The Pride of Lions Read online

  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.

  “Why, Struan MacSorley, kiss me stupid if ye werena in ma thoughts not five minutes gone by.”

  “I’ll kiss ye daft ten ways tae Sunday,” he said, grinning as his gaze dipped appreciatively to the deep cleft between her breasts. “Ye just tell me where an’ when.”

  “I can think o’ at least one place ye could put yer lips tae good use,” she teased, stepping closer and pillowing her breasts against his broad chest. Her hand pressed boldly over his thigh and she felt the immediate response stirring lustily against her belly. “Mind, I wouldna want tae be the cause o’ breakin’ Mary MacFarlane’s heart. It is her bed ye warm at night, is it no’?”

  “I’ve nae claim on Mary,” he said thickly. “An’ she’s nae claim on me.”

  “What o’ the bairn y
e’ve put in her belly?”

  “It were put there long afore I ever spread ma kilt aneath her.” MacSorley’s big hands went around Lauren’s waist to pull her closer. “But if ye’re envious o’ her condition, I’d be only too happy tae oblige.”

  “Envious o’ a hedge-born brat?” She squirmed half-heartedly to break loose. “Thank ye, but no. I’ve better things planned f’ae ma future.”

  MacSorley took a last lingering look down the front of her bodice before he released her. “If ye grow weary o’ the party tonight,” he said huskily, “ye ken which room is mine?”

  “Aye. The one with the well-worn path tae the door.”

  “Makes it easier tae find in the dark,” he agreed blithely. “Just dinna go knockin’ if ye find the latch bolted. Unless ye fancy sharin’ a romp f’ae three, that is.”

  “I never share,” she purred, dragging her hand across the bulge in his loins. “An’ I’ve never met the man who’d want tae share once I’ve taken him in hand.”

  With a flash of her amber eyes Lauren brushed past him and continued along the gallery. She could feel him watching her all the way to the far end of the hall, and the knowledge of the condition she had left him in fixed a contemptuous smile firmly on her face. He was handsome and virile and eager to take her in hand, but he was after all just a bodyguard, and a liaison with Struan MacSorley would get her exactly nowhere at all.

  She hated this place. Hated Achnacarry with its oppressive stone walls and mountainous isolation. There was another world out there waiting for her, a world infinitely more suited to her talents and desires. She craved a life of gaiety and bright lights, of exquisite gowns and handsome lovers only too eager to part with their gold and favors.

  Orphaned when she was twelve years old, Lauren had been sent to Achnacarry—banished, as she thought of it—to the care of her great-aunt Rose Cameron. Born and raised in Edinburgh, the sudden seclusion had been almost as great a shock to the young girl as her appearance had been to the sedate and orderly Cameron household. Anticipating a shy and refined lass barely out of bibs and aprons, they had been surprised to greet, instead, a developing beauty with a mind and will of her own. Moreover, coming from a distant branch of the family, they were ignorant of the fact that her father had been hanged for a thief and her mother had owned and run one of the most successful brothels in the city. A Cameron was a Cameron, they decreed, regardless of her sly disposition and despite the jealous, bloody fights she provoked almost weekly.

  A thin, malicious smile drew out the corners of her mouth as she thought of what fools men were. How truly weak they were in spite of all the brawn and bluster. A few scant inches of moist pink flesh could undermine the best of them, could reduce the most fearsome warrior to a quivering mass of witlessness. In the beginning such power had intrigued and stimulated her. The bolder the conquest, the higher her aspirations and, coincidentally, the greater her own pleasure. She had been even quicker to realize the material benefits of a lusty romp in the haystack, and many an unknowing wife went missing coins and trinkets and precious family heirlooms.

  Her nest egg had become quite impressive and would have been more so had a young clansman named MacGregor not fallen prey to his passions while aiding her in an ill-conceived attempt to run away two years ago. When they were caught, not only was his kilt loose and his body rigorously demanding its reward for his romantic ardor, but his saddle was weighed down with the rings, bracelets, gold and silver coins she had extracted from Lochiel’s family chest. She had been left with no recourse but to smash a rock against the side of his head and scream for deliverance. Her performance had been flawless and convincing. Her aim had been faultless as well, for the lad never did regain his full senses, and tempers had been roused to such a peak that no one troubled to delay the hanging long enough to hear his defense.

  Unfortunately, the nest egg of her own painstakingly gathered coins could not be separated from the pouch of looted goods before it was returned to Lochiel, who in turn blithely locked it away in his strongbox again. There were some who suspected Lauren was not entirely innocent in the theft and alleged kidnapping, some who even encouraged Lochiel to marry her off to some thick-necked Highlander who would then take responsibility for her actions, thereby sealing her fate forever.

  For that reason she had become the model of good behavior and constraint, resisting on more than one occasion the blistering temptation to visit Struan MacSorley’s room. The lusty blond giant’s prowess was near legendary, and she had spent many a restless night wondering how it would feel to have all that brute strength inside her, on top of her, beneath her. But he was not the type of man to keep an affair secret, nor was he the type to dally carelessly with his laird’s niece without feeling duty-bound to make an honest woman of her. Lochiel would be only too happy to see his old friend wed again; Struan had been without a wife for nearly three years now.

  The dilemma vanished when the first rumors of Alexander Cameron’s homecoming began to spread.

  She had, naturally, heard all the stories centering around the black-haired, black-eyed renegade known as the Camshroinaich Dubh. She had stood for hours in front of the portrait of Sir Ewen Cameron and knew without a doubt that the grandson was exactly the type of man who would suit her needs perfectly. He was a soldier of fortune, a man who had spent half his lifetime in cities like Paris, Rome, Madrid.… He had even been to the colonies, for heaven’s sake! He would not be content to ramble about the decaying walls of a medieval castle. Bored with the peace and tranquillity, he would soon be lured back to the adventure beyond the borders of Scotland, and when he left this miserable formation of rock and mortar, surely he would have no qualms about taking someone along who shared his hunger for excitement.

  In the days and hours prior to his arrival, when the tension had been palpable, Lauren had paced the battlements as often as the guards searching for some sign of activity on the road. Scores of clansmen had been sent out to scour the countryside, and she spent every spare moment ingratiating herself with the Cameron women, running errands, coddling their loathsome brats, sitting through hour after hour of trite conversation, advice, lectures …

  And then the wait was over. A clansman had galloped into the courtyard shouting the news at the top of his lungs. The Camshroinaich Dubh was less than five miles away! He would be at Achnacarry within the hour!

  There had been no mention of a wife. The entire family had been stunned to learn not only of her existence, but of her nationality. Alexander Cameron, a man who had almost single-handedly started a war between the Hanoverian Campbells and dozens of enraged and sympathetic Jacobite clans, had come home with a pinch-lipped, stiff-backed Sassenach who reeked of Georgian decadence. Her presence at Achnacarry was an insult, a slap in the face to every clansman old enough to remember the arrogance of the English victors after the ’15. It was bad enough having to bear the thought of their chief married to a Campbell, but at least Maura was a Scot and a Highlander.

  No, this was an insult that could not simply be shrugged away. Besides which, Lauren had her mind set on Alexander Cameron being her means of escape from this place, and by God, he would provide it one way or another. The fact that a man she wanted was married had never been an obstacle before; it certainly would not be one now.

  14

  “Sweet merciful heavens, where have you been?” Catherine paced back from the window embrasure as Deirdre came through the doorway. “And how dare you leave me to fend for myself while you chase after that … that criminal.”

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” Deirdre said contritely. “But I did check on you several times, only to find you were still asleep. And Mr. MacKail is so dreadfully weak. I … I cannot help but feel responsible for him somehow.”

  “Responsible? What utter nonsense! You didn’t get him shot.” In a bristling temper Catherine paced to the window again and glared back at the girl, but Deirdre looked so worn and weary herself that the anger turned swiftly to concern. “You haven’t s
lept a wink all night, have you?”

  The dark brown eyes remained downcast. “I … think I did, mistress. Here and there.”

  Catherine chewed on her lip. “Well? How is he?”

  “The doctor had to cauterize the wound to stop it bleeding. He hasn’t wakened but the once, in the middle of it all when it would have been far better for him to have remained unconscious. It took both Mr. Cameron and myself to hold him still so the doctor could finish. I hope to never have to see a sight like that again, mistress. Never.”

  “Will he live?”

  Deirdre looked up. “I don’t know, mistress. The doctor said he is young enough and strong enough to see it through, but …”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I have come to the conclusion these Highland rogues are too mean to die. They will all live forever, if only to see us perish from sheer frustration first.”

  Deirdre smiled faintly, and seeing the wild blonde tangle of her charge’s hair, she pointed to the scuffed portmanteau she had left by the armoire. “I managed to save some things from your baggage before it was taken off the coach. Your hairbrushes, your combs, some bath salts …”

  “Bath salts? Oh, Deirdre, you are a marvel. I swear the soap they gave me last night was vile enough to scrub pots. I would die for a real bath with real soap and real perfumes. I fear I will never get the smell of blood and dirt off my skin—not that anyone cares, of course. Once again it seems we have been shoved into a corner and forgotten.”

  “I saw Mr. Cameron this morning,” Deirdre said as she fetched the portmanteau. “He did say he came by your room to speak with you, but—”

  “He was here? In this room?”

  “He asked—and very nicely too, I might add—if we had everything we needed.”

  “He did, did he? A guilty conscience speaking, no doubt. If not for Lady Cameron he likely would have left me sitting out in the courtyard all night long, although … I warrant if I had wild red hair and breasts spilling out of my bodice he would have remembered me.”