an omen of things to come.
Prestonpans
2
A t almost the same instant Damien and Catherine were directing their prayers toward the heavens, an equally impassioned cry was ringing out across a glistening, dewladen moor more than two hundred miles away. With Alexander Cameron’s darkly chiseled features looming over her, Lauren Cameron curled her fingers deeper into the glossy black shanks of his hair and guided his mouth down over the taut and straining peak of her breast. Her body arched and writhed into the eager boldness of his caresses. Her limbs felt engorged with blood, leaden and useless against sensations she had no means of controlling.
“Oh, God, Alasdair.” She gasped. “God …”
With a grunt of urgency, his body slid forward, impaling her on a thrust of flesh so hot and turgid the air that had hissed through her teeth was drawn sharply inward again. Her lips trembled open and her eyes quivered shut. Her whole body became engulfed in flames of crimson ecstasy, and when he began to move within her, it was all she could do to claw her hands into the rock-hard flesh of his buttocks and pray she could retain consciousness. A single mass of pulsating nerves, she groaned in awe and braced herself against the quickening thrusts, plunging headlong into wave after wave of intense, searing rapture. Her head thrashed side to side, further scattering the cloud of titian hair beneath them. Her lips moved, but no sounds came forth, and her hands slid on his gleaming flanks as she strained to take more of him, take all of him, unmindful that each shocking impact sent her skidding on the wet deergrass.
With an echoing groan of mindless pleasure, he arched his magnificent torso upward, no longer concerned with fighting his conscience as a rush of ecstasy burst from his loins. A cry rattled deep in his throat, the shape of it unintelligible as Lauren began to convulse beneath him. So violent were her spasms and so desperate was his own need for release that barely had his senses recovered from one onslaught then he could feel the juices rising in him again … and again … each shuddering eruption prolonged for what seemed an eternity.
Finally, when the tumult subsided and he collapsed, panting and sweating within her welcoming arms, there were tears of joy and triumph welling hotly along her lashes.
“I knew ye would come tae me, Alasdair. I knew ye would.”
The day had begun long before the sun had risen, long before the stars had lost any of their brightness and could still be seen through the lazy mist that cloaked the land. The Highland forces were camped on a field surrounding the small village of Duddington, directly east of Edinburgh. Less than four miles away, near the coastal town of Prestonpans, General Sir John Cope and his government troops were bedding down to a comfortable and refreshing night’s sleep, no doubt chuckling over the fancy display of rebel footwork they had witnessed that day.
Cope had chosen his position well. He had the sea at his back, a wide clear plain on either flank—ably protected by rows of silently ominous artillery pieces—and an impenetrable morass of mud and swampland guarding against any manner of frontal attack. The rebel army, bristling for a confrontation, had tested Cope’s defenses that day, appearing at first light on his left flank, only to find themselves staring into the black maws of primed and waiting cannon. They had circled back to re-form on his right, a maneuver that had taken three hours to execute and Cope only minutes to swivel his guns to defend.
Prince Charles had grudgingly but wisely ordered his army back to Duddington where he had then convened his chiefs and generals for a hasty council of war.
“Gentlemen,” he said loudly, overriding several heated arguments that were in progress over the day’s events. “There must be some way of dislodging General Cope from that plain!”
“Cope is a seasoned campaigner,” advised Lord George Murray,