The Pride of Lions (40 page)

“Glencoe has already been an’ gone,” Glengarry continued wearily. “Aye, an’ his kinsman, MacDonald of Scotus. We’ve all told the lad the same thing: Go home. The time’s nae right. Aye, we can fight in the mountains an’ we can raid oor neighbors tae the south, but it willna be shepherds an’ yellow-bellied merchants waitin’ f’ae us ayont the Tweed. It will be German George’s artillery an’ stiff-backed scarlet troops, heavy armed an’ eager tae spill oor bluid.”

“Does he bring any encouragin’ words from France?”

Glengarry screwed up his face. “He brings wha’ he wants tae bring. Nae troops, nae weepons, nae gold. Just a blind eye an’ a swelled heart, an’ faith he’ll have an army o’ Heelanders followin’ him tae the gates o’ London.”

“Has there been any word from The MacLeod or The MacDugal?”

The old man leaned sideways in his saddle and spit noisily onto the ground. “They didna trouble themsel’s tae reply tae the fairst two letters Wee Tearlach sent them. The third time it were young Clanranald hisself took the summons tae Skye, an’ he come back wi’ a message f’ae the bonnie laddie tellin’ him since he came wi nae troops, nae guns, nae money, he shouldna be surprised tae find nae army waitin’ f’ae him.”

Lochiel felt a crushing pain in his chest. MacLeod and MacDugal had been two of the most outspoken Jacobite supporters, boasting about how many men they could bring into the field to lead a Stuart uprising. With them both reneging so openly it meant others of lesser conscience
and means would not hesitate to follow their lead, placing the greater burden of responsibility on Lochiel and his fellow moderates.

Confirming Donald’s worst fears, Glengarry touched the side of his nose. “There are more than a few good men waitin’ tae see how ye call it, Donal’, afore they commit their own minds one way or t’ither. Dinna lead them wrong. Dinna choose in haste or we all suffer f’ae it. If ye believe we can fight an’ win, so be it; we’re wi’ ye. If ye dinna think we have a whore’s prayer f’ae saintdom, then we willna think any the less o’ ye f’ae yer courage in tellin the lad it’s so. I’m an auld mon, a foolish mon who dreams o’ seein’ a Scottish king on a Scottish throne again. I’d pledge ma soul tae the devil just tae see the
Sassenach
bastards driven back across the border where they belong. But I wouldna want tae be doin’ it just so’s the wee prince can sip his wine in comfort in Winchester.”

Donald’s heart had been leaden as he watched Glengarry ride away. If every laird in Scotland felt the same way, if that was all they were being asked to fight for—a free and independent Scotland—how different the circumstances would be! There were thirty thousand fighting men in the Highlands alone. United behind that single purpose, they could form an impenetrable wall across the border that no English—or German—king in his proper senses would dare challenge.

But that was not the Stuart dream. They wanted all of it: Scotland and England united under one monarch. It was an unrealistic goal and the one that was doing the most harm to the Prince’s cause. And in the eyes of the English it was also the single most damning factor, one that would unite all of England against them.

Glengarry had said a dozen lesser chiefs had eagerly pledged their support already, but only because—he suspected, unkindly—they knew their numbers would not influence the greater scheme of things one way or the
other. It was an unfair judgment, for their homes and lands and responsibilities were taken every bit as seriously as his own, but the harsh reality was that these same lairds could only pledge perhaps a hundred, two hundred, men at most. And two hundred fighting men out of thirty thousand simply did not tip the scales. As chief of the Camerons, Lochiel controlled the lives and destinies of five thousand men, women, and children. He could not enter into any commitment lightly, even though it galled him to think that someone, somewhere, might regard his act of caution as cowardice, his efforts at diplomacy merely a ruse to ingratiate himself with the Hanover government.

“Ah, Maura, ye were right,” he whispered. “All those years ago ye were right.”

Alexander leaned forward, and Lochiel waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. “ ’Tis naught but somethin’ Maura said tae me on our weddin’ night. She said we Highlanders possess the pride o’ lions. Like lions, we have nae fear tae temper our actions, only pride tae govern them.”

Stubborn Scottish pride, Catherine thought and dragged the stiff horsehair brush through her hair so furiously the strands crackled and flew about in a spray of sparks. Why had he not told her the truth behind the murder charges? Why had he not explained the reasons for his exile and the persecution by the Campbells that made it necessary for him to travel in disguise? The story of Annie MacSorley’s death had stunned Catherine. Where she had once feared to discover Alexander Cameron’s human qualities, she now knew he was not only human, but deeply scarred and terribly vulnerable.

Snatches of conversations and arguments came back to haunt her. The wretchedly caustic voice of her conscience, so recently awakened, gleefully took advantage of her new flood of guilty feelings and reminded her of each insult she had hurled, each accusation she had spat,
each occasion when she had called him cruel or heartless or incapable of expressing an emotion. Cruel? Heartless? Without emotion? He had killed two men for the love of a woman, accepted banishment from his home, his family, for the sake of averting a bloody clan war, and then tried his utmost to exorcise the demons that had haunted him by throwing himself into every reckless, dangerous enterprise he could find.

Catherine sighed and stared at her reflection. It was too late. What good did any of this remorse do her now? Nothing had changed. The same pride that had kept him silent before would continue to keep him silent now, even though he might be suffering from the same confused feelings she was having.

Why don’t you just admit you are in love with him?

Catherine’s eyes widened in shock. “No! I’m not!”

Oh, I think you are. And I think you have been fighting it for some time now … since the moment you saw him in the forest
.

“Don’t be ridiculous. There is no such foolery as love at first sight. For all I know there is no such thing as love. Not for me. Certainly not for him.”

Two of a kind, are you?

“Two complete opposites, as he has told me often enough.”

People say all manner of things in anger … or self-defense. And as virginal as you may have been in body, you must know his actions were not those of a man who simply craved a night of pleasure. You saw it in his eyes, remember? You saw it, and you reached out to him as desperately as he reached out to you
.

“No!” She pushed away from the dressing table and paced to the window. The storm that had been threatening earlier was lashing across the land in full force. The heavens cracked time and again with lightning; the thunder rolled over the castle battlements like muted cannonades. Trees were bent, whipped in half by the wind’s
fury, and the loch was churned white with spume, the surface bubbled with the driving rain.

“Love has to be more than just pleasure,” she insisted quietly. “And besides, if he … if he felt anything at all for me, why would he send me away? Why would he not ask me to stay, or suggest we try this marriage for real?”

Pride, Catherine. Or perhaps he doesn’t know how you feel
.

“How
I
feel?”

A jagged fork of lightning streaked across the night sky, strafing the crust of mountains, illuminating the landscape, and causing the castle foundations to tremble with the impact. Catherine reached out to catch the window shutters and lifted her face to the icy pinpricks of rain and wind.

Could you do it? Could you give up the parties, the seasons at court, the social prestige? Could you forfeit the simple things, like new ribbons for your hair whenever the fancy took you? Could you forsake all of it for a chance to share the life of a man like Alexander Cameron?

“I … I don’t know if I’m strong enough—”

You can be strong enough if you want him badly enough. It isn’t only
his
pride standing in the way, you know
.

Catherine opened her eyes and stared out at the raging storm. The front of her dress was soaked, her hair was wet and plastered to her skin.

“If I thought … if I dared believe …”

Believe it, Catherine. And tell him before it is too late
.

“Too late?” she whispered. “What do you mean, too late?”

There was no answer. There was only a sudden, blinding flare of lightning, so bright she had to throw her hand up to shield her eyes. It left an image seared on her mind of the same battlefield she had glimpsed once before. Standing alone, surrounded by a sea of clashing swords, was the same tall warrior she had seen the first time, only now, as he turned toward her, she could see
his face. There was no mistaking the square, rugged jaw or the blazing midnight eyes. And no way to warn him of the glittering ring of steel closing in around him as he raised his fists and clawed the sky with the bloodied talons of his fingers.…

19

I
t seemed to take an eternity to dispense with the formalities. Lochiel had been welcomed into the crowded great cabin of the
Du Teillay
with the enthusiasm accorded a long-lost relative. The Prince and his staff of seven advisers who had embarked with him from France had lavished food and drink on the Cameron chief, who, along with Alexander and a half dozen envoys from neighboring clans, were charmed and disarmed by his humble graciousness.

Charles Edward Stuart was the perfect host. He had deliberately dressed to downplay his heritage, wearing plain black breeches and a coat of cheap broadcloth. His shirt and stock were made of cambric, not very clean; his wig was sparsely curled and fit poorly over the pale copper hair beneath. He was a handsome man, a fact that added to the romantic aura that surrounded him, at least where the Jacobite ladies were concerned. His blue eyes were large and expressive, his nose thin and prominent, his mouth as prettily shaped as that of a woman. There was a calmness about him, an assuredness unhampered by his youth or inexperience. It was the confidence of royalty, of knowing his cause was right and just and that there could be, should be, no possible argument against it.

He was also a very clever prince, playing with the emotions and sentiments of his guests as if they were instruments to be finely tuned prior to a performance. The opening chords were struck without warning, without preamble, shortly before midnight.

“Now that you have toasted your loyalty to my father’s
cause, my faithful Lochiel, perhaps you will tell us what manner of support he may count upon from the beautiful glens of Lochaber.”

One by one the voices around the dining table fell silent and the earnest faces turned toward Donald. Even Alex, who had been aware of the subtle manipulation of the conversations all through the evening, looked to his brother to see if the experienced statesman had been expecting the trap to be sprung.

Alex had to admire the young man’s audacity. The dinner had been sumptuous; the wine had flowed like water. And now the regent planned to serve himself along with a hefty side dish of sentiment for dessert. He was, after all, a prince born to the royal house to which Lochiel had pledged eternal allegiance. This same royal prince had embarked against all odds, armed only with the might of his personal convictions and the hope of persuading—or shaming—his father’s subjects to join him in a holy war.

Lochiel set his empty glass on the table and waved away a servant who rushed over to fill it. “Perhaps, Yer Highness, ye could tell us first what support we might expect from yer cousin King Louis, an’ when it might arrive.”

The Prince’s smile did not waver. “As you know, my father’s cause has the full support of the French government. Even as we speak, Louis is conferring with his ministers to finalize the plans for a full-scale invasion of England, to be coordinated, naturally, with our own army’s march south.”

A rousing cheer was prompted by one of his advisers, the Reverend George Kelly, in a tactful attempt to forestall identifying exactly which army the Prince was referring to. This time Alex was not alone in glancing along the table, firm in his opinion of their host’s poor choice of companions. Kelly was thin-lipped and bald as an eagle, with the same predatory instincts. The Irishman, O’Sullivan, boasted some military experience, but discreetly
avoided giving references to specific battles fought. Sir Thomas Sheridan was seventy years old and had been Charles’s classroom tutor. William Murray, the exiled Marquis of Tullibardine, was so crippled by the gout he could not walk without a stick. Aeneas MacDonald was a Paris banker whose only function as far as anyone could determine was to enlist the aid of his elder brother, the chief of Kinlochmoidart. Francis Strickland was the sole Englishman in the group, a Roman Catholic from Westmoreland whose family had always been loyal to the Stuarts. At the moment both he and the seventh member of the elite assembly, Sir John MacDonald, appeared to be more interested in the quality of the claret than the conversation—as if they had heard it all before.