The Blood of Roses (8 page)

But that had been then and this was now, when a stray thought or misguided emotion could well affect the way he acted, the way his instincts responded, the choices he made and the subsequent consequences on the lives of the clansmen who trusted his leadership. A man going into battle with distractions churning around in his brain might as well save the enemy’s lead and put his own gun to his temple.

No, he had not wanted or asked for any of this. He had sent her out of Scotland for her own safety—that had been an honest enough motive—but maybe there had been other reasons lurking at the back of his mind. Maybe, when she was back among her own kind—the rich, the pompous, the women who spared little thought for anything other than pampering their vanity, the men who strutted around reciting poetry and smelling of lavender pomade—maybe she would begin to see their marriage as a mistake. It was certain she had been swept up in the danger and intrigue. The savage beauty of the land, the naked violence of the people, even the weathered, somber battlements of Achnacarry Castle had been a complete contrast to everything she had ever known in her sedate, orderly existence. Everything he himself loathed about the so-called civilized society.

They had been together less than five weeks—long enough to discover and unleash an undeniable passion, but had they only duped themselves into believing two such opposite lives could meld together as one? Alex knew with complete certainty he could never tolerate a lengthy commitment to the style of life Catherine had been accustomed to; his restlessness in the guise of Raefer Montgomery had been proof enough. And he did not think, despite Catherine’s fervent vows to the contrary, she would find absolute happiness in the rugged wildness of the Highlands.

Alex drew a deep, cleansing breath of Highland air. Maybe it was time to sweep away the rose petals and take a good hard look at what he really wanted out of this miserable life.

A drink, for one thing. Company, for another. And in his present mood, something to counter the envy he felt as he watched the shadowy figures moving to and from the outer circle of clustered wagons.

Lauren Cameron sighed and slowly, slowly untwined her legs from around her lover’s waist. She let them slide languidly down onto the cool grass, vaguely aware of the discomfort caused by the tiny stones and pebbles that had abraded her back. Scratches and bruises were a paltry price to pay for the warm and slippery flood of pleasure between her thighs; the feel of cool wet grass against her naked flesh only heightened the sensations and proved that Alasdair’s needs had been as urgent as her own.

And still are, she mused dreamily, for she could feel him pulsating softly within her, as reluctant to take his leave of the sweet haven as she was to relinquish him.

Extraordinarily sensitive to the slightest impression, she allowed her thighs to flirt subtly with the rough texture of his long, muscled legs, and she savored each breath that caused the dense mat of hair on his chest to chafe erotically against her breasts. His head was pressed into the curve of her throat and, smiling, she combed her fingers through the damp raven locks, scarcely able to believe she had finally won.

How many nights had she lain awake hoping, dreaming,
willing
Alasdair Cameron into her arms? Why else had she continued to endure the cold and dampness, the endless jarring miles of road that passed beneath the wheels of her cart? She had been scheming and plotting and conniving for a means to effect her escape from Achnacarry Castle—her home and prison for the past eight years. When Lochiel had raised the clan for Prince Charles, she had been first in line to plead for permission to accompany the clan on its adventure. Her primary motive had been escape, and, indeed, her heart had soared with joy and triumph as she had ridden through the streets of Edinburgh in the prince’s procession. She had been born and raised the first twelve years of her life within the walls of the royal city and had sworn, at whatever the cost, to return one day to the bustle and excitement.

Well, she had returned. And the price she had paid was steep, drenched in blood and betrayal. But somehow, now that freedom was within her grasp, simply returning to her former life in Edinburgh was not enough. She wanted more. She wanted that life to be shared by someone as volatile and exciting as Alasdair Cameron.

She wanted Alasdair Cameron.

The desire was not new. If anything, it had increased with each mile that took them away from Achnacarry, away from the memory of his violet-eyed
Sassenach
wife. Lauren had hated the English beauty on sight, just as she had known, when her gaze had first alighted on Alasdair’s magnificent form, that he was the lover she had envisioned in her every fantasy. She had heard stories of his dangerous exploits during his long years of exile; she had studied his portrait in the castle gallery and spent many a restless night wondering about the man they called the
Camshroinaich Dubh
—the Dark Cameron. Hearing that Lochiel had finally recalled his brother from Europe had seemed to give her long and tedious years at Achnacarry a reason, a purpose, and she had awaited his arrival the way a bride awaits a groom on their wedding night.

No one at the castle, least of all Lauren Cameron, had been forwarned of the existence of the yellow-haired
Sassenach
who had accompanied him home. And no one had been more pleased or relieved to learn that he had acquired her reluctantly, that the marriage had been forced upon them both, and that he had used her as hostage and camouflage to make his way safely into Scotland. Of course he had bedded her, but out of contempt, not passion. He surely did not love her; any fool could see how perfectly mismatched the two of them were, how disastrous such a union would be.

Admittedly, Lauren might have presented herself a little too prematurely into his bed that first night at Achnacarry, and admittedly she might have overreacted—just a tad—to his caustic rejection. But arranging to have his troublesome new bride kidnapped by the Campbells seemed to be a logical solution to the problem—ideal, as it turned out, since Alasdair immediately set her on a ship bound for England after the dramatic rescue. Would a man who loved his wife send her out of his life? Would a man who obviously had enormous needs and healthy appetites settle for a bed on the hard, cold ground with only the length of his wool tartan to keep him warm?

Hadn’t she caught Alasdair staring often and openly at her ripe, hourglass figure these past few weeks? Hadn’t she nearly melted with anticipation on more than one occasion when his dark, probing eyes had visually stripped the layers of clothing from her body one by one, revealing the voluptuous perfection of her breasts, the incredibly tiny span of her waist, the long and lanky stretch of her nubile legs? Melted indeed. She had felt those bottomless eyes on her naked flesh once before and experienced the calloused heat of his hands exploring her flesh. The weeks had not dimmed the memory, nor had the roughness of his initial rejection dulled the ache of her desire.

She should not have been surprised that he had been watching her wagon or that he had followed her out onto the grassy moor. She had sensed something wondrous and devastating would happen tonight, and it had. It had.

Sighing, Lauren shifted slightly, and suggestively, and felt the slow brush of long black lashes opening against her throat.

“I’m glad ye came tae me tonight, Alasdair,” she whispered. “I was beginnin’ tae despair O’ ever seein’ this day, ever feelin’ yer arms around me, or us bein’ togither as it were meant tae be.”

“We couldna be mair togither than this, lass,” he murmured, nuzzling his lips against her throat.

Lauren wriggled to acknowledge the virile pressure swelling within her, but the echo of his words struck her and her amber eyes flew open in shock.

“What … what did ye say?” she gasped.

He chuckled lustily. “I didna have tae say aught, lassie. Can ye
no’ feel
what I mean?”

The broad Scots accent was as thick as dust in a haystack, and, with a cry of horror, Lauren laid her hands flat on his shoulders and pushed upward with all her might. The Highlander had not been prepared for such a swift and perfunctory ejection and cursed angrily as he found himself facedown on the wet grass.

“What the hell?”

Lauren scrambled to her knees. This time, when she clawed her fingers into the thick waves of his hair, it was in order to angle his face upward into the dim wash of moonlight. What she saw stopped her heart cold. Like Alasdair’s, his hair was long and shaggy, his eyes dark and deep-set under a slash of jet-black brows. The jaw was even remarkably similar—square and strong, with a hint of a cleft splitting it in two. The body was as well proportioned, evidently as well endowed, although now, as she studied him with a growing fury, she could see his shoulders were not quite as broad, nor the sculpting of the muscles on his chest as well defined.

“Ye bastard,” she hissed.
“Ye bluidy bastard!”

“Heigh now, halt a blink, wee missy—”

Snarling, Lauren flung herself at him, raking the sharp points of her nails down his cheeks and throat. She felt some measure of satisfaction as the peeled skin collected beneath the tips and even more when she heard his bellow of pain.

“Ye bastard! Ye bluidy bastard!” she screamed again, flailing at him with her fists, gouging him with her nails, sinking her teeth around a mouthful of flesh when he tried to catch her wrists and bring her to ground.

A second voracious curse sent the back of his hand slashing sideways across her cheek. Lauren’s head jerked to one side with the force of the blow, affording him the break he needed to toss her onto her back and pin her under the weight of his body. She continued to fight him like a wildcat, hissing and spitting obscenities, wriggling and squirming to free an arm or a leg to vent her rage. The Highlander merely tightened his grip and guarded his more vulnerable target areas while he waited for her strength to wane.

With a frustrated curse, her writhings slowed and finally heaved to a halt. Her breasts labored under a fresh sheen of sweat, and her beautifully angry face was all but hidden by her flying hair.

“Have ye calmed yersel’, then?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Get off O’ me, ye great hair-legged lummox!”

“That wisna what ye were beggin’ me tae dae ten minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes ago I thought ye were—” Lauren stopped and bit her enraged admission into silence. God, how could she have been so blind? So stupid? How could she have mistaken this … this
lout
for Alasdair?

“Ye thought I were someone else.” The Highlander chuckled. “Lucky bastard, this Alasdair O’ yourn.”

“Ye
knew?”
She gasped furiously. “Ye knew an’ ye still … ye still—!”

“By the time ye were bleatin’ his name intae ma ear, I couldna care if ye thought I were the pope himsel’. It would ha’ taken a far better man than me tae be able tae stop, I can tell ye.”

Lauren gained control of her temper. “Ye must have known afore … afore it went that far, that I’d mistook ye f’ae someone else. Why did ye just stan’ there, gawpin’ like a fool an’ sayin’ nothing?”

“I thought I were dreamin’,” he murmured honestly. “I saw ye walk out frae them bushes an’ next thing I knew, ye were half out O’ yer claythes an’ tearin’ at mines. What would ye expect a man tae dae? Slap ye on the wrist an’ tell ye tae go hame?”

Lauren drew a deep breath. Grudgingly she conceded the point. She hadn’t exactly seen the need for words between them; she had just seen him and assumed …

“Well, I suppose it’s done,” she said bitterly.

“Aye, that it is, lass,” he agreed, smoothing the web of hair off her face. Seeing the glint of moonlight reflected in the almond-shaped eyes, his gaze strayed lower, to the sensuously full, pouting lips. They were still swollen and bruised-looking from his avid attentions, and at one corner a thin thread of blood trickled onto the whiteness of her chin. His own cheeks stung from the missing ribbons of flesh, as did his buttocks, where her nails had wrought similar damage during the throes of passion.

Lauren stared up at the shadowed outline of the face poised above her, seeing nothing but the vague impressions of features. The sudden, renewed tension in his body was more readily identifiable, and for some reason it removed the last of her anger and prompted a similarly bold response in her loins.

When he dipped his head and sent his tongue tracing gently along her lip to capture the blood he had caused to be shed, she did not flinch away or resume her struggle. Nor did she do anything to deter him as his tongue continued down along the arch of her throat, swirling a river of warm sensations into the valley between her breasts.

“Dae ye think I’ve forgiven ye then?” she asked, conscious of his lower body shifting deftly between her parted thighs.

“The harm’s done, as ye said. Where’s the use O’ gratin’ at one anither?” His tongue arrived at a nipple and toyed with it a moment before hungry lips closed around the bud and suckled a tender mouthful of flesh.

No, she thought—squirming for altogether different reasons now—he wasn’t Alasdair. But he
was
a virile answer for all those long, cold nights when she had lain awake, half mad to feel the vigorous thrust of male flesh within her. Struan MacSorley had been her lover at Achnacarry, but even he had seemed to abandon her, whether out of deference for Lochiel or a growing suspicion over the role she had played in Catherine’s kidnapping, she did not know. She did know she had gone too long playing the part of the innocent, wide-eyed virgin, especially when, during those same long cold nights, she could clearly hear the squeaking and creaking of wagon axles all around her.

Lauren arched sinuously against the greedy lips, her great amber eyes fluttering closed through a shudder of purely avaricious delight. She parted her thighs wider and slid her hands up and around his buttocks, urging the hot stab of flesh to plunge where it was needed most.

Thus preoccupied, neither one of the lovers heard or saw the three crouched figures moving stealthily toward them through the waves of long, silvery deergrass. All three wore red broadcloth tunics and blue breeches; all three exchanged cautious handsignals as they began to close the circle around the naked, writhing couple.