The Pride of Lions (24 page)

“Oh.” Deirdre sank back onto her seat. “Well then, we must believe him, mustn’t we? In the meantime I do not mind going and looking for water if you would prefer to remain here with Mr. MacKail.”

Catherine declined the advice and the offer with a scowl. She would scream if she had to sit inside that stuffy coach a minute longer than necessary, gagging on the cloying stench of blood and sweat.

“No. I’ll go. There must be a spring nearby; I can hear it.”

Deirdre handed her the canvas bucket. She also handed her one of the loaded Highland dags Cameron had appropriated from the dead Watchmen, and Catherine bit her lip so hard she tasted the rusty taint of blood.

“Perhaps you’ll see a hare, or a quail,” Deirdre said lightly. “I’m ever so hungry.”

Catherine smiled wanly at the maid’s attempts to lessen her fears. “I shan’t be long. If that wretched bounder returns in the meantime, tell him we should like a fire. I shall try to find some marigold or purslane for tea; something hot would do us all a world of good.”

She set off in a direct line due west from the coach and followed the slope upward, picking her way carefully through the tangled growth of saplings. She stopped every few paces to look over her shoulder at the coach,
reassuring herself that no mysterious hand had lifted it off the road and banished her to the horror of her fantasies. She also tried to listen for the source of the running water, which she could hear quite clearly the higher she climbed. Cameron had not seemed overly concerned about their water supply—probably with good reason, for these hills seemed to be riddled with creeks and natural springs.

Higher she climbed, and the stillness of the woods enfolded her like a shroud. As chilly as the air was becoming, she could feel dampness across her brow and steaming between her breasts. This time when she stopped to catch her breath, she could no longer see the coach, which was hidden behind a wall of mist-soaked green. She was tempted to turn around and scurry back down, but a distinctly liquid
blip
drew her attention to the right. She tramped quickly through the last knee-deep wall of ferns, and there it was: a tiny crack between two boulders from which spouted a thin, clear ribbon of water. Resembling a man-made fountain, the water collected in a shallow basin worn into the granite before spilling over the edge and running off and soaking into the black, spongy earth.

Catherine knelt wearily beside the small pool and set the gun and bucket on the moss. She cupped her hands and splashed some of the cool water on her face and throat, letting it run down the front of her bodice. She pushed back the soiled and limp lace of her cuffs and washed the grime from her hands and arms, then debated peeling down her stockings and soaking her aching feet. It was her conscience that gently reminded her of the weak and feverish man waiting below, but it was her heart that ground to a thudding, horrified halt as she turned to retrieve the bucket.

A pair of coarsely shod feet stood mere inches from her outstretched fingers. Above the feet were thick-hewn calves clad in diamond-patterned wool stockings that ended just below the bony knee. There was a span of a
hand’s width before the hairy, muscular thighs were concealed beneath the folds of a tartan kilt. A voluminous garment, it was wrapped about the man’s waist and girted in pleats, with several yards left at the end to fling up and over the shoulder. Beneath the draped tartan was a sleeveless leather jerkin, which seemed at once too small and tight to fit the boldly muscular arms where they were crossed over the burly chest. Higher still, a beard as black as coal, as grizzled as frayed wire, framed a face more harsh and forbidding than a chunk of ice-clad rock. Surmounting the nest of hair that crowned his head was a woolen bonnet incongruously tilted at a jaunty angle, a bit of weed tucked in the cockade.

Catherine’s hands flew to her mouth and a scream rose in her throat. It was a rebel! She had not been imagining the phony birdcalls or the feeling that she had been watched every step of the way from the road! And watched by—her shocked, frozen gaze locked on the woods behind the rebel’s shoulder—the four … five … six more Highlanders who were melting slowly out of the trees.

For the second time that day, the second time in her young life, Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke slumped over in a dead faint.

When Alex had ridden away from the coach, his mind had not been on the forest or on the possible dangers that could be concealed behind the thick walls of greenery. Instead, his thoughts remained back on the road, and more specifically on the pair of violet eyes that had watched him until he had ridden out of sight.

It was no wonder he did not see the score of armed men crouched on either side of the track until Shadow had passed into their midst. When he did notice a flicker of movement, it was already far too late. A gleaming circle of muskets had moved swiftly to block the road ahead of and behind him, and more than one eager thumb reacted instantly to cock their weapons as he tried to reach for his own pistol.

“I wouldna do that, i’an’ I were ye,” a harsh voice grated from the shadows.

Alex traced the source and saw a giant of a Highlander leaning casually against a gnarled tree trunk. The tree was fully grown and wide as a barrel, but the breadth of the man’s shoulders dwarfed it by comparison. He stood well above six feet, his height aggrandized by a lion’s mane of straw-colored hair that, combined with the magnificent froth of a beard, flowed around his brawny shoulders like a regal mantle. His eyes were small and hawklike, missing nothing as they shrewdly assessed the worth of both man and beast.

Alex was careful to keep his hands in plain sight and, after his initial reaction, made no more sudden moves. Shadow stood as still as a black marble statue, his ears pricked forward, his flesh shivering as he awaited a command.

“Ye seem tae have strayed a ways from home, Sassenach,” the Highlander spat. His gaze raked derisively over the rich brown velvet frock coat, the ruffled linen shirt, the expensively worked satin waistcoat and fitted breeches. “Ye look as though ye mout have a coin or two tae spare f’ae the insult. But were ye no’ warned against ridin’ in these hills alone?”

“The only warning I received,” Alex replied calmly, “was to guard my back against a rebel ambush. I was told a particularly amateurish clan raids these hills, a godless coven by the name of Cameron.”

The distinctly metallic rasp of several more hammers locking into full cock brought the huge Highlander’s hand up in a staying gesture. “Ye’ve a strange lackin’ in common sense, Sassenach, Ye should ha’ heeded the advice ye were given.”

Moving cautiously, deliberately, Alex swung a leg over the cantle of his saddle and dismounted. “I rarely heed advice I don’t ask for, and certainly not from any bastard named Campbell.”

The Highlander straightened from the tree. His eyes flicked along Alex’s clothing again, this time alerted to the stains of dried blood.

“Who are ye, Sassenach? An’ what quarrel do ye have wi’ the Campbells?”

Alex smoothed a hand along Shadow’s muzzle to set him at ease. “If you don’t know the answer to either of those questions, Struan MacSorley, you deserve to spend the rest of your miserable life digging acorns in the forest.”

The gigantic Scot took an ominous step forward. “Ye’ve a tongue like a wasp as well. The sound o’ it brings tae mind a wee surly pup I were fond o’ thrashin’ now an’ then f’ae bein’ too damned big f’ae his breeks. He used tae give as good as he got, but that were a long time ago, an’ I hear tell he’s grown soft an’ sweet-smellin’ now. An’ pretty as a wee lassie.”

Alex advanced another step. “Not too soft to bring a sour-breathed Lochaber boar to his knees … and whistle a merry tune while doing it.”

“Mayhap I’ll let him try,” MacSorley said on a grin. In the next breath he had spread his arms wide and clamped them around Alex’s shoulders, pulling the willing man into a fearsome bear hug. “Alasdair! Alasdair, by the Christ, it’s bonnie tae see ye! Where the devil have ye been? Lochiel’s half mad wi’ worry. He has our lads scourin’ every glen an’ glade from Loch Lochy tae Glencoe!”

“We met some trouble on the road near the Spean. We were planning to come straight through, but … it’s a long story, and I’ve left a wounded man and two women a ways back along the road.”

The bushy eyebrows crushed together and the death grip relaxed. “God’s truth, why did ye no’ say so instead o’ standin’ here blatherin’ like a fishwife? Who’s the wounded mon?”

“Aluinn MacKail. He took a shot in the chest—”

“Angus! Fetch up the ponies, then take three men an’
ride on ahead tae Achnacarry; let them know we’ve a wounded mon. Madach—keep half the men here wi’ ye, the rest’ll come wi’ me. An’ f’ae pity’s sake, shy those guns awa’ afore the
Camshroinaich Dubh
takes it in his heid as an insult an’ scatters the lot o’ ye across the road!” He paused and peered closely at Alex. “Two
lassies
, did ye say?”

“A
very
long story,” Alex murmured. He mounted Shadow again as a shaggy-haired garron was led up to MacSorley. “But what news from Achnacarry? Other than my brother’s lack of faith in me, is everyone well? Is it true what I’ve heard—
has
there been a landing in the Hebrides?”

“Aye, laddie.” MacSorley nodded somberly. “Wee Bonnie Tearlach has come home, or so he says.”

Alex wheeled Shadow around and rode in silence, alarmed by the confirmation that Prince Charles had returned to Scotland. There was no time to ponder the consequences, however. Around the next bend in the road they came upon the coach and only two of its three passengers. The whereabouts of the third were marked by a long, ear-piercing scream.

The tartan-clad Highlander bent over quickly, almost, but not quite, catching Catherine before she struck the ground.

He swore in Gaelic, then swore again as he heard footsteps pounding up the hill behind him.

“The lassie’s fainted,” he said, swinging around. “I ne’er touched her, she just fainted.”

Alex hurried forward and went down on one knee. “I wouldn’t worry, she’s becoming quite proficient at it. Catherine?” He stroked her cheek and chafed a limp wrist. “Catherine, can you hear me? You are all right. You are among friends. Catherine …”

Her head lolled and she came swimming back to consciousness. Her eyelids slitted open, but it took her a moment or two to focus, to recognize the handsome
features of the man leaning over her. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. A gasp found her flinging herself up and into his arms.

“Alex! Oh, Alex, you came back!”

“Of course I came back,” he said gently. “Didn’t I promise you I would?”

“Oh, yes, but—” She stopped and gaped over his shoulder at the dozen or more bearded rebels standing around, staring at them. “Alex! Alex, have they caught you too?”

“Caught me?” He looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “These are Cameron men, Catherine. My brother’s men. They have been looking for us for a couple of days now. Are you feeling stronger? Do you think you can stand?”

Suddenly aware of how tightly and how closely she was holding him, she demurred. “Yes. Yes, of course I can stand.”

Keeping a protective arm around her waist, Cameron helped her to her feet. She stumbled slightly and leaned unabashedly against him, still unsure as to what to make of his so-called friends. They hardly seemed any cleaner or less dangerous than the kilted soldiers they had met earlier in the day.

“Are you absolutely certain they are who they say they are?” she asked in a whisper, “After all, you did think Iain was your cousin.”

Alex scowled. “Yes, I can see you are feeling better. If so, we had best get moving while there is still some daylight left.”

“Are we near the river? Did you find it?”

“It’s just over the crest of the next hill. Don’t worry, you are perfectly safe now. The coach will get you to Achnacarry in a couple of hours. I am going to go on ahead with some of the men, but you will be well-protected. I’ll leave—”

“No!”
Catherine had kept her voice low up to then, but the shock of hearing that he planned to leave her
alone again brought such a shrill cry to her lips that some of the clansmen reached instinctively for their pistols. “
No!
No, you are
not
going to leave me with
anyone
! I do not
know
these men, I have no reason to
trust
these men. Furthermore, I am tired of being told what to do and where to go! I am not part of the baggage, damn you. I am your
wife
!”

Such a silence descended on the forest, it seemed as if the mist itself had stopped curling around the trees to pause and listen. Alex gripped Catherine’s wrist, but the warning came too late. She blundered forward, unmindful of the hard, riveting stares that followed her every word.

“I am your
wife
, as you keep reminding me. However it may have happened or for however long I am forced to endure the indignity,
I am your wife!
Not a servant, not a child, and not just when it is convenient for you to throw it in my face!”

More stunned expressions rippled through the clansmen. Many spoke only Gaelic, but already those who understood the
Sassenach
tongue were hissing a translation of her fiery tirade.

The muscles in Alex’s jaw worked furiously, and his midnight eyes bored into Catherine’s with a lethal mixture of incredulity and fury. Slowly, with an even deeper chill of foreboding, she realized what she had done. Until that very instant she had not seriously troubled herself as to how he planned to explain her presence to his family. She had never once considered their vows as legal or binding, nor had he. But now … now she had verbally consummated their union in front of a score of his own clansmen.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, her fingertips pressing over her lips. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I didn’t think. Perhaps if I explain—”

“You have done quite enough explaining for the time being,” he said coldly.

“But you must do something! You cannot let them believe—”