The Blood of Roses (71 page)

“St. Cloud—”

The Frenchman held up a hand. “Please. This is difficult enough to do without having to go into lengthy and involved explanations, which neither one of us has the time or inclination to waste at the moment. Suffice it to say, those questions and explanations that have been plaguing me for the past five months were finally resolved an hour ago, when your wife mentioned a name—a name I whisper to myself each night before I close my eyes and each morning before I draw my first breath of air.”

“Catherine?
Where is she?”

“Quite safe, I assure you. I left her some distance back in the forest—very angry, to be sure, and feeling doubly betrayed after I had promised she could be there to help rescue you. An incredible young woman,
monsieur.
I feel a true father’s pride in knowing each of you deserves the other. I could not have chosen a better match myself.”

Alex felt another shock ripple through him. He remembered! There had been a whispered confession made many months ago when Catherine and Deirdre had first joined the retreating army outside of Derby. In her need to exorcise the demons surrounding the death of the British lieutenant.

Catherine had also poured out the story her mother had told her, including the revelation that Sir Alfred Ashbrooke had not sired either her or Damien.

Was this not the ultimate irony? Alexander thought as he regarded the man before him. The highwayman turned assassin come to hunt down the husband of the daughter he did not know he had?

“Dear God,” Alex murmured. “Does Catherine know you are her father?”

“Catherine?” St. Cloud smiled faintly. “No,
monsieur.
This shall remain between you and me, unto the grave.”

“But she already knows Ashbrooke wasn’t her real father. Dammit, man, she likes you. She deserves to be told.”

“No,” St. Cloud said adamantly, aligning the aim of the snaphaunce for emphasis. “And if I cannot carry away your word that you will hold your silence in this matter, then I shall indeed carry away your head so that I might collect my well-earned reward from
Monsieur le Due.”

“But—”

A thumb coolly and pointedly cocked a hammer. “I will carry the tragedy of my son’s death burned forever on my mind, Alexander, please … do not make me carry yours as well.”

“You knew about Damien?”

“I knew there had been a child … a male child, conceived out of wedlock, and instrumental in forcing my beloved Caroline into a marriage of convenience. I did not learn this for many, many years, and, by then, there were
too
many years of bitter feelings to keep me from searching too deeply into what had become of them. Too many hard decisions made, as well, to complicate my life or compromise the lives of any others.”

Alex nodded slowly. An assassin with a family? As unlikely and unhealthy as lighting a cigar in a roomful of powder. He agreed reluctantly. “You have my word. Catherine will not hear the truth from me—but it won’t stop me from appealing to you to tell her yourself.”

“Perhaps I will, some day. For now, however, I think it best we go our separate ways. You will need time to get your family out of the country,” St. Cloud said pensively. “And a fresh start, I think, without jackals sniffing after you at every turn.”

“There are five thousand Campbell jackals out there, St. Cloud. You’re good, but you’re not that good.”

“Monsieur!
A little imagination, please. There is a perfectly good head lying back there on the field, cut to order. Some black dye, a little creativity with a knife, and
voilà:
The duke’s failing eyesight should keep my reputation unsullied.”

Alex thought for a moment, then reached with painful difficulty to unclasp the silver-and-topaz brooch he wore fastened to his belt.

“Give this to The Campbell of Argyle. He will know there is only one way you could have taken it from me.”

St. Cloud inspected the brooch’s studded gems and embossed family crest.
“Bien.
It will be enough, I think.”

He tucked the brooch safely into a pocket of his waistcoat and resheathed the pistol in its leather sling. Alex caught at his arm as he was about to walk past.

“You do have friends, St. Cloud. Good friends who would judge you for the man you are, not the man you were.”

St. Cloud leveled his gaze on the handsome features of his son-in-law and smiled with genuine appreciation. “Unfortunately, I also have many enemies, who, as you are undoubtedly aware from your own experiences, would gain great satisfaction in discovering I had formed any … lasting ties. Take care of yourself, Alexander Cameron. Take care of my daughter and grandchild as well.”

A faintly self-mocking salute carried St. Cloud back down the path and within seconds, he seemed to have vanished into the mist and shadows. Alex sat a few moments longer, lost in thought, and then, with the help of the
clai’mór
, struggled to his feet, took his bearings from the muted rill of a startled ptarmigan somewhere in the gloom of the forest, and began his own weary climb to safety.

Epilogue

C
atherine walked up behind the tall, brooding figure who stood at the mouth of the cave and slipped her arms around his waist. “Why are you torturing yourself, Alex? There is nothing you can do about it. You can’t stop them.”

There was no response, no movement from the rigid body as yet another series of muffled explosions reverberated off the cliffs and corries surrounding them. Cumberland’s troops were destroying Achnacarry. For nearly a week, the Camerons had remained hidden in the caves high above the castle, hardly daring to hope the soldiers might move on and spare their home from demolition, but it was a wasted hope. The delay had only provided the soldiers ample time to strip the castle of anything of value and to set nearly five hundred kegs of black powder in and around the walls and apartments. The initial explosions had caused the ground to shudder and dirt to crumble from the walls and ceiling of the caves, and, since then, day in and day out, what remained of the centuries-old fortification was systematically bombarded and reduced to rubble.

Alex stood for hours at the mouth of the cave, staring at the twisting, writhing pillars of black smoke that rose from the shore of the loch. Respect for his brother’s wishes had been the only thing that kept him from going down the mountain again. Lochiel had said, and rightfully so, that it was better to remember Achnacarry as it had been, not as the smoldering, skeletal mass of broken beams and smashed wreckage the soldiers would make of it.

Moreover, the mountains were crawling with patrols. A clansman had brought them word that Cumberland believed the prince was hiding somewhere in the Western Highlands, and as determined as the duke had been to break the rebel army at Culloden, he was obsessed with seeing Charles Stuart caught and taken back to London for trial.

Under the auspices of searching for the fugitive prince, the soldiers were sweeping through the glens like locusts, burning, looting, raping, killing, stealing everything that might provide sustenance or comfort to the cowering farmers. They were leaving a wasteland in their wake, one that would take the people years, if not decades, to restore.

Anyone suspected of having fought with the rebels or of having supported their cause in any way was arrested and sent to either Fort William or Fort George to await trial. Deciding to save the authorities the time and bother of legal proceedings, the soldiers often took their captives no further than the first sturdy oak tree. A list containing the names of forty of the most prominent Jacobite leaders was being circulated throughout the Highlands, and impressive rewards for their capture were turning many a hungry eye up into the mountains. High on the list were Lord George Murray, James Drummond, Lochiel and his brothers Dr. Archibald and Alexander Cameron, Ardshiel, MacDonald of Glencoe … From being leaders of a glorious rebellion, they had been reduced to penniless fugitives; once chiefs and lawmakers, the voices of absolute authority, they were now solely dependent upon the loyalty and generosity of former tenants.

No one among the fugitive Jacobites knew for certain the whereabouts of Prince Charles. Lochiel seemed to think he had headed for the coast, hoping to catch a ship for France, but rumors placed him as far north as Caithness or south in the Lowlands of Ayr.

“As soon as Donald is able to travel, we’ll have to leave this place,” Alex said, taking Catherine’s hands and removing them from his waist, so he could draw her forward and bring her into his arms. “As long as Charles Stuart is on the loose, the soldiers will keep policing the area, searching the hills, the towns, the villages. Once again, as ever, it appears I am failing you. A hell of a husband and provider you chose for yourself, madam.”

Catherine nestled deeper into his embrace, careful of his wounded arm. “This is all I want, Alexander Cameron. Just this. Just you.”

Alex bowed his head and buried his lips in the crown of golden hair. “You have me. You also have my most solemn word of honor, I will never let you out of my sight again. No more conspiracies, no more intrigues, no more jousting at windmills. No more—” His voice faltered, and Catherine’s arms tightened around him. She felt helpless to say or do anything to ease the pain and bitterness in his heart. It was bottomless and endless; there was an eternity of agony in his eyes, a loss he would carry with him the rest of his days.

“I keep expecting to see him walk up the hill, a smile on his face, an easy solution to all the world’s problems in the palms of his hands. God, how I took him for granted. I never realized how much I’d miss him, how much of a friend and brother he was to me.”

“I loved Aluinn too,” Catherine whispered. “He was a good friend to me—and Deirdre loved him so very much …”

“I can almost accept everything else—the fighting, the killing, the stupid, senseless waste … But not Aluinn’s death. I don’t want to believe it, and I can’t accept it. It never should have happened. Neither one of them should have died like that. One of the last things he said to me was how much he was looking forward to settling down to the life of an ordinary farmer, getting back to his roots, strolling into old age with a wife and children by his side …”

“Alex, don’t. Don’t do this to yourself. Aluinn MacKail would not have wanted you to torment yourself this way, just as you would not have wanted him to dwell on the tragedy, had it been the other way around.”

“But it wasn’t me who died,” he replied bitterly. “It should have been, but it wasn’t. Aluinn died because he was doing what he always did—guarding my back. I’m sure he never wanted to trail over half the world with me. He loved this place. He loved Scotland; he never wanted to leave. He went into exile with me only out of a sense of duty, and later, when he’d adapted to a life in Europe, he came away again only because I decided it was time to come back. I never asked him what he wanted to do. I never once asked him if he wanted to get involved in this bloody rebellion. He just came and fought and died.”

“Oh, Alex, you’re so wrong! He stayed with you because he was your friend and he
wanted
to stay with you.” She reached up and laid her trembling hands on his cheeks, sharing his despair. “You once told me, the only regrets we should have in life are for the things we have never done. I do not think Aluinn MacKail had any regrets. It was his choice to make to follow you into exile, his choice to return with you when you came back. As much as you might like to fancy yourself a tyrant and overlord, Aluinn was not afraid of you. If he had not wanted to spend all those years chasing ghosts with you, he wouldn’t have, and if he had not wanted to fight for what was fine and honorable about Scotland, he would not have walked onto the field at Culloden. Grieve for him, Alex, because he was a gentle and loving man, a compassionate man, a man who could find something to laugh about in the blackest hours. Cry for the loss, my love, because there will never be another Aluinn MacKail in our lives, or another Deirdre, or Damien, or Struan MacSorely. But as long as we can cry for them, and laugh with the memories, and share the gifts they left us with others, then they will always be a part of us. And in a way, so will Achnacarry.” She turned to watch the spiraling black clouds of smoke. “If we remember it as it was, tall and proud and strong, then it will always be there, just like the mist and the mountains and the heather on the moors.”

It was Alex’s turn to feel inadequate. She had expressed it so clearly and the sentiments were so pure, there was nothing he could do but cling to her and thank whatever fates had conspired to bring them together. A chance meeting in a clearing. An impulsive, last-minute detour through Derby by a man who rarely acted on impulse. A golden-haired English beauty and a roguish Highland soldier of fortune. Who would have thought it could work?