Beloved Imposter (22 page)

“I am, as well,” she said. “The king—”

She stopped suddenly.

“What about the king?”

“He arranged the marriage,” she said in little more than a whisper. “So you see, I can be a valuable hostage.”

“You would go back to Dunstaffnage, to a marriage you abhor for your cousin?”

“Aye,” she said in a small voice.

“It would be a poor bargain for Macleans,” he said curtly. “Campbells will not attack Inverleith as long as I hold the heir. And why bargain with you, when I already have you?”

“You will not harm him?”

“Not as long as he is of use to me.”

“I want to see him.”

He gave her a long, level stare. “I think not.” He went to the door and paused there. “You will not leave this room.”

“I want to see Alina.”

“You were ready to leave her easily enough,” he said.

“Not easily,” she whispered. “Not easily at all.”

He hesitated, then nodded his head. “Just the two rooms. I want your word that you will not go beyond them. If you do, you will be confined to this one.”

She swallowed hard. The heat she’d felt so recently had turned to ashes, cold and bitter. She shivered.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to warm, but then he turned away. “I will send Robina to you. And some water. It appears you need a bath.”

And then he was gone.

She leaned against the wall, drained by all the emotions that had just rampaged through her. Her heart became a great yawning hole.

She didn’t know the man who had just left. She had thought she had learned something about him, but she knew now it was not nearly enough.

She did not know what he would do.

God’s blood but she was a mystery to him. Or was it sorcery? Why else had he kissed her?

She had stood so bravely in front of him, her face smudged and her shorn hair, dark with soot, clinging to her face. She looked like a sprite who had been hiding in the woods.

Her hair, the coppery curls, were gone, and he could not even imagine what the loss had cost her. And she had obviously cut it before he had returned. To run away from Inverleith. From him.

She had not given him a chance to help her. It was astounding how much that realization hurt.

Neither had he been able to block the jealousy that had flooded him when he discovered she would risk all for her cousin, and that the young Campbell would risk all for her. Her eyes had softened when she talked of him, when she had said she would do anything to help him.
Anything.
Even, apparently, bed Rory.

She had not trusted him at all. She still did not trust him. He felt he still did not have the full story behind her escape. What woman would flee her home alone? Where had she planned to go after London? Had she hoped Campbell would flee with her?

The church frowned upon unions between first cousins, but still they occurred.

He had no right to jealousy. He had no hold on her, could never have one. Campbells and Macleans did not marry. The one time they did had ended in disaster.

Her family would never permit a union. Neither, he knew, would his. They were already aching for James Campbell’s blood. It was complete irony—or the devil’s doing—that the only woman who had even tempted him in nearly a decade belonged to the family that had cursed his.

More than tempted. God’s blood, but he had found something in her that had restored at least part of his heart.

All he had, really, was a weapon he did not want, but, for the sake of his clan, would be forced to use. And if Felicia Campbell wasn’t lying about the interest of the king—and why would she?—then he had two. If Morneith wanted her, he would pay handsomely for her return.

His gut rebelled at the thought. He knew Morneith. He was a corrupt man who owed his loyalty to no one king. If King James thought he could buy Morneith’s loyalty with a young lass, he was mistaken.

The London court was filled with French spies, and Rory had done business with Paris officials. He knew that Morneith had pledged his support to Henry in London as well as to James of Scotland. The man was a traitor as well as one known for his excesses in women, drink, and other vices.

Knowing she’d risked her life to escape Morneith, how could he allow Felicia to wed him? If Morneith’s treachery was ever proved, Felicia would be at risk as well.

Yet interfering with the king’s business could endanger his entire clan.

That dilemma, and that damnable jealousy, had made him lash out at her. It was unfair. He’d known it. And he detested himself even as he’d said the words.

He’d hoped the anger would cool the passion she always aroused in him, the yearning to keep her at his side, the instinctive knowledge that she would fill the vast void within him.

It had not. He had watched the proud tilt of her head, thought of the courage it took to defy a king.

He heard his own groan, deep as an animal in pain.

He had returned to save his clan. He saw no way to do that without destroying an innocent. One innocent life against so many.

He went next door and entered after a brief knock. Alina was sitting up and eating soup from a spoon her mother held.

“My lord,” her mother said. She was wreathed in smiles. “Alina is much improved.”

“I can see,” he said gently. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Nay. You and Lady Janet have been so kind.”

Lady Janet
. What would happen when she knew Lady Janet was really Lady Felicia Campbell, a member of the clan that had inflicted her daughter’s wound? He considered telling her. Not to cause Felicia harm, but to prevent hurt, to take the brunt of any anger.

He thought of her bravery moments earlier when she had confronted him, tried to explain. She would want to tell Alina in her own way.

He left the room. He felt aimless. And empty. Lonely. He thought he had conquered that, but knew now he had not. There was no one with whom he could confide. Not Douglas or Archibald. Neither would understand.

Lachlan? But Lachlan lived in his own world, studiously avoiding responsibility.

He would have to depend on his own instincts.

Felicia Campbell had destroyed his instincts.

He went to his chamber. There was always wine there.

Once there, he took off his plaid and linen shirt. He looked at the bandage protecting his arm and took it off. It still ached, was a little warm but far better than it had been.

He needed to shave, but that could wait. He needed rest. Yet while his body was weary, his mind was far too active to rest. Images flickered through it. The golden-haired Campbell heir. The woman he’d thought was Janet Cameron smiling up at him with dazed eyes after his first kiss. Felicia Campbell with her cropped hair and defiant gaze.

Their fates were in his hands, and he damned well did not want them there.

He pulled on a fresh shirt and trews. After a moment’s hesitation, he filled a tankard with wine from a cask he had brought from Paris. It was early morning, but he’d had no sleep. Neither had his prisoner.

He went down to the dungeon. He felt the increasing chill as he went down the steps. He saw the glow of two candles impaled on iron spikes. Two of his men sat at a table, playing a game of chance.

Both stood immediately.

He looked around. He had not been here since he was a lad, when he and Patrick had explored the place. He still remembered the chills that ran through him, though he had been determined not to show it as Patrick strutted around.

He shivered from the cold.

“Where is he?”

“At the end, milord. We gave him food and blankets as ye ordered.”

He nodded. “I want to see him.”

A guard took one of the lanterns and a large key and led the way down the corridor to the last door. An iron-grated window allowed him to look inside.

James Campbell was lying down on straw, but he quickly stood as the light penetrated the cell. He blinked for a moment, then his gaze met Rory’s.

“Open it,” Rory told the guard, “then you can return to your game.”

The guard fitted the key in the lock. The door creaked and grated as it opened. Rory doubted whether it had been used in years.

“I will git ye a chair, milord.”

Rory nodded and took the lantern. He did not worry about Campbell escaping. There was, quite simply, no place for him to go.

Blond bristles stubbled the man’s face. His eyes were tired. But Rory didn’t see fear. He saw the same defiance that had been in Felicia’s eyes.

The guard returned with a chair, then disappeared again. Rory didn’t sit but put a foot on the chair.

He saw a bowl on the floor. A cup. Several blankets.

Still, it was icy inside. And damp.

He held out the tankard to Campbell, who regarded it much as he would a vial of poison.

“It is good wine,” Rory said, and took a taste himself before handing it to Campbell.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” the Campbell asked, still not accepting it. “And your wine?”

Rory wondered the same thing. He shrugged. “I remember it being cold and damp.”

“And you care?”

“A dead hostage does me little good.”

“Then I will humor you,” Campbell said. He finally took the tankard and took a sip, then another. His gaze went back to Rory. “My cousin?”

“She is unharmed.”

“You have talked to her?”

“Aye.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“You should worry about yourself, Campbell.”

“If you misuse her—”

“You are in no position to threaten,” Rory said. He felt the unreasoning anger rising in him again. He tamped it down.

“Not at the moment,” Campbell retorted.

They glared at each other.

“It was a fool’s errand, coming here alone,” Rory said after a moment’s silence.

“I did not intend to come here, only to a village. I wanted to know if anyone had heard of a lost lass. I meant no harm here.”

“You know why she fled Dunstaffnage?”

The Campbell took another gulp of wine, then said, “I wish to see her.”

To make sure their tales matched?

“Why did she leave Dunstaffnage?” he asked again.

“What did she tell you?”

“I want your version.”

They were circling around each other like two dogs ready to attack.

Campbell’s jaw set. “You cannot think she is a spy.”

“Nay.”

“How did she come to be here?”

Rory did not like being on the receiving end of the questions, particularly when he knew he was in the wrong. Campbell had ventured on Maclean land after Campbell raids on Maclean villages. Rory felt no compunction about taking him prisoner. However, his men had gone on Cameron land to abduct a young woman who had done nothing to harm them. But would admitting that make his clan guilty of treason, since Felicia was meant for the king’s choice?

He had no good choices. He just didn’t know what the worst ones would be.

It wasn’t like the sea. There he had responsibility for his men, but each of them knew the risks when they signed on. Too many innocents were at risk now. No matter what move he made, people would probably die.

His only chance was the man in front of him. But could he trust a Campbell?

That was the reason for his visit, to take measure of the man. Would he be of more value as a hostage or as an ally? Could he possibly become an ally?

If the Campbell truly cared about Felicia, perhaps.

But Rory had so many conflicting emotions inside, he did not know whether he could make the right decision. There was anger, jealousy, loss, fear for his people, even terror for Felicia if she was, indeed, to marry Morneith.

“You haven’t said yet why Lady Felicia left Dunstaffnage.”

The Campbell stared at him for a long time, then shrugged. “I was in London delivering a message from King James. She left in Janet Cameron’s stead with the Cameron escort. An escapade gone bad. She was separated in the fog.” His eyes did not flicker, but Rory sensed the tension in the man’s body that belied the words.

He was protecting her.

And Rory knew why. If Felicia had openly defied the king,
she
could be charged with treason.

Rory made his decision. The Campbell appeared to have ethics that he had not believed Campbells possessed. James Campbell probably felt Rory had none. Yet they needed each other if James Campbell was to save Felicia, and Rory his clansmen.

“If I release you from here, do I have your word you will not try to escape?”

James Campbell stared at him. For a moment, Rory thought he would refuse.

“I can see Felicia?”

“At my pleasure,” Rory granted reluctantly.

Campbell continued to hesitate, and Rory knew how difficult it must be for him to yield to a Maclean. He could see that the Campbell probably preferred the discomfort of the cell to accepting a favor from a Maclean.

“What do you want in return?”

“Your ear. We might have common purpose.”

Campbell still hesitated. “And Felicia?”

“She is comfortable enough.”

Campbell finally nodded.

“Say it.”

“You have my word. As a Campbell.”

Rory wished he had not added the latter. The Campbell word was suspect, even when it came from Felicia. Especially from Felicia.

He did not need to be reminded.

“You will stay in one chamber,” he said, “albeit a far more comfortable one than this. We have clansmen here from villages recently raided by Campbells. Family and friends died. I would not like to find you with a dirk in your back.”

James Campbell’s stare drilled through him.

Rory took his foot off the chair. He had always considered himself a good judge of character. He certainly hoped that he was now. Never had it been so important.

It went against everything he was and had been to trust a Campbell. And he might well be dooming the Macleans.

Chapter 16

Robina appeared at the door of Felicia’s chamber just minutes after Rory left.

Had he ordered it, or had Robina been hovering around?

How long would it take before everyone in the keep knew that she was a Campbell? She had no fear for her safety, though she did fear seeing the stunned disappointment and accusation in their faces.