He followed the sound further into the woods until the trees were so thick that even in the morning light he could barely see his hands in front of his face.
In the forest, he could hear the sound of something moving. Not a man, he was sure. The footfall was too fast and too definite. Camden crouched behind the nearest tree. His heart pounded in his chest and he instantly regretted the decision to follow Greum into the strange forest. He cupped his hands over his mouth, trying to cover the sound of his breathing. What if it were the wolves that the men had been talking about frequently? Although he too was a wolf, an unknown pack would not accept him kindly.
Another crack further away made Camden breathe a sigh of relief. He could now hear the beast as it moved up the hill behind him, every step taking it further away. When he estimated that it was a safe distance, Camden leaned tentatively around the trunk of the tree to glance at the source of the sounds. What he saw stole his breath away.
Standing at the top of the hill, in a small circle of morning light, was the largest wolf Camden had ever seen. It stood at the top of the rise, looking down into the valley with wise, clear eyes of soft gold. He could not take his eyes from it, its majestic beauty completely overwhelming him. Its raven black fur glistened in the sunlight. Camden knew that he needed to remain still until it moved on, so he took the time to enjoy watching the animal lazily go about its morning.
It occurred to him, briefly, to hope that Greum was not near this place. Though, he reminded himself, he might not be entirely disappointed if the MacConaill men were to be eaten by the wild animal. Still, it would take away from the poetic justice of being poisoned by his own, vengeful, hand. Why else would it matter? He asked himself, with reproach. That must be why.
When the large wolf had moved on, Camden crept quietly back to the edge of the forest and sprinted back to the village. He would have to find another way to catch the MacConaills unaware.
Camden next attempted to follow the Laird’s youngest son, Aiden, but he never seemed to be alone. The third brother, Kenzie, a born womanizer, was often gallivanting around the village but he seemed a confrontational sort, ready for a fight at any time, and Camden thought it best if he avoided him altogether.
It was not until the second raid on the MacConaill lands, by the McKinnons, that Camden’s plan began to take shape.
That evening, after he had finally put his feet up to rest beside the fire, a large war horn sounded from the high castle walls. His host ran into the room, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the cold night air at a full run. As the people of the town sprinted to get into the protection of the castle courtyard, the fighting clansmen ran out toward the battle. Some had neither shoes nor weapon and yet still they headed for the center of the fight. Camden mourned their fate.
When the gates closed behind them, the people of the town gathered into two groups; those with children set about comforting and entertaining their young counterparts, while the rest, Camden included, were given the task of tending to the needs of the collected horde.
As he peeled and chopped vegetables for a stew, he got his first look at Castle MacConaill. To be fair, he admitted that it did not differ much in design from Castle Sutharlainn, except for being slightly taller to accommodate the increased height of its male inhabitants.
To his surprise, he watched the ladies of the castle enter the courtyard to join the townsfolk who were gathered in the open space. It was not their overall appearance that surprised him, as it was to be expected that the highborn would mingle in such a time of need, rather it was one woman among them that caught Camden’s undivided attention.
A statuesque woman, not much older than himself, descended the stairs to join the throngs of women. Her raven black hair and large, green eyes were almost an exact replica of Greum’s. The features, though softened in their female version, remained proud, strong, and unmistakably intelligent.
“That’s Mistress Deirdre.” A woman beside him explained after catching Camden staring.
“I’m sorry.” Camden shook his head. “I don’t know who that is.”
The woman laughed, stirring the broth that was boiling over the fire. “Deirdre is the pair to Master Greum.”
“Oh!” Camden was shocked, despite himself. “His wife?” He had not considered that Greum might be married.
“No, No.” The woman laughed even harder. “His sister.”
“They’re twins?” Camden gaped at the beautiful woman who was weaving through the crowd. He had not realized that The MacConaill had a daughter.
“Aye.” The woman confirmed. “But you’ll not find two with temperaments further apart.”
Camden waited in silence for the woman to continue.
“Greum is kind and true, and will make a wonderful Laird. He is a fierce warrior and cares more about his clan than himself. He believes in integrity and justice, but he is quiet and oftentimes too serious. It’ll take a woman’s touch to lighten his load, someday.” Camden dumped the vegetables into the broth and stood beside the fire, waiting to hear more. The last comment made him irritable, though he could not say why exactly. The woman continued, not noticing. “Deirdre is loud, and has lots of energy. You’ll not see it on a night like tonight, but she’s more like to tell you what she’s thinking than any of her brothers combined. She was a handful as a bairn, and we women used to joke that she had a bit of the beast…” the woman cut herself short and cast Camden an appraising look. “Well, you know what they say. She’d have been a good son to The MacConnaill, not that he needs another.”
Before Camden could ask what had been meant, the woman waved him away with instructions to help those who had just begun to distribute a fresh round of water.
The night passed with aching slowness. The few other men who had remained behind were irritable. As a craftsman, no one expected that Camden had learned any fighting skills, and so did not expect him to rush off in defense of the town. While Camden had in fact studied fighting since he was six or seven, the arrangement served him: as much as he would have liked to assist the townsfolk, it was no good to him to be killed just before his revenge could be completed. Camden watched the other remaining men pace the ramparts, searching the distant night sky for any sign of their clansmen. Eventually the women gathered in small groups around the large central fire to pass the time.
Camden sat alone on the darkened steps of the castle, wrapped in the warmth of his fur-lined cloak, a gift from a grateful farmer following work on his barns and outbuildings. After the meal had been shared, the women had begun to tell stories and reminisce about previous battles and skirmishes that their husbands, sons, or kin had engaged in. It was quickly made clear with their whispers and glances that Camden was not meant to be part of these conversations. Though he longed for an explanation for their strange descriptions, he had decided that it was best not to press the matter. He retreated away from the fire and left the women to their tales.
His head rested against a stone pillar and he had nearly fallen asleep when a voice spoke beside him.
“You have a singular talent as a woodworker, I believe.” The voice spoke.
Camden’s head snapped up and he looked into the knowing eyes of Deirdre MacConaill.
“Thank you, Mistress.” Camden nodded.
“Let’s dispense with the formalities.” Deirdre waved a hand in the air. “Call me Deirdre. You’re new to these parts and have knowledge of the outside world that, if I might be frank, the MacConaills are known to lack. I’ve seen of your work in town. These new methods are most interesting.” Deirdre placed her hand on Camden’s arm. “We have work on the castle chapel that has been halted for years. I’d like to extend an invitation for you to work for us. You could stay on with us while you work. Let us not pretend that you were suited for village life.” She patted Camden’s arm and laughed. “You have castle-born written all over you, and your work is exceptional. I do not believe your stories of a long family tradition in these parts. You learned from a ma
ster; someone who worked for a great family. After this tussle is over with, bring your things to the castle and I will ensure that you will be well provided for.”
“Yes, of course. I would like that very much, M… Deirdre.” Camden stumbled. His heart soared. This was the answer to his prayers. Camden would gain access to the entire castle and, under the guise of a craftsman, to all of the MacConaills. He felt a small hesitation about deceiving Deirdre. He doubted that this woman had any immediate involvement in the death of her father. No, Camden’s revenge would come against the MacConaill men. Not the women.
Suddenly a cheer arose from the men on the ramparts. The great gate rose and the women and children spilled from the courtyard out into the village to meet their men. Deirdre rose and hollered with glee. Without warning, she grabbed Camden’s hands and smiled with complete trust and happiness.
“They’re safe!” She squeezed Camden's hand, and ran off to find her father and her brothers while Camden made his way slowly out into the village.
“Moira, roll out the casks. We’ll be having a feast of tales tonight!” A rowdy middle-aged woman wearing an apron rushed toward the kitchens.
“Do you think that wise with him near? He isn’t one of us.” a whispered response came in reply, and the woman jerked her head in Camden's direction.
Camden hastened his steps in the opposite direction. He could not fathom why everyone was so leery of outsiders. Was it not the MacConaill Clan that had a reputation that warned to avoid? His experience in the village told him that these people were shockingly kind and caring and yet, somehow, there still seemed to be many secrets that Camden simply did not understand. He needed to do better at gaining their trust, he decided, so that they would share these secrets—secrets that might be just what he needed to destroy their leaders. Camden decided to avoid the feast tonight. He would allow the MacConaills their Feast of Tales without him, because the next time he was determined to be invited without whispers or strange descriptions barring his way.
As the throngs of happy celebrants moved toward the great hall, Camden pressed against the crowd to the far edge of the village. He needed space, and needed a moment to collect himself and steel his emotions against the strange surge that he was currently feeling. It occurred to Camden that it bothered him, on a personal level, that he was being excluded from the community. He gave himself a mental shake. Well, he had grown to care for many of them, but he would not let them worm their way into his affections and spoil his plans. Why couldn’t the townsfolk be as ruthless and brutal as their Laird? Why did he care whether they accepted him or not? It was strange.
These were his mother’s people, he told himself. That must be why he felt this small, yet strange, attachment. He took a deep breath, and collected his nerves, the streets now empty behind him. The others may be decent, innocent people but the Laird and his sons were certainly not. He needed to remind himself of this truth. The memory of his father’s last breath flashed before his eyes and Camden felt his resolve harden. After speaking with Deirdre he was one step closer. Maybe living within the midst of the enemy would help him to forget the kindnesses that he had received from the others.
Camden neared the workshop and the lean-to in which he had been allowed to live these past weeks. Waiting outside the doorway was a great hulking figure that he could tell from a distance was Greum MacConaill. The man pounded on the door before leaning against the building with a sigh, one arm clutched against his ribs. Camden approached him with assured steps that masked the terrible churning of his angry stomach.
“May I help you?” the customary address had not been truly meant as an invitation.
“Actually, yes. I was hoping so.” Greum pushed himself away from the wall to stand in front of him. Camden’s mind yelled for him to retreat. The mere presence of this tall, imposing man made him feel strange...on edge—and something else. Camden craned his neck to look up into his face, which smiled down at him with what he could only guess was embarrassment. The surprise of that made Camden's heart miss a beat. He would not have expected such a distantly arrogant man to feel embarrassment. It made him more approachable, somehow. And nicer.
“You see, I’m in need of a little…repair work myself.” Greum continued. He shrugged his shoulders and winced.
In the darkness Camden glanced at him, trying to fathom what he meant. His dagger and shield seemed undamaged, the longsword on his back whole and unbroken. What other mending might he need Camden to do? He furrowed his brow and stared at him once more.
“Come inside.” Greum replied, a resigned look on his face. He beckoned Camden to his own doorway, as if he, not Camden, was inviting a guest into this place. Camden, too surprised to notice, followed him in. Inside, he raised both hands to his mouth when Greum moved his right hand into the light.
His hand was raw and bruised, blood leaking from the flesh, which itself was caught in the iron teeth of some device. A trap.
“I don’t…” Camden felt himself flush as he imagined removing the metal teeth from the flesh into which they pierced. Ever since the death of his father, Camden’s stomach had never regained its ability to witness death or injury. His back pressed against the storefront on the opposite side of the street, and Camden was grateful for the pressure on his shoulders, the pain of it reminding him of the present moment.
“What’s your name?” Greum asked in a soothing voice, as if he were speaking to a frightened horse.
“Cam…” He caught himself. “Alan.”
“Listen, Alan.” He took a slow step nearer across the room. “The surgeon’s busy enough with the other men. As I was the only one in the condition to walk myself, he told me to see if you might be up to the task. Apparently you have some skill with metalwork as well as with wood?”
Camden still gaped at him, and at the injury. He felt sick. Greum continued, politely, as if the mangled flesh an arm's length from him had nothing to do with the lower half of his arm.
“Just so you know, I’m not going to die from this wound but that puts me at the far end of the list for repairs. If you could just remove this damned thing it would ease my discomfort considerably.”
Camden shook his head to clear it. He momentarily considered allowing him to suffer. It would be no less than he deserved.
“I’m afraid I forgot to say, please.” Greum finished, a wry smile on his face. Looking closer, Camden could see that his teeth were gritted against the pain of the injury.
Before he had really considered it further, Camden found himself nodding his agreement. Only so he will go away, he reassured himself. Something about that did not sound quite true, even to him, but he had to try and believe it.
Camden led the way to the workshop, and Greum followed, sitting down on the stool at the workbench. How was it that one man could fill a room so entirely? Camden busied himself with lanterns, but the murky darkness was the best he could manage.
“Put your hand on the bench, where I can see it?” Camden asked Greum. He felt more nervous than he could remember feeling in a long time, and it was not just fear of making a mistake with his treatment. This man disconcerted him like no one he had ever met.
Greum, opposite, released a low chuckle of amusement at her fear. “How about a drink to dull the senses?”
Camden blinked. That did seem sensible. He nodded.
“Wait here.”
He hurried to the lean-to and pulled a glass and a bottle of dark, fiery whiskey—a gift from the local distiller for mending his barn—from the shelves. He poured and handed Greum the cup with shaking hands. He took a deep drink and watched him over the rim of the cup. “You too.” He spoke between drinks. “I don’t need you having trembling hands.”
This drew a nervous laugh from Camden. He was relieved to find that the immediate worry of extracting the metal trap was distracting him from the man himself. He took the offered cup and drank a measure. His eyes watered and Greum looked up, amused. Their eyes met. Greum's were indeed as deep a green as
Camden had thought they had been, with tiny flecks of black. He stared into them. The moment could have only lasted a second or two, but it felt very long. He looked down, suddenly awkward.
“I’ll need fresh water.” He stood to draw some from the well outside.
“I'm not going anywhere.” Greum called to his back, voice rich with smiling irony.
Camden turned at the door and pulled a wry face at him.
Greum laughed, the sound hissing through his teeth in pain.
Camden hurried back, and gathered his tools. He would need pliers, he reckoned, to break through the spring at the back of the trap.
While his back was turned, Greum had cut away the arm of his shirt. His bare forearm rested on the table, thick with muscle.
With a deep breath, and trying not to focus on the toned muscles of the arm beneath his touch, Camden opened the pliers around the spine of the trap. His hand rested on Greum's forearm, holding it steady as he worked.
Greum gasped as the trap moved, and Camden bit his lip, trying to ignore the sounds of pain. He would have to move it a little, if he was going to break it and lever the pieces apart.
“Now...I'm just cutting through the back part, here...” He explained as he worked, hoping that would help.
A minute or so of cutting and gritting his teeth with the effort, and the back spine of the trap broke neatly in two places. Camden sighed.
“Now we have to pull the metal out of your hand.”
This was the worst part. He lifted the one half and gently pulled. The flesh had hardened around the metal, and it took some tugging to pull the metal spines from the muscle of the palm. They came free, suddenly, and Camden staggered back a little. A trickle of blood came from some of the holes, the tissue around bruised and swollen and purple with the trauma.
Celestial Seductions: The Complete Series: An MM Gay Paranormal Mpreg Romance Collection Page 59