The Pride of Lions (26 page)

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, flinching back. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

The doctor’s wiry chestnut eyebrows flew upward at the sound of the cultured English accent, and he did, indeed, come to an abrupt halt.

An angry, defensive flush rose in Alex’s face as one by one the startled and disbelieving stares focused on him. Aluinn’s words of warning flashed through his head a heartbeat ahead of Jeannie Cameron’s less-than-subtle gasp of shock.

“English?
Ye’ve brung a
Sassenach
wife home tae Achnacarry?
”

Whether it was an instinctive reaction to the contempt in his sister-in-law’s voice or an equally instinctive reaction to the notion that his choice of wives should have been approved by them first, Alex walked slowly back through the parted crowd to where Catherine sat trembling with fresh shivers of apprehension. His eyes were colder and bleaker than anything she had ever seen before, the warning in them explicit and clear:
Say nothing. Do nothing. Just go along with it for now
.

Without a word he reached up and clasped his hands around her waist, lifting her down from the saddle. He
escorted her back through the grim silence, his arm rigid with forced politeness, his smile a mere flattening of the lips.

“Catherine, may I present my brother Donald, The Cameron of Lochiel. Donald, my … wife, Catherine.”

Catherine was all too aware of everyone staring at her and of the collective breath that was being held as they all waited to see how the Chief of Clan Cameron would react to having a
Sassenach
in the family.

The keen blue eyes of the laird studied her intently, seeming to see her fear and nervousness, and regardless of how he felt about the matter personally, he raised one of her cold and chafed hands to his lips and brushed it with a smile.

“A rare privilege and an honor indeed, Catherine,” he said warmly. “Ye’ve nae idea how long we’ve waited tae see our wee brither happily wed. But then, wi’ a lassie as lovely as yersel’, how could he have resisted?”

Catherine felt herself shrinking into a deeper sense of mortification, for she was hardly lovely at that precise moment, and if he was mocking her he was even more cruel and unconscionable than his renegade brother.

Lady Maura Cameron did not wait for a formal introduction, but stepped forward and took Catherine’s hands in hers.

“You must excuse our manners, dear,” she said. “We have all been anxiously awaiting Alexander’s arrival and, well, naturally we should have suspected he would not be able to resist doing it with a flourish. But we are all so happy he brought you home to us. Welcome to Achnacarry.”

Archibald had rejoined the group and was presented along with his wife, Jeannie, who murmured a civil enough greeting under Lochiel’s warning eye. Sons, daughters, aunts, and uncles started to push forward, their curiosity getting the best of them, but Lady Maura stopped the crush, slipping her arm around Catherine’s waist and urging her into the warmth of the castle.

“That is enough for now,” she declared, her own cultured accent hinting at an English education. “Can you not see the poor child is cold and hungry? Jeannie—to the kitchen with you and see if there is some broth left from supper. Archibald—hadn’t you best finish your preparations in the surgery before you start celebrating? Aluinn MacKail will not want a foggy eye and an unsteady hand attending him. Donald—”

“Aye, love. Aye, ye’re right. There will be plenty o’ time on the morrow f’ae greetings an’ the like.” He took Alex’s arm and steered him to the door. “Yer old rooms in the west tower have been shaken out an’ made fit f’ae a king … although … ye might be wantin’ something more … comfortable now.”

“The tower is fine,” Alex said firmly.

“I’ll have plenty of hot water sent up,” Maura said, giving Catherine a little squeeze for encouragement. “A long bath and a change of clothes can work wonders on the spirit.”

“I … I h-have no other clothes with me,” Catherine stammered, glancing back at Alex even as she was being bustled away. “We were forced to abandon my trunks.”

Lady Cameron smiled. “In a household the size of this one we should have no trouble outfitting you until our seamstresses can make up for your loss. We have a storeroom full of silk and brocade and the latest patterns straight from France.”

“I … I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Nonsense. You are family now. What is ours is yours.”

Any further protests were forgotten as Catherine’s eyes adjusted to the brighter lights inside the entryway and she found herself being led along a richly paneled hallway hung with tapestries and paintings that depicted several centuries of Cameron pride. The vaulted ceiling rose three full stories, with every square panel of polished wood displaying the family history in pictures, woven and painted. At the end of the long corridor was a
wall of glass windows that soared as high as the ceiling and offered a breathtaking view of the loch and surrounding mountains.

Conscious only of putting one foot in front of the other, Catherine followed Lady Maura as if in a daze, her head turning to the left to stare in awe at a vast array of swords, axes, and medieval armor, then to the right to admire the artifacts and treasures that filled the twelve-foot-high niches in the walls. The floor was covered in oak strips, sanded and polished to such a high gloss it reflected the arms and armor, the colored standards and family crests. The great hall was aptly named, for she had seen no other like it.

Once up the stairs she was taken along a second hallway not quite so impressive in decoration but equally rich in paneling and smaller tapestries. She passed several minor passageways and entrances to stairwells and was afforded brief glimpses through open doors into the library, receiving room, and dayroom. They were all proportionately large and well-furnished, and Catherine was struck again by the incredible size and substance of Achnacarry.

When they turned down the long gallery that bridged the two outer courtyards, Catherine drew to an abrupt halt. Between the many multipaned windows were hung life-size oil paintings of the Cameron men and women and, beneath each, clusters of miniatures representing members of that particular figure’s immediate family. It was an amazingly well-documented chronicle of the Cameron clan, and it caught Catherine’s attention despite her weariness.

Maura raised the candle she was carrying and aimed the brighter light at the series of portraits that were holding Catherine’s gaze the longest.

“The large one is of John Cameron—Donald and Alex’s father. He lives at present in Italy, with the court of King James.”

Catherine recognized familial traits in the strong jaw
and ironlike gleam in the brooding eyes. She vaguely recalled Alex mentioning that his father, a staunch Jacobite who had been attainted after the 1715 rebellion, had chosen to share the exile of his Stuart monarch rather than swear an oath of allegiance to the Hanover king.

“Donald keeps in constant touch, naturally, and the clan makes a fine distinction between Old Lochiel and Young Lochiel, but … he’s a proud and stubborn old Scot, our father-in-law. He vows he will not come home until a Scottish king sits upon the throne again. He refuses any money Donald sends and lives in Italy like a common courtier rather than the Chief of Clan Cameron. You would like him, I think. His sons share a good many of his qualities.”

Catherine studied the noble features more closely and agreed they were as strong and uncompromising as his sons’. His cornflower-blue eyes and chestnut hair had been passed down to Donald and Archibald, while his massive shoulders and powerful presence were more dominant in Alexander. There was a miniature of a fourth son in the cluster beneath the portrait, one who shared the fair coloring but whose features were thinner and sharper, almost unpleasant.

“John Cameron of Fassefern,” Maura explained. “He should be here by tomorrow; you will meet him then. He is … somewhat less committed in his politics.”

“A bald disgrace, ye mean,” Jeannie declared, coming up behind them. Ambling along beside her was a petite, white-haired woman introduced simply as Auntie Rose.

“The Camerons are a very old clan,” Maura continued, ignoring the interruption. “The very first Cameron of Loch Eil was slain by Macbeth in 1020, but he fought so bravely and so well to defend his land that the king honored him and pronounced him ‘the fiercest of the fierce’—a motto the clan adopted and has kept ever since.”

Catherine’s gaze wandered to another canvas, and she felt the blood react oddly in her veins. The intensity in
the blue-black eyes sent a shiver along her spine and gave her a chilling sense that the man in the portrait was alive and breathing and poised to leap down off the wall.

“Sir Ewen Cameron,” Maura explained. “Your husband’s grandfather.”

“Grandfather? But I thought—”

Maura raised the candle higher. “There is an incredible resemblance, isn’t there? Even as a boy Alexander was mistaken for the son rather than the grandson, a fact the old rascal never denied in the company of beautiful young women. They are the only two of many generations of Camerons to possess the black hair and eyes—a legacy from the dark gods, or so the legend goes.”

The silky hairs across the nape of Catherine’s neck rippled to attention. “The dark gods?”

“Druids,” Maura said, smiling. “They either charm you or curse your life at birth; they watch over you with a keen eye or laugh cruelly at each mistaken step. They certainly watched over Ewen. He was brash and arrogant, brave to the point of lunacy. He was the only Highland laird who dared to refuse to submit to Cromwell’s rule after King Charles was defeated back in 1649. He refused to take an oath of allegiance to a ‘white-collared, cattle-lifting prelate’ and even sent a demand to the new Parliament for remunerations, accusing the so-called New Model Army of destroying some of his fields and carrying away valuable livestock without paying for it.”

“What did Cromwell do?” Catherine asked, having heard stories about the English reformer’s swift and harsh justice for all rebels.

“He paid it. He also issued strict orders to his generals to stay clear of Cameron land.”

Catherine studied the darkly handsome face again while Maura added softly, “They were inseparable, Ewen and Alex. I am surprised he has not told you all about the old warrior.”

“To be honest—” Catherine set her jaw and turned to face Lady Cameron, the need to terminate the entire farce
once and for all burning at the back of her throat. “To be
perfectly
honest—” The soft brown eyes were waiting expectantly, and her resolve faltered. “We have not known each other very long; he has not told me very much about anything. In fact, I had no idea what to expect when we arrived and, well, frankly … I had imagined all manner of … of …”

“Naked, bearded mountain men?” Maura’s laugh was directed more at herself than at Catherine, at some memory from her past. “I spent eight years in London attending school. I know all too well the image most Englishmen have of Scotland and her people, and in some instances it is well-deserved. We are a proud and touchy breed, especially here in the Highlands where a man will draw his sword rather than shrug aside an insult. There are blood feuds that have been carrying on for centuries, some so long no one remembers the original cause of the dispute.”

“Like the Campbells and the Camerons?”

Maura drew back and for a moment looked as if she might drop the candle. It surely wavered in her hand, dripping hot wax over her fingers, but she did not seem to notice.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I only asked because it was Campbell men who attacked us on the road today and a Campbell who seems bent on seeing Alexander hanged for murder.”

This time Maura blanched. Her gaze flicked past Catherine’s shoulder to the other two women, and she indicated by a firm shake of her head that they were not to say anything.

“Lady Cameron, I—”

“No. No, you have not said anything wrong, dear. I was just not prepared. But of course, if Alexander has not told you anything about the family, you could not possibly be expected to … to know that I am a Campbell. Or that the Duke of Argyle is my uncle.”

An image of the coarse, foul-breathed sergeant flashed
through Catherine’s mind, and she found it difficult if not impossible to believe there could be a blood connection between him and the delicate, gracious woman who stood before her. Even more disconcerting was the realization that one of Maura’s relatives had fixed the price on Alexander Cameron’s head, and that he had been directly responsible for the treachery of Gordon Ross Campbell.

There was simply too much going on that she did not understand, too many complexities she did not
want
to understand, and her sense of isolation, her exhaustion, her aching weariness came reeling down upon her with a vengeance and she raised a trembling hand to her temple.

“Ye think tha’s a shock, hen?” Auntie Rose muttered, her accent thick as soup. “Anyone tald me fifteen years back oor Alasdair would ha’ taken himsel’ anither wife, I would ha’ called the bastard a liar an’ sent him tae the devil masel’. I still canna believe it. He kissed the dirk f’ae wee Annie MacSorley an’ swore he’d take nae ither, an’ I canna believe he didna keep the oath.”

Maura hushed the old woman in Gaelic, ignoring courtesy for the sake of expedience, but the damage was already done. Auntie Rose had said
another
wife, meaning … Alexander Cameron had been married before?

Catherine stared at Maura, then the elderly aunt. Rose was flushed and still muttering to herself, and it occurred to Catherine then to wonder if part of the animosity she had sensed in the courtyard was not so much because Alexander Cameron had returned with an English wife, it was that he had returned with any wife at all.

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