Beloved Imposter (3 page)

They both considered the injustice of it for a moment, then Janet took her hand. “I will do whatever needs to be done.”

Douglas continued trying to convince his lord he should marry. On the fourth day, he agreed with Archibald that they should take matters into their own hands. “He refuses to consider a bride,” Douglas told the Maclean captain of the guard.

Archibald sighed. “I feared that.”

“It is important to the clan.”

“Ye canna’ make a man do your bidding. Particularly a Maclean.”

“If he has no choice …”

“I do not ken your meaning,” Archibald said.

“I hear Janet Cameron is visiting the Campbells. Word is she will be traveling home in four days. We can bring her here for Lord Rory.”

“He will have none of it.”

“But if she’s taken, she would be ruined,” Douglas said.

“He would have an obligation. It is said Janet Cameron is a beguiling young lady. Beautiful, well-mannered and obedient. I know Rory. He will want to protect her.”

“He will have our heads.”

“He yells much, but he is no’ a cruel man,” Douglas said. “He would know we have the clan’s interest at heart. He is still mourning for Maggie. Perhaps he always will. And for the wife in Edinburgh. But we can help him realize he can be content, that the curse is naught but a myth.”

“And we will have an heir,” Archibald replied.

“We will have an heir, and take a measure of revenge upon the Campbells by taking young Campbell’s bride. Pick your men carefully and leave tonight after we depart for a raid across the border. Malcolm and I will keep our lord occupied elsewhere.”

Chapter 2

The night was perfect for a raid, though miserable for Rory and the men accompanying him. Freezing winds blew against their mantles and cloaks. Heavy, rain-swollen clouds shrouded the craggy hills in complete darkness.

Clansmen, familiar with the area and experienced in stealthiness, led the way. Rory was second in the single file of riders. Malcolm, the man second only to Archibald among the Maclean soldiers, led. A scout had gone before them.

Rory had been gone far too long. He knew he did not yet command the confidence of his clan. He would have to do that tonight. He had expected Archibald to accompany them, but the man was ill, and Malcolm had taken the captain of the guard’s place. The long ride had prompted too many memories, too much time for thought.

Rory felt none of the anticipation he’d felt as a young lad embarking on his first raid. It had been an adventure then. Little had he known it was to turn into a nightmare.

His stomach constricted at the memory. He’d been leader of what was to be a small, punishing raid of a Campbell village. But someone had seen them and alerted others. His party had been ambushed. Three had been mortally wounded, and in a vengeful rage, his clansmen had burned every croft. One had raped a woman and killed her child for defending her.

Rory would never forget the sight of one of his own clansmen standing triumphantly over the body of a young lad who had tried to protect his mother. Nor would he forget the look of surprise on the man’s face when Rory had slain him as he turned on another child.

He’d been but nineteen, a callow youth who thought he owned the world and was a warrior in the truest sense. He had changed that night and over the succeeding weeks, when he had been mocked and derided by his fellow clansmen. It ended only when his father and Patrick had supported his actions. He’d known that some among his clan did not understand, would never understand, his defense of a Campbell. Even a Campbell child.

He remembered every moment now. He felt the sickness in his gut as he had then.

He would have left Inverleith, his clan’s seat, had he not met and married Maggie. She’d brought magic into his world, as well as solace. She had understood his pain over that night and had told him that was why she loved him.

That magic and happiness had lasted exactly fifteen months.

He did leave then, and had gone to sea, finally marrying the daughter of the shipping master and becoming captain. It had been a marriage of convenience for both of them, and yet he had come to care deeply for Anne. It was not the magic that he’d had with Maggie, but he did care for her and tried to make her happy the few months he was in port.

He had not brought Anne back to where Maggie had died. If he stayed away, mayhap the curse would not touch him again.

But it had found him … and Anne.

He’d still not returned, not until twelve days earlier, ten years to the day he had left. He had found a keep falling into ruin, a dispirited clan decimated by the feud with the Campbells and a household with few women. Many apparently had come to believe that the Campbell curse affected not only the chiefs of the clan but all the Macleans.

His brother Lachlan seemed to care more about his lute than management of the keep. And while an aging Douglas served as steward, a woman named Moira was responsible for housekeeping duties. She was a healer who had been forced into a position for which she had no aptitude or training. The few women servants she instructed were no more trained than she. Some were timid wives of his soldiers; some were daughters. Some cared, but most did not.

Rory had kept his ship spotless. He knew discipline was vital to the well-being of his crew, and discipline began with keeping some measure of order.

There was no order at home.

Lachlan deserved some blame but not all. He was not a soldier, had no inclination to be one, nor was he meant to be a steward. He was too soft, too forgiving of the unforgivable. He had planned to be a priest and was well suited by temperament to be one. Rory hadn’t discovered yet why he had not pursued his vocation. Lachlan had avoided questions thus far.

Rory only knew that once his father had died and his oldest brother disappeared, the clan had lost heart.

The scout returned. Malcolm held up his arm. They stopped, dismounted, and spoke quietly.

Rory was excluded. Though all appeared to respect and look up to him, it was obvious that they trusted one another more man their newly arrived chief.

He turned to the scout. “You have found the cattle.”

“Aye,” the man said cautiously.

“How many guarding them?”

“Four.”

Rory turned to Malcolm. “I do not want anyone killed. It will only bring more attacks. I will take one man—the scout—and silence the guards. You stay here until you hear a whistle, then approach and take the cattle.”

“But my lord …”

“There is no but, Malcolm. Those are my orders.”

The other eight men stared at him in disbelief. And unhappiness. Blood lust was apparent. They all looked at Malcolm, who nodded. Reluctantly.

He turned to the scout, “Nab. You lead.” The man seemed to have eyes that penetrated the dark, but then so did Rory. He had perfected that ability during his years at sea and the need to adjust his eyes to absolute blackness.

The man turned, gave him a wary look, then moved ahead. They walked for a long while, then the man stopped. Nab climbed a hill and signaled Rory to move next to him.

He looked down. Shadows materialized beneath them. Cattle. Many of them. A fire was barely visible under a shelter of some kind.

“Maclean cattle,” the man next to him muttered. “There were none here three days ago.”

Rory did not ask how he knew. Apparently his kinsmen kept an eye on Campbell properties.

He peered through the mist that had started to fall. He could barely make out three shapes. “You said there were four men. I see only three.”

“Two near at the shelter. One straight across. Another to the left of us.”

“I will take the one closest to us,” Rory said, “then the one to the far side. Move close to the two near the fire but do not act unless they see one of us. Wait until you hear the hoot of an owl. That means I have taken down the two.” He paused, then added, “I do not want anyone killed unless you have no choice.”

He did not give Nab an opportunity to protest, though Rory sensed the man intended to do just that.

Rory moved swiftly ahead, his shoes making no noise in the gentle but incessant patter of rain. He skirted around until he was in back of the first man, then he stepped forward and put his left arm around the man’s neck, the other hand over the man’s mouth and dragged him down. Before the Campbell had time to react, Rory hit him sharply with the heavy hilt of his dirk, then bound his captive with strips from his own clothes.

Then he moved stealthily behind the second man, who sat on a rock.

He threw a stone, and when the guard turned, Rory struck him on the head and caught his body as he fell. He quickly bound him as he had bound the first man.

He glanced toward the flickering light of a fire, which just barely flamed. He saw Nab’s large figure in the shadow.

Rory moved swiftly between trees until he was near the shelter, made a soft sound, like the hoot of an owl. As he threw another stone in the opposite direction, two men moved from the makeshift shelter of limbs and brush. Nab took one, and Rory lunged toward the other. Stealth no longer mattered.

In seconds, Rory had his man bound. Nab was still struggling with his. Both men—his and the Campbell—had daggers. Rory stepped behind the Campbell and grabbed him behind the neck. In a moment, he, too, was bound.

Nab looked at him indignantly. “I could have taken him.”

“Aye, and blood would have been shed.”

” ‘Tis a natural thing to shed Campbell blood.”

“If we want them to exchange the favor,” Rory said dryly. “There has been enough bloodshed. We take back that which belongs to us. We need do no more.”

“Except to avenge our people.”

“Do you want more to die?” Rory asked.

The man stared at him through the rain. Faces were barely visible.

Nab finally nodded. “I will fetch the others to take the cattle.”

“I will wait with these guards in case anyone comes.”

Rory watched his companion disappear into the rain, then he checked the bonds of the Campbell prisoners before squatting before the fire. He’d barely warmed himself when Malcolm and the others appeared, herded the cattle in front of them, and started back to their own property.

Rory watched them leave, then loosened the bonds of one of the prisoners. It would still take the man hours to free himself but it was no longer impossible. No Campbell would die this night from exposure.

Felicia waited until well past midnight.

The Cameron escort had arrived late that afternoon. They planned to leave with Janet at daybreak. Felicia’s escort to Edinburgh was to arrive in ten days.

Felicia instructed the staff to serve their best wine to their visitors, while she avoided as much contact with them as possible.

As she had hoped, most retired early, having drunk copiously of wine usually reserved only for their chiefs. Felicia had been uncommonly generous.

She hadn’t told Janet what she planned for later in the evening.

Instead, she told Janet she needed sleep, went to her own chamber, and stayed awake until the castle had stilled.

When she felt confident that most were abed, she took the candle from her bedside and crept down the corridor and the stone steps to the great hall where the Camerons slept.

No one stirred. She opened the great door and slipped outside, hurrying to the stables. The grooms, knowing the castle gate had been closed, should be abed as well.

The night was very dark. Clouds eclipsed any light from stars and moon. Moisture was in the air. Rain would fall the next day, possibly in the next few hours. A cold wind blew, molding her cloak against her body and blowing her hair free of the bonnet she wore. Her hand shielded the flame from the candle to keep it from going out.

She relished the feel of the sharp, cold, wet chill. Her prayers had been answered. Almost.

She could assist those prayers.

She went into the tack room. The candle flickered from a breeze blowing through the barn doors. Her heart nearly stopped. It couldn’t go out. Not now.

The flame stabilized. She carefully placed the candleholder on a ledge, then went to the saddles belonging to the Cameron clansmen. She slipped a dagger from her boot and quickly sawed halfway through a dozen girths from underneath. Hopefully, no one would detect the cuts until it was too late. Falls. Confusion. A chance for her to escape those protecting her.

She worked with quiet efficiency and buried her guilt. They were good horsemen. A simple fall would not hurt them.

And she would need all the diversion she could contrive.

Finished, she crept back to her big feather bed. Tonight would be the last time she would sink into its comfort.

Felicia slept restlessly for only a few hours and woke before dawn. She went to the window and thanked God when she saw heavy rain falling.

Janet would be expected to wear protective clothing.

In an hour or less, the Cameron escort would be prepared to leave.

She lit a candle from the huge fireplace where a few embers still burned from the great pieces of wood that had filled it last eve. She placed several additional pieces of wood inside, then waited until the chamber warmed. She dressed hastily before her maid came in. A boy’s clothes first, clothes filched from the trunks of her cousin’s younger days. Then a chemise and a plain underdress and overdress of her own. She tucked her hair beneath a dark cap and stared at herself in the mirror.

She and Janet both had blue eyes, although hers were darker; hopefully the difference would not be noticed in the gloom of dawn. Most of her face was shielded by one of Janet’s wool plaids. The cap and cloak would cover her unruly red curls.

She planned to be late, to join the departing riders after most were already mounted.

Janet knocked and entered, a tray in hand. “I told your maid that you were ill and I would bring you something to eat,” she said.

Felicia went to her friend and took the tray, put it down on a table, then clasped Janet’s hands. “Thank you. I will see that no one blames you. A sleeping potion. Take it when I leave. Everyone will believe I gave it to you.”