The Blood of Roses (43 page)

I
n the end, it took five full days for the column of men to struggle through the snow-clogged mountain pass and file into the glens surrounding Inverness. The hills fell away sharply, the intense bluish-white of the deep snow gave way to patches of ground that were brown with dead bracken, gray with silvery heather stalks, soggy with peat bogs that never quite froze over. Tiny stone and sod
clachans
marked by pencil-thin spirals of peat smoke huddled against sheltered slopes, dotting the valleys and fields. Their curious occupants ventured only as far as their doorways when the rebel army marched past, then returned to their hearths again, dismissing the intrusion as being of no consequence.

Inverness was the capital city of the Highlands, a small town by comparison to the other major ports of Glasgow and Edinburgh. There were fewer than five hundred houses and three thousand permanent residents, most of them merchants and businessmen, which meant the town was structured around the four main streets that converged in the market square. Export goods and produce from the northern Highlands were brought to Inverness. Likewise, the ships that traveled from London, Paris, and points beyond all sailed into the blue waters of the Moray Firth and off loaded their cargoes at exorbitant profits.

The city was strategically important to both the government and rebel forces. The river that flowed through the center of town joined the Moray Firth to Loch Ness, which in turn led to a series of smaller lochs and rivers flowing southeast along the length of the Great Glen, past Fort Augustus—the halfway point—to Fort William, slashing through the Highlands on a sharp diagonal and linking the two major shipping ports. The army that controlled Inverness controlled the Highlands.

Looking south from Inverness, the mountains were piled hill against hill, woods against woods in every shade of blue, black, and gray. Crouched to the north across the firth were the distant hills of Cromarty and Dornoch, and still more remote, the clustered crust of highlands that marked Sutherland territory. Rising above the town, seated on a steep little hill on the south side of the river, was Fort George, old and crumbling, built in a time when the only threat to the Highlands was expected from the sea. Her guns were all pointed out into the firth, and even though there were barracks for six companies, most of the military personnel felt more secure outside the dilapidated walls.

To the east of Inverness, the coast road led to Nairn, passing the grand and spacious home of Duncan Forbes, the Lord President of the Court in Session. Culloden House was four miles outside the city, seated on a gentle knoll of land that commanded a view of adjoining parklands, wooded hills, and a wide, sloping plain known by the locals as Drummossie Moor.

Less than five miles to the south of Culloden was the residence of Angus Moy, Chief of Clan Chattan. A large estate by Highland standards, Moy Hall was built of quarried stone that had weathered to a soft gray tint over the years. The surrounding hills were dark with cypress and cedar, alive with deer and wild game, ribboned with burns that bubbled silver with fat, energetic trout.

The road leading to Moy Hall wound its way through forests and tiny glens, flung itself around a shoulder of hills, and finally spilled into a wide, sweeping glen, glittering under a thin blanket of snow. A sheepdog, white-muzzled, white-chested but otherwise black as night, sounded the alarm as the prince’s entourage rounded the final bend, and Lady Anne was at the door of the manor to greet him, her tartan trews and belted broadsword traded for immaculately coiffed hair and elegant satin gown.

The main bulk of the prince’s column had spread out, taking quarters in the neighboring farms and villages, but while Charles Stuart was in residence, Lochiel and his Camerons would make camp in the glen at Moy Hall. Keppoch and his MacDonalds settled to the west of the glen, the Stewarts of Appin guarded the approaches to the east.

Alexander Cameron at first declined Lady Anne’s invitation of hospitality in favor of remaining in camp with the men. A second invitation, delivered in person by their adamant hostess, could not be honorably refused—to Catherine’s overwhelming delight and relief. She had managed to remain outwardly stoic and silent through the initial decision to refuse lodging, but nearly wept with joy when Alex informed her they would be sleeping under a real roof, in a real bed, between real sheets. Her last intimate meeting with a tub of hot water had been in Glasgow, nearly a month before. The mere thought of a roaring fire sent a feverish flush through her body, one that did not lessen by any degree when she skimmed a hand over the quilted covers of the canopy bed or ran her fingers along the frilly, softly feminine articles of clothing Lady Anne had thoughtfully provided for her use. Since leaving Derby, both she and Deirdre had elected to remain in men’s clothing, finding it far more practical than dragging heavy skirts, and far warmer during the day and night. To that end, she had not felt a silk chemise next to her skin for almost ten weeks, and just the thought of feather pillows and a thick, warm mattress left her trembling with anticipation.

After so many weeks of hard tent cots and drafty canvas walls, the bedroom Lady Anne had prepared was nothing short of heaven. A large square chamber, it boasted two tall, leaded windows facing east, each with cushioned window seats and thick velvet draperies to discourage any whispers of wind. Taking up one entire wall was a large stone fireplace with a carved marble mantel. Polished oak floors were covered in Turkish carpets woven in soft patterns of blue, gold, and a touch of rose.

As in most Scottish homes, the furnishings were sparse and functional; on the wall to the left of the fireplace was an enormous wardrobe, on the wall opposite the hearth was a wide feather bed set on a mahogany catafalque, with draperies tied to each post that could be loosened at night to enfold the sleepers in a cozy velvet cocoon. Between the windows, a round, long-legged table held a vase filled with winter roses Lady Anne grew in a sunny garden greenhouse attached to the breakfast room. By the fireplace was a damask settle and a pair of high-backed wooden chairs.

Absolutely heaven, Catherine thought, nearly speechless with happiness. Left to her own resources while Alex organized the camp, she indulged in a long, steamy bath before a blazing fire, shamelessly calling twice for more heated water. Alex seemed immune to the discomfort of washing in icy streams, but then he was also asleep within minutes of hitting the hard ground, and his body always emitted the heat of a small furnace, whether it was a moderately warm night or howling with a blizzard. Catherine, on the other hand, had been cold since leaving Derby. Her fingers, her toes, the tip of her nose were perpetually pink and chilled, and she had begun to wonder if she would ever feel warm again.

Her moods, of late, had been growing proportionately erratic as well, a condition noticed by everyone but Alex. His days were mostly taken up with army affairs, and by the time he was able to fall into an exhausted sleep at night, Catherine was grateful just to be able to share the heat of his body. Each day, when Aluinn saw her, the question was in his eyes as to whether she’d had a chance to impart her good news to her husband, but there just hadn’t been the right combination of time or mood.

She had told Deirdre right away, of course, and the beaming Mrs. MacKail had welcomed the news with smiles, tears, and a frown or two of concern for good measure. Secretly hoping to find herself in a similar condition before too long, Deirdre was happy for Catherine and a little envious. But when she began to dwell on the more practical realities of the situation—the long rough hours of travel in deplorable weather, the inevitable sickness that went hand in hand with exhaustion, poor food, and lack of sanitation—she grew more and more concerned, and agreed with Aluinn that Alexander should be told without further delay.

“If I wait much longer,” Catherine muttered, inspecting her profile in the mirror (was it her imagination or was her belly developing a distinctly rounded curve to it?), “I shan’t have to
tell
him anything at all.”

Tonight, she decided. She would tell him tonight, and hang the consequences. If what he had said, all those months ago, about hating children and kicking small dogs was true … well, he would just have to grin and bear it. There wasn’t much she could do about it, even if she wanted to … which she didn’t. The mere thought of giving birth to a child terrified her, and would terrify her more as the babe grew and swelled within her. But it was Alex’s child, and that made all the difference. She would be strong and brave and … and …

Something—a tickle of a draft against her shoulder, or perhaps just the instinctive knowledge that she was no longer alone in the room—made her turn slowly toward the door.

Having just recently stepped from the bath, she was dressed only in a thin chemise as she stood before the fire brushing her hair dry. Alexander, who had come into the room unobserved, had been standing quietly by the door enjoying the view of his wife’s lithe body turning this way and that before the glow of the fire. The chemise had ridden up to bare more of the gently rounded hips and pale buttocks than her modesty might have allowed, but Alex’s dark eyes devoured the pale loveliness, relishing the effect she had on his own body.

He had been taking her beauty for granted, he was realizing. The stunningly long, slender legs, skin as white and fine as porcelain, as clear and unblemished as the day he had met her, despite all the hardships she had been through. How long had it been since he had seen her hair out of the thick braid she had taken to wearing? How long since he had seen her trim figure enveloped in anything less than unflatteringly bulky men’s clothing? Even making love, lately, had become a furtive, hasty act, accomplished around barely loosened clothing and beneath mounds of scratchy wool blankets.

Perhaps that was why he had not noticed the changes. They were slight, to be sure, but to a man who prided himself on having explored and committed to memory every mole and crease, every curve and supple indentation, her secret was as glaringly obvious as if she wore a sign draped around her belly.

“How long?” he asked calmly.

Catherine held the hairbrush clenched tightly in both hands, the knuckles turning ivory where they gripped the handle.

“I cannot be sure,” she answered in a voice that feigned the same cool indifference as his. “But I am praying it happened the night you came to me at Rosewood Hall. I never loved you more than I did that night. Never any less since then, but that was the first night I knew beyond any shred of doubt you were the only man I would ever love. It was the night I knew everything that had gone on before in my life had been meaningless and empty, and anything after—without you—would be without purpose.”

He had moved closer while she was speaking. The firelight was bathing his face, gilding his skin, his hair in gold, illuminating every feature, yet unable to penetrate the quiet, brooding intensity of his eyes. She could live to be a thousand and never be able to cipher them completely. Her chin suffered a tremor and her blood felt thick and sluggish. She was standing too close to the fire, she rationalized, and the heat was infusing her limbs, melting her flesh, scalding her senses. Blinded by love, she watched his shimmering outline come almost close enough to touch her. Almost.

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“As soon as I was sure,” she admitted in a whisper. “But you were always so busy … and … and I was afraid …” Her voice trailed away and the dark eyes narrowed sharply.

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Of you. Of how you would react. I mean, you did say once that you abhorred the thought of having children. You also said you abhorred the thought of having a wife, and I thought … well, I thought you had adjusted to the one shock rather well, but having a second one thrown at you so soon, it … it …” She stopped, her eyes wide and wet and very deeply hued as she fastened on the smile that was slowly spreading across his lips.

Without speaking or explaining the unsettling grin, his hands cupped her face gently between them and his mouth covered hers, the kiss as deep and passionate as a physical act of love. It left her speechless—as intended—and breathless, awed by the sheer emotional power of that one act of touching. Her awe spread, paralyzing her further as he dropped humbly onto one knee before her, circled his arms around her waist and pressed first his lips, then his bronzed cheek against her belly.

“I am sorry if I frightened you,” he murmured hoarsely.

“I am truly sorry if I led you to believe I would be anything but … overwhelmed and … overjoyed at the thought of you loving me enough to bear my child.”

Catherine let the brush slip out of her hands and combed her fingers into the thick waves of gleaming black hair. “Oh, Alex …”

He felt the splash of a hot tear drop from her chin onto his cheek and he took hold of himself, standing again and gathering her into his arms. But neither of them was steady enought to support the other, so he compromised by lifting her and settling onto one of the chairs before the hearth, his body cradling hers against his possessive warmth, his lips laying a path of caresses through the silky fragrance of her hair.