The Campbell Trilogy (13 page)

She felt a jolt of something akin to panic as she fought to stem the unwelcome tide of emotion. This was what she’d wanted. It was only the shock of him leaving so quickly—on the heels of such a cataclysmic event—that made her feel such an overwhelming sense of loss.

She’d dreaded the explanation to her father, but he’d accepted her decision to refuse without question. He wrapped her in his arms and placed a kiss atop her head, telling her that she must do whatever made her happy.

But she was anything but happy. The guests who had descended on Ascog for the gathering had departed, but rather than the sense of peace she’d expected, it felt unnaturally quiet—like the calm before the storm. Her father seemed distracted—almost worried—by something, and her brothers were no better. They were hiding something from her, but she knew they would never share it, and she resented being kept in the dark.

But what bothered her most was that since Jamie’s abrupt departure, she couldn’t seem to get him—or their passionate interlude—out of her mind. In his arms she’d felt safe and protected, and when he’d kissed her she’d felt a connection unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

Worse, she realized that she’d acted unfairly. He’d come to her rescue not once, but twice. She shivered. If he hadn’t come along when he had, who knows what MacNeil might have done?

She still couldn’t conceive of marrying a Campbell, but there was no question that she’d welcomed his kiss. And more. Yet she’d lashed out, accusing him of seducing her, when she knew deep in her heart that he’d done nothing of
the sort. It was just that she’d been angry at him for making her want something she shouldn’t.

For pity’s sake, he was the Campbell Henchman. The favored cousin of her clan’s most hated enemy. Just because he was handsome and strong, commanding and intelligent, and nothing like the monster she imagined didn’t change the facts—not all the rumors could be wrong. He claimed to want justice, to see order restored to the Highlands, but wasn’t that just a convenient excuse to justify his actions?

Caitrina never doubted that despite her undeniable attraction to the scourge, she was right in refusing him. That is, until the morning three days after he’d gone, when she found Mor upstairs in the tower garret, sobbing at the bedside of a young serving girl.

“Mor, I—” Caitrina stopped. She took one look at the poor girl’s beaten face and had to bring her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. The girl’s face was swollen beyond recognition and covered with welts and cuts where she’d been struck. Dark bruises mottled her freckled skin. She’d lost her kertch, and her long red hair was clumped with twigs and mud. The sleeve of the sark that she wore under her
arisaidh
had been nearly torn off. “Dear God, what has happened?”

Mor’s voice was thick with tears. “She was attacked in the woods on the way to the village of Rothesay to buy some cloth.”

Caitrina was dumbstruck. “But who would do such a thing?”

Her old nurse shook her head. “She didn’t recognize them. But from her description, they’ve the sound of broken men.”

“On Bute?” Caitrina asked, shocked.

Mor gave her an odd look. “There are outlaws everywhere, child. We’ve been more fortunate than most, but no place is immune.”

You are a cosseted girl who lives in a glass castle.
Jamie’s words came back to her with growing horror.

Mor wiped the girl’s brow with a damp piece of cloth, but the light touch made the girl jerk with pain. The sound she made brought the sting of tears to Caitrina’s eyes.

It seemed the world that Jamie had warned her about had just made its brutal appearance. His objective to clear the Highlands of outlaws no longer rang so false. Dear God, what else had she been wrong about?

The vicious attack on the serving girl Mary brought the problem of rampant lawlessness in the Highlands home to Caitrina in full force. The sanctity of Ascog had been violated, and never again would she feel completely safe and secure. It seemed that in the space of a few hours, her world had shifted. Outlaws were no longer an amorphous problem; they were a very real threat.

Caitrina had never seen her father so angry. He took the attack on one of his clan as a personal offense and immediately dispatched a team of warriors to track the outlaws; but his men returned the next day, unable to find any sign of them. For the first time, he forbade Caitrina from going into the woods near the castle without an escort.

Jamie’s warning haunted her. That his prediction had come true so quickly made her wonder whether he knew more than he had let on. It also made her question her judgment of him. He saw himself as a force of law and order and claimed to be trying to rid the Highlands of outlaws. For the first time, she realized there might be a need for such authority.

Argyll was the devil and clan Campbell his spawn, but was the truth perhaps more complicated than that? Had she judged Jamie Campbell too harshly? Had she wrongly accused him of brutality when he was only trying to bring order to the land? She’d seen him simply as a Campbell and closed her eyes to what was before her, choosing to listen to
rumor instead. He was a hard man and a fierce warrior, but never once had she seen any signs of cruelty or unfairness.

But what did it matter? After what she’d said to him, she doubted she would ever see him again. The realization filled her with a deep sense of regret and a dull ache in her chest that would not quiet.

Finally, a few days after the attack, Caitrina realized that she had to do something. Her father had urged her to consider Jamie Campbell’s offer, and she intended to find out why. Not for her clan, but for herself—though she realized it might be too late.

She’d just entered the great hall in search of her father when she heard the cry go out to drop the yett. Her blood ran cold. Closing the gate in the middle of the day could mean only one thing: trouble.

Heart pounding, she raced to the window in the great hall just in time to see the guard who was manning the gate tumble over the curtain wall, an arrow protruding from his back. She didn’t need to look down to know that attackers were already inside. Another guard attempted to lower the yett but took a hagbut shot in the stomach for his efforts.

Chaos reigned as her clansmen fought to take control against the surprise attack. She froze at the window in horror, watching helplessly as a considerable force of men—numbering at least a few score—stormed through the gate and swarmed the
barmkin.
They’d obviously come prepared for battle; the steel from their helmets and mail gleamed in the sunlight. They carried swords, but a good number were armed with guns as well. This was no ragged band of marauding outlaws, she realized. These were well-outfitted soldiers, which perhaps explained how they’d virtually walked right in. They did not wear the regalia of the king’s guard, leaving only one possibility—her heart dropped—Argyll.

A sick feeling twisted low in her stomach as she picked through the crowd of armored men near the front, looking
for one in particular.
Please, not him.
She was able to identify the leader right away by the way he was issuing orders, and she breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. The man wasn’t tall or broad enough to be Jamie.

The fighting was over before it really started. There was nothing her father’s men could do. Once the soldiers had breached the gate, the battle was already won. To Caitrina’s great relief, she realized that the invaders didn’t appear intent on attack but seemed to be looking for something. They’d obviously come with a purpose.

What did they want?
And where were her father and brothers?

Her gaze swept the courtyard. There. At the far side of the yard, just coming into view, her father and a score of his guardsmen, including Malcolm and Niall, were rushing from the armory. They’d not had time to properly outfit themselves for battle, wearing the leather jerks and plaids they wore for practice rather than mail or cotuns, but at least they’d taken the time to put on steel knapscalls to protect their heads. And they appeared to be well armed.

She heard her father’s voice ring out in anger as he confronted the Campbell leader. The two men argued back and forth, but it was difficult to hear what they were saying. At one point, she heard the Campbell say clearly: “We know he’s here. Tell us where he is or suffer the consequences.”

Who were they talking about?

The Campbell pointed up to the tower and said something, turning his face toward hers. Her brows drew together. It was strange. He seemed familiar somehow. Whatever he said, however, had enraged her father, and his guardsmen clasped their claymores threateningly behind him.

Her pulse raced, knowing that the situation was deteriorating fast.

The commotion must have alerted the castle servants
that something was wrong. The great hall started to fill with people, and thankfully, Mor, ever the voice of reason, appeared to stem the rising panic.

Like a veteran general, the old nursemaid started issuing orders. “Hurry,” she said to a few young kitchen maids. “Run to the kitchens and bring up the wood used for cooking and the oil for the lamps.” To another she said, “Bring me all the linen you can find.”

Caitrina’s chest clamped, knowing exactly what Mor intended. It was something her father had drummed into Caitrina’s head countless times: If they were ever under attack and the gate was breached, set fire to the stairs.

No!
The reaction was visceral. Father, Malcolm, and Niall were out there. She ran up to Mor and clutched her arm. “Stop. We can’t do it. They will have nowhere to go.”

Mor took her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Your father and brothers can take care of themselves. They can flee into the hills and hide in the caves if necessary. But they will never leave if you are not safe.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. “But—”

“They are doing their job, Caitrina. You must do yours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and with her eyes indicated someone across the room. “Think of the lad.”

Brian.

She sucked in her breath, looking around frantically, and found him emerging from the tower stairwell, holding an enormous sword that her father kept in the laird’s solar. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so terrifying. He darted across the room toward the door. Guessing what he was about, Caitrina shot after him and caught him by the arm. “Stop, Brian, you can’t go out there.”

He tried to pull away. “Let go of me, Caiti.”

He looked far older than his two and ten years. She read his mulish expression and thought quickly, knowing his young man’s pride was at stake. “We need you in here. If you leave, there will be no one to protect us.”

His gaze swept the room behind her, seeing the dozen or so frightened women and children. At this time of day, most of the men were busy outside, practicing their battle skills. Those who weren’t fighters fished in the loch, tended to the livestock, or cut peat.

“Please,” she begged.

He nodded, and Caitrina wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight in gratitude and relief. The serving girls had returned with the wood, cloth, and oil, and for the next few minutes they were kept busy wrapping the oil-soaked cloth around the wood like torches.

Brian had positioned himself near the doorway, keeping vigilant watch on what was happening outside and readying the stairs by dismantling the rope and nailed-in pieces of wood that kept them in position. It had been necessary to open the door, but as soon as the stairs were loose, they would set fire to them and bar the door. Caitrina could see he was having trouble. Time and age had rusted the iron, making the nails difficult to remove, and the knots in the rope were so tight, they could not be worked loose. It had been a long time since such drastic measures had been necessary, and never in her lifetime.

She moved to the door, intent on helping him, when she heard Brian cry out, “No!”

A shot fired, and mayhem erupted outside with a giant uproar. Brian lurched forward through the doorway, and Caitrina lunged after him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from running down the stairs.

“Brian—” Her words died when she saw what had provoked his reaction. A strangled cry rose in her throat. “Father!” Stunned, she watched in horror as her father clutched his chest, blood turning his hands crimson. He staggered and then fell back into Malcolm’s arms—his eyes open but unseeing.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Pain gripped her chest, and hot tears sprang to her eyes. This couldn’t be
happening. But the faces of the clansmen told her it was. Shock had turned to rage. Led by Malcolm and Niall, they went berserker, attacking with a ferocity that proved what she’d seen was true: Her father was dead.

It was only the instinct to protect Brian that wrenched her from her trance. He was struggling to break free, but she wouldn’t let go. Mor must have seen what had happened because she suddenly appeared at Caitrina’s side and helped her pull Brian back safely inside.

“Let go of me,” he cried. “I must go to him.”