The Pride of Lions
Read The Pride of Lions Online
Authors: Marsha Canham
ALEXANDER CAMERON WAS PASSION, RAW AND PRIMITIVE, AND SHE KNEW SHE WOULD BE LOST THE INSTANT HIS FLESH TOUCHED HERS AGAIN
But he did not touch her again. He lowered his hands by his sides and took a precisely measured step back.
“You will oblige me by dressing for dinner. You will accompany me to the party later this evening and you will be on your very best behavior or so help me God … I shall assume you have no further desire to see your England or your precious Lieutenant Garner ever again.”
With the tears still bright along her lashes, Catherine tilted her head defiantly upward. “At the cost of your own soul, Mr. Cameron?”
“I have no soul, madam. It died in my arms fifteen years ago.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “You are indeed a loathsome creature. You have no scruples, no morals, no faith, no conscience … not one single redeeming quality that should permit you to walk upright on two legs.”
Alex stared a moment, then offered a sweeping bow. “A man always appreciates knowing where he stands in a woman’s estimation.”
“You stand, sir, with one foot on the road to hell, and I do not envy anyone who chooses to stand alongside you.”
HIGH PRAISE FOR MARSHA CANHAM, WINNER OF THE
ROMANTIC TIMES
LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD, AND HER PREVIOUS NOVELS
THE LAST ARROW
“ROUSING ACTION, A STRONG SENSE OF MEDIEVAL LIFE, A SATISFYING LOVE STORY and intriguing spins on historical events as well as the familiar Robin Hood characters should bring readers back for more.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“FABULOUS … Her version of the legendary Prince of Thieves and his Merry Men is as unique as her writing. Those who have already read the two preceding tales will love this book … Ms. Canham’s skill at recreating legend is unparalleled.”
—
Romantic Times
ACROSS A MOONLIT SEA
“CANHAM AT HER BEST … No one tells a swashbuckling tale like she does. The pages snap with witty dialogue and rich, detailed description.”
—
Affaire de Coeur
“[A] RIP-ROARING HIGH-SEAS ADVENTURE … Marsha Canham ensures herself a place as queen of romantic adventure.”
—
Romantic Times
STRAIGHT FOR THE HEART
“CANHAM DEALS OUT PLENTY OF SURPRISING TWISTS.”
—
Booklist
“
STRAIGHT FOR THE HEART
GOES STRAIGHT TO THE READER’S HEART with its winning combination of an absorbing romance and fascinating characters. Marsha Canham has another winner with this dazzling novel that readers will savor.”
—
Romantic Times
IN THE SHADOW OF MIDNIGHT
“DEFINITELY ONE OF THE BEST NOVELS OF THE YEAR … Marsha Canham has written a fast-paced, action-packed medieval romance.”
—
Affaire de Coeur
“DRAMATIC AND SENSUOUS … MARVELOUS … OUTSTANDING … A tale of grand proportions … Top-notch from start to finish!”
—
Rendezvous
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
Copyright © 1988 by Marsha Canham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The trademark Dell
®
is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56810-6
Reprinted in arrangement with the author
v3.1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
DERBY
July 1745
1
C
atherine reined in her horse at the top of the forested knoll and waited, her eyes sparkling, her heart pounding within her breast. She could detect no signs of pursuit through the deeply wooded grove, but to be doubly sure she urged her roan down into a hollow and cantered behind a dense copse of fir trees. Sitting there, panting to catch her breath—her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement—she took time to appreciate the irony of the brisk morning hunt, where the fox only
appeared
to be the quarry.
Laughing, she dismissed the feeble efforts of the two-legged bloodhounds who had tried to follow her into woods she knew as well as the back of her hand, and with a smug twinkle in her violet-blue eyes, she leaned forward to praise her roan.
“Well done, my beauty; we seem to have outrun them. I should think this calls for a reward.”
She glanced around to get her bearings and recalled an isolated glade a few hundred yards ahead, cut by a stream that ran cold and clear and tasted faintly of soft green moss and rich black earth.
“We could both use a cool drink, could we not? Let the hounds and hunters wander in circles as they may.”
Catherine earned a soft nicker in response and guided her roan toward the deeper woods. In the distance she could hear the faint braying of the dogs and the eerie, hollow echo of the trumpet calling the riders back into formation. She ignored the sound, even preferring after a while to slip out of the saddle and walk alongside her
horse, her attention divided equally between the tangle of new saplings that caught at her skirts and the secretive whispers of the breeze chasing through the silver-backed leaves overhead. She was happy to be home in Derby. The tranquillity of the country was a shocking change from the endless rounds of balls, masquerades, and cotillions, but after three months of dancing until dawn and sleeping through to the afternoon, she had actually begun to look forward to the end of the London season.
Here in the lush, blue-green countryside that surrounded Rosewood Hall, the days were long and lazy, the nights painted with starlight, fragrant with the perfume of roses and honeysuckle. She could unfasten the cameo brooch that held the collar of her white silk blouse tight to her throat—as she did now—without fear of creating a scandal. She could strip off her gloves, loosen the buttons of her blue velvet riding habit, even free the pearl closures of the fitted satin waistcoat and scratch deliciously at the tight bindings of her whalebone stays.
Since she was alone and had every intention of remaining so for the time being, she removed her tall, veiled hat and tugged at the wide ivory combs that kept her hair in a restrictive knot at the nape of her neck. She shook the thick golden cascade free and ran her fingers through the curls as she walked, the temporary distraction causing her to veer into a low snarl of brambles. The hem of her skirt snagged on a thorn, dragging her back, and it was while she was leaning over to release it that she felt an unaccountable prickle of alarm scratch down her spine.
Her first thought was that she had been found out, and she whirled around, fully expecting to see the grinning face of a scarlet-coated hunter. Only the trees, however, green and sparkling in the filtered sunlight, met her startled gaze, and as she waited for her heart to settle back into her chest, she acknowledged the birds bickering
in the branches above and the squirrels rustling through the dense undergrowth that surrounded her. She smiled inwardly, even imagining she could hear the crackling voice of her old governess scolding her.
You should never go out walking alone, young missy. It is a sure invitation to trouble. The woods are full of gap-toothed boar hunters who’d as soon ruin an innocent babe as stop to ask the time of day
.
Catherine’s smile was a little sad as she continued walking, for Miss Phoebe had died of the fever two summers ago. As stern and as uncompromising as she had been, at least the governess had genuinely cared for her charge. The same could hardly be said of Catherine’s mother, Lady Caroline Ashbrooke, or of her father, Sir Alfred, a recently elected Member of Parliament who rarely spared more than a quick, passing thought for anyone in his family, let alone a daughter who seemed determined to challenge him into early gray hairs. In truth, Catherine had only her brother, Damien, to turn to for advice or comfort, and even he was distancing himself more and more these days. He had established a law practice in London and seldom found time to commute to Derby. He was here now, for a few too-brief days, but only because it was her birthday and she had all but threatened him at gunpoint to be here.
It wasn’t every day a girl turned eighteen, nor was it every girl who could boast of receiving six proposals of marriage in the past twenty-four months—so many, in fact, that the faces of the petitioners had begun to run together. She hadn’t had the heart to tell them their efforts had all been in vain. She had already made her choice, and that choice was garrisoned right here in Derby.
Lieutenant Hamilton Garner was tall and heartbreakingly handsome. He had the lean, sinewy body of a fencer and, indeed, was Master of the Sword for his regiment of the King’s Royal Dragoons. He was
twenty-eight, the son of a London banker, and from the moment Catherine had first set eyes upon him, she had known he was the man worthy of her affections. The fact that he never lacked for beautiful and willing companions did not discourage her, nor did the reputation he had brought back with him from the Continent. The rumors of his quick temper, of his dueling escapades, and his many scandalous affairs only made the challenge of bringing him to heel all the more intriguing as far as Catherine was concerned. His very nature dictated that he seek the most popular, most sought-after heiress in Derby for his own, just as her nature demanded a conquest of equally momentous proportions. And because he had spent the past three months practicing drills and formations on cow pastures while she had been at the heart of the whirlwind in London … well, he would undoubtedly be champing at the bit to stake his claim.
To that end Catherine had made grand plans for the stroke of midnight. Thoughts of them made her skin tingle and her pulse race, and her footsteps turned swift and light as she rounded a thatch of tall junipers. There she stopped so suddenly that her skirt and petticoats creamed against her ankles like the backwash of a ship.
The glade she sought was directly ahead of her, wide and slightly misted from the small pool at its center. The sunbeams, bolder and broader here, exaggerated the brilliant greens of the leaves and ferns, silvered the surface of the water, and immodestly flared around the naked torso of a man kneeling in the lush, thick moss that grew along the embankment.
Jolted by the unexpected sight, Catherine stood absolutely still. His back was to her and she could see the muscles rippling with the motion of his hands as they splashed water on his face. She had no idea who he was—a poacher? He did not have the ragged, hungry look of a thief about him; his breeches were clean and well-tailored to his long, powerful legs. His boots were fashioned from
expensive leather and polished to a mirror gloss. A shirt and coat lay nearby on the moss, the shirt of fine white linen, the jacket of rich, claret-colored wool.