The Blood of Roses (21 page)

“Last but not least, is the stalwart brigade of a few thousand dragoons and assorted royal guardsmen who stand poised at Finchley Commons, not too pleased at the prospect of standing alone to defend the city against the descending hordes, but nobly willing to die for king and country should the duke not arrive home in time to fortify the ranks. I was in the city when King George delivered a rousing speech intended to bolster the courage of his brave guards—at the same time he was discreetly loading his valuables on a ship anchored in the Thames. He obviously has more faith in the prince’s loyal followers than he does in his own.”

Catherine did some quick mental arithmetic. “Discounting Admiral Vernon’s navy, and discounting the pockets of local militia throughout the countryside, the government only has about twenty thousand men to pit against the prince’s army. No wonder the king has reservations.”

There was a strange glint in Alexander’s eyes. “The odds are considerably more in his favor than they were in ours at Prestonpans, yet we held no such … reservations.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

He smiled faintly. “Despite what you heard, we put fewer than two thousand men on the field that day; Cope had closer to three. One of the main reasons why we had to release most of the prisoners was due to the fact that there were more of them than there were of us.”

“But … why would the prince only send two thousand men into his first engagement with the English army? Was he not taking a terrible risk with their lives?”

“He had no choice. Two thousand was all he could spare. The rest—a few hundred here and there—were needed at Perth and Edinburgh to hold on to what we had already captured.”

“A few
hundred?
But we heard there were upward of ten thousand at Prestonpans, with more joining the rebel army every day!”

Alex uncrossed an arm and ran a blunted fingertip along the curve of her cheek. “Catherine,” he said softly, “if we had ten thousand Highlanders in our army, we could capture not only London but all the capitals of Europe as well. There have never been more than five thousand following the prince’s standard at any one time.”

Catherine’s look of total disbelief mirrored his own of less than a month ago, when Donald Cameron had informed his officers of the prince’s decision not to winter in Scotland but to push on with the invasion without delay.

“Charles Stuart has invaded England with five thousand men?” she asked incredulously. “Five thousand against … against a
modest
estimate of twenty thousand? Surely you are joking!”

“I wish I were,” he replied tautly. “Well? What do you think of the truth so far?”

“So far?” she whispered. “Does the prince realize the odds he is facing?”

“Amazingly enough, he does. He is quite well informed, whereas—and here we only have Lord George’s brilliance at deception to credit—his enemies are completely ignorant of the most basic information: namely, the numbers and exact whereabouts of our forces.”

“How does he justify marching so few against so many?”

“Our Bonnie Prince
Tearlach
is obsessed with the justness of his cause,” Alex said simply. “He is also convinced, beyond a doubt, that not only will the common people rise in support of his father, King James, but every English soldier bearing arms against him will lay his weapons aside and welcome the restored Stuart monarchy with rose petals and accolades.”

“He’s mad.” Catherine gasped.

“We are all a little mad,” Alex said with a sad smile, “or we would not be where we are today.”

“And tomorrow? Don’t you care what will happen to you tomorrow if Wade and Ligonier and the Duke of Cumberland join forces? Or if even one of their armies discovers the ruse?”

“Of course I care,” he said gently, bending his lips to the glowing softness of her shoulder. “But what would you have me do—desert?”

“Yes!” she cried promptly. Then: “No.” And after yet another miserable pause: “I don’t know!”

“You’ve about covered every option,” he remarked. “And it gives you some idea of the prevailing mood of the prince’s nightly councils.”

“Your brother: What does Donald think?”

Alex raked a hand through the thick black waves of his hair and sighed. “Donald has been pleading for caution for so long, the prince only listens with one ear. He pretends to listen raptly, of course, for he knows if he loses Lochiel’s Camerons, then he loses a third of his army—and that doesn’t include the clans that have been feeling the shroud tightening around them since we crossed the River Esk. They would only have to smell a hint of a mutiny in the air and they would be back across the border before the prince knew they were missing.”

“But what hold does the prince have on them? What possible arguments could he use to persuade a man like your brother against truth and logic? Sweet merciful heavens, why is Donald remaining with him if he sees little hope of success? And please dear God, don’t tell me about Scottish pride and honor and loyalty, or I shall scream, I swear it!”

“All right, I won’t tell you about pride or honor or loyalty,” he said. “I’ll tell you about consequences instead. Each and every man who rallied at Glenfinnan knew there could be no compromises, no turning back. Either we would win it all this time or lose everything. You said earlier we had gained Scotland back from the English and asked what possible threat a few garrisons of Hanover troops could prove. Well, it’s true, we won Scotland fairly and cleanly, and I suppose the logical move would have been to spend the next six months or so fortifying our borders, strengthening our defenses, arming ourselves against the counterattack that would be sure to come. And there would have been a retaliatory strike against us, no doubt about it. England could not possibly sit back and accept such an insult to her imperialistic pride. How would it look to the rest of her budding empire if she could not even hold a barren stretch of rock and moorland that adjoined her own border? The North American colonies would surely sit up and take note. So would her enemies—Spain and France— both of whom are vying with the British for trading footholds in the West Indies and Persia. King George would have had to send his army north, to fight us for possession of Scotland whether he wanted it or not.
England’s
pride would be at stake, not ours.”

“But at least you would have bought the time to build your army,” Catherine argued.

“Aye, and maybe had twenty or thirty thousand men willing to fight for their freedom instead of the five or six we have now. But there again, we would have given England more time as well. The English would not waste the same six months idling in ignorance; they would call in all their markers from allies abroad, they would train and drill their army so that a fiasco like Prestonpans would never happen again, they would utilize their naval power
first
and strangle us to death with a blockade so tight the fish would be screaming. There would be no more mistakes, no more inefficiency, no more second-rate generals being sent to deal with a minor disturbance. England would throw everything she had against us, and it would be a bloodbath on both sides.”

Alex saw her worried frown and took her small, cold hands into his. “In the end, you could be sure they would have left us with nothing. The English would have conquered us and destroyed us once and for all, if only to use us as an example to any other colony that might be getting ideas. But instead of five thousand misguided fools to punish for their audacity, there would be thirty thousand, all with wives and families and properties. Everything we had would be confiscated or destroyed. There would be no more Scotland.”

He brooded a long moment over the thought, and Catherine used the time and the morning sunlight to study the hard lines of his face. There were shadows circling his eyes that had not been there before, lines etched across his wide brow and carved alongside the stern set of his mouth that had not been there when she had thought him to be merely a spy and murderer … when he had claimed not to have had a conscience, and she had believed him.

“I love you, Alexander Cameron,” she said evenly. “I will love you regardless of the life we must share; if we live in a castle or a cottage.”

“We Camerons may not even have a cottage or a
clachan
to call our own if the rebellion is lost and the leaders penalized into forfeiture.”

“Donald could lose Achnacarry?”

“It almost happened once before, after the rebellion of 1715, when our father led the clan into the uprising for the Stuarts. The leaders were given the choice of the hangman’s noose or exile if they refused to swear allegiance to King George. In most cases, where the chief was stubborn or adamant, there was a son or brother he could order to pay lip service to the government’s demands and, in that way, save the lands and titles even though he himself would have to accept banishment.”

“Your father is still in France, is he not?”

“Italy, with King James. There were many chiefs who later petitioned for pardons, with the Stuart king’s permission, and returned to Scotland, but we Cameron men are a stubborn lot, as you might already have guessed. Old Lochiel remains in exile and declares he will continue to do so until there is a Stuart king on the throne again.”

“The pride of lions,” Catherine murmured, winning a curious glance from her husband. “It was something Lady Maura told me: an affliction most Scots seem to possess.”

“Aye, well, this time there may not be any cubs to retain title of the lands if it comes to that. No sons or brothers untainted by Young Lochiel’s actions.”

“But isn’t there a brother who refused to join the prince? Your brother John?”

“John is not a zealous Jacobite,” Alexander said guardedly. “Nor has he ever displayed any overt support for the Hanover government. If the wind changes, however, it is conceivable he could protect himself by sending a few men to fight against us, but if he does, he would lose all credibility within the clan. They would never accept him as chief.”

“Would they accept Archibald, or you?”

The dark eyes glowered briefly. “Neither Archie nor myself would ever consider holding the title as long as Donald was alive—not that we would ever have to make such a decision. If we are forced to retreat back to Scotland in defeat, we would be returning for a very short time only. Forfeiture, exile, prison … even the noose are probabilities too real for my liking.”

“They cannot hang everyone who has participated in the fighting!”

“Cut off the head and the body dies. They only have to hang the leaders to see the whole clan system collapse.”

Catherine shivered and sought comfort within the warm circle of his arms.

“Here now, cheer up,” he said soothingly. “We Camerons should not be left entirely destitute. Not unless the lovely Mrs. Montgomery has been imprudent with her husband’s life savings.”

“She has squandered every penny,” Catherine replied morosely, burying her face deeper into his shoulder. “I’m sure Damien told you everything in great detail.”

“As a matter of fact, your brother tells me you have not drawn a single ha’penny. Master Montgomery would not be pleased to think of his wife doing without.”

“The only comfort Mrs. Montgomery has lacked and craved was the presence of the errant Master Montgomery by her side.”

“He is here now,” Alex said softly. “And has been doing his utmost to make up for everything you may have lacked and craved.”

His hands skimmed up her naked body, running up beneath the tousled gleam of her hair until they were situated one at the nape of her neck, one beneath the delicate curve of her chin. They held her through a stunningly passionate kiss, but when he would have sent them roving farther afield, she broke free and pushed herself upright.

“What is it?” he asked. “Have I said something wrong?”

In silence, she shook her head, her eyes very large and deeply hued—a storm warning he had seen often enough to be placed on his guard.

“Have I done something wrong?”

Catherine’s lips put an abrupt end to his speculation. The kiss was bold, as aggressively thorough as his had been. By the time she was sated and drew away, it had the fine hairs on his forearms rising on tiny bumps.

“Forgive my ignorance, madam,” he said haltingly. “But have I missed something here?”

“A question, Sir Rogue. One that you neatly refrained from answering.”

“To win such a reprimand, I should gladly avoid it again.”

She dug her fingers savagely into the tender flesh over his ribs. “The offers of comfort you were so flattered to receive—you failed to mention if they were also too appealing to resist.”

His gaze fastened on the seductive pout of her lips. “Suppose I said I accepted every one of them?”

“I should call you a liar and a braggart,” she retorted evenly. “As well as a perverted, lustful beast.”

“Perverted
and
lustful?” There was a wry crook to one dark eyebrow. “Just because I have not been able to keep my hands off you for more than a few minutes at a time does not necessarily mean I am always desperate for such attention.”

“Not
necessarily?”

“On the other hand, I have it on good authority that to deprive myself of physical relief could result in seriously harmful effects. Count Giovanni Fanducci is a living example of the restorative and beneficial powers of a good woman’s attention. When we first encountered him, our inclination was to keep all the pretty young lads hidden from his sight. A few nights with Ringle-Eyed Rita, however, and—”

“Who
is Count Giovanni Fanducci, and
what
is a Ringle-Eyed Rita?” Catherine demanded.

“The count is a volunteer. He joined us after Prestonpans and made an immediate impression on the majority of the prince’s army by drinking Struan MacSorley into a stupor that lasted three days. Conversely, the count was not only able to put our golden-haired friend under the table, he was seen and heard shortly thereafter collecting his wager in the arms of a certain Ringle-Eyed Rita—so named because of her knack of being able to—”

“Never mind! There is no need to elaborate.”