The Pride of Lions (52 page)

Catherine felt a surge of anger. “Father! How dare he have me watched!”

“Undoubtedly for your own protection,” Damien said placatingly. “But a distinct nuisance, nonetheless.”

“A
damned
nuisance,” she retorted, jumping to her feet. “And one that shall end here and now.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you. The old Catherine Ashbrooke we all knew and loved would probably have demanded an entire regiment to escort her on a walk through the gardens. You wouldn’t want to lapse too much out of character now, would you?”

Catherine opened her mouth to toss back a retort, but thought better of it and sank back down onto her seat on the log.

“Was I really so troublesome?” she asked, chewing on the tip of a gloved finger.

“You were just young and foolish and more in love with who you were supposed to be than who you actually were.”

“A sage observation, brother dear. Considerate of you not to mention it before now.”

Damien shrugged. “I had hopes it would pass. And I can see by the look in your eyes every time you say your husband’s name that it has.”

“Alex,” she whispered. “Oh, Damien, I have to see him. I just have to!”

“He’ll be relieved to hear it. I got the distinct impression
he was not altogether certain what to expect by way of a reception. He seemed to dwell particularly upon the chilliness of a certain young lady’s departure from Scotland and her reluctance to acknowledge even the tiniest bit of good judgment on his part for taking such swift action to see to her safety.”

“He thinks I am still angry?”

“In truth, I think the two of you have more in common than you realize. He paced a rut in my floorboards telling me how it would have been better for all concerned if he’d never accepted the challenge from Hamilton, never taken you out of England, never so much as spoken to you let alone touched you. I told him he was absolutely right, of course.”

Catherine’s heart missed a beat. Her chest, her shoulders were suddenly so heavy under the weight of her emotions, she felt doubled over. “Is that why he did not come here?” she asked softly. “Is that why he went to London first?”

“Actually … he went to London because he wasn’t sure you were here.”

“Not here? Where would I be?”

“Considering half the shires are evacuating before the descending hordes, it was not an altogether unreasonable concern.” He paused and tilted Catherine’s chin higher so that she was forced to meet the rarefied blue of his eyes. “He wasn’t even sure if you were living here as a widow or as the wife of an absentee merchant.”

“He didn’t know? All this time and … 
he didn’t know
!”

“How could he, Kitty? He has been fighting a war, remember?”

“Well, yes, but … he should have
known
. He promised. He gave me his word of honor. He should have known I would wait for him. Damien, please … you must take me to him. You must!”

“I can’t do that—” He held up his hand and pressed a fingertip over the protest forming on her lips. “Not
because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know where he is.”

“Then how—”

“He, on the other hand, knows where I will be staying tomorrow night—”

“Tomorrow!”

“—after I leave here. And that is where he will go in search of your answer.”

“Answer? Answer to what?”

“To this—” Catherine stared, her eyes rounded with disbelief as her brother reached to an inside pocket of his frock coat and withdrew a folded, sealed sheet of paper. She gaped at the letter, then up into his handsome face, and his expectant smile faded under the hot flare of violet sparks that burned in her eyes.

“Do you mean to tell me you have been standing here for ten minutes with this in your pocket?”

Without waiting for a reply she snatched the letter out of his hand and pressed it to her bosom for a long, breathless moment before daring to break the wax seal. Her hands were shaking as she unfolded the single sheet, and she had to read the opening salutation twice before her eyes would focus properly to continue.

My dearest Catherine
 …

She stopped, clutched the letter to her breast again, and felt Damien’s arm circle her shoulder.

“I’m all right,” she gasped. “I’m all right.”

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, then walked a few paces away to give her some privacy.

My dearest Catherine,

I pray Damien has found you well and in good spirits. We had heard most of the gentry were relocating, and so I did not hold much hope of seeing you. I was happy enough and relieved just to hear that Mrs. Montgomery was visiting at Rosewood Hall while her husband is out of the country
.

Somehow, a piece of paper seems hopelessly inadequate for expressing what I want to say. I should have had Aluinn’s talent for poetry to know how to properly tell you what is in my heart. Instead, I shall simply have to be content with the truth, blunt as it may be. Not one single hour of one single day has gone by wherein I have not thought of you. I sometimes find myself wondering if it was all a dream, if I only conjured you out of a desperate need to have something warm and loving in my life again. If I am dreaming, I pray I never wake up. If I am awake, then I pray you dream me into your arms and, one night soon, God willing, we shall waken together
.

Your devoted servant, A. C
.

Catherine’s lips trembled as she read it a second and third time. “Damien … Damien, I must go to him. Take me with you when you leave tomorrow. We can take precautions, we can—”

“I can’t do that, Kitty. It isn’t safe.”

“I don’t care! I’m tired of being safe! I am going back with you, and there is nothing you can say or do to prevent it! I listened to logic and reason and concerns for my safety once before, and see where it has gotten me?”

“If you won’t think of your safety, then think about his. Kitty—” He took her hands into his. “I have had more inquiries in the past two months as to the whereabouts of the mysterious Raefer Montgomery than I could tally on five pairs of hands.”

“Good gracious, what has that to do with—”

“Some were just the usual curiosity seekers, those who had heard about the duel and wanted the gory details. But there were others not the least bit interested in the duel, but damned persistent when it came to questions about his current and past affiliations—including his lovely new wife. At the same time I’m hearing another name discussed in the coffeehouses and men’s clubs—Alexander Cameron—complete with questions and curiosities.”

Catherine felt the warmth drain out of her face. “What do you mean?”

“The Camerons are a large and important clan. Without Lochiel backing his cause, the Prince might not have found himself ten men willing to support a rebellion, let alone thousands. As for Alex’s importance, well, it might interest you to know that your husband has won himself a great deal of attention. He and his men were responsible for sending our valiant dragoons cantering away from Colt’s Bridge; they were instrumental in taking Perth, Stirling, and Edinburgh. At Prestonpans, it is said he single-handedly led a charge against heavy artillery, and instead of being blown to hell and gone like any other mortal man, captured more Hanover cannon than they have men knowledgable enough to shoot them. Shall I go on?”

“You seem to be quite well-informed about what goes on in the Jacobite army,” she said tersely.

“It is my luck to be privy to information London prefers to keep close to its breast, including the stories and rumors of a certain legendary figure who is quickly assuming the title ‘invincible.’ The result, my dear sister, is that any lobsterback worth his salt ration would trade his firstborn son for the honor of capturing or killing Alexander Cameron.”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Frankly, I’m worried that it may have a good deal to do with you. And Alex was worried as far back as August, when he sent you out of the country in hopes of throwing the hounds off the scent.”

“Damien, for heaven’s sake, will you stop talking in riddles.”

“You are a clever girl, Catherine, figure it out. You married a tall, strappingly handsome, black-haired rogue whose skill with a sword was sufficient to win honors from the Master of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons. Moreover, after the much-celebrated duel and much-gossiped-about nuptials, the pair of you disappeared
without a trace for over a month. Coincidentally, during the same four-week period Alexander Cameron—another tall, strappingly handsome, black-haired rogue—reappears in the Scottish Highlands after a prolonged absence on the Continent. Once there, does he keep his presence low-key and unremarkable? Heavens, no. He acts out a fifteen-year-old vendetta against the nephew of one of the most powerful Hanover chiefs in Scotland, doing so while in the act of rescuing his beautiful, golden-haired English bride.”

“Damien … 
you
know all the details and
I
know all the details, but who on earth is going to take the trouble to run back and forth between Scotland and England to link the two stories?”

“You met some of the Duke of Argyle’s kinfolk,” Damien said bluntly. “And you still require an answer to that?”

“But it was a personal matter between Alex and Malcolm Campbell. Campbell is dead now; that should be the end of it.”

“Should be,” Damien agreed. “Would be if we were talking about proper English gentlemen here, but we’re not. We’re talking about a race of people who were born fighting. Highlanders take their honor very seriously; an insult to a fourth cousin twice removed is still an insult to the clan chief. The reward on Alex, in fact, has doubled to twenty thousand gold sovereigns. I’m hearing nasty rumors laced with words like ‘assassin’ and ‘paid killer,’ and if that is the case you can bet they’ll be probing for any obvious weakness in our valiant friend’s armor.”

“Meaning me,” she said softly.

“Meaning
any
weakness. You just happen to be foremost in my mind, for obvious reasons.”

“I know how truly worried you must be, but … you also know I must see him. I
must
, Damien. Even if it is only from a distance and only for a few brief moments.”

Damien smiled wryly. “Oddly enough he said almost
the exact same thing … and I did not believe him either.”

She flushed and caressed the letter where she still held it against her breast. “Well then, big brother, what do you suggest we do?”

“
We
do nothing.
You
return to the house and go on about your business as if nothing untoward has happened.”

“But—”

“I, in due course, shall meet with your husband as per his instructions, and together we shall decide the best and safest way to arrange a meeting. I want your promise on this, Kitty. I want your word that you will not try anything foolish like following me or venturing out on your own.” He tilted her face upward again, his hand as firm and uncompromising as the stern set to his jaw. “Alex knows what he is doing. And we both know, if there is any chance in hell of him getting you alone for five minutes, he will.”

The fire was little more than a sporadic ripple of flames at the ends of the half-charred log when some faint scratching sound disturbed the silence of the sleeping house. Catherine stirred and sought a warmer hollow in the mattress, not wanting her dream to be interrupted. It had been the same for the past two nights since she had seen Damien in the forest, the dream so vivid, so real, she could feel the searching fingertips skimming over the taut peaks of her breasts, the naked, heated flesh pressing against hers, the long, wickedly skillful fingers stroking deftly into the aching juncture of her thighs.

She also knew the dream would not last, and she whimpered softly in her sleep. All the craven sensations, so long denied, were flooding her loins, coursing through her body like waves of thick, rich cream. There was pressure where she longed most to feel it, and she parted her thighs willingly, undulating against the insistent, probing
tension until the sheer silk of her nightdress was wet with her need.

The pressure was so real—the pleasure so intense—she cried out and pushed herself closer to the source of warmth. And for as long as it took her to realize that it was
not
a dream, that she was
not
alone in the bed, her body continued to respond, to plead for a deeper intimacy. But then her eyes snapped open. The very real presence of muscle and bone and hard male sinew brought a jarring halt to all sensations in her body, and a scream of pure terror bubbled to her lips. She struck out with her fists, pushing and writhing against the great wall of naked muscle that threatened to crush her. She managed to land a solid blow to his temple and was gathering strength for another when she heard a softly murmured Gaelic oath.

Her fist froze in midair and her eyes widened. Certain her mind was playing some dreadful hoax, her body tensed and her heart skipped several beats.

“A hell of a greeting for a wife to give her husband,” Alex murmured, his hand firmly in place over her mouth. Indeed, as she continued to stare up at him in shock, the hand slid around to cradle the side of her neck, and the pressure of his fingers was replaced by the possessive warmth of his lips.

“Alex?” she gasped. “Oh, God … 
Alex
?”

“You were expecting someone else perhaps?”

To Peter, my mainstay, who puts up with the insomnia, the forgotten meals, the constant doubts, and biweekly threats to heave the typewriter through the window … any window.…

To Lesley, who says she has yet to see her name in any of my books, and to Suzie and Lindsay, whose mother insists they be twenty-one before they
find out
if they are in any of my books.

To the various friends and acquaintances who step lively through these pages, I hope they realize they do so out of affection.