The Campbell Trilogy (82 page)

Being alone in the forest at dusk, however, even with a fire, was not conducive to a state of peace. Frankly, it was terrifying. She jumped at every sound, imagining all sorts of horrible creatures lurking behind the trees. Time passed slowly, tolled by each rustling leaf, each snapped twig, and each oddly timed raindrop that splattered on a nearby rock. By the time he returned, her nerves were frayed raw and she would have welcomed the devil himself with open arms.

He took one look at her face and apologized. “It took longer than I expected. With the rain, there aren’t as many hares venturing from their holes.” He set down his bow and sword and sat opposite her. After putting the dead animal in front of him, he took out his dirk. “I hope you weren’t frightened?”

“Of course not,” Lizzie said automatically, before seeing his teasing expression. “Well, maybe a little,” she conceded. “I kept thinking of that wolf. Are there any other wild beasts that I should be aware of?”

She turned her gaze as he started to skin the dead animal. Not normally squeamish about such things, she was none theless usually more removed from the preparation of her meat.

“You mean other than boars and wildcats?”

Boars and wildcats, dear God!
“Aye, other than those.”

He appeared contemplative and then shook his head. “Nay, nothing else I can think of.”

“I’m greatly reassured,” she said dryly.

He chuckled. “I don’t mean to make light of your fears, lass, but it’s not the wild animals we need to worry about. They’re just as scared of you as you are of them.”

“I doubt that.”

He laughed again. “I won’t let anything harm you, Lizzie.”

She peered up at him, gazing at the hard angles of his handsome face flickering in the firelight, and could almost believe him. There was very little, she suspected, that this man could not do. His strength had always impressed her, but she was only now beginning to learn of its depths. She’d never met a man like him—tough to the bone, resilient, and resourceful. He would protect her with his last breath. Even against his own brother.

She’d been too angry to think about it at first, but she was glad Patrick hadn’t killed him. The thought of him killing his brother for her … She shuddered.

“How is your leg?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A bit stiff.”

An understatement if there ever was one, she would wager. “That’s right, I forgot. Hamish said that you don’t feel pain.”

He gave her a long look. “I feel pain, Lizzie. I’ve just learned not to show it.”

Their eyes held, and she wondered if maybe he wasn’t as unaffected by what had happened between them as she had thought. It was some time before she looked away.

The smell of roasting meat a short while later was surpassed only by the first succulent bite. It was the first real meal she’d had in almost two days, and not knowing when she would have another, she ate her fill. It was some time before she stopped eating long enough to speak.

“Good?” Patrick asked, a wry smile on his face.

“Delicious,” she said enthusiastically.

He handed her the skin of water. “If we had something to boil water in, I could make you a hot drink with pine needles.”

“Hmmm. I didn’t realize you were such a talented chef.”

“Necessity breeds many talents.”

She heard the underlying truth behind his jest, a reference to his life as an outlaw, she realized. What must it be like? A little like this, she’d wager. Hunted, living on the
run, forced to find shelter in the wild. She felt a moment of compassion before she shook it off with the memory of how he’d gotten that way.

But now that the initial sting of his betrayal had dulled, she was left with many questions. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“I thought the MacGregor had agreed to surrender.”

Something in his gaze hardened. Or perhaps it was just the light from the fire?

“He did,” he said carefully.

“Then why did your brother attack my guardsmen, and why did you change your mind and decide to take me to Dunoon?”

He didn’t say anything, the silence punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fire and the slowing plop of rain on the bows overhead.

“What is it? What won’t you tell me?”

His jaw clenched. “You won’t want to hear what I have to say.”

His forbidding tone gave her a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I do.”

He took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on hers. “You know that Alasdair MacGregor surrendered under a promise from Argyll to see him safe to English ground—the deal brokered by your brother Jamie. Well, your cousin kept his promise, transporting the chief to England and setting him down upon English soil, only to immediately arrest him and return him to Edinburgh. Alasdair was executed along with twenty-four other of my clansmen a fortnight past.”

Lizzie gasped with horrified disbelief. “You must be mistaken!” Her cousin wouldn’t do something so dishonorable … would he? His hatred for the MacGregors made her pause. But even if Archie were so inclined, Jamie would never be a part of it.

Patrick’s gaze was hard as steel. “I assure you, I am not mistaken. My cousin’s and brother’s heads sit over Dumbarton gate right now.”

Her heart plummeted. “Your cousin and brother?”

“Aye, Alasdair MacGregor was my cousin—twice over. Our fathers were brothers and our mothers were sisters. My youngest brother, Iain, died at his side.”

Lizzie felt ill. She could not doubt him—the ravaged sadness on his face couldn’t be feigned—even if she couldn’t believe the part he’d attributed to her family. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I do not blame you.”

“But your brother does?”

“Aye. I erred in trusting Gregor, but always before I could convince him to see reason. I thought he’d understood. I was wrong.”

She could see something in his expression. “What are you not telling me?”

His gaze was flat as he stared into the fire. “There were risings after the executions. My sister …”

He had a sister. God, she knew nothing about him.

He stopped and cleared his throat. Lizzie felt her heart start to hammer with trepidation. “My sister, Annie, was rap—” His voice cracked, and she put her hand on his arm.

Her stomach turned. He didn’t need to finish. “I’m so sorry.”

He gazed down at her hand and then back up at her face. His expression was as grim as she’d ever seen it. “At Auchinbreck’s orders.”

She pulled her hand away as if she’d been scalded. “No!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “That’s a vicious lie! How dare you make such an accusation!”

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her—almost as if he felt sorry for her.

Lizzie was not naïve. She knew that men often violated women in the name of war—as a means to humiliate and
attack the pride of their opponent. But the thought that her brother could do anything so vile—so cruel and despicable …

God, was it possible?

There had to be an explanation. She needed to see Jamie, he would clear things up.

Lizzie was reeling from what Patrick had told her. No wonder he’d changed his mind about marrying her. If even a small portion of it was true, he had every reason to hate her.

Instead, he’d saved her life and battled his brother to do so.

Her eyes flew to his, suddenly recalling Robbie’s hastily spoken word. “My God. You are chief.”

“Aye, though it’s clear that my brother means to challenge me.”

Patrick Murray, simple guardsman, was really chief of the once-proud clan of MacGregor. The irony would have been laughable if it hadn’t been at her expense. He was every bit her equal in position and in another time might have been a suitable husband for her. “Can he do that?” she asked.

“If the clan thinks I am unfit.”

“But why would they … Oh.”
Because of me.

“I didn’t say they would, just that they could. Gregor will try, but I will be able to convince them otherwise.”

In her heart, she hoped Patrick succeeded. He would be a good chief. The qualities that had made him seem like a good husband also made a good leader: smart, strong, controlled, calm under pressure, and a fierce warrior. The type of man others looked to.

But she also knew the danger that position would put him in. It would also make him the most hunted man in Scotland.

He moved away from her toward the opening of the shelter. She noticed that it had stopped raining. “That’s
enough talking for tonight. Get some rest. You will have need of it.”

She lay down, using the plaid as a blanket, her head resting on a surprisingly pillowlike pile of moss. She closed her eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. Her gaze kept drifting to the large solitary figure shadowed in the flames. Finally she asked, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“Later, lass. Later.”

Later never came.

The sun had risen an hour ago, and still there was no sign of Gregor. Patrick wanted to be relieved—if his brother had picked up their trail, he should have been here by now—but the heavy sense of foreboding that had shadowed Patrick all night would not be so easily persuaded.

He’d kept watch by the fire all night, not simply because he feared an attack, but because he didn’t trust himself. The shelter was barely big enough for both of them to fit under; he would be lying too close to her. And she was too damn tempting.

Now he stood just below the summit of Binnein, his gaze sweeping from east to west. The rain had cleared, leaving gray skies but a clear view of the surrounding area. If his brother was heading this way, Patrick would see him.

He’d woken Lizzie just before dawn and told her to tend to her needs and be ready in case they needed to leave quickly. He didn’t like leaving her alone, but these slick, steep rocks were far more dangerous than anything she was likely to encounter in the forest.

The climb up the hill, normally done without thought, had been agonizing, taking far longer than he’d expected. At least he could be grateful that there were no signs of infection. So far. Little good he would be to Lizzie if infection set in.

He had to admit, she’d surprised him. She was holding up much better than he’d expected. She was tougher than
she looked. Though tired and weary, she’d adapted to the situation, accepting what had to be done with fortitude and without complaint.

It almost made him wonder …

Nay. Even if she could forgive him, he was chief now. He had a duty to his clan. A duty that put him at odds with her family—he’d not ask her to choose.

He’d wanted to keep the details of her family’s treachery from her—knowing it would be difficult for her to accept coming from him—but even if she didn’t believe him, at least now she understood.

He watched the lochs, the pass, and the forest beneath him for any sign of unusual movement. A few fishermen were scattered on the water, but this was wild, inhospitable land, and inhabitants were few and far between.

Had Gregor decided not to pursue them? Had he lost their trail?

Though neither scenario sounded like his brother, Patrick knew that they needed to leave soon. If Campbells weren’t already blanketing the area, they would be soon.

An eagle cried and soared overhead. It dipped, and Patrick’s gaze lowered. And there, in a clearing in the trees below—two miles, maybe three, away—he saw a movement. Then another.

His instincts went on full alert, and he watched as a group of five men on foot followed the exact path he and Lizzie had taken yesterday. He couldn’t see the men’s faces or plaids from this distance away, but he knew: It was them.

Damn.
There was only one road to Balquhidder open to them now—the high one through the hills. Lizzie was going to be seeing more of the Highlands than either of them had bargained for. He hoped to hell she was up to the challenge.

Skirting around the north side of Binnein to avoid being seen, he raced back to camp—the pain in his leg dulled by
the knowledge that every second counted. They had a good lead, and they needed to keep it that way.

When he arrived back at camp, he didn’t need to say anything.

She paled. “They’re coming this way.”

“Aye. But we’ll lose them in the hills.”

She nodded, unable to completely mask her trepidation. He almost reached for her, but she turned away. His chest tightened. She didn’t want comfort from him, not any longer. Now that she knew the truth.

He looked around, intending to start getting their things in order, and realized it was unnecessary. Everything had already been packed neatly away in the bags. She’d even had the foresight to refill the skins from the small burn nearby that he’d told her to wash in this morning. In these hillsides water was never hard to find.

He quickly smothered the fire but didn’t bother to hide the evidence of their encampment. It would only take time they didn’t have, and his brother was too good at recognizing the signs to be fooled. But once they were in the hills, it wouldn’t be so easy.

Within five minutes of his arrival, they were off. He kept them moving at a brisk pace—if not a run, then not quite a walk, either. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Gregor before nightfall. With any luck, they would spend one cold night in the mountains and be at Balquhidder before dusk tomorrow.

The woodlands soon gave way to the strath. They followed the curve of Binnein north to the higher hill of Meall Reamhar. As they made their way up, bracken, heather, and grass gave way to rockier paths and Patrick was able to easily hide their tracks.

In addition to keeping an eye on the landscape behind them, he kept constant watch on Lizzie, slowing every so often to allow her to catch her breath. Only when they crested the hill did he stop. Stretched out before them, from
east to west, was a panoramic vista of burnished brown hilltops—broken only by the occasional glimpse of a loch or small copse of woodland nestled in the deep corries.

Lizzie made a sound beside him that might have been a gasp, had she breath to lose. “It’s magnificent.” Her eyes met his. “Hills as far as the eye can see.” She bit her lip. “Are you sure … it would be easy to get lost.”

“We won’t get lost.”