The Pride of Lions (28 page)

“Why, Struan MacSorley, kiss me stupid if ye werena in ma thoughts not five minutes gone by.”

“I’ll kiss ye daft ten ways tae Sunday,” he said, grinning as his gaze dipped appreciatively to the deep cleft between her breasts. “Ye just tell me where an’ when.”

“I can think o’ at least one place ye could put yer lips
tae good use,” she teased, stepping closer and pillowing her breasts against his broad chest. Her hand pressed boldly over his thigh and she felt the immediate response stirring lustily against her belly. “Mind, I wouldna want tae be the cause o’ breakin’ Mary MacFarlane’s heart. It
is
her bed ye warm at night, is it no’?”

“I’ve nae claim on Mary,” he said thickly. “An’ she’s nae claim on me.”

“What o’ the bairn ye’ve put in her belly?”

“It were put there long afore I ever spread ma kilt aneath her.” MacSorley’s big hands went around Lauren’s waist to pull her closer. “But if ye’re envious o’ her condition, I’d be only too happy tae oblige.”

“Envious o’ a hedge-born brat?” She squirmed half-heartedly to break loose. “Thank ye, but no. I’ve better things planned f’ae ma future.”

MacSorley took a last lingering look down the front of her bodice before he released her. “If ye grow weary o’ the party tonight,” he said huskily, “ye ken which room is mine?”

“Aye. The one with the well-worn path tae the door.”

“Makes it easier tae find in the dark,” he agreed blithely. “Just dinna go knockin’ if ye find the latch bolted. Unless ye fancy sharin’ a romp f’ae three, that is.”

“I never share,” she purred, dragging her hand across the bulge in his loins. “An’ I’ve never met the man who’d want tae share once I’ve taken him in hand.”

With a flash of her amber eyes Lauren brushed past him and continued along the gallery. She could feel him watching her all the way to the far end of the hall, and the knowledge of the condition she had left him in fixed a contemptuous smile firmly on her face. He was handsome and virile and eager to take
her
in hand, but he was after all just a bodyguard, and a liaison with Struan MacSorley would get her exactly nowhere at all.

She hated this place. Hated Achnacarry with its oppressive stone walls and mountainous isolation. There
was another world out there waiting for her, a world infinitely more suited to her talents and desires. She craved a life of gaiety and bright lights, of exquisite gowns and handsome lovers only too eager to part with their gold and favors.

Orphaned when she was twelve years old, Lauren had been sent to Achnacarry—banished, as she thought of it—to the care of her great-aunt Rose Cameron. Born and raised in Edinburgh, the sudden seclusion had been almost as great a shock to the young girl as her appearance had been to the sedate and orderly Cameron household. Anticipating a shy and refined lass barely out of bibs and aprons, they had been surprised to greet, instead, a developing beauty with a mind and will of her own. Moreover, coming from a distant branch of the family, they were ignorant of the fact that her father had been hanged for a thief and her mother had owned and run one of the most successful brothels in the city. A Cameron was a Cameron, they decreed, regardless of her sly disposition and despite the jealous, bloody fights she provoked almost weekly.

A thin, malicious smile drew out the corners of her mouth as she thought of what fools men were. How truly weak they were in spite of all the brawn and bluster. A few scant inches of moist pink flesh could undermine the best of them, could reduce the most fearsome warrior to a quivering mass of witlessness. In the beginning such power had intrigued and stimulated her. The bolder the conquest, the higher her aspirations and, coincidentally, the greater her own pleasure. She had been even quicker to realize the material benefits of a lusty romp in the haystack, and many an unknowing wife went missing coins and trinkets and precious family heirlooms.

Her nest egg had become quite impressive and would have been more so had a young clansman named MacGregor not fallen prey to his passions while aiding her in an ill-conceived attempt to run away two years ago. When
they were caught, not only was his kilt loose and his body rigorously demanding its reward for his romantic ardor, but his saddle was weighed down with the rings, bracelets, gold and silver coins she had extracted from Lochiel’s family chest. She had been left with no recourse but to smash a rock against the side of his head and scream for deliverance. Her performance had been flawless and convincing. Her aim had been faultless as well, for the lad never did regain his full senses, and tempers had been roused to such a peak that no one troubled to delay the hanging long enough to hear his defense.

Unfortunately, the nest egg of her own painstakingly gathered coins could not be separated from the pouch of looted goods before it was returned to Lochiel, who in turn blithely locked it away in his strongbox again. There were some who suspected Lauren was not entirely innocent in the theft and alleged kidnapping, some who even encouraged Lochiel to marry her off to some thick-necked Highlander who would then take responsibility for her actions, thereby sealing her fate forever.

For that reason she had become the model of good behavior and constraint, resisting on more than one occasion the blistering temptation to visit Struan MacSorley’s room. The lusty blond giant’s prowess was near legendary, and she had spent many a restless night wondering how it would feel to have all that brute strength inside her, on top of her, beneath her. But he was not the type of man to keep an affair secret, nor was he the type to dally carelessly with his laird’s niece without feeling duty-bound to make an honest woman of her. Lochiel would be only too happy to see his old friend wed again; Struan had been without a wife for nearly three years now.

The dilemma vanished when the first rumors of Alexander Cameron’s homecoming began to spread.

She had, naturally, heard all the stories centering around the black-haired, black-eyed renegade known as the
Camshroinaich Dubh
. She had stood for hours in
front of the portrait of Sir Ewen Cameron and knew without a doubt that the grandson was exactly the type of man who would suit her needs perfectly. He was a soldier of fortune, a man who had spent half his lifetime in cities like Paris, Rome, Madrid.… He had even been to the colonies, for heaven’s sake! He would not be content to ramble about the decaying walls of a medieval castle. Bored with the peace and tranquillity, he would soon be lured back to the adventure beyond the borders of Scotland, and when he left this miserable formation of rock and mortar, surely he would have no qualms about taking someone along who shared his hunger for excitement.

In the days and hours prior to his arrival, when the tension had been palpable, Lauren had paced the battlements as often as the guards searching for some sign of activity on the road. Scores of clansmen had been sent out to scour the countryside, and she spent every spare moment ingratiating herself with the Cameron women, running errands, coddling their loathsome brats, sitting through hour after hour of trite conversation, advice, lectures …

And then the wait was over. A clansman had galloped into the courtyard shouting the news at the top of his lungs. The
Camshroinaich Dubh
was less than five miles away! He would be at Achnacarry within the hour!

There had been no mention of a wife. The entire family had been stunned to learn not only of her existence, but of her nationality. Alexander Cameron, a man who had almost single-handedly started a war between the Hanoverian Campbells and dozens of enraged and sympathetic Jacobite clans, had come home with a pinch-lipped, stiff-backed
Sassenach
who reeked of Georgian decadence. Her presence at Achnacarry was an insult, a slap in the face to every clansman old enough to remember the arrogance of the English victors after the ’15. It was bad enough having to bear the thought of their chief married to a Campbell, but at least Maura was a Scot and a Highlander.

No, this was an insult that could not simply be shrugged away. Besides which, Lauren had her mind set on Alexander Cameron being her means of escape from this place, and by God, he would provide it one way or another. The fact that a man she wanted was married had never been an obstacle before; it certainly would not be one now.

14

“S
weet merciful heavens, where have you been?” Catherine paced back from the window embrasure as Deirdre came through the doorway. “And how dare you leave me to fend for myself while you chase after that … that
criminal
.”

“I’m sorry, mistress,” Deirdre said contritely. “But I did check on you several times, only to find you were still asleep. And Mr. MacKail is so dreadfully weak. I … I cannot help but feel responsible for him somehow.”

“Responsible? What utter nonsense! You didn’t get him shot.” In a bristling temper Catherine paced to the window again and glared back at the girl, but Deirdre looked so worn and weary herself that the anger turned swiftly to concern. “You haven’t slept a wink all night, have you?”

The dark brown eyes remained downcast. “I … think I did, mistress. Here and there.”

Catherine chewed on her lip. “Well? How is he?”

“The doctor had to cauterize the wound to stop it bleeding. He hasn’t wakened but the once, in the middle of it all when it would have been far better for him to have remained unconscious. It took both Mr. Cameron and myself to hold him still so the doctor could finish. I hope to never have to see a sight like that again, mistress. Never.”

“Will he live?”

Deirdre looked up. “I don’t know, mistress. The doctor said he is young enough and strong enough to see it through, but …”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I have come to the conclusion these Highland rogues are too mean to die. They will all live forever, if only to see us perish from sheer frustration first.”

Deirdre smiled faintly, and seeing the wild blonde tangle of her charge’s hair, she pointed to the scuffed portmanteau she had left by the armoire. “I managed to save some things from your baggage before it was taken off the coach. Your hairbrushes, your combs, some bath salts …”

“Bath salts? Oh, Deirdre, you are a marvel. I swear the soap they gave me last night was vile enough to scrub pots. I would die for a
real
bath with
real
soap and
real
perfumes. I fear I will never get the smell of blood and dirt off my skin—
not
that anyone cares, of course. Once again it seems we have been shoved into a corner and forgotten.”

“I saw Mr. Cameron this morning,” Deirdre said as she fetched the portmanteau. “He did say he came by your room to speak with you, but—”

“He was here? In this room?”

“He asked—and very nicely too, I might add—if we had everything we needed.”

“He did, did he? A guilty conscience speaking, no doubt. If not for Lady Cameron he likely would have left me sitting out in the courtyard all night long, although … I warrant if I had wild red hair and breasts spilling out of my bodice he would have remembered me.”

“Mistress?”

Catherine shook her head to dismiss the remark, and Deirdre added, “He also asked me to inform you that the family will be dining at eight. I gather they have planned some sort of celebration to mark his return.”

“What, pray, do
I
have to celebrate?”

“He said … he expects you to be dressed and ready to accompany him.”

“
Dressed?
In what, pray tell? A nightgown and bathrobe?”

Deirdre glanced nervously at her mistress as she walked over to the armoire. She opened one of the doors to reveal several formal gowns hanging alongside shelves filled with neatly folded underthings.

“So.” Catherine planted her hands on her hips. “He threw away all my clothes, now he expects me to wear someone else’s castoffs? I should sooner go naked.”

“An original idea,” a husky baritone said from the open doorway. “Although it might play havoc with the digestion of the other guests.”

Catherine whirled around and scrambled to clutch the edges of the red wool robe higher to her throat. Alexander Cameron was standing there, leaning casually against the jamb, one of his infernal little cigars clamped between his teeth.

“Deirdre, in the future remind me to lock and bolt the door.”

“I have never cared much for locks,” Cameron remarked conversationally. “Most of the time when I run across one in my way, I am driven to kick it down just to see what it is I am not supposed to see.”

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Why have you disturbed us?”

“Do I disturb you?” His grin broadened and he pushed away from the jamb. He walked into the room and cast a lazy eye in the direction of the bed. “You slept well, I trust? You certainly looked cozy enough—like a little golden kitten all curled up around the pillows.”

He came close enough for Catherine to reel from the smell of cigar smoke and raw spirits.

“You have been drinking,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“I have indeed, madam. Everyone from the smithy to the lowliest gillie has offered to share a toast to my new bride and wish me lifelong bliss and prosperity.”