The Campbell Trilogy (56 page)

Her palms itched to feel him, to lay her hands on the hard muscle, to trace her fingers across the ridged bands that were packed in tightly formed lines across his stomach.

Magnificent.
Her body flooded with awareness. With heat. With desire. With a sharp yearning that gathered with the intensity of a maelstrom inside her.

Until the healer peeled back his shirt enough to reveal the gaping wound at his side.

She gasped, and her stomach rolled in revolt. How could he have stood, let alone ridden for hours, with such an injury?

The cut sliced across his side from back to front, starting
at his shoulder blade and ending a few inches above his waist. It was splayed open, red and raw like a side of beef, the edges crusted with thick globs of blood and tissue, and so deep that she could see the white of his bones. The meal she’d just eaten threatened to return, but she swallowed it back. A steady stream of blood trickled down his side, gathering in a pool on the pallet. His side and stomach were streaked with the stains of blood that he’d obviously made a recent attempt to clean away.

Her eyes sought the grim gaze of the healer, silently asking the question she dared not put to words.

“The blood still runs red, my lady,” the old woman said, offering some ray of hope.

It hadn’t festered … yet. But they could both see that he’d lost too much blood.

The healer started peppering questions to his men and soon grew impatient with their vague responses. It made Lizzie wonder if the Murray clansmen had something to hide. Eventually, however, they were able to determine that Patrick had received the injury weeks ago. A rudimentary attempt had been made to stitch the wound closed, but it must have reopened during the fighting today.

He’d been bleeding for hours.

Her chest tightened, thinking of the wolf’s attack. Of how the added struggle must have sapped Patrick’s strength—yet he’d hidden it well. She’d never guessed.

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Her mouth tightened. Patrick Murray was clearly a man who would not ask for help. What was the fascination with Highlanders and invincibility? Something in the blood, she supposed, along with a healthy dose of stubborn pride.

She squared her shoulders, determination set across her face. “What can I do?”

“We’ll clean the wound as best we can and stitch it closed again. I’ll apply a salve, and then ’twill be in God’s hands.” The healer’s voice did not hold much promise.

“Nay,” Lizzie said with a fierceness that shocked her. “It’s in my hands.” She felt the weight of all eyes upon her, and heat rose in her cheeks. Despite the blasphemy, however, his men looked at her approvingly. Embarrassed by the outburst, she explained to the healer, “This man saved my life twice today, I can do no less.”

The healer gave her a look that said she understood more than Lizzie might want her to, then she turned to Patrick’s men. “I’ll need a few of you to hold him still while I work.”

The men did as they were bid, and the healer began her preparations. Once everything was in place, they began. Using damp swathes of linen, they carefully washed the blood from the wound. Anxiety made Lizzie’s heart pound erratically. She was trying to be careful, but when he flinched at her touch, she gasped and pulled her hand back.

“You’re doing fine, my lady,” the healer encouraged her.

“But it’s hurting him.”

“Aye, and it will hurt much worse before this day is done. If you’ve not the stomach—”

“I’m fine.” Lizzie gritted her teeth and kept swabbing the red, angry cut, steeling herself for his flinches of pain. She wiped her hand across her forehead when they were done, relieved, until she saw the healer lift the flagon.

“What are you doing?”

“The whisky will help wash away the poison.”

Lizzie had heard of this but never seen it done. Having splashed claret on an open cut before by accident, she couldn’t imagine … it would be excruciating. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“I’ve seen it help, my lady,” Robbie added.

Lizzie swallowed and braced herself. “Do it.”

Patrick’s eyes opened as a guttural cry emitted from deep in his lungs. The sound cut her to the quick. His guardsmen held him down, but it was horrible to watch as his body twisted with pain. Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, he stilled.

The healer took out the needle and fine silk thread. “This is going to take a while. I need you to hold the wound closed as I stitch it together.” She looked to the guardsmen. “You’ll need to keep him very still. The tissue around the wound is tender and will cause him a great deal of pain.”

Lizzie felt as if she didn’t breathe for an hour, every inch of her body on edge as the healer worked down the gash methodically. It was a long, painstaking process that taxed every ounce of her strength. When the healer was finished, they applied a salve and a fresh linen bandage over the wound.

“I don’t understand how he walked around for weeks with a wound like that. It must have pained him something fierce,” the healer said, shaking her head.

“The captain doesn’t feel pain like most men,” Robbie said admiringly. “He’s endured far worse.”

“Aye,” added one of the older warriors. “See that right there?” He pointed to a round scar on Patrick’s shoulder. “Took a hagbut shot in his sword arm and fought for hours afterwards.”

Lizzie clamped her lips tightly together. “Everyone feels pain,” she said. “Some are just too blasted stubborn to admit it.”
Now
the men gaped at her as if she’d blasphemed. “I’ll make sure to tell your captain exactly that when he wakes up.”

Gazing at the handsome but incredibly pale face of the man lying on the pallet, she prayed she had the opportunity to give him that piece of her mind.

He didn’t want to remember.

Patrick struggled against the images, against sleep, but the dream kept coming. Faster now. Barreling toward him with the force of an avalanche. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He couldn’t escape the memories …

Of a deep sleep and the sweet sound of his mother’s voice sifting through his dreams.

Except that it hadn’t been a dream.

“Wake up, Patty! Get dressed. Hurry, my love.”

His mother’s voice, he realized, except that it didn’t sound like her at all. His mother was happiness and light, not anxiety and terror. He opened his eyes. Her pale face lit by a single candle appeared like an apparition floating in a sea of black.

He knew from her expression that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

A cry tore through the night from outside: “They’re coming!”

Campbells. The Campbells were coming for them.

He remembered the bitter taste of fear. And the shame. He was ten years old. Almost a man. He shouldn’t be scared. He was a warrior like his father. And like his father one day, he would be chieftain to his cousin Alasdair Roy.

He could still feel her hand cradling his face with tenderness. Could still see the green eyes that mirrored his own, gazing at him so lovingly. “I need you to be brave, my love.” She’d known—she always knew what he was feeling. “Take your brothers and run deep into the forest. Hide there until someone comes to get you when it’s safe.”

He didn’t want to go. The forest was haunted and rife with faeries.

But he hid his fear and nodded. “But what about you?”

“I’ll not leave your father. Don’t worry.” She pressed her hand on his face. “Annie and I will be safe.”

His mother was a Campbell born. Sister to the Laird of Glenorchy, the man who’d sworn to clear the MacGregors from their land.

He shook his head mulishly. “I won’t leave you.”

“You must,” she said sternly, more sternly then she’d ever spoken to him. “I need you to take care of your brothers. I’m counting on you.”

And he could not—would not—disappoint her.

In his dream he wanted to argue, wanted to beg her to
come with them, but his dream wouldn’t listen. So he’d left his mother behind, taking the sword that she’d given him—a real one of steel, not of wood like he normally used—and ran, leading the seven-year-old Gregor and five-year-old Iain into the trees until he thought his lungs would burst.

He’d gone about a mile before he remembered his badge. The chieftain’s badge his father had just given him. The badge that had been passed down in his family for generations. “Guard it well, my son.” His legacy. The symbol of his clan. He wanted to throw up with shame. How could he have forgotten it? His father had trusted him; he couldn’t let him down.

It doesn’t matter! Patrick shouted to the boy in his dream. But the boy couldn’t hear him. The boy thought nothing was more important to him than the badge.

God, how wrong he was.

Patrick left his brothers with a stern warning for them not to move and turned back for his treasured badge.

He smelled the smoke first. It filled the night with a black, thick haze, burning his throat as he ran toward the keep. He was running harder now, the heavy sword etching a deep line in the dirt beside him.

Breaking through the trees, he saw the flames. They filled the night sky with flickering shards of orange along the banks of Loch Earn, engulfing everything in their wake.

His eyes blurred, stinging with smoke and disbelief. His home was … gone.

People were everywhere. Running. Screaming. Trying to escape the fire and the Campbell swordsmen who’d overrun the village.

He knew what it meant but didn’t want to believe it.

He knew his father would never let this happen … not while there was a breath left in his body.

Patrick raced toward the keep, not heeding the flames.
As he drew closer, the bodies of his father’s guardsmen confronted him like angels of doom at the gates of hell.

Bile rose in his throat, but he didn’t stop running. Not until he saw the familiar plaid in a bloody pile at the foot of the stairs. “No!” He threw himself on the still body, burying his head against the powerful chest, not caring that tears were streaming down his cheeks. “Father!”

Someone tried to pull him off and he reacted, slashing his sword in an arc but connecting only with air.

The man who’d grabbed him swore, holding him by the neck in a viselike grip. Patrick thrashed wildly, trying to break free from the Campbell warrior’s hold.

“What should we do with him?” the man asked.

“Kill the whelp,” another man said. “If he’s old enough to carry a sword, he’s old enough to die by one. Besides, MacGregors are a vengeful lot. Look at his eyes. He’ll be back for us one day.”

Patrick hit the ground hard and saw the blade flashing above his head.

He wanted to stop the dream. Wanted to change the memory. He tried to thrash away, but it wouldn’t let him go.…

“No!” His mother’s voice came from out of the darkness. “Don’t hurt my …”

Patrick’s chest burned as the images assaulted him mercilessly. His mother jumping in front of him. The Campbell unable to stop the sword. Her chest splayed open instead of his.

“… son.”

The sound echoed in his head relentlessly—the gurgle of death. He would never forget that sound for as long as he lived.

“Mother!” The cry that had torn from his lungs had not been human. It had been twisted with agony and rage and helplessness. He’d gone berserk, lifting the heavy sword he’d dropped at his father’s side with strength he didn’t
know he possessed. It was strength born of hatred. The strength of a boy thrust brutally into manhood.

He remembered the surprised expressions of the two dead men as he’d left them before he’d escaped into the forest. But it would never be enough to replace the parents he’d lost.

Killed by Campbell greed.

A soothing hand on his forehead eased the haunting memories. The dream faded, and he slept.

Patrick woke to the sound of an angel. Or perhaps he’d died and gone to heaven, for he seemed to be floating on clouds so soft was the surface upon which he lay.

He tried to open his eyes, but they resisted; his lids seemed to be weighted down with lead. He attempted to lift his head, but when the tiny movement caused an ax to split through his skull, he thought better of it. Content to float on the cloud a little longer, enfolded in soft linen and warm furs, his cheek pressed against a pillow of feather, the subtle scent of lavender filling his nose, and the angel’s song lulling him back to sleep.

His eye cracked open. Cloud? Pillow? Angel? What in Hades …? He wasn’t floating in the heavens, but lying in a bed. It had been so long since he’d slept on anything other than dirt and brush, he almost didn’t recognize it.

Where am I?

He tried to remember, but his brain wouldn’t work properly. Everything was disjointed … fuzzy.

Until the bedclothes were pulled back and a velvety soft hand skidded along his bare chest. The gentle touch was like a firebrand, startling him awake—fully awake. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed a delicate wrist, looking into the crystal-clear blue eyes of his angel, Elizabeth Campbell. A very shocked Elizabeth Campbell.

She gasped and the heavenly song came to a sudden stop. “You’re awake!”

“Where am I?” he demanded, his voice as dark as his head, hating this feeling of confusion. He was lying in a strange bed half-naked, his head splitting apart, more thirsty than he’d ever been in his life.

What had she done to him? Had she discovered who he was? Had he been imprisoned?

For the first time, he looked around the room. If this was a prison, it was the most luxurious one he’d ever seen. The room was enormous, perhaps twenty feet square, with an unusual vaulted stone ceiling and plastered walls painted a soothing yellow. Two large leaded-glass windows enabled an abundance of sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floors. There was a large stone fireplace at the opposite end, and fine furniture scattered across the room. In addition to oil lamps, he counted two silver candelabra. Above his head, he saw a canopy of heavy silk curtains between intricately carved wooden bedposts. The bed, the decoration, the furnishings … all were rich enough to house a king.