The Campbell Trilogy (55 page)

The haunting images assaulted him, but he forced them aside, leaving only the familiar hatred and bitterness coiling inside. The Campbells had paid for their injustice, but it would never be enough. Some things could never be replaced.

But taking back his land would help.

All of a sudden, Patrick stilled. His gaze shot to his chief. “You said cousin. Which cousin?”

Alasdair and their uncle Duncan exchanged looks, as if realizing the reaction his pronouncement would effect. “Elizabeth.”

“Patrick’s Campbell?” Gregor asked.

“Aye,” Duncan said.

Patrick held his expression impassive, masking the turmoil burgeoning inside. The lass he’d once helped now held his land. Fate or irony? He didn’t give a damn either way. It was an opportunity.

The crackle of the fire seemed to accentuate the tense silence.

“Who is she betrothed to this time?” Patrick’s youngest brother, Iain, finally asked.

“No one,” Alasdair replied. “Yet. I suspect that Argyll has added the land to the gel’s tocher to pique interest in her. I’d marry the lass myself—if I didn’t think Maihri would object.”

“She’d cut off your bollocks and serve them to you for
dinner for even suggesting it,” Duncan said in all seriousness. The men laughed when Alasdair paled.

Patrick’s mind was racing as he realized that the chance he’d been waiting for might have just arrived. Not only would he have the personal satisfaction of seeing his land returned to his family, but it could also be a godsend to his clan. Without land, they’d been forced to steal and scavenge for food. But never had the situation been so dire as after Glenfruin. The people were starving, and he didn’t know whether they could survive another cold winter like the last.

They couldn’t ignore the opportunity. If they didn’t do something, someone else would.

“I’ll do it,” Gregor proclaimed boldly.

“No!” Patrick boomed. The men were silenced by the forcefulness of his outburst. Hell, it had surprised even him. But the thought of his brother with that delicate lass … He moderated his tone. “I will.”

Alasdair met his gaze. The chief did not look surprised by Patrick’s pronouncement. “You have a plan?”

“Aye.” His mouth thinned to a hard line. “To get my land back.”

Alasdair frowned. “You will take the lass?”

It was his first instinct, and one that would exact further revenge, but Patrick shook his head. “Nay. ’Twould be too easy for Argyll to set aside.” And only cause them more problems. He needed Elizabeth Campbell to
want
to marry him—and stay married.

“The Campbell devil will hardly allow a MacGregor near his precious cousin,” Duncan pointed out. “How do you intend to marry the lass if you do not take her?”

“I’ll have to persuade her,” he said with grim determination.

“And how do you intend to do that?” Alasdair asked.

“Seduce her,” he replied flatly. “As old as she is, the lass is surely ripe for it.” Elizabeth Campbell was vulnerable.
He knew it. Not just from the broken engagements and the fact that she was still unmarried, but because he’d seen it. He’d seen her disappointment, seen the heartbreak when Montgomery had hurt her. Almost as if she’d been expecting it. Patrick knew he could take advantage of it. A few kind words. Compliments. Shower her with attention.

The lass was ripe for seduction, and he would be the one to do it. He felt it with an intensity that he could not explain. He recalled her pristine beauty, her fragility. The longing he’d felt for something beyond his reach, something he shouldn’t touch.

He wanted her, and now he could have her.

The chief didn’t look convinced. “If anyone discovers who you are …”

“I know,” Patrick said.
I’m a dead man.
“It’s a risk. But my face is not as recognizable as yours.”

“True,” Alasdair agreed. “But won’t the lass recognize you? Maybe Gregor should be the one. With my brother gone … you are my
tanaiste.
”

“Temporarily,” Patrick said. He didn’t look at Gregor, but he could feel his simmering resentment. “The lass won’t know me. She didn’t see my face.”

Alasdair grinned. “From what I hear, one look is enough for most lasses.”

He didn’t bite. His cousin loved to prod him about his damn face. As if something so ridiculous mattered to a warrior. Not that he was very nice to look at right now. He’d have to “find” some new clothing, a bath, and a razor if he was to have a chance at deceiving her as to his identity. “Whatever it takes,” Patrick answered.

He didn’t delude himself that it would be easy, but frankly, a chance in hell was better than none.

The chief nodded. “If you are willing—”

“I am. The risk is nothing compared to what we might gain.” Not only the land, but possibly influence with Argyll. Because of his success in charming King James into
pardoning him a few years ago, Alasdair hoped to find it again with the king, but Elizabeth Campbell presented another possibility.

“Godspeed, cousin,” Alasdair said soberly. But his somber expression was soon broken by a wide grin. “I wish I could see Argyll’s face when he discovers one of the barbarians he’s tearing apart the Highlands to find is hiding right under his nose.”

Patrick returned the smile but knew Alasdair was offering him a subtle warning to be careful.

The details of the plan had come later. It had been decided that Patrick, Gregor, and half of the men would head to the Lomond Hills, while Alasdair, Iain, Duncan, and the rest of the men went to the Isle of Bute to seek refuge with the Lamonts. The Lamont wouldn’t like harboring the outlaws, but Alasdair intended to call in an old debt.

From the Lomond Hills, Patrick had organized scouting parties to see what they could discover of Elizabeth Campbell’s movements. Castle Campbell, with its position high in the hills of Ochil, surrounded by steep ravines and trees, was impenetrable. When they’d learned from a loose-lipped Campbell guardsman who liked to drink his ale in the nearby village of Dollar that she would be traveling to Dunoon Castle, Patrick knew it was their chance.

Gregor, like Hamish, had wanted to take the lass, but Patrick had come up with another plan. Instead of attacking the coach to abduct her, they would use the attack—and his riding to the rescue—as a way of gaining her trust. No one would have been hurt had Gregor not taken matters into his own hands, attacking before he was supposed to.

“The chief was right,” Robbie said, returning Patrick to the present. “The lass seems entranced by your pretty face.” He saw Patrick’s dark expression, but it didn’t deter him from adding, “I can’t say I see what all the fuss is about. Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Which is why someday a lass might look on you with favor.”

Robbie grinned. “One lass? And break all those other hearts that teem with hope? Nay, unlike you, I’ll not be looking to wed for some time.”

Marrying hadn’t been on Patrick’s mind either—but he would do what he had to do for his chief and clan. He wished it felt like more of a sacrifice.

All of a sudden, Robbie’s expression changed.

“What is it?” Patrick asked.

The younger man frowned. “The Campbell lass. She isn’t how I thought she would be.”

Patrick tensed. “What do you mean?”

Robbie looked at him uncertainly. “She seems … well, kind. On the road she made sure we had enough to eat, sharing the beef and oatcakes she had for her guardsmen. Are you sure—”

“Save your sympathy for our people, who will be starving and freezing this winter if we don’t do something to help them,” Patrick snapped.

“I didn’t mean—”

“She’s a Campbell,” Patrick swore. “When you find yourself losing heart while staring at her pretty face, picture her brothers and cousin instead.”

Robbie took a step back, staring at him with a peculiar expression on his face. “Aye, Captain. I’ll remember that.”

Patrick felt the eruption of temper cool just as suddenly, realizing what had happened—and what he’d been reacting to. Robbie had done no more than voice Patrick’s own qualms—qualms that he hadn’t anticipated. “It’s better than the alternative,” he said, more to convince himself as Robbie walked away.

Patrick yanked off his shirt, using the water brought by the maidservant to wipe away the sweat, blood, and grime from his body. He balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it in the fire, then pulled a fresh one from his bag, silently
thanking the merchant he’d stolen the clothing from for being thoughtful enough to have a spare.

Tucking in the shirt, he flinched as his fingers scraped the wound at his side. But he ignored the pain as he pulled on his cotun and strode out the door, heading to the great hall. He tried to blink, but could not clear the black spots in his vision. With some food and a good night’s rest, he would be good as new.

He made it as far as the staircase.

Lizzie lingered over her food, taking another piece of brown bread and slathering it with fresh, creamy butter, even though she’d had her fill. She sat at the dais beside the bailiff and the
seannachie
along with other high-ranking men of the clan, the room buzzing with the loud voices of the guardsmen who’d decided to drown the hardships of the day in a hearty amount of
cuirm.
Her gaze shifted more than once toward the door, wondering what was keeping them.

It was only the concern that the lady of the keep would feel for her guests, she told herself. But the longer the delay, the more obvious the lie. Her concern was for one man.

Patrick Murray fascinated her. Everything about him seemed intense—larger than life—from his impossibly handsome face to his strength to the darkness and turmoil she sensed simmering just below the surface.

As the minutes ticked by, she became even more convinced that something was wrong. So when the young Murray warrior she’d spoken to earlier—Robbie, she recalled—appeared at the entry to the great hall, his eyes frantically scanning the room, she practically leapt to her feet and hurried across the crowded room.

“Is there something wrong?” Her fingers clutched the wool of her skirts, already anticipating the answer.

Robbie nodded. “It’s the captain, my lady.”

Her heart plummeted. “What’s happened?”

She could tell that Robbie was uncomfortable—as if he weren’t sure he was doing the right thing.

“Please tell me. I only wish to help,” she urged gently.

“He’s unconscious, my lady.” He lowered his voice, and she could see the worry in his roguish gaze. “I thought he was dead. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“He’s wounded?” Lizzie couldn’t control the high pitch of her voice.

“Aye.”

“But how?” Her mind shuffled through the day’s events. She’d known something was wrong. How could she have missed it? “Was he shot?”

The young warrior shook his head. “Nay, he took a blade in the side.”

Surely she would have seen an injury of that magnitude? “But when? How is it possible?” When Robbie started to look even more uncomfortable, she said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Not wanting to waste a minute, she motioned for a serving girl and gave her orders to have the healer meet them in the barracks right away with her medicines. Thinking of what else they might need, she told the girl to find hot water and fresh linens and bring them as well. And some broth. And plenty of whisky.

A few minutes later, she entered the barracks with Robbie. Patrick’s men had laid him on a pallet and were gathered around, staring at him indecisively. Lizzie waved them out of the way and knelt beside the unconscious man, feeling a strange tightness in her throat and chest—as if the swell of emotion inside her had suddenly grown too large to hold.

Why he should affect her so, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing such a big, powerful warrior blazing with life suddenly cut down. His face was bloodless. Fear trickled down her spine. It was easy to see why Robbie had feared he was dead: He looked it.

She put her hand on his cheek, shocked by the cold clamminess of his skin. Leaning over him, she put her cheek next to his mouth. Her chest heaved with relief when she felt the warmth of his ragged breath sweep across her skin.

Though faint, it was a sign of life—one that she intended to hold on to.

He would not die. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Fionnghuala, the healer, arrived, and with the help of Robbie and another of Patrick’s men, they removed his cotun and shirt, slowly revealing the broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and powerful chest that looked as if it had been ripped from steel.

Jesu!

The shock was like a lightning bolt running through her body. Her mouth went dry and she stared at him, utterly transfixed by the naked display of blatant masculinity. She’d never seen his like—his arms and chest could have been chipped from stone. The shape of each hard muscle was carefully honed to lean precision, not an ounce of fat to mar the sharply defined edges.

His skin was dark and smooth but for the smattering of warrior’s marks that gave testament to his profession. He was a man who lived by the sword, and his body bore the scars to prove it.