Twenty-Five

They crept into Cork on a thick band of fog. It hugged the coast and spilled inland, following the contours of the Lough Mahon and wending its way up the River Lee. As they approached the city, the sound of muffled cannon fire and ringing bells warned of the position of other ships, and an occasional gust of wind parted the mist, revealing a glimpse of docks and quays and the blue skies and brilliant sun that promised a fine day.

Before the fog had lifted, they’d acquired mounts and supplies and were ready to start the last leg of their journey to County Tipperary and Jamie’s Irish home. Jamie had arranged for their baggage to follow with Sullivan, though he kept two flasks of wine and two of brandy to warm them on their trek.

“It’s heartening to see that you never lose sight of your priorities,” Catherine observed as he packed them carefully in the saddlebags.

“Would you care for a swig? It will take the morning chill from the air.” She shook her head no, but held out her hand anyway. Crooking an eyebrow, he handed her the flask.

“What I’d really love is coffee,” she said before handing it back.

Once the fog had burnt away, the weather was crisp and clear and they made good time, camping that night on the banks of the Blackwater River. The steep heights of the Knockmealdown Mountains lay to the east, and the Galties were visible farther to the north and west. They roasted a hare over the fire for supper and sat sharing whiskey and conversation in the circle of warmth and light cast by the fire. Under a glittering ceiling of stars, they argued over politics and debated philosophy and religion, their conversation punctuated by the hiss and pop of burning logs and the occasional sound of laughter.

“Sometimes, when the world is grand like this,” Jamie said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, “and other times, when I’ve been in danger, I’ve found myself almost believing in… something.”

“My father used to say that all men are believers when they’re staring down the barrel of a musket, yet sometimes, when I’ve been in danger, I’ve found myself fearing it’s all a big hoax, and there’s nothing to it at all.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jamie guffawed and they both broke into helpless laughter.

“You’re a bad girl, Cat Drummond! The kind who could lead a lonely soul all the way to perdition.”

Catherine glanced at him quickly, then looked away.

Jamie rose, stretched, and threw another log on the fire. “Best sleep now, love. We’ve a long way to go tomorrow. I’d like to make it past the Galty Mountains and push on to the River Suir.”

She curled up close to the fire, wrapping her blanket around her. He was singing quietly to himself as he checked their perimeter, his voice rich, warm, and mellow. A moment later, he dropped to the ground beside her. She could hear his even breathing just a heartbeat away. Are you lonely, Jamie Sinclair? she thought, aching to hold him. I’m here, right beside you. He didn’t stir, and after a while, she slept.

Midway through the next morning, they approached the Galties, which seemed to rise out of nowhere from the middle of a fertile plain. Jamie pointed out the highest summit, Mount Galtymore, and told Catherine of the mysterious round lakes that were said to be found nearby.

“Can we climb up to see them?”

“Haven’t you had enough of climbing your Highland mountains?”

“I miss them. It will give me a little taste of home.”

It seemed a small thing to ask, even in late November, particularly from someone who’d stood by him as she had—and in truth, he was curious himself. Laughing and cursing, they scrambled up the slope, leaving their horses when the going got steep, passing gorse, wild sheep, and heather on the way.

“Just as I thought. It’s as bad as Scotland,” Catherine said, stopping to catch her breath as they finally approached the top.

“You’ve quite gone to seed from tripping about London in your pretty high-heeled shoes,” he said, reaching down to grasp her hand and haul her up beside him.

“I’ll have you know I… Oh, Jamie, it’s magnificent!”

They sat side by side on a rock on the summit, hot and perspiring despite the coolness of the day. A pair of eagles soared overhead. To the south from whence they’d come, ridges of mountains folded into one another layer upon layer. In the far distance, they could see the ocean.

To the west, a little below the crest, they found a hollow with a perfectly circular lake about two acres in size.

“Well, I’ll be damned, mouse! I swear this must be a volcanic crater.”

“I suspect you’re right. Look back at the summit. It’s shaped like a perfect cone.”

They took most of the afternoon to explore, finding two more lakes as they made their descent. Jamie was almost as hungry as Catherine was when they finally set up camp on the floor of the valley. The weather had been splendid for the time of year and, with luck, the next day they’d reach the River Suir. He watched, impressed, as she laid a fire, sitting back on her haunches and nursing it into a strong and steady burn. She was good company. Everything a man could want or hope for in a comrade or friend, but he should have dragged her from the coach and locked her in her room in London. He usually took good care of his own, but not this time. Caroline Ware’s attack had dealt a serious blow and he’d been unwilling, unable, to turn Catherine’s friendship away. It left him in a quandary. Despite her refusal of him in London, he couldn’t miss her interest. She was an eager armful practically begging to be plucked. He smiled to think of her reaction if he told her so.

“Is something amusing you? Would you care to share the jest?”

“Nothing, love. Pull in your claws.”

What to do? He’d come close to claiming her the night she’d been stalked by James, but despite their encounter in the cave, she was an innocent in the game of love. He had no wish to hurt, and innocents were too easily wounded. His lovers had all been women of the world. They took what they wanted and then they were done. But Catherine looked at him with searching eyes. She sought something he couldn’t give, and to pretend otherwise would be cruel.

If only she’d stop parading in front of him with her shapely legs and tight breeches. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she did it on purpose. It was a deuced awkward position to be in, one’s wife a starry-eyed innocent and loyal friend—and a hot and eager vixen just waiting to be fucked. He jumped up and went to stir the fire. A chill had followed them down the mountain and even standing by the flames, he could see his breath. “I’m going to sleep.” He tossed her the horse blankets and his coat. “Your teeth are chattering. Go to bed.”

Dissatisfied, disgruntled, sour, and now cold, he watched her sleep. She lay there, a warm, enticing bundle, a bastion against the cold. He moved closer to the fire and sat cross-legged with his sword across his lap, and hugged himself against the chill. She was just feet away. If he reached out, he could share her heat. He sighed and leaned back against the tree trunk and tried to get some sleep.

A loud shriek wrenched him from his dreams and he leapt to his feet looking wildly about. It was just past dawn and her sleeping pile was empty. He whirled to look behind him at the sound of splashing, and relaxed when he saw her scrambling up the riverbank, dripping wet.

“I’m sorry to wake you. I slipped on the rocks and the water’s bloody cold. Look!” she said proudly, hefting two fine brown trout.

“Now how did you manage that?”

“I’m a very resourceful woman.”

“I’ve never doubted it.”

“I had fishing line and hooks in my pack.”

“You did? How did you know we’d be camping along the way?”

“I didn’t. Ever since I was a girl, I’ve always carried hook and line. My father taught me how to fish. He said one should always carry it—we were surrounded by water, and that way I’d never go hungry.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want that! Most of the ladies I know carry brushes and combs, fans and powders and whatnot. You are by far the most singular woman of my acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly, wondering if he mocked her.

“Well, we’d best get you dried out.” But November had caught up with them. Heavy clouds were racing in and stacking up against the mountains. “Never mind. We need to find some shelter. Here, take that off and take my shirt.” He gave her his coat, warm from his body, and watched with amusement as she hid behind the tree to put it on. “Better hurry, love. It’ll be upon us soon.” Even as he said it there was the plink, plink, plink of rain.

The temperature was dropping and by noon, they were buffeted by gusts of gale-force winds mixed with sleet, stinging pellets, and flakes of snow. Catherine wished she’d listened to Jamie earlier and removed her wet breeches. She’d never dried out, she’d never warmed up, her skin was almost blue, and her teeth chattered from the cold.

“There’s an abandoned cottage just ahead. It’ll see us though this storm,” Jamie shouted back over his shoulder.

A few minutes later, she saw it; a solid looking stone and timber-framed cottage almost swallowed by bushes and ivy, half-hidden by a copse of trees and the driving rain. It was too hard to hear over the howl of the wind, and as Jamie reached for her reins, he motioned her inside. Bending her head into the gale, Catherine fought her way to the cottage door while Jamie took care of the horses, leading them to a sturdy lean-to and settling them nose to tail. Catherine forced the door to the cottage with a heave of her shoulder, and as it sprung open, she almost fell inside. The interior was quiet as a churchyard compared to the wailing din outside.

She looked around, straining to see in the dim light. As her eyes adjusted, shadows took on form and she saw sacks of grain and potatoes, and stacks of wood and coal. The cottage was well stocked, if sparsely furnished, and she blew on her fingers, rubbing to warm them, then knelt by the grate and began building a fire. A moment later the door blew open with an icy blast, and Jamie followed it inside. She leapt up to close it, struggling to hold back the tempest, as he set their packs and her fish on a table inside. A moment later, he was at her shoulder, and with a shove and a kick, the storm was shut outside.

“Why are you still wet, mouse? Do you want to catch your death? Get out of those clothes and get warmed up, and I’ll take care of dinner and a fire.” He tossed her some blankets from a chest in the corner and turned his back as she hurried to remove her boots and sodden clothes. “In,” he said pointing to a cot set in the corner directly across from the hearth.

Wrapped in her blankets, Catherine crawled under the covers and turned onto her side, watching him as he went about his work. He set her clothes and boots in front of the fire. His hair was wet and tangled, plastered against his neck and chest, and his wet shirt clung to his torso like a second skin. She watched the play of muscle as his back flexed and tensed and he busied himself, humming, reaching for this thing and that.

“Aren’t you going to dry your shirt, too?”

“Mmmm? Oh, yes, once the fire’s going strong and it’s warmed up a bit.”

“How did you know where to find this place, and why is it so well stocked?”

“It’s a little off the beaten path, isn’t it? I passed this way before on campaign and stumbled upon it by accident. I don’t know why it was abandoned, but it had been for some time. It belonged to someone killed or displaced during Cromwell’s day, I expect. A man like me needs a bolt-hole or three. I try to keep it stocked and check on it whenever I’m in Ireland. You must pretend you’ve never seen it, mouse. Even Sullivan doesn’t know it’s here.” He poured her a healthy tumbler of whiskey, and came over to sit by the bed. “Here. It will help to warm your belly.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said, trying to keep her eyes from roaming the ridges banding his stomach. “Are you going to do anything with my fish?”

The storm continued unabated throughout the afternoon and into the evening. The cottage was well built. It was snug, and with a fire, it was soon cozy. They dined on fish and potatoes, and Jamie’s shirt now hung alongside Catherine’s clothes. He lounged on the floor beside her, bare-chested, one knee bent, an arm resting against the bunk. They joked and chatted, passing the whiskey back and forth, their voices a quiet counterpoint to the wind that wailed and moaned outside.

“How long do you think this rain will last?” she ventured.

“I don’t know, love. Perhaps it’s a flood of biblical proportions, sent to wash away a saucy-bottomed strumpet in breeches and boots and a traitorous, womanizing rogue.”

Catherine had lost track of how much whiskey she’d had. At first, it was to warm herself and stop the shivering, and then it was to muster her courage. If she wanted to keep him, she had to catch him first, and after she’d rebuffed him, he wasn’t going to make a move to claim her. He’d told her in London to tell him when she knew her mind. Well, she knew it now. It will be tonight.

He continued talking: about the lakes they’d found on Galtymore, and his frustration over recent political events. His voice was as rich and melodious as when he sang. His scars were revealed in the flickering light from the fire, and she tried to read them as she would a map. Those that were thin and white were from his childhood. Her heart clenched at the thought. There her uncle, and there a sword wound, and there… she winced at the angry scar on his chest. That one Donald’s man had given him with a hot iron. Her fingers reached out of their own volition to touch and soothe, but, uncertain, they hovered and withdrew.

“Catherine, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Jeffreys is a monster, Churchill can’t be trusted, all William cares about is Holland, and James is a fool.”

“Am I that predictable? No more talk of politics. Tell me about you. Tell me about your father, and how you came to be so fierce.”

She blinked and sat up, frustrated and flustered, turning to face him with the blanket wrapped around her legs and her back against the wall. I’ve absolutely no idea how to seduce a man. She was a Drummond, though, and if strumpets and witches and empty-headed courtiers could do it, then she could too.

“I will if you come up here and sit beside me. I’m cold.”

“You should get back under the covers.”

“The room moves around me and my head gets dizzy whenever I lie down.”

“Ah!” He plucked the bottle from her and set it on the floor before settling down beside her.

“What do you want to know?” She wondered if she should go back to wearing dresses.

“From everything you’ve told me, your father was a good man, yet you seem so unhappy whenever you speak about him.”

“Of course I do. He died the year before we met.”

“I’d swear there’s more to it than that.”

She sighed, giving up any pretense of seduction. She was what she was and that was that. She told him of her father and how he’d raised her as a son, grooming her as his successor, but refusing to name her chief. “I did all that I could to be worthy of it, and of him, but in the end he tried to sell me off like chattel, just like any other girl.”

“Not like any other girl, Cat. Women like you are expected to marry, but few are allowed any choice. If he’d been a crofter he might have had the luxury of putting you first, and then you could have married the sheepherder of your choice instead of a debauched, black-hearted cur, but you’d never have been allowed to parade about as gloriously as you do. You’d have had a babe slung over your back and a scythe in one hand before you were fourteen. That’s no fit life for you.”

“I know. I don’t blame him for it anymore. That’s not what saddens me. I was childish, selfish, and stupid. I… I told him I hated him, Jamie. I cursed him and told him I’d never forgive him. That’s how things stood between us when he died, and now he’ll never know how much I loved him, how much I appreciated… how much he meant. He used to carry me on his shoulders, you know, when I was a child, and I thought I was the queen of the world. We’d go fishing, just him and me. He made the most beautiful flies from peacock feathers while he told me stories, and he’d lift me up and put me on the saddle in front of him and we’d go galloping…”

“He knew, Cat. Of course, he knew! You were only doing what any worthy young heir should do, what he taught you to—standing up for yourself and fighting for what you thought was yours. He was probably pleased and proud behind his bluster.” He gave her a hug and the tears spilled down her cheeks.

“You see! This is why I don’t like to talk about it. Now look what you’ve made me do!” She dabbed at her eyes with her blanket, and pulled away from his arms. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was trying to seduce you. And look at me now. My eyes are red and puffy and no doubt so is—”

He growled low in his throat, spread his fingers though her hair, and pulled her mouth to his in a kiss that devoured her. She whimpered as he pushed her back into the mattress, covering her body with his own. His hands roamed her surface, rough and demanding, tugging at her blanket, bunching the material and rasping it across her belly and her breasts as he worked to set her free. She gasped and arched into him as it brushed across her nipples, sending an exquisite throbbing thrilling to her core. His tongue plunged in and out of her mouth in urgent rhythm, matched by the movement of his hips, and she sought eagerly to meet him, opening herself to him and following where he led. Nudging her legs open, he spread them wider with his knee. Wrapping one arm around her, he encircled her waist, jerking her hard against him and grinding his straining erection in the valley between her legs. Groaning his satisfaction when he found her naked skin through her blankets, he caught a nipple between his fingers and thumb. She moaned and rose against him, begging him for more, and he complied, his lips joining his fingers to tease and play.

She began to rock against him, clutching at his back, whispering into his hair, “Please, Jamie, please.”

He returned his lips to hers as his fingers tugged and tweaked, silencing her pleading with his kiss. She smelled like the Highlands, tasted as sweet as her whiskey and he—

“Damnation! Bloody hell! Ah good Christ, mouse, I can’t.” He let her go and sat up, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I swear it’s true, Sinclair! You’re just like Lord Summerset—capable with every species of woman but your lawful wife!” she snapped, perilously close to tears again.

“I assure you I’m more than capable in your presence, love,” he said, clasping her hand and pressing it against his swollen penis, “but I’m reminded that you’ve drunk more than a few tots of whiskey. The last time we did this I don’t remember, and you won’t remember if we do it now. I’ve been an errant fumbler with politics and with women, and the only things I’ve excelled at are drinking, cards, and war, but I promise you this, when next I make love to you, it will be something you’ll remember the rest of your life.”

Though it almost killed him, he adjusted her blankets, and pulled the covers up to her chin, then gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “Now be a good girl and go to sleep.” He settled on the floor beside her. What in hell is wrong with me?

“It’s cold. There’s room for you here if you like.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

They lay in silence, but for the sound of the slates vibrating on the roof, and the sleet and hail battering the windows.

“Jamie?”

“Yes?”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Too much.”

“You won’t remember any of this in the morning, will you?”

“No, love. I won’t remember a thing.”