The Campbell Trilogy (62 page)

Though he’d covered it quickly, she’d seen it in his eyes—her cold rebuff had hurt him. He thought she’d rejected him because of his station. But it was much more complicated than that.

Patrick Murray was confident, powerful, decisive—a rock even in the most precarious of circumstances. The ultimate warrior. How could he ever understand what it was like not to trust yourself? To no longer have faith in your own judgment? To know how it feels when every instinct tells you something is right and then to later discover that it was wrong—terribly wrong?

She’d never told another living soul about the sheer depths of her stupidity with John Montgomery.

In the weeks following their engagement, he’d stolen kisses, a chaste peck here, a slightly longer kiss there. But one day—a few days before the gathering—she’d accidentally stumbled upon him in the middle of the night on her way back from the garderobe. He’d been drinking in the hall below and had only just come upstairs for the night. He’d kissed her. At first she’d giggled nervously and swatted him away. But then the kiss had turned more insistent, and she’d realized that she no longer wanted to stop. He’d
pulled her into a mural chamber inset into the stone wall and down onto a cushioned bench. His hands stroked her body, touching her, awakening wicked sensations that she’d never imagined.

Your skin is like velvet.

He’d nuzzled his face in her chest.

Your breasts are so soft and round.

The things he’d whispered in her ear had excited her. She liked the way he made her feel. Loved. Protected.

Feel what you do to me.

He’d slipped her hand around his manhood, and she’d wondered at the solid strength of it.

Let me love you.

He’d told her it would be all right. That they were to be married. Told her that if she loved him, she would want to bring him pleasure.

Like a fool, she’d believed him. And truth be told, after an initial moment of pain, he hadn’t been alone in his pleasure. She’d liked the weight of him on top of her, liked the way his hands caressed her breasts, the way he’d moved inside her. Except for the mess when he’d released himself on her stomach, it had been quite pleasant.

That night she’d given John her virginity, and two days later he’d broken her heart.

He’d found her after the fiasco at the gathering and apologized. Said he hadn’t meant his cruel words—his laughter. She’d even believed him. A little. But by then it didn’t matter. Her illusions of this handsome man loving her were gone, and in their place she saw the man he was—not the man she wanted him to be.

“Please, Elizabeth, you must reconsider. Think of the contracts. Of what this will mean to our families.”

To his family.
Hers did not need her tocher or his cousin’s influence in a feud with the Cunninghams. “Nothing would compel me to marry you.”

His handsome face turned as petulant as that of a spoiled child. “But you’re ruined.”

She despised that word. She wasn’t ruined. She was different. Changed. No longer naïve. “I’d suggest you keep that fact to yourself,” she said coolly. “You’ll sign your own death warrant if either of my brothers discovers what you’ve done.”

He paled. She didn’t blame him. Jamie was well-known for his ruthlessness, and Colin, if not as skilled a fighter, possessed an edge of cruelty that made him equally terrifying. “Someone will find out eventually,” he pointed out.

A husband. Her chest squeezed as she thought of all she’d wasted on a man who didn’t care about her at all. Who didn’t love her—not the way she deserved to be loved. The pleasure she’d shared with him should have belonged to her husband. She clenched her jaw. “That will be my problem.”

Then, she’d still thought she would find a husband to love her. A man who would be able to overlook a foolish girl’s mistake.

But time had run out. When she married, love would not be part of the bargain. She would have to tell her cousin what she’d done, and if Robert Campbell could not look past her loss of maidenhood, she was confident that her tocher would blind many an eye.

Crude, perhaps, but none the less true for it.

She dipped her head under the water and plunged her face through the glassy surface one more time, then stepped from the tub. Despite the steamy air, her teeth chattered as the young maidservant rubbed the gooseflesh from her skin with the swathe of linen warmed by a pan of stones heated in the fire. The soft scent of lavender, made more pungent from the steam, filled her nose. It was her favorite scent, and Lizzie saw to it that all the linens were stored with the dried flowers.

The maid started the long process of combing out her
hair, hitting a few painful snags along the way. In between the poor girl’s horrified apologies, Lizzie thought how much she missed Alys. Donnan was recovering from his wound, but it would be some time before the older woman would chance to leave his side. Lizzie visited their cottage in the village when she could. With five children it was more than a bit chaotic, but she loved every minute of it.

It was everything she wanted and one day hoped to have.

The bath had worked its magic, and for the first time since their kiss, she could think rationally.

Patrick Murray’s softly spoken words uttered in the haze of passion had brought all of it back to her. The uncertainty. The heartache. The knowledge that the next time she gave a man her body, she wanted to know that he loved her. Or, she thought sadly, that he would have a legal right to do so.

That was the cold, hard truth. No matter how much she desired Patrick Murray, it wasn’t enough.

But …

Lizzie could not shake the nagging feeling that this time had been different. Patrick had roused all the same feelings in her, but so much more. Kissing him, with her body pressed up against his, had felt amazing. Perfect. Right.

A wry smile turned her mouth. Apparently, not all of her naïve wishful thinking had been lost two years ago.

After the maid had finished helping her dress and arrange her hair, she made her way down to the great hall for the evening meal. Although it was less involved and substantial than the midday meal, Lizzie made sure it was prepared and presented with equal aplomb. The tables were festively decorated with colorful cloths, flowers, and candelabra. A harpist sat before the fireplace, infusing music throughout the peat smoke-filled room. A handful of maids circled the tables with pitchers of the potent
cuirm
and claret, and platters stacked high with cheese, bread, and beef. The room was cozy, warm, and full of life.

Everything was as it should be, yet something was missing. Her eyes went to the dais. For a moment, she could picture Patrick sitting at the head of the table, glancing up to catch her eye and smiling to see her. The image was so strong, she felt a wave of disappointment when it was gone. He wouldn’t be at the dais. He was only a guardsman. Hadn’t she just told him as much? One kiss and she was imagining things that could never be.

Perhaps it was because she’d just been thinking about Alys and her family, but Lizzie suddenly felt very alone. The cozy atmosphere she worked so hard to create was only a thin veneer to mask her loneliness.

As she approached the dais, she noticed that the room seemed quieter than usual. A quick glance around told her why. Neither Patrick nor any of his men were here.

Dread coiled in her belly like spoiled milk.

Had she driven him away?

No.
He wouldn’t leave, she told herself. Not when he’d promised to stay. Not without saying goodbye.

She took her seat beside the bailiff and Finlay, both men offering her a pleasant greeting. As they’d been waiting for her to start the meal, she raised her hand and the merrymaking began.

She made small talk with the bailiff for a bit before broaching the question foremost on her mind.

“I don’t see the Murray guardsmen in the hall. Were they called to duty for some reason?”

The bailiff frowned, his eyes flickering over the tables crowded with clansmen. “Not to my knowledge, my lady.”

She heard Finlay snicker beside her; he’d obviously overheard—or been listening to—their conversation. “ ’Twas not duty that called them away, my lady.” He had a smug smile on his face, as though he were thinking about a naughty joke. “But a call of an entirely different kind.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Finlay sobered, but Lizzie caught the gleam in his eyes. “They went to the village to do a wee bit of celebrating.”

Her brows knit together. “But why would they do that? We’ve food and drink aplenty here.”

Finlay put on a show of looking uncomfortable, but Lizzie could tell that he was anxious to tell her what he knew. “We’ve not everything here that they have in the village.”

Oh God.
Lizzie sucked in her breath, feeling suddenly ill. Women. They went to find women.

A slim dagger slid between her ribs, pricking a tiny corner of her heart—the part that had believed for a moment that there was something special in the kiss she and Patrick had shared. She swallowed. “I see.”

It shouldn’t matter. Even if she had some claim on him—which she didn’t—men often availed themselves of other women.

But knowing didn’t lessen the kernel of disappointment aching inside her. Or the feeling that once again she’d seen something special where there was only lust. Lust that any willing arms would sate.

The comely, buxom lass perched on his lap did nothing to ease Patrick’s restlessness. Still, cognizant of the tavern’s patrons, he made a good show of enjoying himself as he tossed back another tankard of
cuirm,
letting the maid fondle him.

The needs of the flesh had provided as good an excuse as any for why he and his men sought to avail themselves of the village’s offerings this night. Maybe a wee tumble was just what he needed.

But the smell of stale ale was not lavender. When her wet kisses on his ear and the press of her breasts against his arms did nothing to get a rise out of him, he gave her a pat on her round rump and ushered her away with vague promises that he had no intention of keeping.

He had business to take care of, and his reason for being here had just ducked through the front door.

Patrick almost didn’t recognize him. Gregor had gone to great lengths to change his appearance from that day in the forest. His tattered
breacan feile
and
leine
had been exchanged for a leather jerkin and trews—no doubt obtained the way Patrick had secured his own new clothing.

It was the first time Patrick had seen his brother cleanshaven since Gregor was old enough to grow a beard. He’d trimmed his hair as well, and had it tied back in a short queue at his neck. Though Gregor’s hair was lighter brown and his eyes dark blue, the resemblance between the two brothers had never seemed more marked. Patrick hoped to hell no one from the castle was around to take note.

He caught his brother’s eye but gave no indication that he knew him. After a few moments, he moved back into one of the private “rooms”—a table and benches separated with a canvas curtain—offered by the alehouse for privacy in the back. Though the village of Dollar was small, it boasted a fine alehouse and lodging. If not as well maintained as a drover’s inn, it would do for their meeting.

A short while later, Gregor slid onto a bench opposite him. Robbie and his other men would ensure that they were not interrupted and that no one drew close enough to overhear.

Patrick stared at his brother for a long moment but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His anger was palpable.

To his credit, Gregor didn’t back down or look repentant, trusting that the bonds of brotherhood would once again protect him from the full force of Patrick’s wrath.

It would, but barely. Over the past few years, those bonds had frayed, and after the attack last week, they now hung by mere threads.

“I should cut your damn throat for what you did,” Patrick said.

“You look
well,
brother.”

Patrick gave him a sharp glare of warning, both for his recklessness in calling him brother and for the snide bite underlying his words. He reached across the table and grabbed his brother by the throat, hard enough to cut off his breath. “Don’t fuck with me, Gregor. I’m of no mind for your subtle poison. If you’ve something to say, say it.”

Gregor’s eyes darkened and he jerked away, rubbing his throat until his breathing returned to normal. “You’ve lost none of your manners, Patrick. I was merely observing that you look well. Castle life agrees with you.”

“What agrees with me is that my blood is running
in
my body and not out of it. For the first time in weeks I’m no longer plagued by an open wound.” His eyes slid over his brother. “You don’t appear to be suffering any from your … accident.”

Gregor’s face grew red with anger. “The bitch is lucky her blade did no lasting harm. But I’ll bear a scar and the memory of the pain to remind me.”

Patrick didn’t like what he saw in his brother’s eyes. He held his gaze with a look that brooked no argument. “Stay away from her, Gregor. Our fight is not with the lass.”

“It’s not? Then who is it with? She’s a Campbell—or have you forgotten?”

“Leave it, I said. You’ve caused enough trouble as it is. You were supposed to wait until we were in position.” He leaned across the table menacingly, daring his brother to ignore the ramifications of what he’d done. Of the men they’d lost. “No one was supposed to die.”

“The men wanted a little fun. All those Campbells …” He shrugged. “It was too good an opportunity to waste.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make. I’d expect this from our uncle and from Iain—God knows not even our cousin can keep them in control—but not from you.”

Gregor finally had the good sense to appear shamefaced. Even without land, Patrick was his chieftain. He also knew
that Patrick would not allow his authority to be challenged. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Not mind that you were trying to abscond with the lass I intend to wed?”

Gregor’s face hardened. “It’s not as if she means anything to you. The bitch made me angry. The way she looked at me. As if I were no better than a dog.”