The Blood of Roses (38 page)

Turning his attention back to the girl, Garner saw that her hands were lying quite motionless in her lap, and her complexion had turned pale around the large, amber tiger eyes that now seemed to have widened to encompass her whole face.

“Maggie? What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Did ye say … Catherine?”

“Catherine Ashbrooke: Why do you ask?”

“An’ his name? Ye said it was Montgomery?”

“Raefer Montgomery.
Why?”

Maggie’s hands dropped away completely and she sat back on her heels. It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t be!

“Good lord,” she muttered. “O’ course it could! She said once as how her fiancé were an officer wi’ the dragoons.”

Hamilton’s frown deepened as a low, throaty laugh burst from her lips. She tried to stifle it. She covered her mouth with her hands and rocked back, but it was no use; the laughter came harder, the irony of it all producing tears of mirth that streamed all the faster, the angrier the major became.

“What the devil are you on about?” he demanded.
“Who
said her fiancé was an officer in the dragoons?”

“Catherine,” Maggie managed to choke out over a new peal of laughter. “Aye, it were deaf, sweet Catherine. A yellow-haired, blue-eyed
Sassenach
bitch what come tae Achnacarry … oh … seven, eight months ago. Newly wed too. Tae him. Tae the black-haired devil himsel’: the
Camshroinaich Dubh!”

Far from sharing the girl’s amusement, Hamilton gripped her arms tightly again, shaking her so brusquely her titian-red hair flew around her shoulders in a shiny tumble.

“Will you stop and tell me what the hell you are talking about!” he shouted.

“I told ye!” She gasped. “It were him! It were him an’ it were her at Achnacarry! Only his name isna Montgomery, ye daft bastard. It’s Cameron! Alasdair Cameron! An’ when ye thought ye saw him across the field leadin’ a rebel patrol, ye most likely
did
see! He’s Alasdair … Alexander Cameron, brither tae Donald Cameron O’ Lochiel!”

“How do you know?” Garner rasped. “How do you know it is the same man?”

“There couldna be two like him in the whole world. Besides—” She brought her laughter under control and wiped at the moisture streaking down her cheeks. “—I should ken ma own cousin, should I na?”

“Your …
cousin?”

“Aye.” The amber eyes lifted to his, the irony still sparkling brightly in their depths. “Cousin tae the grand
Camshroinaich Dubh
, I am. Cousin tae his brither Lochiel as well, and tae Dr. Archibald—”

“Donald Cameron of Lochiel … the Chief of Clan Cameron … you are related to him?”

“Gie’s ye a wee shiver, does it?”

“And … Raefer Montgomery”—Hamilton moistened his lips and adjusted the suddenly damp grip on the girl’s shoulders—“you’re absolutely certain he’s …”

“The
Camshroinaich Dubh?
Aye, I’m certain. He boasted O’ duelin’ a sour-faced redcoat
Sassenach
f’ae the privilege O’ marryin’ his yellow-haired bride. Aye, it comes back tae me now; Alasdair mentionin’ he’d used the name Montgomery tae start a shippin’ business out O’ France.”

Hamilton was only partially listening. His head was reeling—not from the amount of wine he had consumed earlier, but because he had just learned the man he had fought his duel with seven months ago was none other than Alexander Cameron—the man reputed to be the greatest swordsman in all of Europe, possibly in all of the civilized world! Catherine’s involvement hardly merited a passing thought. Hamilton had studied with the great masters and had heard the whispered rumors surrounding the legendary Dark Cameron, the Scottish warlord living in exile. To think he had actually fought Cameron … and damned near bested him!

“Where is he?” Hamilton demanded eagerly. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Well, unless he’s taken a likin’ tae wearin’ red,” she snorted, “he’s still wi’ the prince.”

Garner cursed inwardly. Of course, he knew that.
Calm yourself! He’s out there somewhere and he’s not a ghost anymore. He’s real, by God. Real!

“Maggie, listen to me—”

“Lauren,” she said, interrupting.

“What?”

“Ma name’s no’ Maggie … it’s Lauren. Lauren Cameron, an’ if ye dinna stop squeezin’ ma arms, I’ll have nae bluid left in ma fingers.”

Hamilton’s hands sprang open. He stared at the livid marks he had left on her skin for a moment, collecting his thoughts before he reached for her again, this time by two clenched handfuls of thick, curling hair.

“Catherine,” he said suddenly. “What do you know about Catherine?”

“Nae more than what I want tae know. Only that she didna gladden too many hearts by comin’ tae Achnacarry, hangin’ on Alasdair’s arm lookin’ at us all as if we were scullery maids.”

Her words struck him like a wet cloth. “He brought Catherine to Scotland!”

“That’s what I said, did I na? He brung her tae Achnacarry—a
Sassenach
, nae less. Auld Sir Ewen must have turned in his grave.”

“Is she … still there?”

Lauren narrowed her eyes consideringly. If she said the bitch was back in England, would he go tearing off to find her? Losing Alasdair to her had been a bad enough blow to her vanity; losing her gilded
Sassenach
major would just be too much to tolerate. Lauren was far from finished with him. He shared some of her main qualities—greed and ambition—and she was not about to give him up until a better prospect came along.

“Aye,” she said coolly. “He left her at Achnacarry wi’ the rest O’ the simperin’ lot.”

“Where is this Achnacarry? How do I get there?”

“Achnacarry?” Lauren scoffed openly. “Ye
must
be daft. Naebody just
goes
tae Achnacarry Castle. Even if ye could get through the fifty miles O’ cold, black forest an’ scaled the dozen corries atween here an’ there, ye’d never get through the wall O’ clansmen wha’ dae naught all the blessed day long but look f’ae
Sassenachs
an’ Campbells. Achnacarry’s no’ had an uninvited guest since … since auld King MacBeth took the keep by siege. An’ he only held it a day or so afore fleein’ f’ae his life. If ye dinna believe me, ask yer friend, the Duke O’ Argyle. He’s been tryin’ tae get inside Achnacarry’s walls f’ae years. Aye, an’ he’s also been tryin’ tae put a hangman’s noose around Alasdair’s throat f’ae the past fifteen years, but never come so close as tae catch sight O’ him. If it’s revenge ye’re wantin’, ye’ll have tae stand in line ahind about five thousand men.”

Hamilton flung her aside with a curse and stood up. He paced to the far side of the room, standing at the heavily curtained window for several minutes until a faint tinkle of laughter drew his gaze back to the bed.

“Surely ye still dinna want the bitch?” she asked, uncurling her long feline body and standing up. “No’ after what she’s done tae ye.”

“I want … explanations,” he said carefully. “I have heard of this Dark Cameron and of the various crimes he has committed. Perhaps he forced her—”

“Forced?” Lauren scorned the word and the idea. “I didna see her bein’ forced tae rut wi’ him day an’ night in every room an’ cavie in the castle. Fact is, she’d drag him away from the table afore he’d half finished a meal, an’ leave a trail O’ torn claythes tae the nearest bed.”

Garner was in motion before she could scramble out of the way. The slap echoed in the silence like a whiplash, the force of it spinning her back to sprawl across the bed. She screamed as he caught a fistful of hair and arched her head back.

“Bitch! What do you know about it!”

“I ken what I saw!” she insisted, the rage in her voice causing it to tremble. “She couldna keep her hands off him, nor keep from keenin’ an’ bleatin’ her pleasure loud enough f’ae the whole castle tae hear!”

“Liar!” He roared, striking the small white face again. This time she came up fighting, her nails bared and raking at his chest, her teeth flashing whitely through the crimson slash of a split lip. Lunging at him, she was caught in midair, but the sheer violence of her attack threw them both off balance and they crashed together on the floor. Hamilton was on top of her in an instant, rolling the weight of his body over hers to restrict the wild thrashings. He felt her nails carve into his shoulder and he grunted as a well-placed knee came crushingly close to its target. He struck her again, smearing the fiery red mane of hair across the carpet, aroused despite his anger as he felt himself pressed up against her heat and wetness.

He thrust his mouth down over hers, smothering the stream of lurid Gaelic oaths under lips that were brutal and unrelenting. Lauren’s rage turned quickly to pain as his teeth sawed back and forth across her torn lip, then into something else again as the hot stab of his flesh plunged into her. On a gasp, she stopped fighting him. On a coarse, guttural moan, she twined her legs around his waist and challenged his supremacy over each fervish thrust.

And as she clutched at him and shuddered within herself, Hamilton Garner squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he had done so many times before, knowing if he opened them too soon it would not be Catherine’s face he saw, glazing with passion beneath him, and not Catherine’s body hurling him into the mindless, primitive realm of ecstasy.

Lauren pried her eyes open slowly. She was alone on the bed, her body flung sideways across the mattress, her limbs splayed inelegantly on the crumpled and stained satin covers. The shreds of her gown were gone. Her breasts throbbed and her thighs ached; it felt as if she had been used by ten maniacal men, all at the one time.

Her head wobbling drunkenly, she tilted it forward. The major was standing by the fireplace, his hand propped on the mantelpeice, his face profiled against the orange and bronzed light. A faint groan settled her head back onto the cloud of her own scattered hair, and a half-formed thought of modesty had her fold her legs together in a graceful tuck.

“What the bluidy Christ happened? Dinna tell me I fainted.”

“All right. I won’t tell you.”

Lauren frowned and stared at the canopy overhead. He was lying, of course. Or gloating. She had never fainted beneath a man before in her life—not even Struan MacSorley, and he had a well-deserved reputation for putting several women in a swoon in a single night.

She turned her head slightly, testing the ache at the back of her skull and prodding gently at the puffed lip, the bruised tenderness along her jaw. It was no wonder she had fainted, if indeed she had done so: The bastard had hit her hard enough to have scrambled her brains for a month of Sundays.

When the soldiers had stolen her off the moor at Prestonpans, her first thought was that she would die—or, at least, be slated to die. She had been taken to Colonel Putnam and questioned, but it became clear within the first few moments that the colonel was more interested in what lay beneath the gaping fabric of her bodice than any information she might or might not have had about the rebel camp. She had passed herself off as a local girl, put up a few groans of resistance, then kept the
Sassenach
colonel salivating at her feet for almost a month. In that time, she demanded and received the luxuries she had only dreamed about. Silks and satins, maids to tend her baths, to crimp her hair, to trim her toenails when her lover complained of too many scratch marks. She amassed quite an impressive purseful of gold coins as well—not as impressive as the one she was filling at Hamilton Garner’s expense, but the combined sum was already more than enough to set her up in a comfortable house in Edinburgh. Not nearly enough for what she wanted, of course, but it was a good start.

Sighing expressively, she slipped down off the bed and padded barefoot to the full-length cheval mirror, scowling as she inspected the cuts and bruises that marred her face. She flashed a look of disgust over her shoulder as Garner came quietly up behind her.

“If ye treated yer sweet Catherine as gently as ye treat me,” she said, sneering, “it’s nae wonder she left ye f’ae Alasdair.”

Garner smiled blandly, the barb falling harmlessly to the wayside. “Considering the way you looked when Colonel Putnam’s men brought you into camp, a minor bruise or two should not distress you overmuch.”

“Ye saw me in camp?”

“I saw
something
in camp. A good deal of filth and scratches, hair like a clump of brambleweed, and skin as brown and tough as leather.” He allowed a hand to trail a lazy path from her shoulder to the bursting ripeness of her full breasts. “Frankly, that was why I could not work myself into too much of a delirium when I won you from the good colonel.”

A finely shaped auburn brow ached delicately. “An’ now?”

“Now …” His fingers lingered over the wine-red crest of her nipple, his smile tugged wider as he watched the skin pucker and crinkle together on each stroke. “Now I can at least understand why Reginald wanted you back so desperately. I’m told he has been through every whorehouse and brothel in Edinburgh searching for a replacement. If he doesn’t find one soon”—Hamilton sighed and leaned forward, pressing his lips onto the ivory curve of her shoulder—“I fear he may be foolish enough to challenge me to a duel.”

The amber eyes narrowed. “Ye’d fight a duel f’ae me?”

“What is mine is mine,” he said simply. “What I have I keep, and what I want I usually get, regardless of the cost, regardless of the method, regardless of the time involved. You would do well to remember that, my dear.”

“Ye dinna
own
me,
Sassenach”
she said evenly.

Garner backed away a pace and spread his hands wide. “You’re free to leave anytime you please. But keep in mind what I said: What is mine is mine, and you’ll not find a man within a hundred miles willing to contest the point nor a nest half so comfortable as the one you have here.”

With a toss of her bright red hair, Lauren turned and faced him squarely. “Ye’ll no’ be here in Edinburgh forever,
Sassenach.
I can afford tae bide ma time.”

“Ahhh, yes. Your services have not come cheaply over the past few months, neither for myself or Colonel Putnam. I suppose if you had invested your ill gains wisely, you might well have been an independent force by now. Unfortunately, little woolen socks do not make the best of banks.”