The Blood of Roses (12 page)

“Surrendered,” Aluinn clarified. “Nearly two thousand of the bastards, and too many dead to guess offhand. Archie’s had to send to Edinburgh for all the physicians the city can spare.”

“Fifteen minutes, lad, an’ it were over. Too fast f’ae them tae take aught but the claythes on their backs. We’ve all their wagons, tents, stores, weepons, powder, even those great hulkin’ bastard guns we thought tae take on wi’ our swords. No’ that I ken what good they’ll dae us, wi’ none O’ these jack-a-napes knowin’ spit about how tae shoot one. A fine morn’s work, nonetheless.”

“How long … have I been out?”

“Ye been seein’ angels f’ae the best part O’ the day,” MacSorley said. “If ye can smell at all, those are supper fires ye’re snorkin’. Sun’s got anither hour, nae much more.”

“What … happened?”

“You nearly swallowed a few ounces of lead, that’s what happened,” Aluinn said, finishing his job with the relatively clean strip of linen he was using for a bandage. “The officer who had designs on removing your head had his aim thrown off with … an arse hair’s width to spare, to use a familial quote. The shot still managed to tear a healthy chunk out of your scalp and to leave the side of your face looking Moorish. But it could have been worse; you could have lost your ear. As it is Archie wasn’t too sure if you’d be able to hear properly or not.”

“I can hear,” Alex grumbled. “If someone would just kill whoever is pounding those damned bells.”

“You’ll probably have a hell of a headache for a few days, too.”

“I have a hell of a headache now. And I think I’m beginning to hallucinate—”

Aluinn followed the direction of the glance Alex shot past his shoulder. A figure in scarlet satin breeches, purple waistcoat, and deep maroon frock coat was coming toward them. His tricorn hat was edged in gold braid and plumed with dyed ostrich feathers. The jeweled pin at his throat contained one of the largest emeralds either man had ever seen, nestled artfully in a jabot of rich Spanish lace.

“Tell me I’ve lost my mind,” Alex whispered, trying to blink, but finding the effort too costly and the nausea too threatening.

“No indeed,” Aluinn replied glibly. “You’re looking at the man who saved it for you.”

Alex rolled his dark eyes toward MacKail.

“Honestly. It seems he was standing behind the officer taking aim and was able to deflect the shot just in time. His name is Fanducci. Count Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci, and he is most anxious to meet the great
Camshroinaich Dubh.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

Alex curled his lip in what passed for a scowl and returned his attention to the Italian. Seeing that Alex was conscious, the tricorn was removed with a sweeping flourish and a bow executed with the grace of a courtier.

“Ahh!
Signore Camerone!
All is-a well with you, then? I was-a worried perhaps I was-a too late in my efforts.”

Alex stared. Previously shadowed by the brim of the tricorn, the count’s features did nothing to discourage the impression forming in Alex’s mind. The long nose quivered delicately about the nostrils. A thin and angular chin sported a precisely trimmed and manicured goatee; his wig was dusted blue-gray and flowed over his shoulders in descending rolls of curls.

“But of course, allow me to introduce-a myself. Count Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci at-a you service. You have-a no idea,
signore
, how absolutely thrilled I am to finally meet-a the great Dark Camerone. So many stories,
signore.
So many praises I’m-a hear sung. Such-a the privilege to humble myself before you.”

Out of the corner of one bloodshot eye, Alex saw Aluinn lower his head to shield a smile. Struan was less subtle. The grin that began at the corners of his mouth stretched sideways until it touched each ear.

Alex set his teeth and narrowed his eyes to see past the throbbing pinwheels of light. “Count … Fanducci? … I understand I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life.”

“No, no, no, no! No debts,
signore.
We just consider it a … mmm …
come si dice
… an exchange.
Si.
An exchange. One favor to another.”

“Favor? What manner of favor can I do for you? And how the devil did you get onto the battlefield?”

“Ahh,
signore
! Not-a by choice, believe me. I was-a pressed into joining those thugs. I was-a on board a ship—the
Tuscany
—bound for Inverness when the Inglaz-y come up from-a nowhere and blow her out of the water. The crew was-a made prisoner; I, too, was-a thrown in the bilges, but when the captain found out-a who I was, he released me on-a my own parole. Not so these
bastardos
! They find-a me on the road and
blam!
I’m-a made to work for them, or they take-a me out and shoot me! Me! Giovanni Fanducci! Shot like a common guttersnipe.”

There had to be a clue here somewhere, Alex surmised. And a means of keeping his sanity. “You say you worked for them? Doing what?”

The Italian’s brows arched and a slim-fingered hand clutched the lower tier of lace of his jabot. “
Signore!
I’m-a Count Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci. To the Inglaz-y, I’m-a the representation from Roma. The neutral. But they choose to ignore-a this. To them, I’m-a also the threat, because I’m-a come to Scotland to offer my services to Prince Charles.”

“And these … er … services?”

The count smiled wanly. “I make-a the guns,
signore.
I make-a the finest guns this side of-a the ocean … perhaps the whole world!”

Alex felt his head take another spin downward and his stomach lurch upward. A master gunmaker from Italy? Fanducci looked like he would be more at home tuning the strings of a harp in a bordello.

“You do not-a believe me,
signore?”
the count asked, visibly offended by the lack of response.

I haven’t wakened from the nightmare, Alex decided. The ache in his head was getting bad enough that his entire body felt numb, and he was about to ask Struan for that pint of whisky Archie had mentioned when he vaguely saw both MacKail and MacSorley stiffen to attention. They reached instinctively for their swords, but the Italian was that much quicker, freezing their intentions with two distinctive metallic clicks.

The handsome pair of snaphaunce pistols he held had appeared from nowhere and were unlike anything the Highlanders had ever seen before. The wooden stocks were filigreed with fine threads of silver wire, woven in patterns so minute and intricate as to flatter the hands of royalty. Each pistol had over-and-under barrels inlaid with gold; each barrel had its own flintlock mechanism operated by triggers positioned in sequence within the guard. Four shots could be fired almost simultaneously and would, regardless of aim, obliterate the greater portion of a man’s chest at close range.

The bright azure eyes that gleamed straight along the barrels were no longer dancing with good humor. The features surrounding them were no longer foppish or dandified, and the hands balancing the heavy weapons were rock hard and taut with sinew. They had not wavered a breath.

“Signores,”
the count said quietly, looking from Struan’s glowering might to Aluinn’s deadly calm. A deft flick of both thumbs released the tension in the mainsprings and the locks of the pistols were adjusted into a safety position. “My handiwork, if-a you please?”

Another graceful flip of his wrists and the pistols were reversed so that the butts were presented for inspection. Taken aback by the foreigner’s speed and evident skill with the guns, Aluinn and Struan exchanged a wary glance before each accepted one of the snaphaunces.

“My family,” the count explained casually, “makes-a the guns now … mmm … eighty years. We make-a the fine guns for all the nobility of Europe. On board the
Tuscany
, we put two thousand guns—no, not so fine as-a these, but still the best-a guns money could buy. All I’m-a have left to show are these two, and … mmm … three, four more not so fancy. My … molds and chisels and files went-a down with the
Tuscany
, so”—he spread his hands apologetically—“all-a you get is me, but, I could perhaps be of some assistance to your own gun-a-makers, no?”

Aluinn fingered the exquisite tooling on the pistol, then turned it over to examine the gilded grotesque on the butt. He sighted along the upper barrel, noting the fine weight and balance, the clever way the serpentine heads of the flintlocks curved into a circle through which to align a target. The lockplate bore the maker’s name, Fanducci, set into a relief of the family crest; below it, the year 1742.

“A remarkable piece of workmanship,” Aluinn murmured, returning the gun to Fanducci. “Unfortunately, we have no gunmakers of comparable skill traveling with us … none at all, to be absolutely truthful. You would find your talents sorely wasted.”

The count looked crestfallen. “But … I’m-a come the long way,
signore.
I would do anything to help in this venture. In Italy, we have-a the big respect for your King-a James. He fights the … mmm … big odds, no? So does his son?”

“Big odds, yes.” Aluinn smiled. He glanced down to see what Alex’s reaction to all this had been, but the heavy black lashes were closed, his lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and even. Seeing the bandages on Alex’s head, a thought occurred to MacKail.

“You say you were pressed into service with the English, but you never did elaborate as to what capacity.”

The Italian smiled wryly. “Bah! The Inglaz-y think that because Giovanni Fanducci makes-a the pistols, he also knows how to make-a the big
bastardos
shoot farther, straighter.”

“The big
bastardos?
You mean the cannon?”

“Si, si.
The cannon.”

“And? Do you?”

The count caught a glimpse of eagerness in Aluinn’s gray eyes, and his frown melted into a conspiratorial smile. “But of course,
signore.
To make-a the small gun shoot farther, straighter, it is … mmm … prudent to know how the big
bastardos
shoot.”

“Do you think you could teach a handful of jack-a-napes how to load and fire the artillery pieces we’ve captured?”

“Signore
MacKail.” The Italian drew himself to his full, bejeweled height. “I, Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci, could-a teach the birds how to swim if that was-a what the prince asked of me.”

“Just a few basics on cannonry will do,” Aluinn said dryly. “Enough to justify hauling them farther than the nearest sink hole.”

“Sink-a hole?”

“Bog,” Struan provided. “Quagmire.”

“Ahhh, such-a the waste,
signores.
No, no, no, no, I’m-a teach.”

“In that case,” Aluinn stretched out his hand. “Welcome to the army. You will have to meet with Lord George Murray first, but I’m sure he will be pleased to have you join us.”

“Aye.” Struan growled amiably, handing back the snaphaunce with an obvious show of reluctance. “Calls f’ae a toast, by my mind. MacKail?”

“Save me a few drams, I’ll be along directly.”

Struan glanced down at Alexander. “Aye, well, I’ll bring ye a keg here afore I go tae check on the men. Fanducci? Ye’re welcome tae join me if ye’re belly’s keen on seein’ the inside O’ yer throat.”

“Scusa, signore,”
the count objected delicately, “but my family also makes-a the best wine in all Italia. Fanducci bambinos are weaned from the breast to the grape, then back-a to the breast again as-a full grown men. I think … mmm … it would be fair to say
you
would have-a the disadvantage.”

MacSorley’s grin spread across his face and his nostrils flared with the scent of easy prey. “Ye wouldna care tae put a wee wager on that, now would ye, laddie?”

The count’s brows crooked upward. “Wager,
signore?”

“Aye. That fine brace O’ pistols ye’re wearin’, f’ae instance.”

Fanducci’s hand instinctively caressed the butt of one snaphaunce. “And-a you,
Signore
Struan? You have-a something to wager of comparable value?”

Struan’s white teeth flashed through the parted wire bush of his beard. “I’ve a handsomer, deadlier weepon tae wager in Ringle-Eyed Rita.”

“Ahh … Struan …”

MacSorley held up a hand to stop Aluinn’s objection, and the count looked from one man to the other.

“Might I ask-a what kind of weapon this rink-a-lied rita is?”

MacSorley chuckled bawdily. “The kind O’ weepon, laddie, what turns a grown man’s knees tae water. The kind what takes shiny breeks like yourn an’ stiffens them tae leather afore ye even ken there’s sum’mit down there.”

“Bene, bene,”
Fanducci said softly. “She’s-a the woman. In that-a case,
signore”
—he bowed elegantly—“I accept.”

“Last man standin’ takes all?”

The count nodded graciously.

The bloodied, mud-streaked Highlander laughed, startling many of the dozing wounded awake. He wrapped a trunklike arm around the Italian’s immaculate shoulders, and, as they walked toward the open air, he cast a wink back in Aluinn’s direction.

“This shouldna take too long, MacKail. I’ll be back in a blink tae keep ye company.”

“I’m not sure whether to feel slighted at being left out of the wagering,” Aluinn murmured, “or relieved.”

“With Rita as part of the stakes?” Alex said, opening his eyes a slit. “How about just plain lucky?”

Derby, December 1745
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