The Campbell Trilogy (52 page)

Time was running out, and it was all Patrick could do to keep himself upright on his sodding horse. Rather than felling Elizabeth Campbell with charm, he was losing blood, and needed to see to the wound before he was the one who ended up flat on his back. He doubted that fainting would impress her into hiring him as a guardsman.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to think that he could be charming. Perhaps he had more charm than most of his clansmen, but that wasn’t saying much. The MacGregors
were a brutal lot—hardened and toughened by years of relentless persecution.

But it was more than acting that failed him. Something about Elizabeth Campbell disarmed him. There was such an easy, unaffected way about her that he found himself wanting to talk to her.
Really
talk to her. When she gazed up at him with those wide blue eyes in that pale, serious little face, she looked so damn vulnerable that it made him feel like a brute for deceiving her.

She was a woman to protect and cherish. A fragile piece of fine porcelain in the hands of a ruffian.

He’d slipped into the trees out of sight, but not before he glimpsed her talking to his men and passing out food. As he’d noticed before on the battlefield, she saw to others’ needs before attending to her own. She did her duty well. A true lady of the castle born.

Knowing he had to act quickly before someone spied him, he shifted his thoughts from the lass and moved to the loch. After divesting himself of his weapons and leather cotun, he started to peel away the sopping linen that had worked its way into the crevice of blood and mangled skin. It was as he’d thought. The sutures of animal intestines they’d used to stitch the wound closed had torn apart, revealing a wide gap of raw, bloody flesh. If he had the time to build a fire, he’d take a hot blade to the wound just to stop the bleeding—even if he trapped the poison inside.

The pain was considerable, but it did not impede his motions. He’d endured worse. The memories made him grimace. Far worse. Discomfort was what he knew—constant cold, damp, hunger, pain … it was only the level that differed. The simple comforts of a hearth and home had been denied him for too long.

But that would soon change.

He moved swiftly and deliberately, tending to the wound as best he could. After rinsing it with clean water, he tore a
piece of his newly purloined linen shirt—the cost of which would have fed his men for a week—and bound it tightly around his waist. The waste almost hurt more than the wound. He’d traded in his
leine
and
breacan feile
for the clothing favored by Lowlanders to further mask his identity.

He knew it was a risk to leave the wound as it was, but there was little he could do about it now. He dared not risk questions about how he’d received it.

When blood did not immediately stain the linen bandage, he considered his efforts a success. At least he wouldn’t fall off his horse from loss of blood. After replacing his cotun and weapons, he rejoined his men, who had already seen to the horses.

He looked around, keeping well apprised of the location of their enemies. The handful of Campbell guardsmen who had accompanied them were sitting near the edge of the loch, still eating the bits of beef and oatcake that he’d seen Elizabeth pass out. He didn’t think he’d crossed paths with any of the men before, but he knew he had to be careful. There was one man in particular—Finlay was his name—whom Patrick didn’t like the look of.

Robbie, who was one of the youngest of his warriors at nine and ten but had been with Patrick since he’d fought with Alex MacLeod on Lewis almost three years ago, gave him a hard look as he approached. “Has it opened again?”

“It’s nothing.”

Robbie swore. “You could have both legs cut off and be dragging your insides behind you and still claim, ‘It’s nothing.’ Your sister will string me up by my bollocks if I let you die from a fever.”

“I didn’t realize Annie had sent love-struck lads to spy on me.”

Robbie fought to stave off the color that rose high on his cheeks. The young warrior’s infatuation with Patrick’s
younger sister was well-known. But equally well-known was that the hardheaded Annie had given her heart away long ago to Niall Lamont. Patrick liked Niall well enough, but the Lamont of Ascog’s second son was an ambitious man intent on making his name as a warrior. When he married, it would be to further his clan’s alliances. An outlawed MacGregor wife would not be his choice. Poor Annie was doomed to heartbreak and disappointment, but the chit wouldn’t listen to reason.

“Since it was Annie who stitched you up in the first place, she simply didn’t want to see all of her hard work go to waste,” Robbie pointed out.

“My stubborn sister should mind her own blasted business.”

Robbie snorted. “Runs in the family,” he added under his breath.

Patrick eyed him, brow raised. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “At least your plan seems to be working.”

“So far.”

“No problems?”

“One,” he admitted. He should have realized that she would know Tullibardine and his lady. It was lucky that Patrick’s memory of the child’s age had proved close enough. He’d met the laird only once, and that was some time ago. “It was nothing I could not handle.”

As he’d intended, the invention of a dead wife and bairn had played upon her sympathies, deflecting further questions. But the deception didn’t sit well with him, even if it was necessary.

Robbie nodded and looked around. “Where did she go?”

He glanced through the trees and frowned, seeing no sign of Lizzie. “I don’t know. Ready the horses. I’ll fetch the lass.”

He started walking in the direction he’d seen her leave. She’d been gone for no more than ten minutes, but even allowing for the inordinate time women took to tend to personal matters, she should have been back by now. Although he was loath to disturb her privacy, a private conversation in the secluded forest might help further his cause.

He took a few steps in the direction in which she’d disappeared and called her name. The sound that came back to him sent ice storming through his veins. Drawing his dirk from the scabbard at his side, he plunged into the darkness.

Lizzie sat on her knees at the edge of the loch, dipping her hands in the icy water, removing the last stains of the battle from her fingers. If only the memories were as easily washed away. She mourned the men who had died today, and pitied the suffering their families would endure when she brought them the news. She would never shirk her duties, but some were harder than others. She sighed, thinking of the conversations before her. Much harder.

At first she thought the rustling sounds she heard behind her were leaves being tossed about by the wind. But then she felt the distinct weight of eyes upon her. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, like tiny sentries alerting her to danger, but she forced herself to stay calm.

It was probably nothing.

She dried her hands in her skirts, got to her feet slowly, and turned around. Her entire body went perfectly still, frozen with fear. It wasn’t “nothing.” Standing not twenty feet from her in the shadows of the trees stood a lone wolf. His golden yellow eyes were fixed on her with cold calculation—not unlike the MacGregor warrior’s gaze had been earlier. It was the look of a hunter. It was a look that promised no mercy.

He was close enough for her to see the dampness shining on his black nose and the gray streaks in his black coat. His mouth was pulled back in a sinister impression of a smile, revealing long, sharp teeth. Was it possible to see hunger in a gaze? Because the wolf was looking at her as if he were
starving and she were a tasty feast. Though from his immense size, he certainly didn’t appear to be suffering from any lack of sustenance. His head came up to her waist, and he was built thick and solid, easily outweighing her.

Her heart was beating so fast that it hurt, straining against the tight confines of her chest.

She heard Patrick call her name, and the wolf howled in response. She wanted to scream for help but dared not do anything to startle or provoke the vicious beast.

Hearing the sounds of footsteps coming toward them, the wolf growled and his fur bristled. Spit slid in heavy sheets from his mouth as he crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce.

She held her breath, praying that someone arrived—

“Don’t move.”

The sound of Patrick Murray’s deep, steady voice was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.

Move? She couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her feet seemed to be stuck in a bog. “I w-won’t,” she whispered, fear carrying her past caring about her stammer. Patrick tossed a rock in the wolf’s direction. Rather than scare him off, however, it seemed only to make him angrier, thinking that Patrick was infringing on his territory. The beast had claimed Elizabeth as his prey and wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

Tiring of Patrick’s efforts, the wolf attacked without warning, leaping forward and closing the distance to Lizzie in a matter of seconds. She didn’t even have time to breathe, let alone get out the scream that strangled in her throat, before two front paws hit her square in the chest and knocked her harshly to the ground, taking the air from her lungs.

For one terrifying second, she felt his suffocating weight on top of her; the horrible stench of his fur and breath enveloped her in a sickening noose. His teeth were so sharp. They were going to hurt.…

Suddenly the snarling beast was ripped off her.

Patrick had wrestled the wolf to the ground, one arm wrapped around his neck. The animal’s long teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he twisted wildly, gnashing and snarling at his captor. Lizzie knew from his size how strong the wolf must be, but he was no match for the fierce warrior. Patrick’s eyes were cold and determined, not a hint of fear in their dark green depths.

She stared in awed wonderment as he subdued the ferocious animal as if he offered no more fight than a rabbit. She’d never seen anything like it—his strength was extraordinary. His arm squeezed around the wolf’s neck, the muscle in his arm bulging against the leather of his cotun like a boulder, until the wolf hung limp.

Lizzie swore she saw regret on his face as he tossed the lifeless animal to the side and came quickly to her.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded dumbly as he helped her to her feet. “I—I’m fine.” She struggled to control her stammering tongue. But the strain of what had just happened, added to the horror of the earlier attack by the MacGregors, proved too much. She didn’t care. Her carefully wrought composure dissolved. She could barely stand, her legs felt so weak. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, her throat tightened, and hot tears stung her eyes.

He was standing so close to her, all six feet plus inches of masculine strength. So solid and safe. Her valiant protector. It seemed only natural to seek the safe enclosure of his embrace. She ran into his arms, burying her head against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled … wonderful. Warm. Of leather and pine needles and strength. Savoring the distinctly masculine scents, she closed her eyes. Only then did the tears start to fall.

Patrick MacGregor, a man known for his cool authority, for his decisiveness in battle, for his strength and toughness
in the most extreme conditions, was at a complete loss. He looked down at the flaxen head of the tiny feminine bundle against his chest and didn’t know what to do, having little experience with comforting weeping women. He felt a hard twinge in his chest. A flood of warmth that almost bordered on … contentment. An emotion so foreign to him, he didn’t know what to make of it.

After a moment’s confusion, he relaxed and acted on instinct, allowing his arms to come around her and snuggle her closer to him.

He figured it was the right thing to do—despite the fact that it seemed only to make her cry harder—when every muscle in her body seemed to heave a sigh of relief and she collapsed limply against him.

He felt a surge of protectiveness. An overwhelming urge to keep her safe. Ironic, given his task.

Still, it pleased him that she’d turned to him so easily. He knew not to read too much into it; he was convenient, nothing more. And she’d been pushed to the end of her rope by the day’s events. But it didn’t mean he didn’t like it.

Holding her like this, it felt … nice.

More than nice. He couldn’t help but notice how well they fit together. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and his arms wrapped perfectly around her. Her hair smelled like lavender, and was so silky soft that he couldn’t resist the urge to touch it. He let it slide under his palm as he stroked her head soothingly, his own pulse beginning to slow.

Her weeping did not diminish his opinion of her strength. The lass had been through a lot today; she’d earned the right to her tears. She wasn’t the only one reeling from what had nearly happened.

He didn’t know how to describe the feeling that had shot through him when he’d heard the wolf howl. His heart had seized for one paralyzing second. If he didn’t know better,
he would think it had been a flash of panic—laughable under ordinary circumstances.