The Pride of Lions (27 page)

C
atherine slept eighteen hours straight through, waking at four o’clock the next afternoon without the slightest desire to rise from the heavenly comfort of the feather mattress. She lay in a huge catafalque bed and studied her surroundings with a slumberous eye, feeling at first she must still be asleep, immersed in a dream where she was playing the role of a medieval princess. The walls of her bedchamber certainly gave the impression of an ancient castle tower. They were built of naked stone blocks, devoid of even the thinnest layer of plaster or paint to seal the cracks in the mortar. There were no curtains, no tapestries, no rugs of any size or thickness on the rough plank flooring to alleviate the starkness. The tower was part of the breastworks of the original keep, dating back God only knew how many centuries, and the only source of air or light in the ten-foot-thick walls was a long, thin window corbelled out from the outer face of the stonework. The embrasure was deep enough to stand in, the window itself elaborately molded with carved stone tracery. No glass had been fitted to the panes, but there were heavy wooden shutters that closed from the inside and an inches-thick wool tapestry that could be lowered over the opening to keep out the winter winds.

Apart from the antiquated bed—a monstrous thing at least twice the size of her own at Rosewood Hall—the only other furnishings in the spartan chamber were a large armoire and dresser, a pair of boxlike dressing
tables, and two deep, high-backed wing chairs. There was no fireplace, no immediate source of heat other than a small portable iron brazier that Maura had sent to the room during the night.

The chamber next to hers, however, was the fireroom, appropriately named for the predominance of a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling fireplace that supplied heat for the three rooms located in the tower. A brass and ebony bathtub was the only permanent fixture of the fireroom, and it was there that Catherine had scrubbed away the aches and pains, the weariness, the horror of the day’s events. She had soaked until the steam and heat had made her light-headed, and then she had consumed an enormous meal of hot beef broth, fresh baked bread, roasted meat, and thick yellow cheese. Stuffed, warmed, and clean, she had fallen into bed and was asleep before Maura and Rose could even draw the quilts over her.

Now she stretched and wriggled her toes, groaning inwardly at the luxury of snowy-white sheets and a soft, dry bed. It was the first time she had felt safe or comfortable since leaving Derbyshire, and the mere thought of stepping down onto the bare plank flooring drove her deeper into the nest of blankets.

“These were Sir Ewen’s rooms,” Maura had explained. “He preferred the old ways, as he liked to call it, acknowledging his roots, not giving over to the luxury and corruption of modern conveniences. He claimed it kept a man honest having to empty his own chamber pot in the morning. When he died Alexander moved his belongings in here and took the tower rooms as his own. He said he could look out the window in the evenings and see the old
gaisgach liath
—the gray warrior—riding through the mists over the loch.”

Catherine wrinkled her nose disdainfully. She hadn’t been impressed by either the sentiment or the view. She was not particularly fond of heights, and the tower seemed to be perched at the very edge of the spur of land. As to the
jagged, mist-shrouded peaks that lay beyond, she had had enough of mountains and landscapes and breathtaking tableaux to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

What she did want, and what she would probably not be able to get enough of over the next few days, was another bath. She had no idea how long she would be kept prisoner in this castle keep, or if the return journey to Derby would be as primitive or as miserable as the trek here, but she intended to make use of every opportunity for comfort while she had it. She could still feel a crawling sensation where the blood of their attackers had splashed on her skin. Worse still were the prickly suggestions that her scalp was not entirely free of guests.

A sudden spate of vigorous scratching sent her hopping out of the bed. She was wearing a loose cambric nightdress laced modestly high at the throat and fitted snugly to her wrists with a profusion of satin ribbons. A heavy woolen robe had been draped over the foot of the bed for her use, and she was just tying the belt around her waist when she heard the door to the chamber rasp open.

Standing in the entryway was a young woman Catherine had not seen before and certainly would have remembered had they been introduced. Tall and slender, she had the complexion of someone accustomed to sun and wind and fresh country air. Her long hair was lush with natural waves, a fiery titian red with streaks of sun-bleached gold. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, of no distinct color but rather a shifting blend of green and gold and brown. She stood with one hand on her hip, a stance that had apparently been cultivated to best display the astonishing fullness of her breasts.

“So. It’s true, then,” the newcomer mused in broad Scots. “Alasdair has come hame wi’ a new bride.”

Catherine could think of no immediate response as the girl came slowly into the room—undulated was a more apt description of the way her hips swayed side to side beneath the butternut homespun of her skirt. She smiled,
her tiger eyes sparkling as she scanned the shapeless folds of the wool robe.

“No’ much tae look at, are ye? Just a wee snip o’ a thing. Must be the English weather grows ’em small. Ma name’s Lauren, tae save ye askin’. Lauren Cameron, cousin tae yer husban’ Alasdair. I ken that makes us cousins as well … by marriage.”

“I’m … pleased to meet you,” Catherine murmured hesitantly.

“Mmm.” The girl approached the foot of the bed and seemed amused to see only one side of the bedding rumpled. “Ye spent yer fairst night at Achnacarry alone?”

Catherine lowered her lashes. “I imagine my … Alexander had a great deal to discuss with his brothers.”

Lauren nodded. “Aye, so they must’ve. I ken he kept company wi’ Lochiel till well past midnight, an’ then later, when the coach arrived, he stayed wi’ Archie an’ helped sew up the holes in Aluinn MacKail’s chest. Still an’ all, ye think he might ha’ found time f’ae a wee
visit
. The ghost o’ the auld Dark Cameron could have come an’ snatched ye awa’ durin’ the night.”

“Mr. MacKail … he is still alive, then?”

“O’ course he’s alive. He’s a Cameron, is he no’? The ither side o’ the hedge, so tae speak, but still a Cameron, an’ no’ likely tae give a Campbell the satisfaction o’ killin’ him so easy.” She swayed her hips again and ran her fingers down one of the carved bedposts. “He an’ I might ha’ wed had he stayed in Scotland. Or mayhap Alasdair an’ I. Camerons usually wed their own kind, so they do.”

At long last Catherine felt more familiar ground beneath her, recognizing the green eyes of jealousy when she saw them. And while it shouldn’t have bothered her in the least, knowing she had no claim on Cameron’s affections—knowing she
wanted
no claim—it was
mildly surprising to feel the warm flush of resentment rising in her cheeks.

“Talk last night was all about ye an’ Alasdair,” Lauren continued. “Nary a one thought the
Camshroinaich Dubh
would marry again.” The hooded eyes narrowed slyly. “Ye did know he was married afore, did ye no’?”

If I didn’t, you certainly would have corrected the oversight
. “Yes, I knew. To … Annie MacSorley,” she added, putting Auntie Rose’s slip last night to good use.

“Aye, wee Annie. The fairest, sweetest lass in all o’ Lochaber. Mind, they were only handfasted, but they acted like man an’ wife … if ye ken what I mean.”

“Handfasted?”

“Aye. Spoke their vows wi’ only the stars above an’ the heather aneath them as witness. They would ha’ gone tae the altar proper, but … well … Annie died then, did she no’?”

Catherine picked up a brush and began running it through her hair, fighting to keep her voice cool, her questions casual. “MacSorley? Wasn’t that the name of the tall blond man who rode in with us last night?”

“Aye, Struan MacSorley. Annie’s brither.” The feathery red lashes lifted as she glanced sidelong at Catherine. “Now, there’s a man would never leave his wife’s bed wantin’ f’ae company. Big as a bull, accordin’ tae Mary MacFarlane, an’ able tae ride his woman all the blessed night long.”

The brush came to an abrupt and startled standstill.

“I doubt he’d take a
Sassenach
, though. I doubt any but Alasdair would dare such a thing. Then again, he always was the one tae go against what was expected. It’s the Dark One’s legacy, I warrant. There’s a rumor says one o’ Sir Ewen’s wives carried the taint o’ English bluid in her.”

Drawing on a dozen generations of that same tainted blood, Catherine’s smile was frosted with apathy. “Well, I truly have enjoyed your company, and your quaint
anecdotes, Mistress Cameron, but I mustn’t keep you from your chores any longer. Since you seem so interested in my bed, may I assume you have come to change the linens?”

Lauren’s eyes sparkled with tiny green flecks. “In truth, I might ha’ thought yer own lass would ha’ done it by now … ach, but I forgot. She’s away tendin’ tae someone else’s bed, is she no’?”

“Someone else?”

“Aye. She’s been fawnin’ over MacKail all mornin’ long, fetchin’ this, fetchin’ that, bathin’ his brow … an’ Lord knows what else.”

Catherine’s patience slipped another notch. “Well, I need her here. Where is Mr. MacKail’s room?”

“North court. Ye’ll never find it, but happens I’m goin’ that way, though, an’ I’d be pleased tae tell her ye need yer hands washed an’ yer hair fixed, if ye like.”

“You’re too kind,” Catherine said stiffly.

Lauren paused on her way out the door, her glance traveling back to the tousled bedding. “Mayhap I’ll send someone back f’ae the linens … when they’ve had some use.”

Lauren pulled the door closed behind her with a satisfied bang. The nerve of the bitch, thinking her a laundress or a maid come to change the bedding. Aye, maybe one who was
in
the bedding, if she wasn’t careful.

If nothing else she had satisfied her curiosity as to what the Englishwoman looked like. Lauren did not particularly consider white skin and pale hair especially beautiful, nor did there seem to be much to the
Sassenach
’s figure beneath the woolen robe. Men liked their women full-breasted and wild as the heather that grew on the moors, not thin and vapid and blushing at every other turn of phrase. What on earth had Alasdair seen in her? Could it be he had gone soft living so long on the Continent?

She frowned thoughtfully as she descended the spiraling
stone staircase. He certainly did not look soft. He looked hard and conditioned, his muscles honed to perfection. His conversation with Lochiel last night had been all about war; not once had he mentioned the latest fashions or the newest trends out of Paris. Donald Cameron had been anxious to hear about the political climate in England and Europe, and in turn he had answered Alasdair’s questions about Prince Charles, confirming the royal’s arrival on the west coast of Scotland on July 25, in the tiny inlet of Loch nan Uamn.

Word had reached Achnacarry that a Cameron had been on board, acting as pilot to navigate the ship through the myriad islands off the Hebrides, and Lochiel had thought at first it was Alasdair. But it had turned out to be a distant cousin, Duncan Cameron, and Lochiel’s eyes had turned to the roads and mountain crossings again. He had, in fact, used his concern over Alasdair’s pending arrival as an excuse to politely refuse the Prince’s request for an audience. A second, more petulant summons had arrived that afternoon, and again Lochiel had declined to answer, all too aware that if he did appear at Arisaig, it would seem he supported the idea of rebellion.

Already aware of Lochiel’s moral dilemma and bored by politics in general, Lauren had listened to their voices without really paying heed to the words. Alasdair’s voice, deep and melodic, had flowed down her spine like warm syrup and pooled in her loins so that the slightest movement had caused ripples of tingling pleasure throughout her body.

He had avoided discussing his wife for the longest time—almost as if she hadn’t existed until a few days ago. But when talk had turned to the events of the day and he described the encounter with the Watchmen, including the near success of Gordon Ross Campbell’s plot to lead them into an ambush, Alasdair had given full credit to the
Sassenach
for saving the day.

Now that Lauren had met the woman in person, however, she could plainly see the lie for what it was. Such a pampered, weak-kneed, lily mouse would hardly be capable of lifting a musket, much less swinging it with enough conviction to crack a man’s head open. No doubt Alasdair had been trying to protect his own honor by lending some to hers. Heaven only knew why he had married her. Men took wives for all manner of reasons: money, prestige, power. Since Alasdair had been masquerading as an English peer for so many years, it was only reasonable he should acquire the necessary camouflage, including a pale-skinned wife. But God’s teeth! He was still a Cameron, and his blood surely ran hot. The purple-eyed bitch hardly looked adequate for his needs; like as not, she squealed and clamped her knees together in sheer fright every time he entered the bedchamber.

A man like Alasdair was exactly the kind of man Lauren had been hungering for since her breasts had grown large enough to warrant slack-mouthed stares. The existence of a wife was an annoyance, but nothing she could not overcome, and the mere thought of seeing Alasdair Cameron standing on the threshold of
her
bedchamber sent a warm, moist shiver through her thighs.

So strong was the image and so distracting the sensation it produced, she rounded a corner in the hallway and ran headlong into a clansman coming the other way.

“Whoa there, lassie, where’s the hurry? Have ye a bee up yer kirtle tae put ye in such a rush?”

Lauren smiled and smoothed her skirts as she looked up at the coarsely handsome features of Lochiel’s captain of the guard.