The Pride of Lions Read online

  ALEXANDER CAMERON WAS PASSION, RAW AND PRIMITIVE, AND SHE KNEW SHE WOULD BE LOST THE INSTANT HIS FLESH TOUCHED HERS AGAIN

  But he did not touch her again. He lowered his hands by his sides and took a precisely measured step back.

  “You will oblige me by dressing for dinner. You will accompany me to the party later this evening and you will be on your very best behavior or so help me God … I shall assume you have no further desire to see your England or your precious Lieutenant Garner ever again.”

  With the tears still bright along her lashes, Catherine tilted her head defiantly upward. “At the cost of your own soul, Mr. Cameron?”

  “I have no soul, madam. It died in my arms fifteen years ago.”

  She took a deep, shaky breath. “You are indeed a loathsome creature. You have no scruples, no morals, no faith, no conscience … not one single redeeming quality that should permit you to walk upright on two legs.”

  Alex stared a moment, then offered a sweeping bow. “A man always appreciates knowing where he stands in a woman’s estimation.”

  “You stand, sir, with one foot on the road to hell, and I do not envy anyone who chooses to stand alongside you.”

  HIGH PRAISE FOR MARSHA CANHAM, WINNER OF THE ROMANTIC TIMES LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD, AND HER PREVIOUS NOVELS

  THE LAST ARROW

  “ROUSING ACTION, A STRONG SENSE OF MEDIEVAL LIFE, A SATISFYING LOVE STORY and intriguing spins on historical events as well as the familiar Robin Hood characters should bring readers back for more.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “FABULOUS … Her version of the legendary Prince of Thieves and his Merry Men is as unique as her writing. Those who have already read the two preceding tales will love this book … Ms. Canham’s skill at recreating legend is unparalleled.”

  —Romantic Times

  ACROSS A MOONLIT SEA

  “CANHAM AT HER BEST … No one tells a swashbuckling tale like she does. The pages snap with witty dialogue and rich, detailed description.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “[A] RIP-ROARING HIGH-SEAS ADVENTURE … Marsha Canham ensures herself a place as queen of romantic adventure.”

  —Romantic Times

  STRAIGHT FOR THE HEART

  “CANHAM DEALS OUT PLENTY OF SURPRISING TWISTS.”

  —Booklist

  “STRAIGHT FOR THE HEART GOES STRAIGHT TO THE READER’S HEART with its winning combination of an absorbing romance and fascinating characters. Marsha Canham has another winner with this dazzling novel that readers will savor.”

  —Romantic Times

  IN THE SHADOW OF MIDNIGHT

  “DEFINITELY ONE OF THE BEST NOVELS OF THE YEAR … Marsha Canham has written a fast-paced, action-packed medieval romance.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “DRAMATIC AND SENSUOUS … MARVELOUS … OUTSTANDING … A tale of grand proportions … Top-notch from start to finish!”

  —Rendezvous

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  Copyright © 1988 by Marsha Canham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56810-6

  Reprinted in arrangement with the author

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Derby July 1745 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Lochaber August 1745 Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  DERBY

  July 1745

  1

  Catherine reined in her horse at the top of the forested knoll and waited, her eyes sparkling, her heart pounding within her breast. She could detect no signs of pursuit through the deeply wooded grove, but to be doubly sure she urged her roan down into a hollow and cantered behind a dense copse of fir trees. Sitting there, panting to catch her breath—her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement—she took time to appreciate the irony of the brisk morning hunt, where the fox only appeared to be the quarry.

  Laughing, she dismissed the feeble efforts of the two-legged bloodhounds who had tried to follow her into woods she knew as well as the back of her hand, and with a smug twinkle in her violet-blue eyes, she leaned forward to praise her roan.

  “Well done, my beauty; we seem to have outrun them. I should think this calls for a reward.”

  She glanced around to get her bearings and recalled an isolated glade a few hundred yards ahead, cut by a stream that ran cold and clear and tasted faintly of soft green moss and rich black earth.

  “We could both use a cool drink, could we not? Let the hounds and hunters wander in circles as they may.”

  Catherine earned a soft nicker in response and guided her roan toward the deeper woods. In the distance she could hear the faint braying of the dogs and the eerie, hollow echo of the trumpet calling the riders back into formation. She ignored the sound, even preferring after a while to slip out of the saddle and walk alongside her horse, her attention divided equally between the tangle of new saplings that caught at her skirts and the secretive whispers of the breeze chasing through the silver-backed leaves overhead. She was happy to be home in Derby. The tranquillity of the country was a shocking change from the endless rounds of balls, masquerades, and cotillions, but after three months of dancing until dawn and sleeping through to the afternoon, she had actually begun to look forward to the end of the London season.

  Here in the lush, blue-green countryside that surrounded Rosewood Hall, the days were long and lazy, the nights painted with starlight, fragrant with the perfume of roses and honeysuckle. She could unfasten the cameo brooch that held the collar of her white silk blouse tight to her throat—as she did now—without fear of creating a scandal. She could strip off her gloves, loosen the buttons of her blue velvet riding habit, even free the pearl closures of the fitted satin waistcoat and scratch deliciously at the tight bindings of her whalebone stays.

  Since she was alone and had every intention of remaining so for the time being, she removed her tall, veiled hat and tugged at the wide ivory combs that kept her hair in a restrictive knot at the nape of her neck. She shook the thick golden cascade free and ran her fingers through the curls as she walked, the temporary distraction causing her to veer into a low snarl of brambles. The hem of her skirt snagged on a thorn, dragging her back, and it was while she was leaning over to release it that she felt an unaccountable prickle of alarm scratch down her spine.

  Her first thought was that she had been found out, and she whirled around, fully expecting to see the grinning face of a scarlet-coated hunter. Only the trees, however, green and sparkling in the filtered sunlight, met her startled gaze, and as she waited for her heart to settle back into her chest,
she acknowledged the birds bickering in the branches above and the squirrels rustling through the dense undergrowth that surrounded her. She smiled inwardly, even imagining she could hear the crackling voice of her old governess scolding her. You should never go out walking alone, young missy. It is a sure invitation to trouble. The woods are full of gap-toothed boar hunters who’d as soon ruin an innocent babe as stop to ask the time of day.

  Catherine’s smile was a little sad as she continued walking, for Miss Phoebe had died of the fever two summers ago. As stern and as uncompromising as she had been, at least the governess had genuinely cared for her charge. The same could hardly be said of Catherine’s mother, Lady Caroline Ashbrooke, or of her father, Sir Alfred, a recently elected Member of Parliament who rarely spared more than a quick, passing thought for anyone in his family, let alone a daughter who seemed determined to challenge him into early gray hairs. In truth, Catherine had only her brother, Damien, to turn to for advice or comfort, and even he was distancing himself more and more these days. He had established a law practice in London and seldom found time to commute to Derby. He was here now, for a few too-brief days, but only because it was her birthday and she had all but threatened him at gunpoint to be here.

  It wasn’t every day a girl turned eighteen, nor was it every girl who could boast of receiving six proposals of marriage in the past twenty-four months—so many, in fact, that the faces of the petitioners had begun to run together. She hadn’t had the heart to tell them their efforts had all been in vain. She had already made her choice, and that choice was garrisoned right here in Derby.

  Lieutenant Hamilton Garner was tall and heartbreakingly handsome. He had the lean, sinewy body of a fencer and, indeed, was Master of the Sword for his regiment of the King’s Royal Dragoons. He was twenty-eight, the son of a London banker, and from the moment Catherine had first set eyes upon him, she had known he was the man worthy of her affections. The fact that he never lacked for beautiful and willing companions did not discourage her, nor did the reputation he had brought back with him from the Continent. The rumors of his quick temper, of his dueling escapades, and his many scandalous affairs only made the challenge of bringing him to heel all the more intriguing as far as Catherine was concerned. His very nature dictated that he seek the most popular, most sought-after heiress in Derby for his own, just as her nature demanded a conquest of equally momentous proportions. And because he had spent the past three months practicing drills and formations on cow pastures while she had been at the heart of the whirlwind in London … well, he would undoubtedly be champing at the bit to stake his claim.

  To that end Catherine had made grand plans for the stroke of midnight. Thoughts of them made her skin tingle and her pulse race, and her footsteps turned swift and light as she rounded a thatch of tall junipers. There she stopped so suddenly that her skirt and petticoats creamed against her ankles like the backwash of a ship.

  The glade she sought was directly ahead of her, wide and slightly misted from the small pool at its center. The sunbeams, bolder and broader here, exaggerated the brilliant greens of the leaves and ferns, silvered the surface of the water, and immodestly flared around the naked torso of a man kneeling in the lush, thick moss that grew along the embankment.

  Jolted by the unexpected sight, Catherine stood absolutely still. His back was to her and she could see the muscles rippling with the motion of his hands as they splashed water on his face. She had no idea who he was—a poacher? He did not have the ragged, hungry look of a thief about him; his breeches were clean and well-tailored to his long, powerful legs. His boots were fashioned from expensive leather and polished to a mirror gloss. A shirt and coat lay nearby on the moss, the shirt of fine white linen, the jacket of rich, claret-colored wool.

  Black hair curled wetly down his neck, dripping on shoulders that were broad and gleamed like newly sculpted bronze. As Catherine watched, he raked his hands through his hair to remove a bright shower of excess droplets and leaned back on his heels with a long, refreshed sigh.

  The question of why he had stopped was apparent; the question of how he had come to be there was quickly answered by a shrill whinny from the opposite side of the pool. An immense black stallion stood there, his ears pricked warily upright, his nostrils flaring taut as he caught the scent of the mare. Catherine had not seen the beast at first because of the hazed streamers of sunlight, but the animal had obviously seen her. And the man, hearing the snorted alarm from his horse, pivoted swiftly, his hand a blur of motion as it stretched out toward the pistol that lay hidden beneath the folds of his jacket. The sight of the gun and the speed with which he whirled, cocked, and aimed it startled a cry from Catherine’s lips. She dropped the hat and gloves she was carrying and sent her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

  For a moment the two stared at each other without further sound or movement. His eyes commanded most of her attention; they were as black as the ebony mane of his hair, as dangerous as the barrel of the pistol he pointed unwaveringly at her breast. He blinked once, as if to confirm what he was seeing, then quickly lowered the gun.

  “Has no one ever warned you against sneaking up on a man when his back is turned?” His voice was harsh with anger, startling enough to cause a similar sharpness in her own.

  “Has no one told you, sir, that it is singularly unhealthy to trespass on private property?”

  He blinked again and some of the wild, savage look went out of his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is private property,” she repeated tersely. “And you are trespassing. If I were a gamekeeper, or if I were armed, I would have been well within my right to shoot you out of hand.”

  “Then I should count myself lucky that you are neither.” The dark eyes narrowed. “May I ask what you are doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “You may not. What you may do is gather your belongings and leave here at once. This land belongs to Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, a man who does not take kindly to trespassers … or poachers.”

  The stranger studied her a moment longer, then slowly stood up, straightening to an impressive height of well over six feet.

  “It has been a long time since anyone has accused me of poaching,”—he smiled faintly,—“and lived.”

  Catherine’s temper flared. Her skin was still reacting to the boldness of his stare, but she had no hesitation in responding to his insolent humor. “There are forty men riding within the sound of my voice. A single scream and—”

  “At least you have sense enough to be frightened,” he interrupted, his grin broadening. “I think you should have listened to your nanny years ago when she warned you against walking alone in the forest.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “How did you know—”

  “Doesn’t every abigail worth her vinegar warn her charge against the perils of venturing off on her own?” He leaned over to pluck his shirt off the ground. “In your case, you should consider yourself lucky you didn’t run across someone who possessed fewer scruples and had more time on his hands. Someone who might not be deterred by a sharp tongue and an equally sharp disposition.”

  “Someone with fewer scruples? You flatter yourself, sir. And what do you mean by a sharp disposition? My disposition is perfectly fine.”

  The calm, unnerving stare pinioned her again, holding her without evasion, long enough for a flush to spread down her throat. His gaze followed, lingering on the parted edges of her collar before descending to where the fabric molded attractively over her breasts. As if that was not audacious enough, he showed his teeth again in another wolfish grin.

  “My first guess tells me you might be related in some way to this Sir Alfred Ashbrooke?”

  “I am his daughter,” she admitted with a small lift to her chin. “What of it?”

  “His daughter.” The rogue’s voice purred around the word, and Catherine was aware of him taking several slow, measured steps closer. Neither her feet nor her pride would respond to an inner command to turn and run, but her
horse sensed her sudden nervousness and snorted a warning. This, in turn, instantly challenged the enormous black stallion into thundering several paces across the clearing.

  “Shadow! Stand!”

  The stranger did not take his eyes away from Catherine’s face, but she was shocked enough to look past his shoulder and see the huge stallion skid to an immediate halt. It stood, sable head held erect, eyes smoldering like coals, and flanks trembling with the desire to attack. Her astonishment was complete when she realized the diversion had allowed the man to close to within arm’s reach; further, he was going so far as to extend a hand toward the velvet-soft muzzle of her roan.

  “She’ll tear your fingers off,” Catherine cautioned.

  The hand hesitated, but only fractionally before continuing toward the long, tapered nose. The mare’s nostrils quivered and her eyes widened with hostility, yet she made no overt move to avoid the stroking fingers. The stranger had donned his shirt, but it hung carelessly open, and Catherine, caught between him and her horse, had nowhere to look but at the immense wall of his chest, at the cloud of dark curling hairs that did little to soften the hard planes and contours of the muscles beneath. She lifted her eyes slowly, settling first on the lean, square jaw and wide, sensual mouth. His voice was deep and cultured, betraying more education than his manners supported. Up close, his eyes still appeared to be obsidian, but a stray shaft of light revealed midnight blue depths that hinted at dark secrets and dangerous passions. Arched above were eyebrows the same ebony black as his hair, one of them slashed through with a thin white scar—a dueling scar?—to give his arrogant features an added saturnine twist.

  His arm accidentally brushed against her shoulder as he stroked the roan, and Catherine flinched as if touched by fire.

  “Excuse me,” she said tartly, “but this is my horse. It is, in effect, my clearing as well, so if you don’t mind I would prefer that you leave here at once.”

  Amused, he raised an eyebrow. “And if I said I preferred to stay?”