The Blood of Roses (2 page)

“I thought that might tickle your sense of irony further.” Damien nodded. “And if the rumors we have been hearing prove to be correct, if the clans are arming and preparing to support Charles Stuart in his quest to reclaim the throne for his father …” He paused and sighed expressively. “It could well bring Hamilton Garner and Alexander Cameron face-to-face over crossed swords again.”

Catherine shivered, remembering the twisted look of hatred on Hamilton’s patrician face as he had sworn revenge on the man who had not only humiliated him in a duel of honor but had then married the plum of Derbyshire. Catherine’s father, Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, was not only a prominent Whig and elected Member of Parliament, but his circle of friends and acquaintances could have furthered an ambitious man’s career to the top of the mountain … and if nothing else, Hamilton Garner was an ambitious man.

“A fine pair of scoundrels we Ashbrookes turned out to be,” Damien offered mockingly. “You, the daughter of one of Hanover’s staunchest supporters in Parliament, wed to the brother of the single most influential Jacobite chief in all of Scotland; me, the vaunted son, learned solicitor, and heir to one of the oldest, richest seats in England”—a slight deprecatory laugh broke the seriousness of the speech—“on the verge of being hustled to the altar under less than auspicious circumstances so that my bride might deliver me a legitimate heir.”

Catherine’s astonishment had been genuine. “Harriet? Harriet is—?”

“Indeed she is. Rather beautifully so, I might add. But if you thought Father’s rage was monumental on the eve of your unexpected nuptials, you should have seen his chins quavering when he learned of his son’s indiscretions. He wanted us to marry with all due haste, of course, but Harriet would not hear of it. Not until she had heard some word from you, that is. Now, perhaps, she will consent to unlock her door and emerge from her rooms.”

“A baby!” Catherine had cried then.

“A baby,” she whispered now, smiling wistfully as the echoes of the conversation faded behind the insistent tattoo of the rain. She should have been stunned, she supposed, to learn of her friend Harriet’s condition. Conceiving a child out of wedlock was sufficient grounds to have a young woman banished from her home, treated as a leper in civilized society, and reduced to a beggar’s lot in ignominy. But Catherine was not as shocked as she might have been two months before, just as she was no longer ignorant of the effects of wild, blissful passion on the otherwise sane and reserved emotions of a well-bred young woman of quality. If anything, she was a little sad—sad and irrationally envious that Harriet was already able to prove to herself, and to everyone else, that her love was real. That it wasn’t just a dream. That it wasn’t a lapse, or a moment of insanity, and it wouldn’t fade away as if it had never been.

Catherine closed her eyes and felt the tears well over her lashes. She had no such proof. There was no child, only a hollow ache of loss, of loneliness. Had it all been a dream? Had she just imagined the warm, wonderful sensation of being loved and wanted? Had she only felt so alive and freed from the stifling confines of her own inadequacy because Alexander Cameron had swept into her life like a storm and could not help but leave it in shambles?

Her body knew beyond a doubt that she was no longer an innocent—dear God, she burned with shame and longing just to think of what a single touch could do to her pride. What a few words, whispered in passion, could do to the peace of her mind.

“I love you Catherine. I know you are angry with me now and you may not believe it absolutely, but I do love you. What is more, I swear on that love—and on my life— that I will come for you as soon as I possibly can.”

“Oh, Alex,” she whispered, pressing her hand and brow against the cold pane of glass. “I want to believe you. With all my heart I want to believe you, but …”

She closed her eyes against the darkness and the rain, and imagined she could see him standing before her, silhouetted against the purpling haze of a Highland twilight. The wind would be tugging at the unruly locks of thick black hair, his gaze would be distant and unreadable, his mood as brooding and unpredictable as the misted mountain wilderness he called home. When he moved, it would be with the fluid, lethal grace of a panther, his body hard and dangerously deceiving so that one thought instantly of elegance and later, of shocking, explosive power.

He was a loner and a renegade, yes, but his capacity for gentleness and compassion was boundless, as she had discovered. For too many years he had lived with the past locked inside his heart, hardening it like armor against any further intrusions. At the age of seventeen, he had witnessed the brutal rape and murder of his first wife, Annie MacSorley. In revenge, he had killed two nephews of the powerful Duke of Argyle, chief of Clan Campbell; for this he had been declared a murderer and forced into a fifteen-year-long exile.

When Catherine had encountered him in the fogged, sun-streaked glade outside Rosewood Hall, he had been returning to Scotland, to his family’s home at Achnacarry Castle. Denounced as a spy, yes, in the sense that he had kept his eyes and ears open on his journey from France to Scotland. A traitor? He had no pressing, zealous political convictions of his own; rather it was his ingrained code of honor—unbreakable and unbendable—that was carrying him home to stand by the side of his Jacobite brother, Donald Cameron of Lochiel.

Loyalty and family pride: two qualities to which Catherine had not given much thought before Alexander Cameron. Now she thought about them a great deal, for she was a Cameron too. He had made her one, in heart and body.

“Mistress Catherine?”

The soft voice intruded upon Catherine’s memories and, with a start, she straightened. She had not heard Deirdre come into the room, and her hands trembled icily as she smoothed them down a nonexistent wrinkle on her skirt.

Deirdre O’Shea had remained steadfastly loyal throughout the harrowing five-week odyssey and had, at times, been Catherine’s only link with sanity. More than just an abigail, Deirdre had become a friend and a confidante, an ally, a fellow conspirator as well as unwitting victim. For as deeply smitten as Catherine was with Alexander Cameron, she was not blind to the stolen glances exchanged between Deirdre and the only man to whom Alexander would have entrusted their safety during the perilous sea voyage from Scotland to Blackpool: Aluinn MacKail.

Tall and lean, MacKail had the appearance and soft-spoken manners of an academic—indeed, he wrote poetry and could speak six languages fluently. But he was also the only man Catherine had ever seen best Alex with a sword, and the only man whose character and strength had equaled Alex’s through fifteen years of shared exile.

“Yes, Deirdre, what is it?”

“Master Damien wishes to know if you will be taking your supper with him belowstairs tonight.”

“I am not really very hungry.”

Deirdre frowned, noting the residue of tears on her mistress’s cheeks. “You must eat something … to keep up your strength.”

Catherine saw the concern in the soft brown eyes and attempted a faint smile. “Tell my brother I do not think I would be good company in public tonight. Ask him instead if he will join me in my room and share a small meal. We still have so much to discuss and so little time …”

Deirdre reached out and touched her mistress’s arm. “You mustn’t worry. Master Damien knows what to say and do. You must trust him to know what is best for you.”

Catherine’s smile faltered as Alexander’s voice stirred in her memory. “I
leave it up to you whether you return to Derby as a wife or a widow. In either case, I am forwarding letters and documents to Damien.”

“What is best for me?” Catherine murmured and turned to stare out the window again. “To pretend I am returning home for a visit to make amends with my family while my husband is away in the colonies on business … or to return as his widow, determined to put the scandal behind me and to get on with the rest of my life? Such generous offers, both of them, complete with estates and bank accounts—” She bit her lip to check the flow of resentment. Not so very long ago she would have crowed with triumph had she been able to present herself before her peers with such enviable riches. During his time in exile when he had masqueraded as Raefer Montgomery, Alex had accumulated an admirably healthy fortune—an attribute Catherine would have once deigned of greater importance in making a good marriage than almost anything else. Now, however …

Her hand fell to the back of the chair that stood beside her, her fingers caressing the rough length of tartan wool she had carried away from Achnacarry Castle. Having been smuggled out of Scotland in haste, and having arrived in Blackpool with only the clothes on her back, she had spent the greater part of the last three days trailing listlessly behind Aluinn MacKail as he emptied nearly every store and dress shop in Blackpool to replenish her lost wardrobe. The silk gown she wore now was more extravagant than anything she had owned before, but she would gladly have forfeited it along with everything else that filled the six brand-new trunks for the right to openly wear the Cameron plaid.

The soft yellow lamplight reflected off the amethyst ring and Catherine curled her fingers into a fist.

“What will you do now?” she asked Deirdre.

“What will
I
do, mistress?”

Catherine frowned and glanced sidelong at the startled maid. “You do not have to return to Derby with me if you choose to go elsewhere. There is little point in two of us being miserable.”

Deirdre’s cheeks flared instantly with two hot red spots. “Wh-where else would I go, mistress?”

“Back. With him. With Aluinn.” Fresh tears threatened the stability of her voice. “Oh, Deirdre … don’t destroy
your
chance for happiness because of me. Go with him. Go back to Scotland if he asks you.”

“He … he has not asked,” Deirdre whispered quietly. “And I do not think he will. He and Mr. Cameron are very much alike, I’m afraid.”

Catherine’s lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry, Deirdre, to have dragged you into all of this.”

The Irish girl thrust her chin out stubbornly. “I’ve stood by your side for eight years, mistress. You did not drag me anywhere I would not have gone willingly. And in truth … it has been something of an adventure, has it not? I might even be so bold as to suggest that we could well have lived out the rest of our lives in Derby and not seen one tenth of the excitement we have these past few weeks. I don’t regret it, mistress. You shouldn’t either.”

Regrets? Catherine wondered. How could she possibly regret the wild, passionate weeks she had spent with Alexander Cameron?

Raised by governesses and servants, tolerated by an indifferent father and shunned by a mother who preferred not to see the evidence of her own mounting years, Catherine had learned early what it was like to feel alone in a house crowded with people. Somehow she had coped and adapted. For eighteen years she had carefully built walls around her emotions, impenetrable barriers to protect her inner self.

Those walls and barriers had all been blown through a hole in the wind the moment she had looked into Alexander Cameron’s eyes and recognized a similar look of loss and loneliness aching to be set free. He, too, had been locking away his emotions, throwing obstacles in the path of anything soft and vulnerable that threatened his independence. Two proud, stubborn people … was it any wonder the heavens had seemed to crack wide apart when they had finally come together?

Should it be any less surprising that the earth had ground to a halt when he had put her on board the
Curlew
and sent her out of his life?

He had given his word, pledged on his honor to come for her when the danger of rebellion had passed or been resolved, but she could not grasp hold of a pledge. There was no warmth, no physical comfort, no substance to a few whispered words delivered on a cold, mist-ridden night. She knew she could have been safe and strong if Alex had just trusted her enough to take her back to Achnacarry.