The Blood of Roses (28 page)

“Velvet … or brocade?” she pondered aloud.

“Velvet,” Alexander suggested, watching her over the flame of the candle he was using to light his cigar.

Catherine ripped the heavily embroidered brocade off its holder and flung it onto the back of a chair. She returned to the dressing room and emerged with an armful of petticoats, which she struggled into unassisted, despite Alex’s willing offer of help. She grudgingly requested his strong— and suspiciously skillful hands—to lace her into the brocade bodice, and, after attaching the wide, bell-shaped skirt, she stood moaning before the mirror again, this time decrying the scattered tumble of blonde curls. Wild and wanton, they did absolutely nothing to compliment the elegant lines of the brocade.

“I believe I did suggest the velvet,” Alex reminded her smugly.

Catherine spun around, her eyes flashing. She knew it would take the better part of another hour to repair the damage he had wrought to her coiffure. He knew it, too, and his grin broadened.

Struggling with laces and stays again, she stripped out of the brocade and retrieved the blue velvet from the wardrobe. Alex had the good sense to conceal his smile as he assisted with the fastenings, but a glance up into his eyes was all the mirror she required to know the results of the change. They were smoldering with approval, full of dark promises as they followed the plunging neckline to where her breasts plumped warm and soft against the bodice. Her temper somewhat defused by his bold stare, she retreated to the dressing table and worked with the brush a frantic few minutes to regain her edge.

With the help of two pearl-encrusted silver combs she managed to tame the golden cascade so it spilled softly from the crown of her head. Satisfied she would draw an eye or two in admiration despite her husband’s mischief, she slipped the amethyst ring on her finger and snatched up an ivory fan.

“Very well, Sir Rogue,” she announced. “I am ready.”

“Almost,” he agreed, tossing his half-smoked cigar into the fire. He reached into a pocket of his coat and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in a square of red silk, bound by a thin satin ribbon. Catherine accepted it with a curious frown, balancing it thoughtfully in her palm for a moment or two before removing the wrapper.

It was a brooch, oval in design, the scrolled silver border presenting an amethyst as large as a gull’s egg, perfectly matched to the color and brilliance of the stone she wore on her finger. Surrounding the huge gem was a fiery halo of diamonds, each more than a carat in size, each of a cut and clarity rivaling those in the crown jewels.

“Alex,” she said on a gasp, “it’s lovely!”

“I was hoping it might make up for a few letters I neglected to post.” He lifted the brooch from her palm and pinned it over the deep vee of her bodice. The warmth of his fingers, combined with the flush of love and pride she experienced, sent her up on her tiptoes to press her lips, soft and trembling, against his.

“I shall never let it out of my sight,” she whispered. “Nor, my lord, will I ever let
you
out of my sight again once this wretched business is over.”

“A promise I shall hold you to,” he murmured, returning the kiss. “Now we really should go … before I do change my mind.”

Walking proudly by his side, Catherine followed him along the tapestry-lined hallway. At the top of the main staircase she paused and gazed down over the vast, open foyer. It felt odd hearing the strains of a piper warming his instrument somewhere within the vaulted recess of the great hall; odder still to hear the thick Gaelic brogue spoken in rooms accustomed to hosting the cream of the English gentry.

Acknowledging the subtle pressure on her arm, Catherine followed Alexander down the first short flight of steps, her skirts swaying in a crush of velvet and lace as they turned on the landing and descended the second tier. At the bottom, she braced herself and held fast to his arm as he escorted her through the arched doorway into the great hall and into the throng of suddenly hushed Highlanders. Among them were a handful of clan chiefs she recognized from her brief stay at Achnacarry—the two crusty MacDonalds, Keppoch and Glencoe, Cluny of MacPherson, and the stout, gnarled Stewart of Ardshiel. All of them tipped their heads as she passed and turned to follow their progress across the room to where another group of men stood watching their approach.

Catherine’s smile was wide and genuine when she saw Donald Cameron, but by far her biggest surprise came when Alex presented her formally to Charles Edward Stuart, self-proclaimed Regent of Scotland, England, Ireland, and Wales.

Startled, for she had seen no one in the group of men to fit the dark and lusty image of the Stuart prince she had formed in her mind, she found herself staring into large, somber brown eyes that lacked any manner of outward pretentiousness. He was twenty-four but, to his disadvantage as a soldier and leader of a civil war, looked much younger. Moreover, he was so tall and slender, and with his fair complexion and pale gold hair, he might almost have been termed pretty.

Catherine hastily offered a curtsy, which he acknowledged with a slight flush and a wry smile. “This is indeed a pleasure, Lady Catherine. Your husband has been one of our most valuable assets both on and off the field of battle. I can see now why he was in such a hurry to bring our army south.”

Dr. Archibald Cameron, bewigged and formally attired, bustled forward without standing on ceremony and spun her around in a graceful pirouette.

“Ach, such a sicht f’ae sour eyes!” He beamed, his grin as bold as his chuckle as he eyed the trimness of her waist. “Enjoy it while ye can, lass. Frae what we hear tell, our wee brither has been doin’ his best tae make certain ye’ll no’ fit these pretty frocks much longer.”

Rescuing her from a fit of embarrassed flushes, Lochiel stepped up and brushed her cheek with a kiss. “I’m that glad tae see ye’ve been keepin’ well, Catherine. Dinna mind Archie; we’ve no’ let him near a barrel since we left Edinburgh, an’ he’s makin’ up f’ae lost time.”

“They dinna believe I make a finer stitch when I’ve a cup in ma hand,” Archibald protested.

“A finer stitch, mayhap,” Lochiel murmured, “but ye nearly sewed Angus MacRae’s ear tae his head in Preston when it was his foot ye were supposed tae be tendin’.”

“Bah! Bring on the groom! We need a new barrel, so we dae!”

Aluinn stepped meekly forward to join the group and returned Catherine’s smile with an apologetic nod as Archibald proceeded to fill everyone’s glass for a prenuptial toast.

“Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,” he shouted jovially, raising his glass, “thou king O’ grain. Long life an’ happiness tae our brither Aluinn, f’ae he is that: a true an’ proper brither. Aye, an’ help him swally the lot in one gulp, down an’ good, f’ae ’tis the last taste O’ freedom he’ll have, if I ken the temper O’ the Irish.”

“It is the last I will want,” Aluinn vowed, catching Alex’s eye as he tipped the glass to his lips and drained the full half pint of prime
uisque baugh
without benefit of a breath.

Over a roar of approval, the minister appeared at the front of the hall and asked for the principals to be brought before him. Catherine excused herself and went to the winter parlor where a very nervous bride was waiting and causing irreparable damage to several sprigs of flowerets that had come loose from her hair. Catherine fussed and fretted over the folds of the satin skirt for several minutes, then, with a kiss and a smile of encouragement, she led the way back into the great hall.

The ceremony was conducted in both English and Gaelic, and at the end, there was no misinterpreting the shine of happiness in the bride’s eyes or the proud tremor in the groom’s hands as he slipped a thin gold band around her finger. The crowd was hushed, apart from the occasional rustle of tartan and clank of steel, but when the vows had been exchanged and the couple were pronounced man and wife, the expected eruption of cheering and applause did not occur.

Instead, the smiling bride and groom stepped to one side and the minister crooked an inquisitive eyebrow in Alexander’s direction.

“Is the second couple ready?”

Catherine froze as all eyes in the room turned toward them. Startled, she looked up at Alex, whose hand tightened on hers as he raised it to his lips.

“I thought we were a little rushed the last time and somewhat lacking in enthusiasm. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” she whispered. “Oh, Alex … I don’t know what to say.”

“There is the beauty of it,” he murmured. “You just have to say ‘I do.’”

9

“W
here are you going?” Catherine asked drowsily, stifling a yawn with the corner of a pillow.

“Donald wants me to ride into Derby with him,” Alex explained, and smoothed a curl of hair back off her temple. He planted a kiss in its stead and smiled. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm. What time is it?” “A little past five.”

“My God.” She groaned, snuggling deeper into the nest of warm blankets. “Why does it feel as if I’ve barely closed my eyes?”

“Possibly because you just have, my insatiable young minx. I should have remembered what effect Archibald’s company had on your capacity for wine.”

A pale-violet eye slitted open accusingly. “It was not the wine that kept me awake, sir. It was the brandy.”

He glanced up from tucking his shirttails into his breeches and grinned wolfishly. “Perhaps next time we should try drinking it out of glasses.”

“Perverted and lustful,” she grumbled crossly. “That’s what you are. And far too knowledgeable of things decent men and women would never dream of doing in their most wicked fantasies.”

“Is that a complaint?” he asked, leaning over the bed again.

“Yes.” She opened both eyes and stretched her arms up to slide them around his neck. “Of course you could always come back to bed and try to convince me otherwise.”

He kissed her, leisurely and deeply, and while the moan was still forming in her throat, he bowed his head to her breasts, suckling from each the last, lingering traces of brandy. When he lifted his head again, the nipples were dark and erect, puckered tautly with arousal.

“Shameless,” he murmured, “for a woman twice married.”

Catherine smiled and drew him down for another clinging kiss. “Thank you. And thank you for knowing how much it would mean to me to be married properly, with a smile on my face.”

“I am not completely without sentiment, madam.”

“Only scruples,” she countered, stretching provocatively so that the blankets slipped down around her waist.

Alex cursed softly and planted a moist kiss on the delicate indentation of her navel. “Keep everything warm for me. I won’t be gone long.”

“I’ll have more brandy waiting,” she promised, and rolled sleepily onto her side. “Perhaps a hot bath as well?”

Alexander’s gaze kept wandering back to his wife as he finished dressing, but there was no further sound or movement from beneath the bundle of quilts. He truly hoped this meeting concerned something of momentous importance to justify leaving such a warm and friendly bed.

He was still frowning when he joined Lochiel outside in the courtyard. Shadow was already saddled and waiting impatiently alongside the dozen other mounted clansmen who formed Donald’s personal guard.

“I’m surprised that beast lets the groom near him,” Lochiel said, watching as Alex lovingly stroked the stallion’s neck and fed him an apple he had pinched from a basket of fruit on his way out.

“He will let almost anyone near him. Just don’t ever try to climb into the saddle.”

Tossing a greeting to Struan MacSorley and Archibald— whose eyes were red-raw from the effects of the long night of celebrations—Alex swung himself onto Shadow’s back and felt an instant surge of energy beneath him. Plainly anxious to be away from the claustrophobic confines of the stables, the stallion snorted an indignant reminder to his master that he had been much ignored since their arrival at Rosewood Hall.

As indifferent to the rules of propriety as his rider, the magnificent black beast reared and danced out of the cobbled courtyard without waiting for any signal. Once clear of the outbuildings, Alex gave him his head. For the next few miles the pair tore across the countryside as if they were one step ahead of a raging fire. Joining in the chase, MacSorley’s sturdy horse was at a distinct disadvantage from the amount of weight he carried, but the race was still invigorating and ended with both men grinning through windburned creases.

“By the Christ, I’m gonny find masel’ a match f’ae that wee beast O’ yourn one O’ these days.” Struan scowled good-naturedly, knowing full well it would never happen. Shadow stood easy, his head arched high as if to mock the lathered, blown condition of MacSorley’s mount.

“I’m glad we have a few moments alone,” Alex said, glancing back along the road. “I get the feeling something has happened in camp while I’ve been away. Lord George and the prince barely exchanged a civil word last night; the tension was so thick between them you could cut it with a knife.”

Struan scratched a hand through his leonine mane of tawny hair and cursed as he realized the wind had torn his blue woolen bonnet from his head. “Aye. They’ve been pickin’ at each other again, nae thanks tae them two gray-haired gillies who’re always whisperin’ an’ gratin’ in the prince’s ear.”