The Pride of Lions Read online

  Alex sighed. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant. What do you want me to say? That nothing has changed? The curse of all exiles is to dream of a homecoming where everything has remained frozen in time, precisely as they remembered it. But it’s been fifteen years. The buildings are older, the people are older. The children are grown, with wives and families of their own; the burial grounds undoubtedly have more cairns than we’d care to see.” He hesitated and crooked his head in the direction of the coach. “And speaking of changes, how are you proposing to explain the presence of Lady Grayston?”

  Alex followed his gaze. The coach had drawn to a halt several yards away, the door was open, and the head and shoulders of Catherine Ashbrooke were emerging into the sunlight. Alex had avoided any unnecessary contact with his “wife” over the past ten days and nights, an arrangement that had been met with icy approval. It was far easier to deal with her cool hostility than it was to try his patience with forced conversation. It was easier, in fact, just to watch her—something he found himself doing far more frequently than was advisable, or so his conscience warned him. But she was a beauty, no denying. Her hair shone in the sunlight like pure gold, her skin glowed with a refreshing radiance foreign to the powdered, painted faces he had been accustomed to seeing in his travels. Her eyes were bright and keen and noticed every little detail of her surroundings despite her feigned indifference. It would have taken a heart colder even than his to be able to ignore her completely.

  Even so, he had been pondering the question of what to do with her ever since they had left Wakefield.

  “I suppose I could always tell them a version of the truth—that she is the sister of a friend who was willing to pose as my wife in order to ensure us a safe passage home.”

  Aluinn looked skeptical. “Lochiel has been anxious to see you married off for years now. Even a hint that the vows were legal, regardless of the circumstances, and he will be converting half the castle into a nursery.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  MacKail pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You could live up to the image she has of you—already well-deserved, I might add—and tell Donald you have brought him a fine English prize to hold for ransom.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Alex asked dryly.

  “It has its moments.”

  “Then I hope you won’t be too disappointed when I tell you I plan to make a brief detour south once we have crossed the Spean.”

  Aluinn sobered instantly. “You’re going to take her to Fort William?”

  “It should not be too difficult to arrange passage for her on a military supply ship, especially since her uncle is a high-ranking officer in the English army.”

  “And I suppose you think you will be able to just walk through the gates, brandish an effete accent, and walk out again?”

  Alexander turned away, squinting against the glare of the sun.

  “I thought we agreed not to take any unnecessary risks,” Aluinn reminded him quietly.

  “You would rather I risk my freedom by taking her all the way to Achnacarry?”

  The attempted humor fell flat as the soft gray eyes darkened with concern. “I would rather you had never thought of this harebrained scheme in the first place.”

  “If it was so harebrained, why didn’t you object more strenuously at the outset?”

  Aluinn sighed. “Because at the time Iain seemed just a little too eager to dig three graves. Have you told her yet?”

  “No. I was planning to brighten her day now.”

  Aluinn looked down and stubbed at a mound of dirt with his toe. “You know … you could do a lot worse for yourself.” He paused and grinned slyly. “And the castle does have a lot of spare room.”

  Before Alex could answer, MacKail was wisely out of range, already on his way back to the coach. He was still chuckling softly under his breath as he passed by Catherine and Deirdre, both of whom treated him to such a cold stare, he looked down to see if he had trod in something unpleasant.

  Catherine looked away disdainfully and followed Deirdre into the shade of a tree. She had found the past ten days to be an excruciating test of endurance. While it was true the three fugitives had been remarkably well-mannered, she could not help but feel it was only a matter of time before their true bestial natures emerged again. Despite her own outwardly good behavior, the promise extracted by the Scottish renegade rankled and abraded her senses at every turn. At each stop they made—each inn, each village, each lowly cow shed they paused at to beg a cup of water—she yearned to scream for help at the top of her lungs. Each time they were stopped and questioned by the militia she grew faint with desperation, hoping against hope they could see the cold steel of the pistol concealed beneath Cameron’s jacket and interpret the silent plea in her eyes. Each time she caught a glimpse of scarlet her heart raced and her blood pounded, for she knew it must be Hamilton Garner come to rescue her.

  She was thinking about Hamilton as she turned to study her nemesis, about the pleasure she would have watching him slash Cameron’s face to ribbons. He stood on the knoll, his big body outlined against the stark blue of the sky. He was hatless, and the metallic black waves of his hair were gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, leaving only a few errant curls to brush forward over his brow and temples. He wore a chocolate-brown jacket and buff breeches, the latter indecently tight where the cloth was stretched to fit the muscles of his thighs. His shirt was snowy white linen, his waistcoat was cream-colored satin embroidered with bright sprigs of green-and-gold leaves.

  It was no wonder men and women alike were duped into believing he was someone he was not. He gave the appearance of refinement and elegance, and he certainly spoke with more authority than one would credit a Highland sheep farmer. The faint lilt in his voice was easily mistaken for a Continental accent, and his mannerisms supported the fact that he had been educated in Europe. He was obviously accustomed to expensive clothes and a luxurious lifestyle; what could possibly be inspiring him to trade the comfortable vicissitudes of Raefer Montgomery for a damp stone cottage and sheepskin cloaks?

  He certainly had not given the impression he was a fanatical Jacobite, so she suspected it was not politics bringing him home. Money? Were spies well paid? And with regard to money—there was a reward often thousand crowns on his head, the fortune of ten lifetimes to most of the Highland rabble they had encountered thus far, some of whom had stared at him as if he were the devil reincarnate. Was he not afraid someone might recognize him without her assistance and alert the local constabulary?

  With a small start she realized the dark eyes were upon her. He was frowning slightly, no doubt curious to know why he was earning such a prolonged scrutiny.

  Catherine lowered her lashes quickly, but not soon enough to discourage him from joining her in the shade.

  “A lovely afternoon,” he commented casually. “Perfect for a bit of a stroll. The hill we are coming to is rather steep, and the road does not appear to be in the best condition to accept the coach. It would probably be safer to have Iain drive it down ahead and we will join him at the bottom.”

  “As you like,” she said primly and picked at the lace ruff on her sleeve. When he did not move away at once, she felt annoyingly obliged to look up. “Is it permitted for me to ask where we are?”

  “We have been in MacDonald territory since noon yesterday.”

  “That does not tell me a great deal.”

  “I had no idea you were interested in geography.”

  She mimicked his gently mocking smile. “I am merely curious to gain some bearings. Other than being vaguely aware of crossing the border from England three days ago, I have not seen anything that could possibly be construed as a landmark since.”

  Her tone was so accusing and the implication so blatant, he kept his intent to tell her about Fort William on his tongue and arched an eyebrow instead. “You aren’t impressed by our mountains?”

  “I
have seen mountains before.”

  “No doubt you have seen fine English hills,” he agreed and startled her again by reaching his hand out in an invitation. When she quickly clasped her own behind her back, his grin broadened, allowing the barest glimpse of the dimple she had marked once before. “You wanted to see a landmark, didn’t you? I am merely offering to present you a better view.”

  Catherine followed his glance to the top of the knoll. It looked harmless enough, and with a sigh she ignored his extended hand and walked up the shallow incline. As she climbed it the crust of the bluish mountains that dominated the skyline seemed to move farther away, as if sliding independently from the ground she walked on. The mountains themselves grew and expanded until they spread to dominate the entire horizon, whereas the top of the knoll simply ended in a void of space and cool air, a ledge of rock marking the rim of a cliff that fell several hundred feet straight down. Cameron was a pace behind, and as she reached the top of the hill he moved up alongside her. This time she offered no objections to the hand he slipped under her elbow, steadying her against the lure of the sheer precipice that dropped off a mere few feet from where they stood.

  At its base sprawled a valley, so far below them that the road was reduced to a thin ribbon rippling across the green-carpeted floor. Sweeping up on either side, the walls of the two closest mountains were split and broken by fissures piled randomly with rocks, and even though it was a bright, crisp day, the battlements were hazed and gloomy, as if there were places where even the sun was denied entry.

  Loath as she was to admit it, there had been other vistas like this that had quite taken her breath away. Sweeping russet meadows; winding silver slashes of rivers and streams; the steep and craggy peaks that lost their summits in the shrouds of opaque mists before falling black and sheer into the inky waters of a loch. There was beauty in the iridescent green of the thunder-clouds that gathered at night, and there was brutality in the peaceful majesty of the glens. Only yesterday they had traveled through a valley so still and tranquil it might have been painted on canvas. It was called Glencoe, MacKail had told her, home of the MacDonalds and scene of one of the most treacherous massacres in Scotland’s history. Beauty and ugliness, prosperity and awesome desolation; the mood of the land was as changing and enigmatic as that of the man who stood by her side.

  Catherine turned her head and leaned slightly forward, the better to identify the muted rushing sound to the left of the knoll. She saw a thin, whisper-sheer cascade of water tumbling over the broken lip of the precipice, spraying a transparent, rainbow-hued mist onto the rocks below.

  “It is beautiful,” she admitted.

  “Beautiful, indeed,” he agreed softly.

  Something in his voice suggested his comment was not directed entirely to the view, and as she settled slowly back she became disturbingly aware that his hand no longer cradled her elbow but was curved firmly around the indent of her waist.

  She had not realized she had moved closer to his side or that she had insinuated herself into the protective circle of his arm, but Cameron was very much aware of both indiscretions. The sunlight was playing with the breeze-blown wisps of her hair, scattering them like threads of spun silk against the dark brown of his jacket. Her violet eyes had absorbed the color of the sky and shimmered with flecks of vibrant blue. She smelled of wildflowers, dewy and fresh, and the effect was intoxicating. It reacted on his senses like a deep drink of sweet wine.

  The sudden, awkward silence sent a shiver racing over the surface of her skin, and she extricated herself from his embrace with what she hoped was a subtle step sideways.

  “Are we anywhere near this Archberry you keep talking about?”

  “Achnacarry. About half a day’s hard ride, perhaps a little more.”

  “Half a day,” she repeated wistfully. “And then you will be sending me home?”

  The longing in her voice irritated him, and he glanced at the mountain on the left. Fort William was just on the other side, with its fine harbor and stout military ships. “As soon as I think it is safe, yes.”

  “Safe? I fail to see where I could be any further threat to you or your furtive little mission. We are safely across the border. The farmers we have seen haven’t spoken enough intelligible English for me to betray you even if I tried—which I haven’t.”

  “You have been very well-behaved,” he agreed.

  “I have done exactly what you asked of me. I have cooperated and been civil to the point of nausea each time we were stopped by strangers. Frankly, I don’t know what else you want from me, and I think it is vile and unconscionable to keep tormenting me this way.”

  “What way is that, Mistress Ashbrooke? Have we not stayed in the finest inns, with the hottest baths and the tastiest foods?”

  “Food and hot water do not compensate for boorish company.”

  “Boorish?” Alex cast a frown over his shoulder, assessing the rich black and gold livery worn by Aluinn and Iain, the polished gleam to the carriage, the curried smartness of the new team of horses.

  “Your cousin,” she said succinctly. “He stares at me constantly. Glowers at me, actually, as if he would dearly like to do me harm.”

  “You did club him rather soundly over the head,” he reminded her. “As for him staring, you are a very lovely woman. I would be more concerned if he didn’t stare.”

  Catherine’s cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment. “He has threatened me. I’ve heard him.”

  “You understand Gaelic?”

  “I know when a man is threatening me. And I can guess what manner of threat he is promising. Why, he tried to accost me once, in the stables, and if not for the good stout pike providence saw fit to provide, I might well have been …”

  He smiled politely and searched out a cigar from his pocket. “Yes? You might have been …?”

  “… violated,” she concluded lamely, remembering how close she had come to suffering that very fate at the hands of Alexander Cameron.

  He watched the color deepen in her cheeks—all the while wondering if the rest of her body flushed such a gloriously warm shade—then cleared his throat and pointed to where Deirdre had set out a blanket for lunch. “You should have something to eat before we make the walk down into the valley.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “You hardly ate anything for breakfast.” He blew out a gust of smoke and snuffed the match beneath his boot as he hooked a hand under her elbow again. “I would sooner not have to deal with a woman fainting on me from starvation, thank you very much.”

  “I have no intentions of fainting,” she said, resisting his attempt to guide her back down the slope. “I have never fainted before in my life, for that matter. And do let me go. I am not a child to be led about by a string.”

  “Believe me, I realized at Wakefield you were not a child, but I do wish you would stop acting like one.”

  Catherine was so shocked by the blatant reference to what had happened at the inn that she allowed herself to be led to the picnic blanket and to be seated on a conveniently low, flat rock. Deirdre hurried over with the last of the provisions—a wicker basket and cutlery—but at a glance from Cameron, she deposited them on the blanket and returned to the coach.

  The Highlander, meanwhile, stripped off his jacket, folded it carefully, and set it beside him on the grass.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Eating lunch,” he said. “I suddenly find myself with quite an appetite. Will you serve, or shall I?”

  She considered elaborating on precisely where he could put the greasy leg of mutton that poked out of its wrapper, but instead snapped open a linen napkin, selected the cleanest knife from the small tray, and transferred a thin slice of meat and some cheese to her plate. Without a thought to Cameron or his empty plate, she broke off a piece of cheese and began to eat.

  He grinned hugely, the cigar clamped between his teeth. “Why, Mistress Ashbrooke, how uncivil of you. And all this time you have
been condemning me for my bad manners.”

  She threw the piece of cheese aside and glared directly into the laughing midnight eyes. Bristling at his arrogance, she reached into the basket, stabbed grimly at two slabs of meat, and thrust the plate in front of him.

  “Thank you.”

  Seething, she watched as he propped his cigar on the grass and tasted the mutton.

  “Delicious. You should try it.”

  “I find it difficult to breathe, let alone enjoy the taste of food with the air tainted so. Dare I ask what is rolled into those miserably foul things you smoke?”

  “Foul? Never let a Virginia colonist hear you say that.” He took a long, last draw on the cigar and stubbed it out in the grass. “Better?”

  “It would suit me better if we could drop this ridiculous charade once and for all. You have kidnapped me, compromised me, ruined my reputation almost beyond repair, yet you expect me to sit and share a cordial meal. You expect me to answer all of your wretched questions the instant you ask them, yet you haven’t the decency to give an honest reply to anything I have asked thus far.”

  He lounged back on one elbow, enjoying the way the sunlight was exploding in tiny sparks in her eyes. “Very well, ask away. I will answer anything you like—providing I am accorded equal time and liberty.”

  Catherine tapped her fingertips on the stem of her fork, wary of a verbal trap. “Did you really murder someone? Is there really a reward posted for your capture?”

  If he was surprised or caught off guard by the bluntness of the question, it did not show. “Why? Were you hoping to turn me over to the authorities and collect it?”

  “There, you see?” She threw down the fork in exasperation. “You always answer a question with another question.”

  “Do I?” He made an effort to contain a smile. “I suppose I do. Sorry. Force of habit, I guess.” His eyes wandered from hers for a moment, distracted by a movement from the coach. “What was it you asked? Ah, yes: Did I really murder a man? The direct answer would be yes, I killed two men fifteen years ago, but I do not believe I murdered either one of them. And to be perfectly honest there have been a great many more over the years that haven’t earned half so much attention, though they could be considered a more criminal waste.”