The Campbell Trilogy (50 page)

His warriors responded immediately. Like wraiths, they vanished into the forest as suddenly as they’d appeared.
Only the flutter of leaves trailing behind them gave proof to their existence.

That and the dead bodies of her clansmen littered across the forest floor.

She muffled a dry sob in her mouth.

It was over. But she was too numb to feel relief. She was too numb to feel anything at all. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting air fill her lungs.
Breathe. Just breathe.

When she finally opened them again, it was to search for the man to whom she owed her life.

The battle was over, but the hot pounding of blood surging through his body had yet to slow. Patrick was too damn furious.

He lowered his sword, wincing as a sharp pain bit his side. Blood wasn’t just rushing through his body, but also out of it. He could feel the unmistakable warm dampness soaking the linen of the shirt that he wore under his leather cotun. It wasn’t a new wound, but an old one, suffered weeks—nay, months—ago at the battle of Glenfruin. And now reopened.

Thanks to his damn brother.

Patrick tugged off his steel helmet and raked his fingers through newly shorn hair, surveying the senseless destruction before him. His gaze slid over the battlefield, over the dead bodies, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. He had been reared on a battlefield. With all the death he’d seen, he was surprised that it still had the power to affect him. Perhaps it was because this time the loss of life was so unnecessary.

No one was supposed to get hurt.

At least that had been the plan, before Gregor had taken it upon himself to decide otherwise. His damned hotheaded brother had gone too far. Gregor had all the boldness of their cousin without the charm and fortune—and added a dangerous streak of recklessness.

Patrick swore with even greater fury when his gaze fell on the mutilated body of one of his clansmen. Bitterness soured his mouth. Conner had been a bonny lad who
smiled more than not—a rarity among the outlawed men—though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. A musket shot had hit him in the cheek, blowing half his face off. Patrick’s fists clenched. Not yet eight and ten and look at him.

The senseless waste of a young life made him want to lash out. If Gregor were here right now, he’d feel the weight of Patrick’s anger.

It was little comfort that his brother was paying for his sins—if the wound in his belly felt anything like Patrick’s side right now. What the hell could Gregor have been thinking to attack the lass like that? He hoped that the lass’s dirk hadn’t done lasting harm, but Gregor had much to account for.

By his count, four MacGregors and twice as many Campbells had died today. He did not mourn the lives of his enemy, but neither had he intended their deaths. Today wasn’t supposed to be about killing Campbells. He’d thought Gregor had understood that the risk was too great. With the king and his Campbell minions hunting them down, there were too few of them left as it was. Even one lost MacGregor was too many. Depriving them of their land wasn’t enough: the king wouldn’t be happy until every last MacGregor was rooted out of the Highlands.

They’d been hunted before, but nothing like this. The battle of Glenfruin might prove to be their undoing. Though the MacGregors had won the battle against the Colquhouns, it had mobilized the king and the Earl of Argyll—the king’s authority in the Highlands—against them with ruthless intent. Of course, the Colquhoun theatrics hadn’t helped—who could have foreseen the widows riding on white palfreys while parading the blood-soaked sarks of their dead husbands on spears before the notoriously squeamish king? False rumors of MacGregor atrocities had only added to the furor against them, and the
broken men were being pursued with a vengeance never before encountered.

It had become harder and harder to hide. Though there were plenty in the Highlands who were sympathetic to the MacGregors, the penalty for harboring the clan was death—something not many were willing to risk. And those unsympathetic to the clan were only too eager to collect the bounty hanging over their heads—or perhaps he should say
on
their heads, as the Privy Council was offering the bounty to anyone who could produce a severed MacGregor head.

And he was the barbarian?

Patrick pushed aside his anger at his brother—he would deal with Gregor later. Right now he had a job to do. One that promised retribution and would help even the score.

For years, the Campbells had systematically been trying to destroy them. They’d stripped them of their land, turned them into a broken clan, and now pursued them with fire and sword as outlaws. But their enemy hadn’t counted on the tough, tenacious spirit of the warrior clan. Like the mythical hydra, every time the MacGregors lost a head, one grew back stronger in its place.

Patrick and his clansmen were determined to do whatever it took to reclaim their land. Land was their lifeblood, and without it they would die—as so many of them already had.

He clenched his jaw in a hard line and turned his thoughts from the dead to the living. To the lass.

Elizabeth Campbell was kneeling over one of her injured guardsmen beside the other woman. As if sensing his scrutiny, Elizabeth turned and lifted her gaze to his.

He flinched. He’d thought it a fluke the first time, but there it was again. That strange jolt he’d felt before when their eyes had met across the battlefield. Though it didn’t
concern him, he didn’t like it. Particularly in light of his uncharacteristically rash behavior the first time they’d met.

On first glance, she looked exactly as he remembered her: pretty and fresh as a spring flower. But on closer inspection, he could see the strain of the battle etched on her face. He recognized her shock in the pallor of her skin and the glassiness of her eyes. Still, it hadn’t prevented her from seeing to the comfort of her men and tending to the wounded.

Most women would have fainted by now or at the very least dissolved into a fit of tears, but clearly Elizabeth Campbell was not most women. She had strength hidden beneath the lithe exterior. Her bravery impressed him. As did her skill with a knife. The expert toss of the blade had shocked the hell out of him—and his brother.

Perhaps there was more of her brothers and cousin in Elizabeth Campbell than he’d anticipated. The thought was enough to wipe away any twinge of conscience.

With a quick word of reassurance to the injured man, she got to her feet, only a slight sway betraying her weariness, and started to walk toward him. There was grace not just in her bearing, but also in the rhythmic sway of her hips as she walked. And now, without the elaborate court clothing she’d been wearing last time, he could actually see the soft curve of her slim hips. She wore a plain woolen kirtle and jacket of brown wool. The simple clothing suited her dainty figure.

But it was her hair that took his breath away. It had come loose, and tumbled down her shoulders in a mag nificent cloud of spun gold. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so soft and silky.

His body hardened as she neared—a remnant of the battle surging through him, he supposed. She was smaller than he recalled. Not short, but slim. Delicate. With a bone structure so finely carved, it could have been wrought from porcelain.

Too small for him. He would crush her. Not that it would stop him from imagining all that softness underneath him, his hands twisted in the mass of flaxen curls, as he buried himself deep inside her. Heat and heaviness pulled over him so hard, he almost groaned.

Hell, he was a damn animal. Having been treated like a dog for so long, he was beginning to act like one. But living on the edge did something to a man. It made his base instincts simmer close to the surface. And right now he felt two of them in full force: hunger and lust.

The primitive desire to claim what would belong to him.

For a lass of otherwise unremarkable beauty, she managed to rouse his lust well enough. Too well.

She stopped a few feet away and gazed up at him uncertainly. Her eyes unnerved him—so light and crystal clear, he felt as if she could see right through him.

Ridiculous. By all that was holy, he should despise this girl. Hatred, bitterness, and anger were all emotions he was familiar with. Her fine clothing, her jewels, and her refined, pampered loveliness had been forged from the blood of his clan. He should resent her. Should see the dirty, starving faces of his clansmen reflected in her gaze. Should see her as an instrument of revenge.

But all he could see was the lass, who looked as harmless as a kitten but fought like a tiger and gazed at him as if he were some damn hero.

She would be cured of that notion soon enough.

“I must thank you,” she said softly. She had a slow, musical lilt to her voice that would have made a bard weep with envy. He recalled her stammer but didn’t hear any evidence of it now. “I don’t know what would have happened had you not arrived when you did.”

Apparently thinking of the possibilities, she stopped, and her face turned an even starker shade of white. He ignored the prick of conscience.

“I wish it had been earlier,” Patrick said truthfully.
Wanting to keep the conversation going, he asked, “What happened?”

“We were ambushed.” She pointed to the carriage. “My men believe the trench was intentionally dug to snap the wheel and covered with tree branches so that the driver would not see it. When the guardsmen stopped, the MacGregors attacked.”

“How can you be sure they were MacGregors?”

She tilted her head to the side, gazing up at him thoughtfully. “Who else would they be? And they wore the pine sprig in their bonnets.” Her gaze slid over his bare head and freshly shaven face. Washing away the months of living as an outlaw had felt better than he’d imagined. “I’m sorry, I have not introduced myself.” She held out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell.”

The courtly gesture disarmed him momentarily. It had been a long time since someone had mistaken him for a gentleman. He stared at the dainty, perfectly formed hand, the delicately shaped fingers, the ivory skin unblemished and as smooth as if she’d never known a day’s work, not quite sure what to do. Finally, he enfolded it in his, feeling an unwelcome urge to warm her icy fingers. Instead, he bowed over it awkwardly. “Patrick,” he said. “Patrick Murray of Tullibardine.”

It was the truth … mostly. Murray was the surname he’d assumed when the clan was proscribed—even using his own name was punishable by death.

She tilted her head and looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “Have we met before?”

He tensed but covered it quickly with a smile. “I don’t think so, my lady. I never forget a beautiful face.”

She looked uncertain, as if the compliment didn’t sit well with her. “Are you and your men returning home?”

He shook his head. “Nay, we travel to Glasgow and then across the sea to the continent.”

She looked as though she wanted to ask more, but politeness prevented her from inquiring further.

He’d piqued her curiosity, and that was enough … for now. “And where is your destination, Mistress Campbell?” He said her name, as if to remind himself who she was.

She bit her lip, her tiny white teeth pressing firmly on the lush pink pillow of her bottom lip. A charming, feminine gesture that fascinated him far too much. Desire stirred his already-heated loins. He ignored it, lifting his gaze back to her eyes.

This girl had already caused him enough trouble. Coming to her aid two years ago had been so unlike him, he still didn’t understand why he’d done it. Once Alasdair’s anger had faded, his cousin had teased him mercilessly, referring to her as “Patrick’s Campbell.” Not realizing how prophetic it would prove to be.

The fate of his clan was tied to this girl, and he’d better damn well remember it.

“We were traveling to Dunoon Castle”—she paused—“in Argyll.” As if it needed explanation. There were few in the Highlands who did not know where the strategically important castle was located—or that the keeper of that castle was the Earl of Argyll. “But we must return to Castle Campbell to get help for the wounded. It’s a good thing we have only just begun our journey. The castle is only a half day’s ride.”

Patrick motioned toward the man she’d been tending. “Your man. He’s badly off?”

She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “But alive for now. I saw him fall and thought he’d …” Her voice fell off. “He’s my maidservant’s husband and captain of the guardsmen. We need to get him back to Castle Campbell, but he can’t ride.”

“What about the carriage?”

She shook her head. “The wheel snapped off the axle. It will need to be repaired before it can be moved.”

“So what will you do?”

“Take a few guardsmen and return to Castle Campbell for help. The remaining men will stay with the injured.”

“And your maidservant?”

She smiled wanly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t pry her from her husband’s side. Alys won’t hear of leaving her Donnan.”

He frowned, counting the remaining guardsmen. “That will leave you with only a few men as escort.”