Book two of the Scotland Trilogy, carrying the story of Catherine and Alexander onto the battlefield at Culloden.

After marrying a mysterious stranger and being carried away to his highland stronghold, English beauty Catherine Ashbrooke falls passionately in love with her husband, Jacobite Alex Cameron. For her own safety, Alex forces Catherine to return to England and stay at her family's home.

For weeks, Catherine impatiently awaits word from Alex, but none comes until the night he boldly climbs through her window. Unable to keep away from her, Alex risks his life to spend one glorious evening in her bed. That one night turns into days and weeks while Catherine's parents are away.

The lovers relish playing their dangerous game of cat and mouse with the English soldiers until they are caught by Alex's nemesis and her ex-fianc, Hamilton Garner. Not only do their lives hang in the balance, but the fate of a kingdom and that of Bonnie Prince Charlie do as well. Using her wit, her beauty and her brain, Catherine pits herself against her enemies and brings the tension to a climax at the bloody, bitter battle of Culloden. Marsha Canham continually demonstrates that she is an author of rare talents. She completely captures the essence of a time and place with an emotional intensity that stuns and thrills readers.

THE BLOOD OF ROSES is her gift to readers who have patiently awaited the conclusion to Catherine and Alex's love story. There is enough action to excite you, history to enthrall you and romance to enrapture you. It is a near-perfect historical romance.
FIVE STAR REVIEW
Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

One look into Alex’s face had told Catherine how reluctant he was to have to entrust her safety into other hands, however capable and fearsomely adequate those calloused hands might be. And even though she was quaking with fears of her own, she knew she could not let Alex see them. Not now. Not when they both needed to know the other was strong enough to go on alone.

"How can love be frightening?" she had once asked Lady Maura Cameron.

"When it consumes you. When it blinds you to all other considerations...then it can destroy as easily as it can save."

Catherine understood Maura’s wisdom now. As strong and indomitable, as brash and fearless as Alexander was in all other respects, he possessed one glaring weakness; his love for her. It could very well blind him to his responsibilities, and it could very well destroy him if he was too preoccupied with her safety to worry about his own.

She had to be strong. Now, more than ever, she had to prove herself worthy of the Cameron name, deserving the love of the man who stood before her.

She looked up and their eyes met. A soft, thoughtful smile sent her arms up and around his broad shoulders.

"Ten hours, you say? In that case, my lord, may we declare that for the sake of expediency, that all the usual warnings have been duly delivered and understood, freeing us to put our time and energies to better use?"

Alex narrowed his eyes warily. "Have you anything special in mind?"

"Special?" She reached up and pressed her lips to his. "As in special...or simply something to keep our thoughts warm until we are together again at Achnacarry?"

Some--not all--of the guarded look in his eyes faded and was replaced by a gleam of admiration. "If it is your intent to make this night more memorable than any other we have spent together, I confess I am at a genuine loss, madam, to know how to go about it."

"Has your imagination finally run dry?"

"Has yours?"

Her lips returned to his for a moment, although her eyes remained wide open and obviously intrigued by the challenge.

"My choice," she warned softly, "would mean playing by my rules."

"Name them."

She broke her mouth away and smiled the kind of promissory smile that stood the hairs across his neck on end.

"Only one rule, I think. And that is that you are not to move until I tell you you may. Not one muscle, not one finger, not one eyelash."

"Interesting." He bent his dark head to the crook of her throat and, locating the pulse beneath her ear, began ravishing it with a predator’s instinct for knowing his prey’s weakest points. "And what do I win for my trouble?"

Her eyes shivered open with an effort. One small caress and her body was swamped with cravings, her senses giddy with anticipation. "Win?"

"Every game should provide some incentive for winning, don’t you agree?"

"Oh. Well, yes, but--"

"If I win," he said, straightening and folding his arms across his chest. "I want a prize."

"A prize...? Very well..." She ran her tongue across her lips to moisten them. "If you win, I shall climb up onto the roof of our tower at Achnacarry at precisely nine o’clock every evening and stand there quite naked, thinking lewd and lascivious thoughts about you."

"Creative. And if you win?"

"If I win...I shall still climb up onto the roof every night, but I shall think only the stern, celibate thoughts of a matron, and I shall do so swathed in wools and flannels and thick tartan underpinnings."

His grin widened slowly. "I like the first option better."

"Then I shouldn’t move, if I were you." She moved closer, reached up and started unlacing the front of his shirt. With far more care than was necessary, she peeled the linen back off his broad shoulders and chased it down his arms, positioning his hands firmly and deliberately by his sides as she did so. When he stood bare chested in front of her, she ran her hands over each curve and muscle, stroking and exploring as if she were a sculptor checking for flaws in the texture and molding of the final masterpiece. There were none. The scars he bore were his badges and she pressed her lips over each one, exploring the finest lines and creases without haste, lingering on those she knew he had earned since she had become his wife...and some he had earned because she had become his wife.

Alex did not move. Not when her nimble fingers unsnapped the buckle at his waist and sent his kilt sliding down around his ankles. Not even when those same feathery fingers skimmed down the flat plane of his belly and danced over the coarse nest of curling black hair at his groin.

Compelled to further boldness, she cradled the heaviness of his flesh in her hands, caressing the shapes and contours, feeling that most formidable part of him grow lighter and lighter until it stood conspicuously on its own.

"I presume you took into account the one exception to your rule," he murmured blithely.

"A minor infraction. It is allowed."

His feigned indifference prompted her to increasingly brazen ministrations, but although there was now a distinct, throbbing tautness in every muscle and sinew, he remained mute and did not react. He stared at the fire, his rough-cut hair framing his face in waves of black silk, his square, chiselled features reflecting the golden light from the flames. His skin seemed to absorb the warmth and in turn, reflected it outward, intoxicating her with the heady, masculine scent of woodsmoke and heather. Such familiar territory these rugged planes and ridges, these bands of muscle and coverings of sleek black hair. Yet, each time she saw him unclothed, or watched him walk from one side of the room to the other gloriously unmindful of his own nudity or the effect it had upon her, she blushed as fiery hot as an innocent bride. She could feel the slow burn rising in her cheeks now, blooming with a quick brightness when she realized his eyes had closed and his flesh had bucked once in her hands.

"My apologies," he murmured. "It has been a long day, full of unexpected tensions."

She looked down at the pearly evidence of just how tense he had been and she felt her blush darken.

"I should think you would know by now the effect you have on me, madam, and that this will in no way affect the outcome of your little game. I warrant, it may even improve it."

"You sound very sure of yourself, my lord."

"On the contrary. I feel at a distinct disadvantage."

She followed his gaze to the row of tiny seed pearl buttons that fastened the front of her robe, then arched her brow as she looked back up at him. "Would you like me to take it off?"

"That would be...more equitable."

Smiling, she raised her hands and teased each button from its satin loop. When the bodice gaped open to the waist, she released the wide sash and shrugged the garment to the floor.

Beneath it, she wore a luminous cloud of fine muslin, full in the sleeves and daintily pleated from the top of the demure neckline to the high, gathered waist. A chaste gown by normal standards, it was rendered all but transparent in the glare of the fire.

A tic in Alexander’s cheek shivered to life. "If I promise not to touch anything I am not supposed to touch...?"

His voice prompted a moist shudder deep within her, but she smiled the offer away. "I have no doubt you are a man of your word, Sir Rogue. But I am quite capable of managing on my own."

She pulled the topmost ribbon at her throat and left the ends trailing down, leading her fingers to the next in line...and the next. His eyes followed every move, still the predator’s eyes, but watchful now, wary of traps. Any tension his body may have released was replenished twofold, his flesh rising bold and rigid against his belly again, pulsing gently as more and more soft white flesh came into view.

Catherine slipped the last bow free and turned back the opened edges of the bodice, pushing the muslin aside just enough to cause another tic to quiver in his cheek. Impudently, she ran her fingertips down into the deep, shadowy cleft between her breasts, and slowly dragged them upward again, brushing the filmy layer of muslin farther apart on each pass.

The taunting strokes brought the dark eyes back up to hers, the smoldering centers warning of imminent danger.

"Not one muscle," she admonished.

This time when the dark eyes descended, she heard a thin hiss of air escape his lips. Her nipples were bared, standing firm and proud, and so tightly crinkled she shivered at the next pass of her fingertips.

The nightdress went the way of the robe and she raised her arms, stretching sinuously before the fire. Tilting her head to one side, she began drawing out the steel pins and fine filigreed combs that had been keeping her hair neatly confined. The shining curls spilled over the sloping whiteness of her shoulders like a turbulent waterfall, the gold and silver threads caught the sheen of the firelight and seemed to gild her body in flames. She combed her fingers through the heavy waves to loosen them, aware of his eyes following her every move, of his toes curling into the carpet for added restraint.

She reached for the decanter of brandy and splashed some into a crystal wine glass.

"I am a little thirsty myself," he said, his teeth flashing in a grin that was part wolfish, part bluster.

"I was not planning on drinking it," she said calmly, watching his face as she dipped a finger into the glass and swirled the amber liquid around and around. Glistening wet, her finger moved back to her breast and deposited a bright, amber droplet on the nipple. She allowed it to sparkle intact for a moment before smoothing it into all the tiny creases and puckers, then dipped her finger again, painting streaks of brandy across her breasts and up to the soft arch of her throat, lavishly enough that a thin, shiny rivulet trickled down over her stomach and disappeared between her thighs.

"An inventive use for brandy," he murmured. "But rather sticky."

"I had an inventive teacher. And it is only sticky if you fail to remove it properly." Dipping her fingers again, she stepped forward and painted the brandy on the dark disc of his nipple then used her tongue to lap it clean. "You see? Quite clean...although, one must be quite thorough as well."

All five fingers were soaked now and Alex did not have to follow the motion of her hand from the glass to his body to know where she was bound with her further devilment. And in truth, he could not have moved if he had wanted to at that particular moment. The shock of feeling her slippery fingers close around his flesh was nearly as devastating as the penetrating heat of brandy where it came in contact with his skin.

Abandoning his nipple, she followed the path she had painted down to his belly, then lower, where the brandy had been spread with such loving care and proved to be exceedingly stubborn to remove.

"I never taught you this," he said hoarsely.

"Perhaps not this particular embellishment," she conceded, gazing at the formidable result of her handiwork. "But you must admit, the effect is admirable."

"Only admirable, you say?"

With a shriek of surprise and a swirl of scattered blonde tresses, Catherine was swept up into his arms and carried to the bed. The brandy glass was snatched out of her hand as she was deposited on the satin counterpane and, without wasting time on ceremony or finesse, the contents were dribbled in a fiery stream from her throat to her toes.

"You moved," she gasped. "You lose."

The curve in his mouth scorned her briefly before he turned his attention to the shiny amber puddle between her breasts. His lips and tongue chased greedily after the spreading runnels of brandy, licking it eagerly from her flesh, tracking down every last drop and drizzle with meticulous care. He suckled the sweetness from every ridge and wrinkle on her nipples, then lured great mouthfuls of opulent flesh into the well of his mouth, holding it there until she was shivering and arching into each rolling thrust of his tongue.

Smoothing his hand over the gentle roundness of her belly, he followed the path the brandy had taken between her thighs. His fingers stroked into the dampened thatch of tight gold curls and he lavished the trembling folds of flesh with the liquor, his forays at first light and charitable, but as the first waves of pleasure rippled through her body, he deepened his strokes, introducing more brandy, more pressure.

Catherine tensed around each deep stroke, her hips rising and falling, her cries turning to pleas, her nails threatening to tear ribbons of skin from his arms and shoulders. Only then did he shift the weight of his body between her thighs, thrusting himself and the heat of the brandy deep, deep inside. He was in no hurry to ease her torment, however, and curled his fingers into her hair forcing her to look up into his face, his eyes dark and gleaming, watchful...waiting....

And Catherine knew, suddenly, why. The warmth from the brandy began to flare along the length of his flesh, spreading outward and inward until its effects could even be felt flushing across the surface of her skin. Her cry was urgent, desperate, her eyes wide in amazement and disbelief, feeling every inch of his fullness where it stretched and swelled and throbbed within her. He seemed to know the precise moment when the heat became too much to bear without movement and he began thrusting with strong, powerful strokes. She tightened around him, lashed herself around him, convulsing wildly, fiercely, joyously around each rise and fall of his hips until the pleasure crested in a blur of movement and unrelenting ecstasy.

Gasping, straining to share every last shiver of molten heat, they clung to each other, reeling under the exquisite sensation of knowing they could never again become two separate beings, could never exist one without the other. Startled groans and wet, slippery flesh sent their bodies rolling apart, damp and panting onto the cool bed sheets.

"Never," he said through a gasp, "try to teach the teacher a lesson, madam."

"Especially not one who cannot grasp the notion of fair play."

He laughed and drew her into his arms, brushing the pad of his thumb gently over the tears that spiked her lashes. "Fair play be damned," he murmured with a grin. "Buaidh no bas."

"Which means...?"

"Victory or death. No room for surrender...or fair play."

Catherine smiled wistfully and curled up against the welcoming curve of his big body. She was already painfully aware that he was not a man given to surrendering....in matters of love or war. But with the one there did not always have to be a clear winner or a clear loser; there were times when both of them benefitted immeasurably from the other’s stubbornness.

In war, however, the rules were more defined. Someone won, someone lost. The more stubborn the contenders, the more bloody the defeat.

Victory or death. There would be no such thing as compromise, not for a man like Alexander Cameron, and not for a nation of men and women who lived and died on the strength of their courage and honor.