The Pride of Lions (31 page)

“He does not sound like a very nice man.”

“He isn’t. And wasn’t. I expect his displeasure over Maura’s defection was communicated to the Campbell brothers, for the tension was so thick in the air that day, it made your ears ring. Yet for a while they seemed to be behaving. They filled their bellies with our food and ale, they sang, they danced, they even flirted with the Cameron women.”

Again he paused, as if in the telling he was also reliving the events as they unfolded.

“Alex was in love, as are most healthy seventeen-year-old young cocks. And Annie MacSorley was simply the most beautiful, the sweetest, the most sought-after lass in Lochaber. Half the countryside was in love with her, myself included, but it was Alex who won her heart, completely and absolutely. They were both smitten and as much in love as two people have a right to be. They had been handfasted the previous winter and planned to marry in the church later that summer—” The words backed up in his throat and he faltered. “Perhaps they should not have waited or been so secretive about it. Or perhaps we just should have found some reason to keep Alex away from the wedding, knowing how much he and Dughall Campbell loathed one another. At any rate, the trouble started when Annie and Alex slipped away to steal a few moments of privacy. The Campbell brothers saw them and followed.

“To make an ugly story short, they managed to sneak up on the lovers in the stables. They saw a chance for some crude fun and knocked Alex around just enough to leave him semiconscious. They tied him up and propped him where he could see while they took turns with Annie. One of them—I don’t know who—got a little rough and slammed her head against the stone wall. Alex was nearly insane by then and somehow broke free of his bindings. He grabbed a sword and attacked, killing the youngest—Angus—on the first pass. The other two fought back, and … frankly, I do not know how he did it, but when the bodies were discovered later that night, Dughall had been gutted stem to stem, and Malcolm … well, it would have been a greater mercy at the time for someone to have finished him off. Alex was more dead than alive himself, acting like a wild, wounded animal, not letting anyone near him or Annie. She died in his arms.

“The Campbells naturally claimed the ambush had been deliberate. All of them at the wedding swore that
they had seen Annie flirting with the brothers and that she’d lured them into the stables where Alex was waiting to attack.”

“Did no one take Mr. Cameron’s side?” Deirdre asked in a shocked whisper.

“The entire clan was willing to put their swords with his; we would gladly have taken on the Campbells, the militia, the whole damned government at a nod from Lochiel. Donald agonized for weeks over what to do. Argyle had declared it murder and demanded a warrant be issued for Alex’s arrest. There was no possibility of a fair trial. To refuse to surrender him or to call the clan to arms to protect him would have laid the Camerons open to military discipline. Finally, knowing it was the only way to save Alex’s life and avoid a bloody clan war, Lochiel sent him to France to be with their father, Old Lochiel.”

“But … that was so unfair. He wasn’t guilty of murdering those men. He was trying to protect his wife.”

Aluinn agreed with a wry, weary smile. “And for the first ten years or so he expended most of his energy hating the world, seeking revenge in different bloody battles. He threw himself into every war he could find on the Continent, and when he ran out of enemies to fight there, he took us across the ocean to the colonies, where there were plenty of savages to oblige his thirst for mindless violence.”

“You have stayed with him all these years?”

His smile softened. “We were raised like brothers; it seemed the natural thing to do. Mind you, it did become a rather poignant test of friendship when the Duke put a price on his head and we were pressed to dodge assassins everywhere we went. I have a few scars I would prefer not to remember coming by and a nightmare or two that still chase me into a cold sweat. On the whole, though, we have managed to come through it with both feet on the ground.”

“The pair of you do seem to be indestructible,” Deirdre conceded. “I should think an army of you
Cameron men could conquer the world, never mind England.”

“Why, Mistress O’Shea,” he murmured. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment. Does this mean I have almost convinced you we are neither brutes nor beaters of innocent women?”

She lowered her thick, dark lashes. “I never truly thought you were either.”

“Never? Not even at the inn in Wakefield?”

“You hadn’t ought to have grabbed me. I don’t like being grabbed.”

“I shall endeavor to remember that.” He reached forward and his hand gently cradled the side of her neck. Against her instinctive resistance he drew her to him until her mouth was a breath away from his. He felt a shudder ripple through her, then another. A soft protest parted her lips as his hand shifted and he ran his fingers up into the silky brown waves of her hair. The kiss was long and impassioned, full of honest tenderness, and he was surprised at how sweet she tasted. Sweet and innocent and trusting, like someone who could forgive all faults and transgressions, someone who could offer her heart with no conditions, no pretenses.

He released her slowly, reluctantly, noting that even the pain in his shoulder seemed to have been eased by her touch.

Deirdre brushed her fingertips across her lips and blushed profusely.

“You should not have done that, sir,” she whispered.

“There are a good many things I should not have done in my life,” he replied sincerely. “That was not one of them. And my name is not sir, it is Aluinn.
Al-oo-in
. You have to wrap your tongue around the middle part a bit; it’s the Gaelic word for—”

“For
beautiful
,” she said on a rush. “Yes, I know.”

The gray eyes gleamed softly as they held hers, and for
the moment the world did not exist beyond the cocoon of pale yellow candlelight that encased them.

“I … I must go,” she said. “I have been neglecting my mistress terribly.”

“Will you come back? Will you come back and sit with me when you can?”

The question dusted her cheeks with roses again and he thought to himself: My God, but she is lovely. Born to a king instead of a gamekeeper, she would have slain half the hearts in Europe.

“Will you?” he asked again.

“If you wish me to, sir,” she murmured.

“Aluinn,” he reminded her gently. “And I do wish you to. Very much.”

15

W
ary of the wintry frost that emanated from her mistress, Deirdre worked quickly and diligently to shape Catherine’s long golden mass of curls into a reasonably artful presentation. Her task was severely hampered by her subject’s frequent need to pace from one end of the room to the other, by an impatient hand flinging finished sets of curls into disorder, by twists and turns that tore the combs and pins out of the maid’s hands before she could position them.

The
toilette
at last finished, Catherine stood broodingly silent as Deirdre fetched a borrowed chemise and pantalets, then assisted her into snowy-white stockings and lace garters. She sucked in her tummy grudgingly and braced herself against a bedpost while the heavily boned corset was girded tight around her midsection. Deirdre hauled on the laces, squeezing much of Catherine’s natural waistline up into her chest, shaping her torso into a highly prized but hellishly uncomfortable funnel so narrow it could be spanned by two large hands. To contrast the trimness, wire panniers were positioned like baskets over each hip, held in place with satin tapes, and covered by three billowing layers of petticoats. Still gasping from the pressure around her ribs, Catherine rounded on the bed with a curse that made the Irish girl look up in surprise.

“Do you see what she had the nerve, the utter
gall
, to loan me?”

“Beg pardon, mistress? She?”

“That red-haired Scottish virago.” Catherine was
momentarily lost under the voluminous folds of silk as the gown was lowered over her head. “She did it deliberately, I know she did. It is six months out of style, and I am certain I saw a gravy stain on the bodice.
Good God!
”

Deirdre joined her mistress in staring at the shocking expanse of pale flesh exposed by the plunging neckline. Very little remained to the imagination, whereas a great deal was left to chance. Her breasts sat like two half-moons, propped and plumped in such a way as to make the viewing of her toes impossible. At the smallest movement of her arms forward or back, her nipples were in peril of springing over the edge of the pale green silk.

Catherine ventured to the mirror and her mouth went slack. She looked like one of the preened and painted courtesans who frequented the royal court and vied for the paid attention of lewd, gout-ridden ministers!

“Will you be wanting a shawl, mistress?” Deirdre asked hopefully.

Catherine was about to reply wholeheartedly in the affirmative, but a movement in the reflection of the mirror caught her eye and her attention was distracted momentarily by the figure who stood quietly in the doorway.

Since their arrival at Achnacarry, Alexander Cameron had elected to retain the English style of clothing—the plain frock coat, dark breeches, stark white shirt and neckcloth. For this, his first dinner at home, he had been provided with a more formal, richly shaded coat of sky-blue velvet, the cuffs of which were turned back almost to the elbow and trimmed with wide gold braid. The coat was left open over a gold-and-royal striped satin waistcoat buttoned high to the throat and seating a dazzling white, multitiered lace jabot that matched the fountainous spill around each wrist. Around his waist he wore a length of scarlet-and-black tartan, pleated into a kilt and held in place by a polished leather belt. The end of the tartan was brought up and draped across one shoulder, pinned to the coat with an enormous silver
brooch studded with topazes. His face had been shaved clean of the slightest shadow; his sable hair had been molded into curls at his temples, with the remainder tied back in a neat queue.

For a long moment Catherine almost did not recognize her “husband.” Even the most grudging appraisal would deem him magnificent; he looked as if he could stand atop a mountain and command the sun to rise and fall at will.

Yet despite the change in his appearance the eyes remained the same. Black and bold, they studied Catherine’s reflection, leaving her with the distinct impression that her own assessment had been too kind.

“You might want to take Deirdre up on her suggestion,” he said politely. “The dining hall is apt to be chilly.”

“In that case—” Catherine ignored the delicate lace offering Deirdre held out and forced Alex to step aside as she swept past him out the door, “if I turn blue, someone is bound to take pity on me and send me back to my room.”

Not a single word was exchanged through the twisting, turning descent from the tower. The only sound along the vaulted stone corridors was their footsteps—his firm and regulated to keep pace with her smaller, softer taps. It was only when they approached the main receiving room, guided there by the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, that Catherine’s nerve faltered and she started to hang back.

Cameron’s hand was instantly under her elbow, steering her forward.

“Don’t worry,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “We Camerons have pretty well forsaken the rite of offering sacrifices to the dark gods. I think.”

They entered a room full of glittering candlelight and splashes of brightly hued tartan. Almost immediately, at their appearance, all conversation ground to a halt, and
one by one the heads swiveled and stared at the couple in the doorway. Catherine felt the first blush of color in her cheeks recede, only to rise again, darker and hotter as she imagined most eyes were on her. The Englishwoman. The
Sassenach
.

Archibald and Donald stood together by the huge marble fireplace, their heads bent in conversation with their brother, John Cameron of Fassefern. Catherine recognized him from the miniature in the gallery and her opinion did not change, for of the four brothers he was the least attractive. Slighter in build, with thin, bony knees, he did not do near justice to the black-and-crimson tartan.

The same could not be said for the women. They were all elegantly gowned in silks and brocades, laying rest to yet another of Catherine’s preconceived notions that Highland women would still regard Elizabethan bombazine and Norse braids as the height of fashion. And in spite of her prior reservations, there were several décolletages equally as shocking as her own. Lauren Cameron, for one—Catherine’s feline instincts had spotted her at once—dared not bend over so much as an inch else she risked spilling herself into someone’s eager hands.

“I hope we have not kept everyone waiting,” Alex said, trying not to notice the shine of tears in Donald’s eyes when he and Maura crossed the room to greet them. He had made the right choice in wearing the clan tartan; if he needed more proof it was in the bone-crushing grip his brother used to shake his hand.