The Campbell Trilogy (46 page)

Highland Outlaw
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

Copyright © 2009 by Monica McCarty
Excerpt from
Highland Scoundrel
copyright © 2009 by Monica McCarty.

All rights reserved.

B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-51287-1

www.ballantinebooks.com

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Master - Table of Contents

Highland Outlaw

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

Dedication

Acknowledgments

The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Gregalach! haloo, Gregalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach &c.

Glen Orchy’s proud mountains, Coalchuirn
and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours:
We’re landless, landless, landless, Gregalach!
Landless, landless, landless, &c.

But doom’d and devoted by vassal and lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalach,
Courage, courage, courage, &c.

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and the flesh
to the eagles!

Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.

While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish forever!
Come then, Gregalach, come then, Gregalach,
Come then, come then, come then, &c.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine
the steed shall career,
O’er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer.
And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach!
Gather, gather, gather, & c.

“MacGregor’s Gathering”
S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT

One of these days his cousin was going to get them killed. Patrick MacGregor could only hope that day wasn’t today. But Alasdair never could resist a challenge, even one that took them deep into the devil’s lair—in this case Inveraray Castle, the Highland stronghold of clan Campbell. The thick stone walls of the austere keep jutted high above the trees to disappear into the gray sky, a forbidding reminder of the dominance of their enemy for more than a hundred and fifty years.

Today, however, the gates of the impenetrable fortress had been raised in welcome, and the glen that stretched from the castle to the line of thatched cottages nestled along the shore of Loch Fyne teemed with hundreds of clansmen who’d descended on Argyll from all across the Highlands. A whiff of excitement hung in the drizzly morning air. The games were about to begin.

As they left the sheltering shadows of the forest and approached the field of play, Patrick’s senses flared, heightened by years of evading capture. Wariness and distrust were ingrained in every fiber of his being, and right now every instinct screamed caution.

His gaze darted through the crowd, keeping him well apprised
of the situation. But no one had taken undue notice of the three newcomers … yet.

The MacGregors were once again at the horn—thanks to the Campbells, being outlawed was an all-too-common occurrence in the last seventy-odd years. Nonetheless, his cousin Alasdair Roy MacGregor, Chief of the MacGregors of Glenstrae, had insisted on attending the gathering this year to enter the archery competition. Known as “the Ar row of Glenlyon,” Alasdair was a bowman of repute. But he wasn’t the best. That title belonged to Rory MacLeod. It was the opportunity to face MacLeod and best him that had forced them out of hiding. The fact that the gathering was being held this year at Inveraray—home to their fiercest enemies—only heightened the danger.

The three men had reached the edge of the muddy field. His cousin turned to him. “You know what to do?”

“Aye,” Patrick replied. He’d better, since it was his plan. “But are you sure you want to do this?” Despite the steel knapscall that covered his cousin’s distinctive red hair—a trait the MacGregors shared with their Campbell enemies—and the hood he wore against the rain that shadowed his features, if anyone recognized him before their plan was set in motion, the chief was a dead man.

His cousin’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Absolutely.” He looked to Patrick’s brother Gregor for support. “ ’Tis time Rory MacLeod faced a wee bit of competition, and the opportunity to do so right under Argyll’s pointed nose …” His mouth slid into the familiar roguish grin that had endeared him to the heart of their clan. “ ’Tis a temptation too great to ignore.”

“We’ll be gone before they realize what happened,” Gregor added.

“Not too soon,” the chief said, “I want everyone to know who won.”

Patrick leveled his steely gaze on his bold cousin. “So you can claim the golden arrow from Maid Marian?”

Alasdair chuckled and clapped him hard on the back, well aware of his Robin Hood reputation. Nor had he missed the allusion to the archery contest held to trap the famous outlaw. “Behind that black façade is a wry wit, cousin. I’ve no intention of meeting any Campbells today, but you can be assured that I’ll leave them with something to talk about.”

Patrick didn’t doubt it. His cousin had a streak of daring in him that at times bordered on foolhardy. The head of clan Campbell—Archibald the Grim, the Earl of Argyll—was not a man to prod: He had a crushing bite. But knowing Alasdair would not be dissuaded, Patrick nodded. “Good luck, then, cousin. And take care. If anything goes wrong, be ready.”

“With my two fiercest warriors at my back, what could go wrong?”

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

His cousin chuckled and bounded off toward the line of contestants.

Patrick admired his cousin’s easy confidence, even if he couldn’t share it. He’d been on the wrong end of a hagbut or arrowhead too many times in his life not to recognize the scent of danger. And right now it fairly reeked.

As his cousin approached the field of play, he and Gregor moved stealthily into position. Patrick did his best to blend into the crowd—not an easy feat given his height and build, but one perfected over years of practice.

Though his face was not as recognizable as his cousin’s—and his hair black, not the characteristic red—he was grateful for the hood and knapscall. They’d bargained for rain, and the skies had not disappointed. Cold rain in spring was an occurrence of such regularity these past few years, it could almost be counted on. The brown woolen cloak helped cover the tattered, dirt-encrusted
leine
and
breacan feile,
but no amount of dunking in the loch could
fully hide the evidence of a man who’d lived in the wild for months.

He helped himself to a tankard of ale and stood at the back corner of the crowded pavilion that had been set up for the spectators. As had been popular in tournaments of old, a large tent had been erected to give the principal members of the clan a comfortable—and somewhat dry—position from which to watch the competition.

The tent formed the basis of their plan. They’d been scouting the area for a few days from the safety of the forested hill of Duniquoich overlooking the castle and village to come up with a way to create a distraction. When the tent went up, Patrick knew he’d found it.

After Alasdair won the contest, he would give the signal by removing his hood to reveal his bonnet trimmed with a sprig of pine,
Giuthas nam mòr-shliabh,
the badge of the MacGregors. Then Patrick and Gregor would knock down the poles erected to hold up the canvas tent. Normally, it would take more than one man to knock over each of the substantial wood posts, but he and Gregor had unusual—or, as his cousin like to jest, inhuman—strength.

As soon as the tent was down, a handful of MacGregor guardsmen waiting in the forest would send a barrage of arrows toward the castle, raising the cry of an attack. Disturbing the peace of the games was a great offense and a serious breach of Highland custom and tradition, but Patrick figured that since it wasn’t a real attack, their clan honor—what was left of it, anyway—was intact.

With the crowd rushing to get to the safety of the keep through the
barmkin
gate, the stables and horses would be cut off. Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos, the three of them would make for the forest, where a handful of their men were waiting with horses to enable their speedy escape. Certainly they would be followed, but once they were in the trees and hills, the MacGregors had the advantage.

They were used to being hunted.

From his position, Patrick had a clear vantage point of the line of archers readying to take their first shots at the butts—the targets fixed to the mounds of earth. All that was left to do was wait and watch. With each round the risk would grow, as the crowd’s curiosity grew about the skilled stranger. Once his cousin pushed back his hood, there wouldn’t be much time.

Until then, it was important that he do nothing to draw attention to himself. One false move …

He glanced over at the small rise a short distance from the castle, a wooden structure just peeking through the gray mist. The infamous executioner’s hill. All three of them could be hanging from the Campbells’ well-used gallows by sundown.

As the competition got under way, the boisterousness of the crowd increased with the flow of ale. One group of men in particular was difficult to ignore. Patrick recognized the man with the loudest voice as John Montgomery, brother to the Earl of Eglinton. The earl was rumored to be seeking an alliance with Argyll to garner influence in his deadly feud with the Cunninghams.

Apparently there was truth to the rumor. From what he could tell, Montgomery had recently become betrothed to Elizabeth Campbell, Argyll’s cousin and sister to both Campbell of Auchinbreck and Argyll’s Henchman, Jamie Campbell. And from the unflattering remarks offered by her betrothed, if the lass weren’t a Campbell, Patrick would almost feel sorry for her. She must have a stammer because they referred to her pejoratively as Elizabeth Monntach, Stammering Elizabeth.

“But I thought you intended to wed the fair Bianca?” one of the men said. “The Campbell mouse will surely pale in comparison.”

“She’s pretty enough. For an alliance with the Earl of Argyll I’d wed a horse missing half its teeth,” Montgomery replied defensively.

A hearty round of laughter ensued.

“But what about conversation?” another man asked. “A-a-ren’t y-o-o-u w-w-worried that it will take all day to get past ‘Good morrow’?”

Patrick could tell from Montgomery’s reaction that the other man’s jest embarrassed him, but Montgomery masked his discomfort with crudeness. “I’ll just have to keep her mouth busy with other things.”

The ribald humor found an appreciative audience as the other men snickered.

Asses.
Doing his best to ignore them, Patrick glanced down at the field, noting that the number of competitors had lessened to only a handful, including, among others, Alasdair, Rory MacLeod, and the Campbell Henchman. He hoped to hell his cousin was being careful. Jamie Campbell was a formidable enemy—more dangerous than even his cousin the earl. Thankfully, Alasdair was on the opposite side and had yet to attract the Henchman’s notice. But as the field of play narrowed …

Patrick caught Gregor’s eye from across the way and nodded at him to be ready.

Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the field, he caught sight of a young woman making her way through the south
barmkin
gate toward the tent. He didn’t know what it was about her that drew his eye—perhaps the lightness of her step or the tentative smile on her face that he could just make out beneath the hood of her cloak. She seemed so young and carefree, practically bubbling with excitement. But there was an uncertainty to her expression—as if she were not accustomed to the feeling—that made his gaze linger.

He glanced back to the competition, saw that his cousin had moved on to the next round, and then inexplicably his gaze turned back to the lass. From the richness of her clothing, he knew she must be of considerable fortune. He could see glimpses of a court gown beneath a fine, dark blue velvet
cloak—the edges of which were embroidered with jewels. But she was a tiny thing and seemed to drown in the wide skirts and layers of heavy fabric.

She was heading right for him, and as she drew closer, he had a better look at the face beneath the hood.

Big blue eyes dominated an elfin countenance that was older than he’d first assumed—at least a few years past twenty. But it was her eyes that startled him, so light and crystal clear as to almost seem unreal. She was fair, with pale skin, slight features, and a delicate pink mouth. He couldn’t see the color of her hair tucked up in the hood, but he would guess it was light. She wasn’t beautiful precisely, or even striking, but pretty in a quiet, understated way that he found strangely arresting. It was the type of face that grew more beautiful on study. The tilt of her head, the view of a profile, could bring an entirely new perspective and appreciation.

She stopped not five feet from him, and her soft feminine scent wrapped around him. She smelled like spring, as fresh as dew upon a rose. It had been a long time since he’d smelled anything so sweet and unspoiled.

Her gaze was fixed on the men he’d overheard earlier. It was only because he was watching her so closely that he saw her smile falter as she listened to their conversation.

“But how did you convince Elizabeth Monntach to agree to your suit?”

She flinched as if struck. Her face drained of color, taking with it all the tentative excitement he’d noticed only moments earlier.

Montgomery laughed, puffing up like a peacock. “With her stammer, it’s not as if suitors are storming the castle gates. It’s amazing how easy it is to lie with a tocher of twenty-six thousand merks and land to look forward to.”

Patrick would have choked if he’d had a mouthful of ale. Twenty-six thousand merks! A fortune.
And
land? Though
not unheard of, it was unusual for a woman to possess land in her own right.

“All it took was a few compliments and whispered endearments,” Montgomery boasted. “The lass lapped them right up like a grateful pup.”

The woman made a strangled sound in her throat. Her eyes were wide and horrified. From the stricken look on her face, it wasn’t hard to figure out who she was: It had to be Elizabeth Campbell.

Damn.
Given his avowed hatred of anything Campbell, the twinge of sympathy was unexpected.