The Blood of Roses (63 page)

“No one touches this man!”
Garner screamed, stopping cold the action of the dragoons. “The bastard is all mine.”

He launched a vicious attack, the strength and fury of it driving Alexander back more than a dozen broad paces. The steel of their blades clashed sharply again and again, and although he was holding his own, the muscles in Cameron’s arms and legs were quivering visibly under the strain. Garner, on the other hand, was relatively fresh and vigorous, having neither soiled his snow-white gaiters nor bloodied his sword until the clans had been routed from the battlefield.

The jade-green eyes were keen enough to pick up the signs of fatigue in his enemy—the tremors in the taut, bulging muscles, the brief shadows of distraction that clouded the focus of the dark gaze. Cameron was near the end of his endurance, there was no question—no one could sustain such an intense outpouring of energy and concentration, regardless of how superbly conditioned he was. And yet Garner knew that a cornered dog was also the wiliest and most dangerous; the will to survive could make it almost invincible.

The black eyes flickered again, lured away by the movement of the dragoons, and Hamilton’s sword took advantage of the lapse to etch a deep ribbon of red across the whiteness of Alex’s shirt front. Before he could gloat over the strike, he felt a painfully sharp rebuttal slice unexpectedly through the wool of his breeches and had to refocus his attention quickly to the defense. He lunged back before the blade could do much more than part the upper layer of flesh over his thigh, but his scream of rage was instinctive, and it brought one of the dragoons leaping forward, his saber thrusting for the Highlander’s heart.

Alex saw it coming and raised his arm to block the stroke. At any other time, he would have had speed and strength enough to parry the thrust with ease; as it was, it was incredible that he still had the ability to shake off his fatigue and react, never mind that he could swing around and hack the flat of his blade against the dragoon’s wrist, splintering the bones like kindling. Not before the soldier’s blade had done its own damage, however. The tip of the military saber had caught the flesh of Alex’s forearm, gouging a deep furrow into muscle and sinew that ran the full length to his elbow.

The dragoon fell away screaming, cradling his shattered wrist and hand, and another ran forward to take his place, dying for his efforts, spitted on the end of Alex’s sword like a stuck pig. Something hot slivered into Cameron’s shoulder and he pivoted again, fighting the agony and the exhaustion as he gored the man who had cut him. His foot slipped on the blood-soaked grass, costing him several precious seconds and two more cuts to rib and thigh as the remaining dragoons closed the deadly circle. Staggering, he went down on one knee. His left arm was opened to the bone and useless, his body was a sheet of burning pain, but he struggled to his feet again, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his eyes flashing fire. He had the presence of mind to sense the moment the dragoons were about to rush him and he lunged first, an unholy roar carrying him forward with all the savagery of his Highland ancestry.

A second, fiendish roar caused the air itself to shrink back in horror. A giant specter of a man rose up out of the heather and hurled himself at the circle of dragoons like a grim reaper, his broadsword scything through arms and legs, cracking through spines and ribs before the startled soldiers even knew he was upon them. When they did, a horrifying image of a studded leather claw was the last sight two of them had before most of their faces and throats were torn away.

Another pair also tasted a sample of Struan MacSorley’s fury, limping away from the scene with broken or bleeding parts. With their numbers drastically and grotesquely reduced, the three remaining cavalrymen scrambled back down the slope toward their horses, scattering the already jittery beasts in different directions. Struan ran the first dragoon to ground and sent him arching through the air in a fountain of blood. The second had his skull cleaved in two; the third had already thrown his sword down and was fumbling to reload his pistol, calling on every saint and martyr whose name he knew to protect him … but too few, too late. MacSorley snatched him up by the starched white band of his collar and lifted him to eye level. Putting all of his formidable power into the blow, he sent the clawed and studded fist forward, driving it with the force of a sledgehammer into the spreading yellow stain at the crux of the dragoon’s thighs.

The scream reverberated down the slope and across the moor. The agony of it caused even the distant faces that were bent over their ghoulish work on the killing field to look up to where the giant Highlander stood silhouetted against the metallic gray sky.

Struan tossed the twitching, jerking body aside and retraced his steps up the slope to where Alexander Cameron lay facedown on the grass. Before he could do much more than assure himself the
Camshroinaich Dubh
was still breathing, he caught sight of the officer Alex had been fighting with dart out from behind an overturned peat cart, favoring a bleeding leg as he waved his arms and hailed a group of tartan-clad riders. Wheeling fully around, MacSorley narrowed his eyes against the distinctly carnivorous
cath-ghairm
of the Clan Campbell.

Baring his teeth in a wolfish smile, Struan MacSorley threw his lion-maned head back and responded with the Cameron battle cry. He leaped to his feet and braced himself to meet the first challenger as a score of kilted Argyle Campbells bore gleefully down on their centuries-old blood rivals.

23

“D
efeated,” Catherine whispered, the shock rippling through her body like an arctic wind. “The army routed? Scattered?”

Deirdre moved closer to her side and circled a trembling arm around Catherine’s waist. They both stared at the ragged, bloody clansman who stood before them, unable, unwilling to believe the horror he was describing.

“Our husbands,” Deirdre asked calmly. “Do you know what has become of our husbands?”

The man’s head shook as if in the grips of a palsy. “I only ken what I saw,” he sobbed. “Men … guid men … brave men … hundreds O’ them, thou’sans mayhap … gaun. All gaun. Fled tae the woods, fled tae Inverness. Chased doon the roads an’ O’er the muirs by the sojers. Cut tae pieces, they were. Run doon by horses, left by the wayside tae die a horrible death where they fell. An’ nae just the lads,” he added in a shocked, sickened whisper. “But any man, lassie, or child wha’ happened across their murtherin’ path.”

“Oh, dear God,” Deirdre cried softly. “What of the wounded? What is being done to help the wounded?”

The clansman, Donald Macintosh, looked at Deirdre with eyes as flat and dead as glass. “Nae help f’ae the wounded, lass. Horse sojers an’ infantry both are takin’ their pleasure killin’ anyone wha’ moves. Even them wha’ throw doon their weepons an’ surrender—I seen them kill’t where they stood.”

“Is no one doing anything to stop them?” Deirdre gasped, horrified.

“Only one could stop them be Cumberland, an’ he be walkin’ his horse slow an’ easy roun’ the field, smilin’ an’ noddin’ while his butchers dae their work.”

“What can we do?” Catherine asked, speaking for the first time since the clansman had come pounding at the door, seeking refuge. “We must do something.”

“There’s naught ye can dae, lass,” Donald Macintosh insisted. “Mayhap when it’s dark an’ the frenzy’s left them.” He shook his head. “But no’ now. They’re makin’ us pay the price f’ae Prestonpans an’ Falkirk; f’ae the fear they felt on the muir this mornin’.”

Compared to what she felt now, Catherine realized she had never known real fear. She had known something was dreadfully wrong, had sensed it the moment she’d heard the sound of the guns. And when the clansman had begun relating the horrific details, she had visualized the battle as clearly as she had seen it, time and again in her nightmare. It was true. It had all come true: the sea of blood, the hundreds of dead and dying men. And if that part of the nightmare had come to pass, then what of Alexander … the ring of soldiers … the raised swords …?

“I must go to him,” she said hollowly. “I must find out if he’s … if he’s hurt. If he needs help.”

“Nae! Nae lass, dinna even think on it!” Macintosh cried, turning to Deirdre for support. Instead, what he saw reflected in the cool brown eyes was total agreement. What he heard was complete insanity.

“Yes,” she said. “We must go. At once!”

“I canna let ye go—”

“You can and you will,” Catherine insisted harshly. “And if you won’t take us there yourself, we’ll find our own way.”

“Take ye!”
The Highlander’s hair stood on end at the very notion. “Ye want me tae
take
ye there? Nae! Nae, I’ll nae go back. I’ll nae go back there till hell freezes!”

“Then you will stand aside,” Catherine ordered, squaring her narrow shoulders. “And so help me God if you try to stop us, I’ll kill you myself.”

Macintosh gaped at one determined face, then the other. Having barely escaped with his life the first time, he could think of nothing more terrifying than the prospect of returning to the scene of carnage near Culloden.

“Christ, but,” he whispered, feeling the sweat break out anew across his forehead. “I knew I should ha’ stayed in Glasg’y. Aye, well, I’ll take ye … but ye’ll heed ma orders an’ dae exactly as I tell ye. Ye’ll run when I say run an’ ye’ll hide when I say hide, an’ if I say ye canna go any further, ye’ll nae go any further. Agreed?”

“We’ll need horses,” Catherine said crisply, sidestepping the need to answer. “And a cart or a wagon of some sort to bring back the wounded. And guns!”

The clansman rolled his eyes. Guns, wagons, horses!

“Lady Anne,” Deirdre said on a start. “What happened to Lady Anne?”

“I only ken she were wi’ the prince when the fightin’ started, an’ only because The MacGillivray sent her there tae be safe. But, well, Colonel Anne werena one tae obey any man’s orders—
like as some ithers I could mention.”

Deirdre brushed aside the sarcasm. “And you are certain you know nothing of our husbands, nothing of Aluinn MacKail or Alexander Cameron?”

The watery eyes flicked to one side. “I’m shamed tae say I were too busy seein’ after my ain hide tae take heed O’ too many ithers.”

“You have nothing to feel ashamed about,” Deirdre assured him, knowing by the number of bruises, cuts, and patches of blood on the clansman’s body he had given a good account of himself on the battlefield.

“Blankets,” Catherine snapped, reminding them of the urgency of their mission. “And whisky. We’ll take as much as we can carry.”

Deirdre nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

When she was gone, Catherine delayed the clansman a moment longer and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You do know something else, don’t you? Please, I beg you, sir. If you can tell me anything at all …”

The clansman looked down at his hands. “Aye. Aye, it’s about the lassie’s husband …”

Aluinn MacKail stared up at the dull, heavy cotton clouds that rolled across the sky. A pale, faintly luminous circle suggested there was indeed a sun up there somewhere, but just where it was or how far it had progressed toward the rim of mountains was anyone’s guess. Aluinn, personally, would have sworn it had not moved so much as an inch in the past few hours. But then neither had he.

It was just as well. Four … or was it five times now, groups of soldiers had tramped past and, because of his lack of movement, had assumed him to be as dead as the body of the redcoat he was pinned beneath. They would discover their oversight soon enough, he supposed. As soon as they began collecting their dead for burial, they would come to fetch this one and … well, perhaps they would be merciful after all.

Aluinn ran a thick and sourly furred tongue across his lips, wishing he could somehow turn his head just enough to lick at the dew coating the long deergrass. He had tried once already, but although he felt as if he should be able to stand up and walk away with a shrug and a mocking salute, he had heard the distinct crack of his spine when he had fallen, and he had not been able to rouse so much as a twitch since.

At least the pain had faded. Initially he had been left with some sensation in his arms and hands, but it had slowly receded and the chilling numbness had spread, inch by insidious inch. With any luck, the chill would reach his heart before the dragoons came and then he would not care what the butchers did when they found him. He just did not want to die like the others. He had heard them screaming, begging for mercy, shrieking with pain and humiliation as the soldiers cut into their living flesh. Men who had fought so valiantly and defended their honor so bravely—whether their cause was wrong or right, just or unjust—should at least be allowed the dignity of dying like men. They should not have to plead for mercy on a field of honor. They should not have to suffer the degradation of being stripped naked and left to bleed to death in agony, untended.

He parted his lips slightly, trying to suck in a deep lungful of air, but found he could barely manage a small gasp.

Good. It was a good sign … although he had thought the end was near an eternity ago and he was still here. Still breathing. Still able to think and see and hear and smell with remarkable clarity. If only he could move. Just a hand, Lord. A finger. He still held a loaded pistol, wrested from the bastard lying on top of him seconds before an obliging broadsword had ended the struggle in Aluinn’s favor. Unfortunately, the son of a bitch had had a healthy appetite, and had pitched forward with the thrust of the blade, taking Aluinn down with him. The damned rock had been sticking up just so, and …