The Pride of Lions (42 page)

Always sure of herself in the past, she now felt mired in doubt and uncertainty. She wanted to stay. She wanted to go. For the first time in her life she wanted someone to tell her what to do, but even the obscure and tinny voice of her conscience remained stubbornly silent.

“Cow piss,” Rose announced, her voice almost causing Catherine to spill her wine. “Take ma advice, hen: A wee tot o’ cow piss an’ vinegar each mornin’ an’ yer bairns will all be laddies. I ken. I’ve had six o’ ma own.”

“Cow piss me arse,” Jeannie countered derisively. “All that’ll gie ye is a sour belly an’ no’ much more. Beetroot jelly. Tha’s what ma mither told me, an’ all
twelve
o’ ma bairns are laddies. Ye take a wee dram, ye see, an’ muckle it on his nether parts just afore—”

An abrupt roar of laughter interrupted the dissertation, and Catherine glanced gratefully to the door of the retiring room. Archibald Cameron stuck his head into the room and thundered for their attention, as if the trembling of the walls had not already alerted them to his presence. He swung an arm wide in a sweepingly flamboyant gesture and stood aside as two tartan-clad, bedraggled figures who had obviously ridden long and hard through the night and morning walked past him into the room. Catherine’s heart needed but a second to flutter with recognition.

“Alex,” she whispered.

The dark eyes found her immediately, but any greeting he might have offered was drowned in a swell of anxious voices.

“Alex! Struan!” Maura grasped each man’s arm in
welcome. “Thank God you have come back to us safely. We’ve been hearing all manner of rumors—”

“What has been happenin’ at Arisaig?”

“Did ye see the Prince? Did ye speak wi’ him?”

“Where is Donald?”

Alex held up his hands to staunch the flow of questions. “Donald is a day or so behind us, nothing to worry about. Struan and I came ahead with a few of the men.…” His voice trailed away and his gaze strayed back to Catherine.

Drinks were thrust into their hands and both men were ushered closer to the fire. They were relieved of their heavy sword belts, bonnets, and plaids, then questioned as to the last time they had eaten. Both men looked exhausted. Struan’s glorious mane of hair was stringy and limp, his beard thick with the dust and grime of traveling. Alex fared little better. His hair was stuck to his neck and brow, his jaw was blue-black with several days’ growth of stubble. His eyes, normally so clear and piercing, were heavily smudged with dark rings of weariness.

“Ye look like hell, brither,” Archibald announced with his usual aplomb. “Has the war started wi’ out us?”

He had asked the question half as a joke, but at the look on Alex’s face, Archibald’s normally jovial smile faded and the light in the pale-blue eyes became bright with alarm.

“Out wi’ it, lads,” he ordered. “What news f’ae Arisaig?”

“The clans meet ten days from now at Glenfinnan. The Prince plans to raise the Stuart standard and proclaim himself regent of Scotland in his father’s absence.”

Jeannie let off a whoop of excitement and executed a quick dancing jig before her husband could glare her into silence.

“A gathering of the clans?” Aluinn asked quietly. “Who is he expecting to join him there?”

Alex drew a deep breath and tossed back the contents of his glass before answering. “Clanranald and Kinlochmoidart
are already arming; Glenaladale and most of his MacDonalds; Keppoch, and Glencoe, of course—”

“Keppoch? But he would never commit unless …”

“Unless the Camerons were committed,” Alex finished grimly. “The same holds for the Stewarts of Appin, the MacLeans, Glengarry, the Grants, the Frasers …”

“My God—” Maura whispered in horror.

“They have all pledged?” Aluinn asked.

“They will all have to search their own consciences and make their own decision now that the gauntlet is thrown.” Alex looked almost apologetically at Lady Cameron. “Donald did everything but get down on his knees to beg the Prince to return to France or at least to wait for a better time, but—”

“How is he?”

“Donald? Oddly enough, I think he’s relieved that the waiting, the arguing, the endless debating is over. It was his decision to make and he made it, committing himself one hundred percent.”

“Everything?”

Alex knew what Maura was asking. There were lairds who would agree to send half the clan under a son or a brother to fight for the Stuarts and thereby honor their oath of allegiance to the exiled king. They would also send a token force to pledge for Hanover, thus ensuring that regardless of the outcome their titles and estates would be protected. But Donald would no more consider dividing his loyalties than he would give half an oath.

“Refill yer man’s glass, hen,” Rose whispered in Catherine’s ear, loud enough to win the attention of the dark eyes again.

All of her carefully rehearsed greetings deserted her, and Catherine was suddenly aware of how she must look. She had spent the morning taking a leisurely walk along the shore, and her hair was scattered every which way around her shoulders, loosened from the glossy blonde braid that hung down her back. She raised a hand to smooth the tendrils back from her face, but there were
too many and his eyes were too sharp. Her flush deepened and spread down her throat. Her ability to move, to think, to speak had all but deserted her.

Rose prodded her with an elbow and she walked haltingly forward. She was aware of his eyes on her all the way, the heat from them coiling through her belly and between her thighs like silken ribbons.

Somehow she managed to carry the bottle to where he stood without dropping it, but it was all she could do to lift the decanter and rattle it against the edge of his glass. He eventually raised a hand to steady it.

“Have you been well?”

“Yes,” she answered in a whisper. “Very well, thank you.”

“Alasdair! Struan!” Lauren Cameron came running into the room, skidding to a halt in a breathless swirl of flying red hair, yellow skirts, and excited laughter. “I’ve just heard the news! Is it true? Is cousin Donald raisin’ the clan f’ae Prince Charlie?”

“Aye, lass,” Struan said, swelling his massive chest proudly. “Lochiel has pledged the Camerons tae fight f’ae King Jamie.”

The tiger eyes lingered on Alex’s face a moment longer than they should have before she smiled to acknowledge Struan’s remark. “When? When are we marchin’ tae meet the Prince?”

“As soon as Donal’ returns, he’ll be tellin’ us all about it,” Archibald said. “Nae sense workin’ yersel’ up till then. By the Christ, but this calls f’ae a toast. Aye, there’s a bonnie wife. Fill ma glass, Jeannie, then fill all the rest.”

Catherine refrained, as did Maura. Alex joined the toast in silence, then returned his emptied glass to the tray.

“If no one objects, I’ve lived in these clothes for a week now—half that time in the pouring rain. Struan, I thank you for your company. Aluinn—can I speak to you out in the hallway for a few minutes?”

Catherine watched Alex lead MacKail out of the room,
then was distracted by Maura clapping her hands for order in the mild pandemonium of voices. Luncheon, she suggested, should be delayed long enough to give the men a chance to freshen up. Lauren was dispatched to tell the cook, and Struan, after a hastily murmured excuse, prowled after her a few minutes later.

Aluinn came back alone. The smoky gray eyes held Catherine’s for a moment before he joined Archibald and Maura by the hearth.

Catherine forced her legs to move, to carry her out of the room and along the sunlit hallway. She told herself she was only going to change her own clothes and brush her hair into some semblance of order, but as she started up the stairs to the west tower, her footsteps lagged and she had to firmly grip the carved stone banister for support the rest of the way to the top.

The doors to all three rooms were closed, and she thought of a game she had seen played at a country fair-ground with walnut shells and a dried pea. The gamester had hidden the pea under one of the shells and taken ha’penny bets from the onlookers, who tried to guess where it had ended up. She had no excuse to enter Alex’s room, nor did she want to confront him in the fireroom if he was in the tub again. She would go into her own room and leave the door ajar. That way, if he wanted to see her or speak to her in private, he would know where she was.

Resigned to the wisdom of her strategy, she entered her bedchamber and adjusted the width of the door opening twice before she was satisfied. The single narrow window at the end of its recessed bay did little to alleviate the gloom, which seemed darker than normal, and she had walked to the dressing table and begun to unwind the long plait of her hair before she realized Alex was standing in the embrasure, his broad frame slashing the beam of sunlight into hazy, dust-laden streamers. She stared at his reflection in the mirror, her hands frozen on the separated strands of hair.

He moved, shifting the play of shadows and sunlight
again as he leaned casually on the stone casement. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Catherine bade her hands move and they obeyed, resuming the process of combing out the braid.

“Aluinn tells me you have been venturing outside the castle.”

“He took me riding, if that is what you mean. I was beginning to feel like a prisoner.”

He frowned instantly. “Has anyone said or done anything to—”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “No. I only meant … I mean, the walls were beginning to close in on me a little, I guess. No … everyone has been extremely hospitable.”

He pursed his lips and looked down at his hands. “Archie seems to think there is Scottish blood in you somewhere. He is quite taken with you.”

“I … rather like him too. He is—” She groped for an appropriate word to fit the recalcitrant, outspoken doctor, but failed to find one.

“A bit unorthodox?”

“He is a very fine doctor,” she allowed. “He has worked a minor miracle on Mr. MacKail’s shoulder.”

“He should be good. He was trained in Edinburgh and graduated at the head of his class.”

“Archibald?” She could not keep the incredulity out of her voice, and he smiled.

“Every family has an eccentric or two hiding away in a closet. In our case, we have Archie.”

“And Jeannie,” she murmured, matching his shadow of a smile.

“Ah, yes, Jeannie. She is another matter altogether. Good solid farm stock, not the least impressed by the Cameron name or position. She would be as happy stomping around in a sod
clachan
as she would living in Holyrood House.”

Catherine glanced surreptitiously at him in the mirror’s reflection. Oddly enough, the week-long absence had sharpened her intuition, and she could hear the faint
depression in his voice, see it in the slight stoop to his shoulders. He was more upset, more shaken by Donald’s capitulation than he let on. All this trite, casual small talk was hiding the fact that he was worried, frightened, almost … lost.

To cover her own nervousness Catherine took up the hairbrush and began dragging it through the length of her hair, smoothing the tangles, taming the heavy cascade into the sleek ripple over her shoulder.

“Your letter to Damien got away safely,” he said after a moment. “We managed to find a ship that was just leaving—”

Their eyes met in the mirror and there was a breathless little silence between them. He was thinking how lovely she looked standing there, her face dusted pink, her hair bright and flowing softly over her shoulders. Even the plain cotton dress she wore took on a certain elegance for simply being graced with her form. He had tried not to think of her too often over the past week, and for the most part he had been successful. Only when he closed his eyes did his willpower fail him. If he had hoped to exorcise her from his blood that night, or sought to use the week away from her to regain his perspective, there, too, he had failed miserably. He was drowning, floundering in the perfume of her hair and skin, and if she did not stop looking at him that way …

Catherine no longer saw the man who had kidnapped her, frightened her half to death, and introduced her to horrors she had never dreamed existed. Instead, she saw a very vulnerable man who had survived his own private hell and emerged strong and vital and on his guard against any further possible damage to the heart that beat so formidably within his chest. And she was thinking, if she could steal but a portion of that strength, a small part of that heart …

Alex clenched his fists tighter, his whole body fighting the desire to stride across the room and take her in his arms. He turned and looked out the window.

“One of the reasons we left Arisaig ahead of Donald,” he explained, “was to make a detour down along the coast to meet with a smuggler Struan knows quite well. After a good deal of haggling and a few threats on both sides, we managed to arrange passage for you and Deirdre as far as Blackpool.”

The hand holding the brush faltered over the span of a few quick heartbeats. “When?”

“The end of the week. Saturday.” His voice was strained, the words so low she almost could not hear them.

“I see.”

“Under the circumstances it is the smartest, safest route … and it is imperative that we get you away as quickly as possible.” The sound of the brush falling on the dressing table drew his eyes back in time to see her walking toward him. “Naturally, there are still risks traveling by sea, but … the captain assures me he pays the coastal revenuers an exorbitant sum to keep them looking the other way.”

“Will you be taking me?”

“To the coast, yes. After that you will be well-protected, don’t worry.”

Catherine wasn’t worried at all. She was remarkably calm, in fact, as she joined him by the window.

“And you?” Her hand toyed absently with the laces that crisscrossed her bodice. “What will you do now that your brother has decided to go to war?”

He was silent, his body immobile, his arms taut with the knowledge they could reach out and touch her, stroke the soft white curve of her cheek.

“I am a Cameron. I cannot turn my back on that fact regardless of my personal feelings. Sometimes …” His voice trailed away, and his eyes fell involuntarily to where her hand lingered over the dusky cleft of her breasts. “Sometimes there are larger issues than a man’s private convictions.”