly a seam had given way. And unaware his thoughts had been stamped so clearly on his face.

“I liked them both:
Signore
Struan and-a
Signore
MacKail. They were the very brave men. They would have-a died very well.”

Alex said nothing. There was nothing he could say without admitting to either man’s death.

“The soldiers,
signore,”
Fanducci said, clearing his throat and twisting at the end of his moustache with a thumb and forefinger. “They might-a not believe one crazy Inglaz-y on the road, but say if they meet one-a crazy Inglaz-y and-a one … mmm … only slightly crazy
Italiano?”

Alex glanced up. “You truly would be crazy, Fanducci, if you volunteered to come with me.”

The count shrugged. “Back home, in-a Italy, they think the Fanduccis are all a little crazy. Besides, I’m-a counted fourteen holes in my clothes when I come-a here. Fourteen chances they had to kill me and-a still they missed. I’m-a don’t think either one of us is fated to die by the Inglaz-y hand, do you,
signore?”

“Not until I’ve finished my business with them, at any rate,” Alex agreed. “Very well, if you are fool enough to risk it, I welcome your company.”

“Bene!”
Fanducci rubbed his hands together gleefully. “You give-a me ten minutes?”

Alex smiled faintly. “I’ll give you five.”

Unfortunately, no more than three minutes passed before the guards on top of the tower walls were sounding the alarm.

The English had come to Achnacarry.

Alexander approached the clearing with caution. He held up his right hand to halt his group and sat perfectly still on the back of a handsome chestnut stallion—a horse much smaller and more compact in form than his much-missed Shadow, but one that was made more imposing by mere association with the Dark Cameron.

Alex’s men fanned out on either side of him—thirty, in all—looking as gloweringly ominous as if they had never tasted the bitter gall of defeat. Count Giovanni Fanducci reined in by Alex’s side, his shoulders caped against the late-afternoon chill, but the copious folds of cloth thrown back at his waist to pointedly display the gleaming snaphaunces tucked into his belt.

The clearing was no more than a hundred yards across at its widest, ringed in thick-trunked oak trees that made the forest seem dark and oppressive, despite the trickles of sunlight filtering through the hazed gloom. Hamilton Garner and his men lined the opposite side of the glade, their leathers polished to a gloss, their peaked tricorns level as a row of pickets on a fence. Their scarlet-and-blue uniforms, starched white neck stocks, and chinking brass scabbards made an impressive show as they stood across the quiet fogged clearing, but for the first time since charging the battlefield at Culloden, they stirred under a distinct sense of unease. This was Cameron land and these were Cameron clansmen they faced, some of the fiercest fighters they had encountered throughout the rebellion. The forest around them at once felt too dark with shadows, too close with dampness. To a man, the dragoons longed to run their fingers along the constricting edge of their collars to facilitate their breathing.

Several Argyle Campbells, traveling as guides to the English soldiers, sucked in their breaths and fingered the triggers of their muskets as they watched the Camerons file into the clearing. They remembered the old vendettas, and each considered it a personal affront that Alexander Cameron still lived.

Hamilton Garner measured his enemy carefully. The Highlander had taken a saber wound to his left arm that should have disabled any other man, yet he held the reins easily, casually, as if he were none the worse for wear. Perhaps there was something in the Highland air, Hamilton surmised, that bred such resilience and arrogance. It had taken nearly twenty men finally to bring down the leonine giant who had come to Cameron’s rescue at Culloden. Even then the brute hadn’t died, but had crawled up the slope under cover of darkness and managed to drag himself as far as a small barn some distance along the road to Inverness. The dragoons had found the body the next morning, stone cold, bled almost dry from the countless crippling wounds.

Garner dismounted and handed his reins to an aide. He crooked an amused brow in Alexander Cameron’s direction and began walking slowly into the center of the clearing.

Alex swung himself off the chestnut’s back. The strain of his weight was concentrated briefly on his damaged left arm, but if he felt the stabbing pain, he gave no outward sign of it. He tossed the reins to Fanducci, clamped his teeth securely around the butt of a small black cigar, and strode to where the dragoon major waited.

“You are like a cat with nine lives,” Garner commented dryly. “You keep landing on your feet, reappearing where you are least expected.”

“You wanted a meeting,” Alex said brusquely. “Say what you have to say and be done with it.”

“I was under the assumption I would be negotiating with your chief, Lochiel.”

“My brother is indisposed. Whatever negotiating you have come to do, you can do it with me.”

Garner took his time replying, absorbing the undercurrents of tension, relishing the feeling of power.

“As you may already have guessed, I have come on instructions to arrest your brother, Lochiel, and return him to Inverness to trial. The name of Dr. Archibald Cameron also appears high on my list, along with those of a dozen lesser officers of the clan. Having come to know the way you people think, I have no doubt you believe it is your duty to resist unto death. For my part, I could care less if the bodies I transport back are alive or not, but you might want to take this opportunity—the only one I am prepared to offer, by the way—to end it peaceably. There is no possible way you can avoid the inevitable. I have three hundred men with me, cannon and shot enough to blow the walls of your impregnable castle to kingdom come. However, as much as I should enjoy seeing you crushed slowly under the exploding rubble, I am under orders to be as expedient as possible in concluding our business here in the Highlands.”

“Expedient?” Alex’s white teeth flashed in a grin. “A quaint word for slaughter, theft, and destruction.”

“It is the duke’s wish to be able to return to London with a solid guarantee that your countrymen will have neither the heart nor the means to rebel against the crown in the future.”

“So you burn the cottages, kill the crofters who work the land, and rape the farms of their livestock and crops? An admirable plan for restoring peace and winning confidence for the throne.”

“You invited retribution when you sought to rebel against the crown.”

“Your crown, not ours.”

“A matter of semantics.”

“A matter of freedom, and of the right to choose our own king, make our own laws, not obey those of England’s making.”

“As you say, admirable sentiments, but misplaced. In war, there can be no place for sentiment, and freedom is the natural forfeit of the defeated. Give it up, Cameron. Surrender now and I can promise leniency for your men. Prolong it, and I will guarantee a corpse swinging from every bough in the forest. The officers and leaders, naturally, will be taken back to the proper authorities, regardless of whether they succumb to force or surrender willingly, but for someone who professes to hold such concern for the common masses, I should think you would be anxious to place their welfare before your own.”

Alex removed the cigar from between his lips and inspected the glowing tip of red ash for a long moment. “And is that all you want? The surrender of the castle, the submission of the chief and his officers … nothing else, Major? I notice you did not mention my name on your list. Does that mean I am free to go?”

Garner’s eyes sparkled coldly. “It means there might be a way you could
win
your freedom.”

“Ahh. You have a codicile to the terms of your …
generous offer
, I presume?”

“One you should not find too taxing on the imagination, Cameron. Shall we call it a chance to settle our own personal differences? No interference from any quarter this time. No saviors, no avenging angels.”

“No bullets in the back if it looks like you are about to lose again?” Alex added silkily.

Hamilton’s lips pinched at the insult. “The man acted against my direct order. I wanted you to myself then, and I still do now, by God. You can even pick the time and place, if it makes you feel more secure.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And if I refuse?”

“If you refuse … you will give me the satisfaction of
knowing
you are a coward and a braggart, all talk and little substance—something
I
have known all these months but, for some unknown reason, still eludes your
wife.”

Alexander’s impeccable control did him credit now, although it took every straining nerve to keep the motion of his hand steady as he lowered the cigar from his lips again.

“You have seen Catherine?” he asked quietly.

Garner crooked an eyebrow. “Haven’t you? Not very observant of you, old boy.”

He half turned his head and lifted a gloved hand, the signal to someone behind him. He kept his attention on Alex’s face and saw the eager, almost desperate widening of the indigo eyes as they searched along the row of sober-faced dragoons. He saw them snap back to the front of the line, saw the blood drain from the rigid countenance as two Argyleshire Campbells stepped around from behind the closed ranks of horses, half leading, half dragging a bound and gagged figure between them.

Catherine saw Alex, froze a moment in complete shock, then surged forward against the restraint of her guards, almost breaking free before they were able to tighten their grip on her arms and jerk her back.

Alex took an involuntary step forward, as well, but pulled himself up short when he sensed the look of complete triumph on Garner’s face. His hand dropped instinctively to the sword strapped to his waist, but the corresponding clicks of thirty flintlocks being cocked on thirty English Brown Besses deterred him. Not so the alert and itching trigger fingers resting on thirty Highland muskets, and Alex felt a bubble of panic rise in his chest as he saw his men raise their guns in response to the threat from the Brown Besses.

“No!” Alex barked. He knew his men would account for a good many stiff-backed dragoons in an explosive confrontation of power. But Catherine was in the middle, an easy target for any one of the soldiers or guards who held her.

“I would call it an impasse, wouldn’t you?” Garner drawled, looking casually from the leveled guns of his men to the leveled guns of the Highlanders. “Except for one glaring advantage, of course.”

“If you have touched so much as a hair on her head, Major, I’ll tear your heart out of your throat with my bare hands.”

Garner smiled and shook his head. “I hardly think you are in a position to threaten me, Cameron. A twitch of my little finger and she is dead.”

“You do that and your men get to draw maybe one breath,” Alex said with a snarl, throwing his cigar onto the ground. Instantly, from behind every tree, bush, and shadow that ringed the clearing, a Highlander emerged, pistols drawn, broadswords poised against the murky haze. There had to be a hundred of them, sealing off all avenues of escape.

Garner stiffened. “Is this
your
idea of fair play?”

“I agreed to meet with you, Garner. I never agreed to let you walk away alive.”

Tiny emerald flecks of rage burned to life in Hamilton’s eyes. “I trust you have left room for compromise?”

“That depends on how badly you want our
personal differences
settled, Garner.”

Hamilton glared disdainfully. “The woman remains with me,
regardless
, until the matter is settled one way or another.”

Alex had to fight hard to suppress a cold wave of fury. His gaze flicked past the major’s shoulder to where Catherine stood, trembling and pale against the shadows. Aside from the fear shining in the huge violet eyes, there were no outward signs she had been abused or mistreated in any way. Garner was on edge and it was doubtful he could be pushed much harder, yet he had introduced the word compromise first and was obviously prepared to go to any extreme to get what he wanted.