The Pride of Lions (37 page)

Somehow, the thought of waking up naked and disheveled in Hamilton Garner’s bed did not cause the intensity of blush it should have. Nor did the thought of lying in his arms rouse quite the same stirring inside as did the memory of Alex’s arms and body cradling her. The two men were totally opposite, in character and in nature. Hamilton was … well, smooth. In every sense of the word. Polished. As if he were a statue or a figure to be admired daily, with every last detail just so—every hair placed just right, every fingernail a clean white crescent. She could not imagine him with a stubble of beard showing or a stray piece of lint on his tunic sleeve, whereas Cameron … She quite believed he was capable of tumbling her in a muddy field if the mood came upon him—and making them both wildly happy in the process.

Catherine covered her face with her hands and sank even deeper into the bedding. How could she even think such things? How could she even dare to compare Hamilton Garner’s careful precision to the strong, brooding, animal-like recklessness of Alexander Cameron?

Where was he anyway?

She sat up and glared at the empty side of the bed. Surely he must know she would be waking up feeling confused and guilt-ridden. Surely he would have something to say to her, even if it was only—

“Good morning.”

The quietly spoken salutation was so unexpected, Catherine gasped and clutched the blankets to her bosom. Alex was standing in the doorway, a small tray balanced in his hand. She had been so absorbed in her own thoughts she had not heard him enter. He was fully dressed, wearing breeches and a plain white shirt, giving the impression he had been awake for some time. His
hair was carelessly swept back in a queue. His jaw was clean-shaven, his eyes clear and piercing, showing no signs of either fatigue or guilt. In fact, he looked so refreshed and so obviously satisfied with himself, Catherine allowed her conscience to answer for her.

“We must be waking on different mornings. I see nothing good about this one so far.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I was beginning to think we might waken on different mornings at that. It is past two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Two—” Catherine forgot herself and pushed upright. “In the afternoon? But why wasn’t I wakened sooner? What must everyone be thinking of me?”

Alex shrugged easily. “They are undoubtedly thinking you endured a long and harrowing journey over the last two weeks. You wouldn’t raise any eyebrows if you failed to make an appearance for another two weeks.”

“You made the same journey. I doubt if anyone expects you to lounge about all day.”

His smile turned wry. “Men are expected to eat, sleep, and think on their feet, didn’t you know?”

“Women are able to eat and sleep and think on their feet as well as men. Probably better, since we are also expected to feed, clothe, and provide for their comforts on top of everything else.”

On the word
provide
the blanket slipped completely to reveal the two perfect moons of her breasts. Alex’s gaze fell involuntarily and his breath departed his lips on a small gust. He was already treading his way very carefully through these first few minutes. He had steeled himself out in the hallway for the verbal confrontation, but had no means of preparing himself for the sight of all that slippery blonde hair spilling over bare white flesh. His senses were already under assault from the lingering, musky scent of their lovemaking; seeing the rose-tipped thrust of her breast, it was all he could do to maintain the balance of the tray.

As she hastened to cover herself, he cleared his throat
and set the tray on the nightstand. “I thought you might be a little hungry. I managed to scare up some chocolate for you and fresh hot biscuits. I didn’t bring too much in case you were still asleep, but if you like I can send Deirdre to the pantry for something more substantial.”

The violet eyes flicked to the door. “Deirdre! Good heavens, yes. I should have thought she would have wakened me hours ago.”

“Actually—” Alex felt her eyes turn to him as he walked over to the window. “She was here earlier. She came into the room this morning and … well, that was what woke me. I guess she thought it best not to return until she was sent for.”

Catherine’s fingers twisted around the blanket. “She saw us? You and I … 
together
?”

“My fault,” he admitted with some chagrin. “I had every good intention of tucking you into bed and retiring across the hall to my own room, but …”

Catherine swallowed hard as she remembered. He had carried her from the fireroom and set her on the bed, but somewhere between drawing the covers over her and brushing back the flown wisps of her hair, he had succumbed to the urge to kiss her again, and before either of them knew it …

At least he was being civil, she thought as the color ebbed and flowed in her cheeks. He could as easily have been clumsy and belligerent, or worse, casual and crude. If anything he appeared to be almost as uncomfortable as she was.

“It never should have happened,” she remarked, her voice whisper-soft.

“My fault again. Entirely. You had a little too much to drink and it gave you a little too much false courage, which I, in turn, took rather shameless advantage of. To be quite honest I probably had more than my share of the dinner wine as well, and I guess the temptation … twice in one day … was more than I could handle. I am very sorry.”

He sounded so genuinely contrite, she felt she ought to at least own up to some of the blame. “You were not
entirely
at fault. You did not force me to drink the wine, nor did you force me to … to do anything else against my will.”

Alex turned his head from the embrasure, and she was struck by the completely incongruous thought that he should always stand in partly sunlit windows. The light bleached his shirt almost transparent, made his hair gleam like molten metal and his eyes burn a deep, dark midnight blue.

“Whether you had been willing or not last night,” he said evenly, “I doubt very much if I could have stopped. It was an act of pure selfishness on my part, and you are absolutely right: It should never have happened.”

Catherine laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. She kept her eyes deliberately downcast, although she was aware of every movement, every small gesture or expression he made. For some reason the warmth she had been experiencing since waking had given way to a hollow chill, and she knew, suddenly, what he was leading up to with his penitence and contrition.

“Last night … you told me it would be impossible for me to leave Achnacarry just yet. Shall I assume that was also the wine speaking?”

“It will be difficult, not impossible.” (Was that relief she detected?) “There has always been a thriving business along the coast smuggling contraband in and out of the country.”

She smiled ruefully. “Am I to be considered contraband now?”

“At the moment, very much so. And I am afraid it is the only way to absolutely guarantee your safe passage home.”

Catherine’s smile stayed in place, though it was tilted oddly to one side. She was so accustomed to being the one to do the rejecting, to dispatch unwanted suitors out
the gates, it left her a little bemused to be the one being rejected.

“Home,” she murmured, covering her discomfort. “Yes indeed. Father will no doubt be beside himself with joy to see me back in the nest. And Mother will …” She hesitated and lifted her thick, honey-colored lashes only to find he was watching her, studying her with eyes that looked as brittle and hard as glass.

“Yes? You were saying?”

“Nothing.” She quickly lowered her lashes again. “It doesn’t matter. I am sure I can manage them.”

The spark of brightness in Alex’s eyes faded and died away. “Well, then, I shall see what can be arranged. I have to go to the coast for a few days anyway and—”

“You are going away?”

He had already turned to stare out the window again and missed the look of disappointment on her face. “Donald received another summons from the Prince this morning. It stated in no uncertain terms that he will consider it a direct affront to himself and to his father if The Cameron of Lochiel does not meet with him in person.”

“Your brother is going to meet with Prince Charles?”

A nerve shivered high in Alex’s cheek. “You can see why this is not the best of times for me to be introducing any new complications into the family.”

So. Now you are a complication too
.

Catherine frowned. “How long will you be gone?”

“Only for a few days, I hope. A week at the most. I imagine there is a good deal of diplomacy involved in refusing a prince his royal due. At any rate you will be quite safe here so long as you remember to stay inside the castle walls. No riding through the woods alone. Campbell’s men may still be in the vicinity, and I would lay healthy odds young Gordon Ross would dearly love to meet with you in an isolated clearing somewhere.”

He allowed the warning to sink in a moment, then added, “If you wish to write a letter to Damien, I’ll see it leaves on the first available ship. You can advise him of
the arrangements I am making, and I will add my own note to let him know the exact date of departure and point of arrival when I learn them.”

“I imagine it will be an expensive way to remove me from underfoot.”

Alex studied the soft oval face, noting the unrelenting blooms of color high on her cheeks, like the flush of a fever. Her fingers were crushed around the folds of the quilt, holding it like a shield to guard her nakedness. Her eyes were fixed on the bedpost, and she refused to even glance over in his direction. She looked so very slender and fragile in the old warrior’s bed that he had to battle a strong urge to cross the few steps that were separating them. He ached to gather her into his arms and kiss away the hurt and shame, but to do so would only compound the host of errors he had committed last night. His emotions were too raw, he was not thinking clearly. His heart was pounding like a drum inside his chest, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to keep them balled into fists by his sides.

“I have been giving the matter some more thought,” he said tautly, “and it occurred to me that since Raefer Montgomery ceased to exist in Wakefield, why not take it one step further and kill him off completely? His death would give you the perfect excuse for returning home … the bereaved widow, et cetera, et cetera.”

“A widow?”

“You would hardly be expected to mourn overlong, having only known the poor fellow a short time. Naturally there would be a considerable estate to … shall we say … blunt the residual scandal somewhat.”

She stiffened. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you.”

“A noble sentiment now, but when your feet are dancing on English soil again, you might have second thoughts. I will leave the details to you … a tragic accident on the streets of London, a headfirst tumble into the
River Thames. In my letter to Damien I will give him power of attorney and a new will.”

“You do not have to do that,” she insisted, her cheeks flushing darker.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I do. It is little enough, considering …” He saw her starting to fight the shimmer of tears and he brusquely changed the topic. “Well, I’ll see what I can do about finding Deirdre for you. If you like I will also make your excuses to Donald and Maura so you will not have to be disturbed for the rest of the day. The entire castle is in an uproar anyway, what with Donald’s decision to leave first thing in the morning.”

“Will I see you before you go?”

His gaze slid helplessly to the pale slope of her shoulders—shoulders he had kissed and caressed and used as a pillow when the ecstasy he had found in her arms had robbed him of the ability to think or move.

“You can just give the letter to Deirdre,” he said hoarsely. “She will deliver it to me before we leave.”

Catherine nodded, accepting this final rebuff with as much grace as she could muster. She watched him walk to the door and pause, looking back as if he might say something more, but then he was gone and the door was closing firmly behind him. She stared at the scarred oak, willing it to open again, but it did not, and after a few moments she could see nothing at all through the veil of hot, bitter tears.

18

A
lexander Cameron stamped his feet to ease the tension, cupped his hands around his mouth, and blew a hoary breath to warm his fingers. The dawn was beginning to lift the gloom, to give shape and substance to the stone and mortar walls that surrounded the courtyards. Clouds of mist, tinted the yellowish hue of goat’s milk, rolled over the battlements of Achnacarry Castle and dripped onto the cobblestones in a steady drizzle. It had rained all night and there were puddles everywhere. The cold seemed to soak through his heavy layers of clothing to scratch wet, icy fingers up and down his spine.

Alex wore the
breacan an fheile
—the belted plaid kilt common to Highlanders winter and summer. He was well-armed, with two steel-butted dags belted to his waist, and a saber as well as a basket-hilted broadsword strapped onto his saddle alongside a flintlock musket. He was not alone in the courtyard. A cacophony of horses’ hooves rang out on the stones, competing with the efforts of the clan piper to inspire the assembly of men into some sort of order. The lights had blazed from the castle windows all night long as hasty preparations were made for Lochiel’s departure. Hardly anyone had slept, and now hardly a single window was empty of the dark silhouettes of excited onlookers.