The Blood of Roses (27 page)

“Oh, mistress, I … I couldn’t possibly—” “Nonsense. You can wear it and you will. The gown was purchased with a wedding in mind, and I can think of no one else I would rather see wear it.”

Earlier that morning, the unearthly silence that had enveloped Rosewood Hall for two days had been shattered when a group of armed Highlanders had ridden up the packed-earth lane. Alex had been expecting them. When he and Catherine had gone to retrieve Shadow, they had learned the prince’s vanguard was less than five miles out of Derby. Alex had escorted Catherine back to the Ashbrooke estate and then had immediately ridden out to meet the advancing rebel column to extend their invitation of hospitality to the Cameron contingent. Many of the neighboring estates were being visited by emissaries from the prince and told they could expect to provide quarters for large contingents of men. It would not draw an inordinate amount of suspicion for Rosewood Hall, as one of the largest estates in the parish, to play host to one of the largest rebel clans.

The prince would be taking quarters in Derby itself, in a house belonging to Lord Exeter. The townspeople, for the most part, had respected the orders of the powerful Cavendish family and had evacuated to the country, leaving hardly anyone to bear witness to Charles Stuart’s triumphant march into the city on the fourth day of December.

Determined to make Alex proud of her, Catherine wore one of her best gowns and served her father’s best cordials to the blustery group of Highlanders who gathered in the formal parlor of Rosewood Hall. She was genuinely pleased to greet her brothers-in-law again. To Donald Cameron, the Chief of Clan Cameron, she had at first offered a reserved welcome, but his honest pleasure at seeing her again soon put her at ease, and she ended up hugging him with as much enthusiasm as her tightly laced stomacher would allow. Dr. Archibald Cameron, looking strangely disoriented without his firebrand of a wife by his side, completed the crushing damage to Catherine’s ribs, leaving her barely enough breath to greet the friendly faces of Aluinn MacKail and Struan MacSorley.

Aluinn, in turn, scarcely waited for Lochiel to brush the dust of the road off his clothes before he was presenting himself and Deirdre to the chief with a formal request.

“Ye’re askin’ ma permission tae marry, are ye?” Lochiel’s pale-blue eyes had twinkled merrily as he regarded the solemn couple standing before him. “Aye, MacKail, I can see ye have the fever on ye. But what about you, lass? Can ye no’ think O’ anither lad ye’d rather spend the rest O’ yer days an’ nights with?”

Deirdre had managed to tear her gaze away from the imposing, tartan-clad chieftain long enough to exchange a searching glance with Aluinn.

“No, my lord. In truth, I could not think of another single soul who could make me happier.”

Donald Cameron of Lochiel had stepped forward then and taken their hands into his. “In that case, ye have ma most hearty blessing, happily given. Aye, an’ what’s more,” he added with a wink, “ye should see tae it soon, f’ae I’ve a notion the Irish an’ Scots blood, once mixed, will show an impatience tae bring fine, healthy bairns intae the world.”

Deirdre’s blush had darkened furiously when Lochiel’s comment prompted both Alexander and Archibald Cameron to suggest a minister be fetched that very day to make the vows legal. Catherine had agreed and, meeting with no objections from either party, had whisked Deirdre out of the parlor and led her up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Now Deirdre stood nervously watching her mistress return again and again from the dressing room, her arms laden with silk stockings, chemises, and frilly underpinnings that, as a maid, Deirdre had felt privileged just to touch, let alone wear. Bewildered, she saw the bounty pile up on the bed, and, stunned, she obeyed Catherine’s crisp orders to strip out of her own drab black gabardine frock and indulge in a hot, perfumed bath.

After Deirdre had dried herself before the fire, Catherine took it upon herself to heat the curling irons and crimping tongs and set about coaxing the chestnut waves into corkscrew side curls, heavy ringlets, and a becoming fringe of dark spirals to frame the heart-shaped face. Impressed with her own proficiency, Catherine added tiny silk flowerets, irreverently plucked from the flounces of one of her other gowns and woven here and there among the shiny curls. A discreet amount of khol was applied to highlight Deirdre’s already large and expressive eyes; ash and charcoal were brushed onto her lashes to darken and thicken them.

Tolerant of the girl’s need to halt after every addition and study her reflection in the mirror, Catherine acted the part of maid, helping Deirdre into sheer white stockings, silk chemise, and a lace underbodice with a regal spill of scalloped falling cuffs. A stiffened buckram stomacher was laced tightly around Deirdre’s midsection, altering her figure into the fashionable hourglass shape, further emphasized by the addition of wire panniers that sat on the hips like overturned baskets. Three billowing layers of fine linen petticoats were fitted over the panniers, the top one quilted and embroidered with tiny seed pearls where it would show through the opened vee of the skirt. Over the stomacher, the snug, busked bodice molded to the shape of Deirdre’s waist like a pearlized outer skin; the cloud of silvered satin that was the skirt settled into place with a shimmering sigh.

“Oh” was all Deirdre could manage to say as she stood before the cheval mirror, transfixed by the fairy-tale image. “I never dreamed …”

“A girl’s wedding day should be remembered the rest of her life,” Catherine said, biting back regrets about her own hastily conducted service. What she had been denied, however, she was determined to provide for Deirdre in a display of selflessness that most surely would have baffled her six months ago. Dressing an abigail in silk and satin, turning her home upside down for a clan of rebelling Scotsmen, rushing here and there like a headless chicken to see to everyone’s needs but her own …

A knock interrupted Catherine’s thoughts just as she was about to grip the newel post of the bed for her turn at the corset stays.

“May I come in?”

It was Alexander’s voice, and it earned a muttered oath from Catherine before she answered.

“Yes, but if you have come to complain or to seek my help in tying your cravat, I …” She stopped, her gaze fixed upon the resplendent figure standing in the doorway.

Once before, the very first time she had had occasion to see Alexander Cameron in full Highland dress, she had been stunned speechless. The hairs on her neck had stood on end and her belly had gone all weak and fluttery, as if her insides were dissolving down to her knees. The same melting weakness came over her now as she straightened from the bedpost and stared at her husband.

The black, windswept mane had been tamed by shears and fettered with a narrow velvet ribbon. A shock of white lace at his throat underlined the ruggedness of his chiseled features and made a mockery of the pale-skinned, powdered dandies who had, until their exodus a few days ago, graced the corridors of Rosewood Hall. A long-skirted waistcoat of purple satin hugged his massive upper torso, topped by a frock coat of hunting-green velvet, the deep cuffs and lapels banded and embroidered in gold. From his waist hung the gathered and pleated folds of the crimson-and-black tartan that formed the short breacan kilt. A length of plaid was draped crosswise over his chest, pinned at the shoulder with an enormous brooch studded with topazes. A sporan—a pouch made of soft animal hide—hung from his waist; a wide leather belt, chased with gold and silver ornamentation, held his rapier, the tip of which fell to within an inch of the floor. His calves were encased in hose of dark scarlet fretting, his brogues were leather, buckled in steel; his smile, when it stole across the saturnine face, was pure vintage rogue.

“A fetching outfit, I must say,” he mused, his teeth flashing whitely as his eyes—so dark a blue as to be almost black—raked up and down his wife’s scantily clad body. “But a tad shy on decorum, wouldn’t you say?”

“Beast,” Catherine muttered, glancing down at her skimpy chemise, corset, and stockings. “I am not even the one you should be looking at.”

“Since when?”

“Since—” She had to give Deirdre a slight shove to stir the girl out from behind the obstructing view of the curtains on the tester bed. “Since Mistress O’Shea finished dressing.”

Deirdre stood for what felt like an eternity, a hot blush coloring her cheeks as she stared steadfastly down at the floor. Only when she saw the toes of Alexander’s shoes come into her line of view and felt the pressure of his hand beneath her chin did she dare look up.

“It is no wonder the man has been driven to writing volumes of poetry lately,” he said softly. “You look absolutely beautiful, Deirdre. Aluinn is a very lucky man.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “It was all Mistress Catherine’s doing.”

The knowing eyes flicked over to his wife, and Catherine felt the skin tauten across her breasts. His gaze released her after a long moment and returned to Deirdre.

“Why don’t you go to him? The poor bastard is pacing up and down the halls like a caged tiger.”

“Absolutely not!” Catherine cried, countermanding the suggestion. “She is to wait in the winter parlor until just before the ceremony. I’ll not have all my hard work undone by an overeager groom. Deirdre … to the parlor. I shall join you there in a few minutes.”

“Yes, my lady,” Deirdre said, smiling as she presented a curtsy to Alex and went gliding past him out the door.

“A very few minutes, I hope,” Alex mused, moving in congenially to take up the task of lacing his wife’s stomacher. “A crueller torture could not be imagined, madam, than to toy with the olfactory senses of men who have had little more than oatcakes and salted porridge for the past few weeks. Archibald has already mounted one attack on the kitchens and was reportedly driven off at knifepoint. He is arming himself with reinforcements as we speak, and I fear a full-scale assault within the hour. On the other hand”—he considered the smooth white expanse of her shoulder for a moment before lowering his mouth for a closer sampling—“a lesson in patience would do them all good.”

It was difficult enough to hold one’s breath and concentrate on sucking every rib and excess ounce of flesh inward while one was being girdled into the latest tortures of fashion. It proved to be impossible with the added pressure of a hungry pair of lips exploring the nape of her neck.

“Alex … I must get dressed.”

“I like you the way you are,” he murmured, flicking the tip of his tongue into the delicate pink curl of her ear.

“Alex.” She moaned softly. “Stop. Your brother—”

“My brother is a most understanding man.”

She batted his hands away as he began pulling the steel pins and combs from her hair, but he persisted, eventually spinning her around and gathering her into his arms for a kiss that seemed to never end. When it did, she gaped up at him, dazed and gasping, her pulse racing and her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs.

“There,” he mused, dropping the last of the troublesome pins to the floor and combing his fingers through the silky tangle of her hair. “This is much better. More like the wild and wanton temptress I’ve been keeping company with these past few days. Besides, I’ll be double damned if I let Aluinn win all the envy tonight.”

“You are incorrigible.” Catherine laughed.

“So you keep insisting.” His hands slipped lower, easing the shoulders of her chemise halfway down her arms as they went. But before his lips could erode her senses any further, Catherine wriggled out of his embrace and moved a safer distance away, beyond the long reach of his arms.

“You would not want to be late for your best friend’s wedding, would you?”

His smile suggested he might.

“I suppose I should have inquired as to the number of guests Donald has invited. I hope there will be enough food.”

“From what I managed to see over Archibald’s shoulder”—he paused and grinned sheepishly—“there appears to be enough food to feed the entire army for a month.”

“I told you Cook was thorough.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “You did.”

His dark gaze had not left her face, and Catherine felt the flush rise self-consciously in her cheeks. Two days and nights of lovemaking should have left them both with a stronger sense of self-control—at the very least, exhausted—but if anything, the opposite appeared to be true. A touch or a smile could set the heat churning in her loins; a thought of the weeks, perhaps months of separation that lay ahead heightened the urgency in her blood and made her feel continually on the edge of arousal.

Alex read all of that and more in the hauntingly lovely violet of her eyes. He would take the memory of those eyes to his grave, he knew. Eyes, lips, hands, body …

Indeed, he had damned well better turn his mind to other things, or they would never leave this room again.

“Donald has had a temporary lapse, it seems, in remembering my wife is supposed to be back at Achnacarry.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, oh. And to answer your question as to whom he has invited: anyone and everyone above the rank of captain. He’s filling the role of brother-in-law well, making himself right at home in your father’s library. We must remember to leave a note complimenting Sir Alfred on his fine brandy; he had every right to be concerned for its longevity. The prince, for one, is most impressed with—”

“The prince! Prince Charles? He’s here?”

“Naturally. It would have been the height of bad manners not to have invited him.”

“Oh, but … ! My hair! My dress! My—!”

“My goodness,” he said with a dry smile. “Is this a note of panic I detect? Over a rebel princeling you declared you would never look upon twice, thank you very much?”

Catherine ignored his sarcasm and ran to stand in front of the cheval mirror. “Oh, Lord, look at me!”

Alex’s grin broadened. “If I look any harder, you will have no clothes left at all.”

Scowling at him, she ran into the dressing room. The blue silk gown she had originally decided to wear was instantly dismissed as being far too plain for entertaining royalty—dubious though the title might be. The red brocade was too flamboyant, the russet muslin too prim. She briefly debated over the pink satin sacque dress but concluded the pleated train would make her look too matronly. She was left with a midnight-blue velvet gown or a splendidly worked creation of gold brocade.