The Blood of Roses (70 page)

Nor was he intimidated by the size of the ancient
clai’mór
Cameron had brought to the field. Hamilton suspected the sheer weight of the weapon would likely tear whatever shreds of muscle still remained intact in the damaged arm; the pain alone would be monstrous and debilitating, not to mention draining on the power of the good right arm. The Scot could boast a deservedly respected reputation with a rapier, and all things considered, he might have been wiser choosing the lighter weapon.

Garner halted a sword’s length from his adversary.

“It is refreshing, if not surprising, to see you are a man of your word.”

Alexander offered up a lazy smile. “Shall we skip the pleasantries, Major? As you may recall, my wife is not known for her patience and is most anxious for me to rejoin her.”

Hamilton countered with an equally slow, insolent smile. “I will be most happy to convey your regrets when I see her, Highlander. As for displays of patience—”

In a move so quick Alex almost missed it, Hamilton’s sword came up and across in a cutting arc that would have opened Cameron’s belly had he been a heartbeat slower to react. He raised his broadsword in time to block the slash, but the resulting shrill of steel scraping on steel sent a chilling warning along the spines of both men. Neither one could afford to make the smallest mistake, the slightest miscalculation. There were no rules, no judges, no expectations of gentlemanly conduct, and in the end, there would be no mercy for the loser.

Metal bit into metal again as both men lunged and swung their mighty weapons. The sound of clashing steel shivered in the air and reverberated off the stones and mist until it became a continuous ringing in the ears. The swords were so heavy to wield and recover that the combatants appeared to be moving through liquid, smashing one against the other, thrusting, attacking, circling with huge, windmilling strokes as they probed for any opening or weakness.

The dragoons on the field below became a rapt audience. A gentle trough in the ground briefly swallowed the two swordsmen from view, and, after nudging one another in frustration, the soldiers broke formation, surging up the slope, shouting and wagering among themselves as to which man would go down first. The major’s skill was legion among the ranks of the dragoons and the exploits of the Dark Cameron had been whispered around the campfires for months. No one wanted to say he had missed a single detail of the final encounter, and for the time being, no one clouded his enthusiasm or sense of gamesmanship with anything so petty as politics. Both men were championed equally; both soon carried the stakes of several months’ pay on their shoulders.

For his own part, Garner had not been foolish enough to underestimate the determination Cameron would bring onto the field. Yet he was frankly astounded at the power he felt behind each savage strike; it showed in the rage he unleashed with each thrust, the oaths he grunted at each expenditure of effort.

And Alex, having no doubt whatsoever that Garner would not have taken up the challenge with a
clai’mór
unless he damned well knew how to fight with one, was nevertheless taken aback by the skill the Englishman displayed in adapting to completely new tactics. He had targeted Alex’s weaker left arm from the first stroke and was wearing away at it again and again, forcing the wounded forearm and wrist to bear most of the pressure. As a result, Alex could feel Archibald’s meticulous stitchwork tearing apart. His arm was screaming with the pain, and the tightly bound bandaging was starting to leak fresh blood onto his sleeve. Within the first half dozen strokes, each two-fisted swing of the broadsword sent a thin spray of blood droplets fanning off the ridge of his knuckles. Within the next, his face poured sweat; his hair and shirt became soaked with it. The tremendous muscles in his thighs and calves bulged with the strain of absorbing shock after shock, slash upon hacking slash, and he knew if he did not find an opening soon, he would not have to trouble himself over the pain or fatigue much longer.

Hamilton, bloodied at hip and shoulder, was also forced to draw on his reserves sooner than he had anticipated. The man was not human! He not only continued to return as good as he was given, but, through several attacks, he forced Hamilton to defend rather than parry and to retreat in unseemly scrambles across the wet grass.

Their blades crossed again, the impact shuddering through both straining bodies, the force of the concussion sending an exchange of blood and sweat across the narrow gap that separated them. Cameron broke away first, swinging his sword and body to the side in an attempt to throw Garner off balance, but the major was ready for him, cutting back with a deadly blow across the level of the knees. Alex had to leap back to miss it, and as he landed, his foot sank into a spongy pocket of earth and his ankle twisted out from under him, sending him crashing heavily onto the wet grass.

Garner lunged. Alex was already rolling, springing to his feet again, but the stumble had cost him. He felt the flat of Garner’s blade strike his left shoulder and the point slash down, ripping through the flesh on his upper arm and slicing through the already gored bandaging on his forearm. Somehow he managed to retain his grip on the
clai’mór
and somehow he managed to stagger to his knees. He knew his back, thigh, and ribs were all fatally unprotected, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Garner moving in for the kill.

For all of the two seconds it took to brace himself for the stroke, Hamilton Garner tasted victory. His enemy was on his knees before him, his spine arched and bared for the final strike. In the next impossible instant, however, he heard a soft hiss of rushing air and his jade-green eyes flicked disbelievingly to where a stray beam of sunlight was flaring along the length of Cameron’s broadsword, causing it to burn an arc through the air as it slashed toward him, severing through flesh, bone, and sinew with a fiery grace that was as unexpected as the maneuver itself.

There was a look of utter incomprehension and horror in Garner’s eyes, and a brief groping movement by his hands as if he could not accept the fact that his head was no longer attached to his shoulders. It spun free of the slumped body and rolled halfway down the slope before it came to a halt against a hillock of moss-covered stones. The neatly queued blond hair had come loose from its binding and lay in a tangle of bloodied threads across the ashen pallor of the face, the mouth gaped open in shock, though there had not even been time to put sound to the scream.

Alex swayed unsteadily on his feet, most of his weight sagging forward onto the support of the red-streaked
clai’mór.
He bowed his head and leaned his brow on the cool metal of the basket guard, his chest heaving, his legs trembling visibly from the massive exertion. It had happened so quickly—the feint, the opening, the desperate knowledge that he would have only the one chance—he half expected Garner to stand up and resume the attack.

Of the men who formed the now-silent ring of spectators, some stared at the twitching, headless corpse of their commanding officer, but most gaped at the bleeding Scotsman. It was so quiet, so absolutely still, they could hear the labored sounds of his breathing and the sluggish pulsations of blood that soaked the ground beneath Garner’s body. They could also hear the slow, deliberate thumbing back of a hammer as Corporal Jeffrey Peters raised his musket, took careful aim at the Highlander’s chest, curled his finger around the trigger, and squeezed.

The delay between the flint sparking against the powder and the powder exploding to release the lead shot was filled by a second blast of gunpowder. Peters was lifted and flung back off his feet, the action causing his weapon to discharge harmlessly into the empty air. When the smoke cleared, there was a neat round hole in the centre of his forehead, a Cyclops’ eye with a rim of bright red around the edges.

Count Giovanni Fanducci lowered his snaphaunce as a dozen other armed clansmen appeared out of the mist behind him, their muskets primed and leveled on the stunned circle of redcoats.

“Scusa, signore.
I’m-a sure you could have handled these
bastardos
on-a you own, but, eh … why should you have all-a the fun?”

Alex smiled weakly. “Why indeed.”

“You can walk?”

Alex swallowed hard and nodded. “I can walk.”

“Bene.”
Fanducci waved the snaphaunce, indicating to the soldiers, who for the most part had forgotten they held muskets, that they would be wise to lower them all the way down to the ground. As soon as they complied, the clansmen gathered up the weapons and powderhorns and carried them to the edge of the forest. The soldiers were herded into a nervous group and driven back down the field, while Alex, his good arm draped gratefully over Fanducci’s shoulders, was led in the opposite direction into the safety of the mist and trees.

Bleary with pain and exhaustion, Alex had no idea how far they walked before Fanducci called a halt and lowered him gently onto an overturned tree stump.

“So much blood,” he muttered, tearing strips from his shirt to bind the wound on Alex’s arm. “It’s a wonder you do not melt into the ground, my friend.”

“I would have been part of the ground if you hadn’t come along when you did. Saying a mere thank you hardly seems adequate.”

“Do not-a thank me yet, Cameron” came the quiet rejoinder … so quiet and so low it took several seconds for the alarm bells to penetrate Alexander’s fogged brain. Other vague stirrings in what was left of his battered instincts sent his hand moving to his waist only to find that his dirk had somehow vanished from its sheath.

“I took the liberty of removing it while we were walking,” the count said in perfect English. “Unlike your friend back there, I have come to appreciate the fact that one should never underestimate your limits or your talents.”

Alex stared up at the handsome face for a long moment before answering.

“You seem to have acquired a new talent of your own,” he noted calmly.

The blue eyes glanced up. “A compliment from The Dark Cameron? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. Who the hell are you? And why the elaborate charade?”

“Elaborate, yes. I was told I had to be wilier than the fox himself to get close to you, and I must say, in all humility, Count Giovanni has always ranked among my best and most favorite personas.”

“You have others?”

“A chameleon must be able to change his colors to adapt to his surroundings—you of all people should appreciate that,
Monsieur
Montgomery.”

The use of the name set off another, louder chorus of alarm bells and Alex peered closely at the count’s face. He had shed his plumed tricorn and abandoned his wig somewhere along the way; his sable-brown hair was curled forward at the temples, liberally shot through with streaks of gray. Something about him looked damned familiar. Alex wracked his tired brain trying to dredge up some distant memory, some incident or event in his past to explain the nagging feeling he should know who this man was.
Monsieur
Montgomery, he had said. A slip … or a deliberate clue?

A clue
, chimed the ghostly whisper of Aluinn’s voice through the hushed stillness.
And if he gave you a much bigger one, he would have to hit you over the head with it. I warned you, goddammit. I warned you, but you wouldn’t take me seriously, and now it’s too late.

Warned me? Warned me about what? About who?

Think, you stupid bastard! Think back—

Alex stiffened through an ice-cold shudder of apprehension. The Frenchman! Aluinn had told him months ago about a man … an assassin hired by the Duke of Argyle to hunt him down and accomplish what his scores of brute-fisted henchmen had been unable to do for fifteen years. But it wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be possible, not after all they had gone through together—the weeks, months of camaraderie in camp, the advance into Derby, the retreat …
Culloden!

“You could have killed me a hundred times over,” Alex said in a shocked murmur. “Why the hell have you waited until now?”

The Frenchman smiled benignly. “A good question,
monsieur.
One I have asked myself many times over the past weeks.”

“And? Have you come up with any answers?”

“None I would be able to explain to you. None I was able to explain to myself until just a short while ago.” He finished tying off the strips of bandaging around Alex’s arm and straightened, moving a prudent distance away as he detected the subtle increase of tension in the Highlander’s body. To discourage him from attempting anything foolhardy, the Frenchman withdrew one of his snaphaunces and held it casually balanced across his folded forearm.

“One of the hazards of our profession,
monsieur:
friendship. I have always prided myself in being able to resist such mundane entanglements—especially those involving the female persuasion. There, too, alas, I once committed a major
faux pas
, which I now find has come back to haunt me with a vengeance.”

Alex was only partially listening. He had already arrived at the conclusion that the Frenchman could kill him before he’d even struggled upright onto his feet; he was not particularly interested in hearing the bastard gloat.

Sighing, he adjusted the angle of his injured arm, cradling it higher on his chest. “So what happens now, Fanducci … or whatever the hell your name is.”

“St. Cloud. Jacques St. Cloud.”

Alex’s face remained impassive. He thought he detected more than the normal degree of intensity behind the piercing blue eyes, but if the name was supposed to dislodge some of the mortar sealing his recollections, his captor was disappointed.

“So,” St. Cloud mused. “There are still some secrets left in the world.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“You are not required to follow me,
monsieur
, only to listen.” He paused and looked down at the blood staining his fingers. “Your wife is a very beautiful woman. There could not be two faces so alike in this world, yet I did not see it—or perhaps I did but was unwilling to resurrect the pain of old wounds. You see, I was once very much in love myself, with a woman as vibrant as the sun itself, who heated within me a passion I had never experienced, before or since. Unfortunately, circumstances neither one of us could control intervened and separated us, dispatching her back into her world and me into mine.”