The Pride of Lions Page 9

  “She won’t be a problem after tomorrow,” Montgomery was saying as he moved away from the door and stood directly in Catherine’s line of sight.

  The philosopher leaned into the light and inspected the fresh cut on Montgomery’s temple. “Her husband give you that?”

  “It was … a slight miscalculation on my part. Nothing to worry about. We should be more concerned about the rumors we heard in London. They were true. The colonel tells me several regiments are making preparations to move north; they expect to have their orders by the end of the month.”

  “So they suspect something?”

  Montgomery nodded grimly. “They know our friend is not in Normandy anymore, and they don’t believe for a minute he has gone back to Rome. Some are even convinced he has already crossed the Channel with an army.”

  “The colonel told you this?”

  Montgomery removed his tricorn and tossed it on the bed along with his greatcoat. “It was a risk, meeting up with him in Derby, but the reports he passed on were too important to trust to regular couriers. He’s concerned—with good reason—that the English army knows too damned much about our business. Too damned much for the information to be coming from their people alone.”

  “Information goes both ways,” the philosopher said quietly.

  “Aye, an’ the colonel’s no’ one tae talk, bein’ Sassenach himsel’,” the younger man noted.

  Catherine lifted her eye from the peephole, momentarily taken aback at the sound of the broad Scots accent and the vilification placed on the word Sassenach—a vulgarism used by the Celts to denote anyone of English birth.

  “Is something wrong, Mistress?” Deirdre asked in a whisper.

  “Shhh. I … don’t know.” She leaned forward again, pressing her ear instead of her eye to the crack in the wall.

  “… much longer can you expect to use the name Montgomery?”

  “As long as it remains useful, although I was beginning to grow rather fond of it. For that matter, I must confess I was beginning to grow fond of everything to do with Raefer Montgomery’s lifestyle.”

  “Then it’s long past time ye came home, cousin. Yer brithers need ye, yer clan needs ye, an’ if that’s no’ reason enough, happens we should be smugglin’ yer father, Old Lochiel, back tae Scotland, no’ you.”

  “Perhaps you should be, Iain,” Montgomery agreed. “And for your troubles he would have been the first man the English arrested and hanged without the benefit of a trial.”

  “What makes ye think ye’ll fare any better? There’s still a price fixed on yer heid—ten thousan’ crowns, the last I heard. When the Duke o’ Argyle kens ye’re back at Achnacarry, like as not he’ll double it.”

  “I would like to be there when he does,” Montgomery said flatly. “The look on his face alone would be well worth the trip.”

  “I, for one, would prefer to look inside his head,” came the more reasonable voice of the philosopher. “You can be sure he’ll do more than simply raise the reward.”

  “Aluinn’s right,” the younger man agreed. “He’ll do somethin’. The duke has a long memory, an’ so do his clansmen. They’ve no’ forgotten how ye cut down the sons o’ a powerful laird an’ lived tae tell about it. Furthermair, it’s no’ so much the Duke ye’ve tae worry about, but the third whoreson ye let live. He’ll be the one who’ll stir the whole bluidy lot up again. He’ll have every Campbell wi’in a hundred mile screamin’ that ye got away wi’ murderin’ his brithers. He’ll have them sharpenin’ their clai’mors an’ searchin’ every road an’ rut that leads tae Achnacarry.”

  “The Duke of Argyle will control his clansmen and his nephew,” Montgomery said flatly. “A raid on Cameron land now, after all these years, would unite the Highlands faster than if Prince Charlie landed with the hundred thousand Frenchmen he has promised. The English government would not be too pleased with the Campbells either, since they know my brother Donald is the last nail holding the lid on the powder keg.”

  “Aye, an’ mayhap that’s why yer brither has sent f’ae ye, knowin’ yer presence at Achnacarry could blow the lid off faster than any pitch-soaked fuse.”

  “Donald is a man of peace—a diplomat, not a fighter. The last thing he wants is a war with England.”

  “Aye, but mayhap he kens one is comin’ in spite o’ all the talk an’ blather. Mayhap he kens the time f’ae talk is over, an’ he needs someone beside him who can lead the clan tae war. Men listen tae Young Lochiel, aye, but they’ll fight f’ae you.”

  “I can’t believe that is Donald’s intention.”

  “Do ye doubt his loyalty tae the Stuart cause?”

  “Loyalty and stupidity are two different things.”

  The reply was shot back, stiff with indignation. “Ye believe our fight tae see King Jamie back on the throne o’ Scotland … a stupid thing?”

  “At this particular point in time I believe the world is full of righteous fools who think it their divine right to chase each other around in circles. A prudent man might want to consider which fool has the larger, stronger army before he decides to join the chase.”

  “King Louis has promised tae send troops,” Iain objected.

  “If and when the Highlands raise an army of their own.”

  “He wouldna betray his own cousin!”

  “King Louis,” Montgomery said grimly, “would betray his own mother if he thought there was a profit in doing so.”

  “If ye believe so strongly, then, that we’re after wastin’ our time, why did ye agree tae come back?”

  “Damned if I know” was the dry response.

  “An’ you, Aluinn MacKail?”

  There was barely a pause. “I go where Alex goes.”

  “By all tha’s holy,” came the slow, disbelieving rejoinder, “I never would ha’ guessed it if I hadna heard it wi’ ma own ears. The Camshroinaich Dubh, tremblin’ at the thought o’ a few Campbells takin’ wind o’ him; fearin’ the thought o’ a wee war wi’ the Sassenach. By Christ, ye’ve forgotten who ye are! Ye’ve forgotten whose bluid flows in yer veins!”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Montgomery replied, his voice cold as steel.

  “Then ye’ve misplaced yersel’ somewhere along the way,” Iain spat derisively. “For ye’re no’ a Cameron. Ye’re no’ the same Alexander Cameron what slew the dragons from Inverary Castle!”

  “Those dragons were made of flesh and blood. They died as easily as you or I could die tomorrow. For God’s sake, don’t make the mistake of canonizing me over an act that was cold and brutal and ugly.”

  “Ugly? Aye, it were tha’. But no’ as ugly as what I see afore me now. They’ve made a coward out o’ ye, cousin. A Sassenach coward.”

  The sound of angry footsteps and a slamming door brought Catherine’s ear away from the peephole long enough to verify that the furious young man had exited the room, leaving the other two occupants staring at the door, then at each other.

  “A little rough on him, weren’t you?”

  “He’s exactly the kind of hothead who’s going to push Scotland into a war she’s not ready for,” Montgomery said on a curse.

  “Yes, but he’s all of what … nineteen? Twenty? Not much older than you were when you thought you could take on the world single-handedly.”

  “My fight was personal: a life for a life. And if we’re speaking of windmills, I recall you jousting at a few of your own, my temperate friend.”

  “Only because I had to watch your back.”

  “No one asked you to.”

  “No,” MacKail agreed. “No one asked me to. I ascribe it to a kind heart and an addled brain myself. Also to the fact that there isn’t a day I don’t wake up wondering what the devil you’re going to throw us into next. It has made for a fairly interesting life, so far.”

  “I’m glad I have amused you,” Montgomery said dryly and walked over to the small window.

  “Alex … why did you agree to come back?”

  “We’ve been in exile fifteen ye
ars. Isn’t that long enough?”

  “Iain was right about the Duke of Argyle; the Campbells still want to see you hung for murder.”

  “They still have to catch me first.”

  MacKail sighed and raked a hand through his light-brown hair. “Don’t you ever worry that your luck is going to run out?”

  “Why should I? You worry enough for the both of us.”

  “That is probably why I have the distinct feeling I should have stayed tucked comfortably in the bed of the luscious Countess de Mornay.”

  Montgomery laughed. “It was only a matter of time before her husband noticed the horns growing out of his head … and besides, you were just as anxious to go home again as I was.”

  “Just a couple of sentimental bastards at heart? Well, you’re right about one thing: This should prove to be an interesting challenge. The borders are being patrolled day and night; the Black Watch is out in strength searching for rebels, inventing them when none can be found to fill their quota. A few thousand Argyle Campbells will be sniffing behind every bush for blood and reward money.” He paused to let a wry smile twist his lips. “Have I missed anything?”

  “If Donald did not think we could make it through, he would not have sent Iain to meet us, and he certainly would not have suggested we travel through England.”

  “True enough, though I doubt he would have gone so far as to suggest we do it in a carriage emblazoned with the crest of a Member of Parliament.”

  Montgomery swore again. “It’s a long story. I don’t suppose we could discuss it over a few pints of ale and some of those meat pies I’m smelling? I haven’t eaten anything to speak of since I left here Thursday.”

  They moved toward the door, and Catherine, on the other side of the partition, backed slowly away from the wall, her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her ears—and no wonder! The man she was married to, however temporarily, was not at all what he had presented himself to be. He was not a London merchant. He was not even an Englishman! He was one of those bare-legged, skirted savages who belonged to a race of warmongers as barbaric and primitive as the barren land they inhabited! He was a Scot. And a Jacobite. Her father would have taken a pistol and shot the rogue out of hand had he known a papist traitor was masquerading as a gentleman … and under his own roof!

  A Scot! She had known, had sensed, there was something unnatural, something sneaky and underhanded about him from the very beginning. How could Damien—a lawyer and a keen judge of character himself—have been duped so easily into a friendship? God in heaven, his career would be ruined if word leaked out that he had been doing business with a Jacobite spy. Everyone knew the Jacobites were in the business of smuggling, kidnapping, extortion, theft, treason, murder …

  Murder! Raefer Montgomery was wanted for murder! There was a price on his head of ten thousand crowns! And he wasn’t even Raefer Montgomery—he was Alexander Cameron, a Jacobite spy, a cold-blooded murderer, and God only knew what else! No doubt he had brought her to this filthy inn under false pretenses, with no intentions of letting her go or of taking her into Wakefield to have the marriage annulled. He would annul it himself with a pistol or knife, then dispose of the body where no one would ever find it.

  Catherine raised a trembling hand to her temple … then nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand settle on her shoulder.

  It was Deirdre, who jumped nearly as high and gasped nearly as loud as her mistress whirled around.

  “Deirdre! I’d forgotten you were here.”

  “Well, I am,” the maid said, her hand clasped to her throat. “And no happier for it at the moment.”

  “Oh, Deirdre—” Catherine reached out to grasp her arm. “Did you hear any of that?”

  “Some of it was muffled, mistress, but I heard most.”

  “Then you agree, we are in terrible danger. We must find a way to get out of here … to get away from those men … to alert the authorities and have them arrested!”

  “But … how?” The maid cast worried eyes around the small room. “There are only the two of us, set in the middle of nowhere for all I can see.”

  Catherine stiffened again. Montgomery—Cameron—had said they were in Wakefield, but for all she knew they could be fifty miles north or west or east of any familiar towns. Even so, they were still well within England’s borders, and there had to be a garrison of militia nearby.

  She walked on softly placed feet to the door and tried the latch. It moved freely enough, but in her mind’s eye she could see the stairs and the taproom below and knew there was no possibility of slipping unseen out of the tavern.

  She turned and pressed her back flat against the door. There was nothing in the room they could use as weapons, either to attack or to defend themselves. There was a musket in the boot of the coach and a pistol under one of the seats. She had shot her fair share of grouse and pheasant and had no doubt she could shoot a man if he stood between her and her freedom, but first they had to find a way to reach the coach.

  “The window, mistress?” Deirdre whispered, her thoughts obviously following along the same lines.

  Catherine hastened over to the small, paneless aperture and pushed the shutters fully back on their hinges. The window was not much wider than her shoulders, and the drop to the ground seemed a long way down, but right outside stood an old, gnarled oak, the branches thick as a man’s arm, one of them stretched temptingly close to the window. It had been at least ten years since Catherine had even dared to think about climbing a tree, and then never more than a few token feet off the ground to impress her brother.

  She started to shake her head. “I don’t know …”

  Deirdre, one of thirteen children sired by an estate gamekeeper, had spent half of her life clambering through the forests behind her eight older brothers, and she saw the clear and obvious solution. “See, mistress, how the branches stick out like steps all the way down? Indeed, they look a good deal sturdier than the ones we used to climb up here. I can make a quick try of it first, if you like, but it looks as simple as climbing down a ladder.”

  Catherine chewed savagely on her lower lip and glanced at the door. “Yes. Yes, you go first. But not just to prove it can be done. You must keep going and try to find help.”

  Deirdre’s soft brown eyes rounded. “I couldn’t think of leaving you, mistress, not to the likes of them.”

  Catherine gripped the girl’s arm. Deirdre had been her abigail for seven years and was fiercely loyal … but this was not the time to prove it. “It might be our only chance. These men are murderers, traitors! You don’t actually think they will let either of us live beyond tonight, do you? For all we know, they have already slain the coachmen. This is life and death. And it’s no time to argue who will go and who will stay.”

  Deirdre studied her mistress’s desperate features a moment, then bent over and hoisted her plain black skirt and single layer of petticoat up over her knees. Strapped to her upper thigh, just above her stocking garter, was a thin, deadly-looking dagger no bigger than her hand. She slid it out of its sheath and held it out so that a flare of light glittered off the wickedly sharp blade.

  “It has come in useful many a time, with many a frisky houseman,” she explained. “You take it, mistress. Tuck it here, like so—” She carefully fitted the knife beneath the bodice of the gray velvet traveling suit and adjusted the lace, tucking a piece to shield the heel of the hilt. “Should we become separated for any reason or should one of them try to do you harm, take no chances and aim right between the legs. You needn’t be too accurate or strike too hard to have them rolling helpless on the floor.”

  It was Catherine’s turn to study Deirdre’s solemn features, this time with new respect. It was a shameful admission to have to make, and one that came at an awkward time, but she had never really paid much attention to the Irish girl before. Servants had been taken for granted all her life, and Deirdre had behaved no differently from any of the other shadowy figures who worked with silent efficiency tendin
g to the comforts of the residents of Rosewood Hall. Yet Catherine and Deirdre were the same age, nearly the same height and build. Had the glossy brown hair been curled and styled instead of scraped back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck, it would have softened a face that was as smooth and fine-boned as any well-born lady’s.

  “Bless you, Deirdre,” she murmured, taking the girl’s hands in hers. “I am ever so grateful for your company, and your loyalty. I don’t know if I would have half so much courage if I were alone.”

  Deirdre flushed under the unaccustomed praise and gave her mistress’s hands a returned squeeze for encouragement. “Shall I go now, then, or shall I wait? They spoke of sending us food—”

  “No. No, I don’t want to spend a single moment longer in this wretched place than I have to. Moreover, if we wait,” she added on a more honest note, “I may think too long on the obstacles against us. Hurry now, before they—”

  A sound out in the corridor froze them both. Deirdre still had her skirts raised and a hand on the window ledge as the door opened and an equally startled face loomed up pale in the wash of lamplight.

  “What the devil are you two up to?”

  7

  “Damien!” Catherine was so surprised to see her brother standing in the doorway that she could do little more than gasp and stare. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well … I’ve come to take you home, for one thing. For another—” He was prevented from saying any more by the armload of sobbing female he suddenly found himself holding. “Hello? What’s all this? What is going on here?”

  She could manage nothing coherent through the sobs, and he soothed her as best he could while he rummaged beneath his greatcoat for a handkerchief.

  “There now,” he said, guiding her to a seat on the edge of the bed. “Blow like a good girl and tell me what this is all about. You act as if you’ve been frightened half to death.”