The Pride of Lions (39 page)

There was nothing she could do about it. Her only defense was stupidity. She had started by flaunting herself at him at the birthday party and compounded each error thereafter by challenging him at every turn, deliberately poking and prodding his temper until she’d left him no choice. She had acted childishly, tormenting him with a naïveté that, in hindsight, she could only regard with wonder. Add to the list ignorance, stubbornness, conceit, duplicity … all of the fine qualities he had accused her of possessing from the outset. And yet, if he was so clever, why could he not now see the doubts that were tearing her apart?

“It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “It just isn’t fair.”

“Eh? Ye want some air?”

Catherine looked up, startled by the sound of Auntie Rose’s voice so close to her ear. Even more startling was the fact that she was seated before the fire in the family retiring room, that she had been so totally immersed in her own misery for the umpteenth time since Lochiel’s departure from Achnacarry three days earlier that she was unaware of her surroundings or her company.

“Ye look warm, hen,” Rose said solicitously. “Aye,
ye’ve been sittin’ here long enough tae roast yer cheeks a rare shade o’ pink.”

Maura glanced up from her needlepoint. “Would you care for another cup of chocolate, or perhaps some wine?”

“Chocolate?” Rose’s button nose wrinkled in disdain. “Bah! Devil’s brew, tha’. Pour us oot a wee dram o’
uisque
, there’s a good lassie. Do more good f’ae the soul than all the sweet brown coo’s milk in the world.”

Grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs, Catherine set her own square of neglected stitchery on the arm of the chair and crossed to the sideboard. She glanced askance in Jeannie’s direction, but the doctor’s wife was sound asleep in a chair by the window, her mouth quivering open on each rattled breath.

“Some o’ us dinna have the stamina,” Rose declared cheerfully and bent her snowy head to the length of lace she was tatting.

Catherine smiled and unstoppered the decanter, but before she could finish pouring, her gaze was attracted to the bright square of light glowing through the high, narrow window. It had rained the first two days and nights of Lochiel’s absence. As strong and well-fortified as Achnacarry was, the damp had found its way through the doors and windows, rendering most of the rooms—especially those in the more ancient sections—cold and musty and unfriendly. Today, even though the clouds seemed to have lifted temporarily and the fire was blazing hot and crackling, Catherine’s mood failed to rise accordingly.

“Pour some f’ae yersel’, hen,” Rose ordered. “It’ll dae ye nae harm on a foul day such as this.”

“Lady Cameron?”

“No, thank you, dear. I still have some wine.” Her glass from the noon meal sat by her elbow, the contents not diminished by more than a mouthful over the last hour.

“Aye, love, aye,” Jeannie said, snorting herself back
awake. “I’ll have a wee one. Ma throat’s dry as an auld sock.”

“Nae wonder f’ae that,” Rose commented. “Ye’ve snorked enough air this part hour tae pipe us all the way tae Glas’gy.”

Catherine delivered their glasses, but did not return to her seat. “I think I shall take advantage of the break in the weather to walk outside.”

“In this damp? Quickest way tae rot yer lungs, hen,” Rose cautioned.

“Nonsense.” Maura laid her embroidery aside. “I feel like a little fresh air myself—assuming you would not mind the company.”

“Not at all.”

Catherine had found herself growing sincerely fond of Donald’s wife. It had been at Lady Cameron’s insistence that she leave the dreary loneliness of her room and join the others for meals, for the afternoons of sewing, and for evenings of lively conversation. Her discomfort had quickly been eased when she realized the gossip revolved mainly around harvests and sheep shearing, the children’s tribulations and education—everyday problems concerning everything from pending marriages to the market price of wool. Normal and civilized. There was the expected amount of discussion surrounding Charles Stuart’s presence in Scotland, but, oddly enough, not nearly as much as what dominated the parlor conversations in Derby. For Catherine, who had assumed all of Scotland was frothing at the mouth in anticipation of swarming south and invading England, it came as an unsettling revelation to know that so many advocated peace. They were not warmongers and savage barbarians thirsting for blood. In many ways, in fact, their family lives were more serene, more sociable, less pretentious than those she witnessed in Derby and London.

She thought of the dandies in their tight fawn breeches, stiff neckcloths, wigs, and smelly pomades, and compared
them to the Cameron clansmen and neighbors who had gathered to celebrate Alexander’s homecoming. Their clothing was drastically different to be sure—there was hardly a frock coat, neckcloth, or scented handkerchief among the lot. But their smiles were honest, their laughter genuine and robust. The Cameron family had shown no reluctance or lasting hostility in welcoming Catherine among them. Would Sir Alfred or any of his influential, socially prominent,
civilized
peers have acted the same had she introduced a black-haired, kilted Scottish renegade to the table at Rosewood Hall?

Catherine sighed and drew a borrowed wool shawl closer about her shoulders. She and Maura exited the castle by a small judas gate and began to stroll along the graveled path of the formal gardens. The air was drenched with the scent of briar roses, their clustered heads drooping with the weight of the recent rains. Rooks and curlews wisely kept to their shelters beneath the arbors, but the sound of their quarreling was as incessant as the patter of dew dripping off the branches at each quiver of a breeze.

Catherine stopped to pick a rose, one that was pure white with just a blush of creamy pink in the center. She tilted her head to the side as she did so and noticed the two clansmen following at a discreet distance. Their eyes were not on the two women, but on the surrounding border of forest, the sloping shoreline, the hills in the distance, and their hands were never far from the dags and broadswords they wore belted prominently around their waists.

“You get used to them,” Maura said casually. “You even appreciate them sometimes when you have an armload of flowers or fruit.”

Catherine doubted if she could ever get used to the idea of bodyguards and was about to resume walking when one of the men smiled and offered up a small wave. With some surprise, she recognized Aluinn MacKail.

His wound, according to Deirdre, was healing remarkably
well, with equal credit going to Archibald’s doctoring skills and the stubborn Scotsman’s own determination. Twice in the past two days Catherine had seen him wandering the halls of the castle, and while he never remained overlong in their company, he joined the ladies and Dr. Cameron each night for their evening meal. He appeared to be a particular favorite of Rose and Jeannie, being cavalier enough to laugh at their bad jokes and roguish enough to embellish their good ones. His manners were as impeccable as his social skills, for he could pluck a word of flattery out of the air and bestow it on the least-suspecting person with hardly more effort than a quick, easy smile. The children all adored him; the servants fussed around him like royalty. Catherine could scarcely fault Deirdre for falling under his spell. He was handsome, charming, boyishly sincere …

Yet he had also demonstrated that he was capable of extreme, cold violence. Even if they had not witnessed his abilities in the attack at the River Spean, the very fact that he had spent fifteen years in Alexander Cameron’s company revealed far more about his character than two brief weeks of casual acquaintance would impart.

His loyalty to Alexander was unquestionable, and Catherine was surprised enough by his appearance in the garden to wonder if some of that silent diligence had shifted to her during Alex’s absence. Why else would he be out in the cold and the damp, assuming the menial task of a guardian?

“This was always one of my favorite retreats,” Maura said, drawing her attention to the ornate iron bench and arbor positioned in the center of the garden. “When it seems the whole world is conspiring against me, I come here and just enjoy the roses and the birds and the vines growing overhead. It is very peaceful, and so very pretty in the sunlight.” She laughed and glanced wryly up at the dirty banks of clouds swarming overhead. “Unfortunately that is not the case today.”

“I can’t imagine you troubled or needing solace from the world,” Catherine said shyly.

“When you have four children pulling at your skirts at one time and a husband raging about like a fifth child in a tantrum, I shall remind you that you said that.”

Catherine’s smile faded and she lowered her lashes, not quickly enough, however, to avoid Maura’s soft frown.

“What is it, dear? Is something troubling you?”

Catherine studied the rose in her hand. She wanted very much to confide in someone, to pour out all of her doubts and fears … but she simply did not know how or where to begin.

“Men can be such strange creatures,” Maura said, guessing at the cause of Catherine’s crestfallen mood. “Strong, domineering, and so unbending at times it makes you want to take them by the throat and scream. At others they are so childlike, so lost and groping for a few words of reassurance, it can make you weep. It can make you angry too, especially if you happen to be feeling lost and lonely yourself.”

Catherine swallowed hard, but said nothing.

“The Cameron men,” Maura continued, “are particularly stubborn and strong-willed. A curse of their bloodlines, I believe. There isn’t a one of them who you could say had a true grasp of the word
compromise
, certainly not if it applies to their own behavior.”

“Donald seems very loving and gentle.”

“Donald? Yes, he is. Loving
and
gentle. But there are times when the sheer strength of that love frightens me half to death.”

“How can love be frightening?”

“When it consumes you. When it blinds you to all other considerations. When you can no longer distinguish right from wrong, love becomes a terrible burden and it can destroy you as readily as it can save you.”

Catherine pondered the words carefully, then sighed. “I don’t think I would ever want to be that much in love.”

“My dear, you do not have a choice. Sometimes it just happens, whether you want it to or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether it makes you happy or not. And believe me, the harder you fight it, the harder you fall. Donald Cameron was the last human being on this earth I wanted to find myself falling in love with. I was raised
knowing
all Cameron men were heartless and despicable, all the women wore black and conjured spells over iron cauldrons. Heaven only knows what Donald thought of us Campbells. You cannot begin to imagine the shock waves that tore through both clans when we announced our intentions to marry, but I fought it as long as I could, I truly did. I refused to see him, refused to think about him, I even threw myself wholeheartedly into a courtship with another man. But Donald was always there, standing between us.” She paused, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “I agreed to meet with him one last time, thinking I could get him out of my system. I listened to what he had to say and he listened to what I had to say. We argued. We discussed all the logical, sensible reasons why the union simply could not work … and then … he touched me. That’s all he did, he just … touched me. Here, on the cheek—” She pressed her fingertips over the faint blush, and her smile blossomed with the memory. “I knew then I would die if he ever took his hand away.”

Catherine remembered the scene she had witnessed in the courtyard prior to Lochiel’s departure. He had laid his hand on Maura’s cheek, and she had kissed his palm in a way that suggested she felt the same way now as she had all those years ago. Not a showy, flamboyant gesture by any means. Not as brassy or brazen as Lauren Cameron’s display.

Thinking of Lauren brought another memory to the surface.

“Who was Annie MacSorley?”

“What?” Lady Cameron looked badly shaken.

“I know she was Struan MacSorley’s sister, and I gather she and Alexander were betrothed at one time—”

“Handfasted,” Maura whispered, her face draining of color as if a vein had been severed. “But I should not be the one to tell you about her—”

“Please.” Catherine impulsively took Maura’s hands into her own. “I am trying so hard to understand. To understand
him
.”

Lady Cameron nodded slowly. “Perhaps we both need to talk about it. I’ve tried to block it from my mind for so long … we all have. But if Alexander is to have any peace, we must all find a way to put the ghosts to rest. Dear Lord, but I wish the men were here. I have a feeling we are both going to need the support of a strong pair of arms before we are through.”

Thirty miles to the west at that precise moment, Donald Cameron was having much the same thought. He wished Maura were by his side. She was his strength, his logic, his compassion.

It had taken the slow-moving train the three full days to reach the coast, winding through the luscious green glens of Lochaber and Rannock, climbing and snaking its way around fairy-tale gorges, ravines, and waterfalls only to approach a desolate and wind-ridden coastline that was a smuggler’s paradise. In one of the small, rarely frequented inlets, the Prince’s ship, the
Du Teillay
, lay at anchor, a modest three-masted brigantine much abused by the seas and offering the barest of comforts to her royal passenger.

Lochiel’s entourage had been stopped twice in the descent to the harbor: once by an armed band of MacDonald clansmen whose chief had assumed the responsibility of protecting the Prince; once by a dour-faced Highland laird who had himself been summoned for an interview with Charles Edward Stuart.

“Aye, he’s a likable enough laddie, Donal’,” the old man had said. “A Stuart through an’ through. He’ll have the royal crest carved on yer arse afore ye even ken there’s a knife up yer kilt.”

Donald’s frown—it had rarely left his face since their departure from Achnacarry—grew bleaker as he studied Hugh MacDonald’s belligerent scowl. Known as Glengarry, the laird was an old warrior, a friend and strong ally of the Camerons. His loyalty to the Jacobite cause, like Lochiel’s, had never been in question, but also like Donald’s, it was tempered by reason.