The Campbell Trilogy (59 page)

Take the damn shot.

Patrick lowered the bow.

Damnation.

He couldn’t do it. No matter how much he hated him, he couldn’t shoot a man in the back. The Campbells might have forced him from his home, turned him into an outlaw, and hunted him with bloodhounds, but Patrick had not lost all honor. No matter how slippery the reins of civility had become, he was not yet a cold-blooded murderer.

Besides, if he was forced to flee, there would be no one to prevent Lizzie from marrying Robert Campbell and Patrick’s land would be forever in Glenorchy’s hands. He couldn’t let that happen.

Self-doubt was not something that normally troubled him, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that in not killing Jamie Campbell, he’d failed his clan.

What part did honor have in the life of an outlaw?

He hoped to hell he did not live to regret it. For the blood of every MacGregor killed by the Enforcer from this day forward would be on Patrick’s hands.

Upon further consideration, Lizzie was not particularly eager for the meeting between her brother and Patrick to take place. She feared that her astute—and annoyingly overprotective—brother would see more than she wanted him to. Lord knew she’d never been very good at hiding her feelings, and there was no denying that Patrick Murray roused a maelstrom of “feelings” inside her. Just what they were, she didn’t know. But she didn’t want Jamie to reach any conclusions before she did.

Thus, she felt some measure of relief when Patrick left word that he was not to be disturbed. Worried that he’d taken a turn for the worse, she sought out the healer, who informed her that though he’d appeared well enough that morning, he’d weakened considerably by the afternoon. The older woman had given him a posset to ensure a good night’s rest, and had every hope that he would be better in the morning.

By morning, however, Patrick was still not feeling well enough to appear.

“I thought you said he’d all but recovered?” Jamie asked idly, washing down the herring he’d chosen to break his fast with a long drink of
cuirm,
the strong ale preferred by Highlanders.

Lizzie’s brows wrinkled. “I thought so as well.” She plopped a piece of buttered bread in her mouth and chewed it slowly. “He seemed much better a few days ago.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Lizzie, I’d think you were hiding your knight from me.”

Blast her fair coloring. Lizzie knew her brother could no doubt see the flush heating her cheeks. The last thing she
wanted was Jamie curious. Once he sniffed trouble … he had a streak of doggedness in him that defied belief.

Her brother’s attention, however, was shifted from her pink cheeks to a disturbance in the entry and then by the timely arrival of a messenger who burst into the great hall and demanded to see Jamie immediately. From the harried looks of him, he’d ridden all night.

The young guardsman bent to whisper something in Jamie’s ear, and whatever he said provoked a reaction unlike anything she’d ever seen in her brother. His face turned white and every muscle in his body went taut. Rage she recognized, but this was different. If she didn’t know better, she might think it was fear.

“I’ll kill him!” Jamie said, exploding up from the table and slamming his drink down hard.

“Who?”

“Our cursed brother.”

Colin. Oh no, what had he done this time?
“What’s happened?”

But Jamie wasn’t listening to her. He had a far-off look in his eyes, his mind consumed by the news he’d received. “I have to go. Immediately.”

“Where?”

He turned to look at her, for a moment seeming to remember where he was. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. There’s no time to explain. It seems I will be unable to see you to Dunoon after all. You will be safe here.”

“Of course I shall.”

“I will leave instruction with Donnan about the hiring of more guardsmen. I want a man with you at all times.” Anticipating her objection, he added, “Even near the castle, Lizzie. I’ll take no chances until the MacGregors are subdued.”

Lizzie nodded, one guardsman’s face coming to her.

“I must ride with all haste to Bute.”

His voice was cold and emotionless, yet Lizzie thought she’d never heard her brother sound so tortured. Whatever or whoever it was that had a hold on him was much worse than she’d thought.

She put a hand on his arm. “Godspeed, brother.”

His eyes were bleak. “Have care, Lizzie.”

But it wasn’t herself she was worried about. If the look on her brother’s face was any indication, it was Colin who should be worried.

A few days after Jamie Campbell’s fortuitous departure, Patrick strode outside for the first time in nearly a week. The brightness of the sun surprised him, and he had to squint for a few minutes to allow his eyes to adjust.

His short—and nearly catastrophic—sojourn out of bed a few days ago had hit him harder than he’d expected. The pretext he’d come up with to avoid coming face-to-face with Jamie Campbell had proven more real than he wanted to admit.

He’d sent word for Robbie and warned him to keep clear of the Enforcer, who would recognize him from their time together on Lewis. They’d come up with a plan to leave for a few days if it proved necessary, but his luck, it seemed, had turned when Jamie had been called away.

Though he was still appallingly weak, Patrick knew that he could delay no longer. Tonight would be one week after the attack, and he would meet his brother as originally planned—if Gregor dared show his face after what he’d done.

The persistent mist clouding his mind since the attack had cleared. Whatever personal qualms he’d been feeling about deceiving Elizabeth—Lizzie, her brother’s nickname, suited her—had to be put aside. The thought of Glenorchy getting full possession of his land was like
uisge-beatha
poured on an open wound. He’d die before the son of the man responsible for his parents’ death married her. Nor
could he allow Argyll and Glenorchy to join forces against his clan.

The
barmkin
was crowded with clansmen going about their daily activities. Children playing shinty in the yard, a group of women standing around the well filling their buckets and gossiping, a few more with baskets in the garden, gathering vegetables, herbs, and the fresh flowers that he’d noticed filled every room of the gloomy old keep. Yet despite the grim, austere façade, the inside of the keep was warm and comfortable—homey, even—and he knew exactly who was responsible for making it so.

There were not many men about, which given the late morning hour wasn’t surprising. The warriors would already be hunting or practicing their battle skills, and the farmers would be tending their fields and livestock.

As Robbie and Hamish had been to see him earlier, he knew he would find his men with the other guardsmen, practicing their skills with the bow on the far side of the
barmkin
—near the terraced garden.

He noted a few raised eyebrows as he approached. “It’s good to see you looking so hale, Captain,” Robbie said, moving forward to greet him with an enthusiastic clap on the back. Patrick knew that his men had been more worried than they’d wanted to let on. They’d been through a lot together and weren’t only kin but brothers by the sword.

“Aye,” Finlay added before Patrick could respond. “With you taking up residence in the earl’s chambers, we thought you’d take advantage of all the comforts of the keep for a wee bit longer.”

It was an innocuous enough statement, but coming from the Campbell guardsman, it made Patrick’s instincts flare. Advantage? Of
all
the comforts? There was a hard gleam in his eye that Patrick didn’t like. He’d been right to be wary of this man. Nevertheless, Patrick feigned an ease he did not feel, not wishing to put the man any more on guard. “My place is with my men.” He forced a relaxed grin to his
face. “And from what I saw of that last shot,” he said to Robbie, “I’m not a minute too soon.”

Aware of the pretense, Robbie gave him a good-natured lopsided smile and a mock salute. “Aye, Captain.”

“Don’t you mean
my
men?” Finlay said. “I was told that you had decided to stay on. And I am captain of the castle guardsmen.”

Patrick’s face gave no hint of the reflexive surge of angry pride that he felt by the other man’s blatant attempt to flex his muscles and intimidate him. It would take one move to wipe the smug smile off his face, but instead Patrick nodded. “Aye. I was told you could use some extra sword arms. Was I misinformed?”

They stared at each other for a long pause. Though he knew he should do what he could to appease the Campbell guardsman, Patrick could not force himself to stand down. It wasn’t in his nature. They might have been stripped of their land, their homes, and their wealth, but the MacGregors were descended from kings—he bowed to no man. Pride was all they had left.

“Nay,” Finlay admitted. “You were informed correctly.”

Robbie moved in to defuse the situation. “We were just about to move the target back a few paces.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Patrick said, “Maybe you better think about moving it forward.”

The men laughed, and Robbie made a disgusted face.

“Perhaps your captain will show us what he can do with a bow?” Finlay said. There was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.

What Patrick could do was stick the arrow right between Finlay’s beady eyes from one hundred paces away. MacGregors were the best bowmen in the Highlands, and Patrick was second in skill only to his cousin. But skill such as his would be noticed—and remarked upon. He didn’t want to do anything to draw attention to himself.

A sudden silence fell over the men, but it was not for the reason Patrick thought.

“He’ll do no such thing!”

He spun around at the familiar voice, surprised to see Lizzie fast approaching from behind.

He quirked a brow in question. As if she knew what he—and every other man—was thinking, she quickly explained her presence in the middle of the men’s practice. “I saw you over here and”—her cheeks flushed prettily—“I wondered that you were out of bed. The healer said you would need a few more days to recover.”

“Thank you for your concern, my lady, but Fionnghuala”—
the old biddy
—“is being overly cautious. I’m recovered well enough to resume my duties.”

She bit her lip, looking as though she wanted to argue, and were it not for the crowd of men listening, she likely would have done so. He found it amusing that this wisp of a lass would tread where few others had.

“Very well, if you are sure—”

“I am.”

Their eyes met for an instant before she suddenly dropped her gaze. For the first time, he noticed her clothing. She was wearing simple clothes—a rough woolen kirtle and plain linen sark. They suited her. Without the farthingale, he could see her trim waist and the slim curve of her hips. She was a tiny thing, and the stiff lace and layer upon layer of skirts drowned her natural willowy figure. A large basket was draped over her arm, and he noted the tips of her sturdy leather boots peeking out from below her skirts.

“Are you going somewhere, my lady?”

“I thought I’d collect some of the wildflowers that grow on the top of the brae.”

He frowned, looking in the direction of the hill she’d pointed to. “You shouldn’t go outside the castle gate without
an escort.” Particularly when his brother was likely lurking nearby, waiting to meet with him.

“It’s no farther than a few hundred feet—”

“I will go with her,” Finlay volunteered.

“That won’t be necessary,” she interjected, perhaps a little too quickly. “You are needed here with the men. But if you can spare Patrick for a short while, there is something I would like to discuss with him.”

Patrick caught the flash of animosity directed his way before Finlay covered it with a sycophantic smile. “Of course, my lady. Though with his injury I’m not sure how much use he’ll be to you. Maybe we should send another man along just to be safe.”

Patrick’s reaction was instantaneous. He stepped forward. The muscles corded in his arms and shoulders as one hand clenched in a fist as if he had it around the other man’s thick neck. Finlay didn’t know how close he was to finding himself flat on his back. Patrick had more strength in one arm then most men did in two. Weakened or not, if Patrick let loose, the square, heavyset guardsman would stand no chance in a contest between them.

Blood pounded through his veins. It was one thing to ignore a subtle challenge and quite another to ignore an outright slur of his warrior’s abilities. Nor was he one to duck from a fight.

Sensing the dangerous undercurrent running between the two men, Elizabeth stepped between them, putting a staying hand on his chest. It proved surprisingly effective, the gentle touch more powerful than the edge of a
claid-beamhmór.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Finlay. Anyone who has seen Patrick fight would never doubt his abilities. You forget, he defended
all
of us admirably while injured. Should the need arise, he should be able to handle a bow well enough.” She looked to Robbie for assistance. “Isn’t that so?”