Of course, he’d thought to look for her at Toward Castle, but her uncle had adamantly denied knowledge of her whereabouts until faced with proof he couldn’t ignore, courtesy of the spies Jamie had thought to keep watch on the place. But negotiations with the Lamont of Toward had dragged on for too long, and Jamie’s patience was at an end.
The short ten-mile ride from Dunoon seemed interminable.
Horse and man crested the brae of Buachailean, the hill that lay just north of the castle. Reining in his mount, he paused, appraising the castle and surrounding area before riding in alone. He was expected, but it never hurt to be cautious.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A group of fishermen were returning a skiff to the docks, sheep were grazing on the hills, a group of young lads were playing shinty on the moors, villagers passed back and forth through the castle gates unheeded. A solitary serving woman wandered along the beach, collecting shells.
His gaze snapped back to the woman, catching a glimpse of long strands of black curls tossed around her face by the wind. His heart hammered in his chest. Squinting into the bright sunlight, he was unable to make out her features from this distance, but deep in his gut he knew who it was.
The lass was no serving woman.
Jamie’s long wait was over. He’d found Caitrina Lamont.
Caitrina lifted two corners of her wool arisaidh together, forming a makeshift basket out of the wool, and placed another shell in the fold. Perhaps she’d make a necklace for Una? The little girl loved to pretend that she was one of the Maighdean na Tuinne. Caitrina had long stopped believing in mermaids, but watching Una lightened her heart. She admired the child’s ability to laugh and play, even though it was clear that Una—like the rest of her clan who’d come with her to Toward—desperately missed her home.
Caitrina sighed, knowing Mor was right. She couldn’t hide forever. As much as Toward had become her refuge, it had also become a place to hide. She needed to find a way to return Ascog to her clan, and she couldn’t do that by remaining at Toward Castle with her kin.
For a young woman without resources, there was only one thing she could do: She must find a powerful husband to help her win back her home.
A wistful smile played upon her lips. Strange that she could think of marriage without a flicker of emotion, when only a few months ago the very mention of finding a husband had roused such fervent response. She’d avoided marriage because she couldn’t imagine leaving her family. She’d just never expected them to leave her. Her chest squeezed and she closed her eyes for a minute, taking a steadying breath.
Her throat thickened as she knelt in the sand, cradling the shells in her lap, and began to dig. When she’d made a small hole about a foot deep, she carefully unbound the swatch of plaid from around her wrist. The muted browns and oranges were faded and the edges frayed, but the plaid was unmistakably that of her father’s breacan feile. Her chest tightened as she slid her fingers over the soft wool plaid and then brought it to her cheek.
A few days after the attack, while Caitrina was still unconscious, a few of the servants had snuck back to see what remained of the castle and to see to the burying of the dead. The fire had made it unnecessary. In the ashes, they’d found a few items that had escaped the Campbells, including the badge and scrap of plaid.
No longer able to hold back the tears, she folded the fabric in a neat square and set it at the bottom of the hole, then covered it with sand. It was the burial denied her by the fire, her injuries, and the need to seek safety. For the first time since she’d recovered and realized that her family had been killed, the emotion poured out of her and she gave over to the powerful storm of grief.
When the deluge abated, she dried her eyes and, cradling the shells against her, rose to her feet, feeling oddly stronger. The life she’d had before was gone forever; it was time to look to the future—one that she would rebuild for her clan. They were her responsibility. And she’d be damned if she’d let the Campbells win. One way or another, justice would be done.
Hearing the muffled sound of hooves in the sand, she looked up to see a man approaching. At first she thought it was one of her uncle’s guardsmen and lifted her hand in greeting.
She tilted her head. There was something familiar …
The blood drained from her face, and the carefully gathered shells scattered at her feet, forgotten.
No.
But it was him. She recognized the broad shoulders, the dark brown hair laced with strands of red gold, the hard, fiercely handsome face, and the cool, slate blue eyes that gazed at her with such intensity. The wide mouth she’d kissed with such hunger. And there was that air of confident command that she’d never seen replicated in another man—of absolute power and authority.
Jamie Campbell had found her.
The ache in her chest was unbearable as memories of the attack and the pleasure they had shared collided. Touching him. Tasting him. The intimacy of the moment when she’d shattered in his arms.
And his retribution for refusing him.
She’d known the kind of man he was but had been foolish enough to succumb to his masculine allure. Even now, when she should feel nothing but revulsion, she felt an unmistakable pull.
It hurt to look at him. How could something so beautiful be so black? Could she really have thought he was anything but a cold, ruthless enforcer?
Their eyes met. Emotion cut through her like a jagged knife as she gazed into the piercing blue eyes of the man who’d destroyed everything she’d loved.
The memories came back to her in pieces. His face. The fire.
Unconsciously, she took a step back. Her voice shook with emotion. “Stay away from me.”
The look on Caitrina’s face cut Jamie to the quick. He’d wanted to see her so badly, and here she was, finally, but with fear in her eyes. After months of searching for her, of wanting to make sure she was safe and protected, it was a surprisingly sharp blow. He hated that she would think the worst of him, though what else should he have expected? It would be too much to hope that she’d remember his part in her rescue and in putting an end to the battle.
After sliding from his mount, he approached her cautiously. “I mean you no harm, lass.”
She shrank back, and it felt as if he’d been socked in the stomach.
“God, how can you say that?” she cried. “After what you’ve done?” She put her hand up as if to stop him and took another step back. “Stay away from me. D-Don’t come any closer.”
He halted, but he was close enough to see her tearstained face and the other transformations wrought by tragedy. She looked wan and tired and much thinner than he remembered. Her luminous eyes seemed to dominate her face, but there was a hard edge to her gaze that hadn’t been there before—of wariness and distrust. The spirited, brazen girl who’d challenged him without thought was gone, and in her place was a forlorn young woman of heart-wrenching fragility.
He ached to hold her in his arms and wipe away the hurt, feeling an overwhelming urge to protect her and ensure that nothing ever harmed her again.
“I only wish to speak with you,” he said gently. “Nothing more.”
“How can you think I’d ever want to lay eyes upon you, let alone speak with you again?”
He looked into her eyes. “I had nothing to do with what happened to your clan, Caitrina. That is why I am here: to explain.”
“You were there.” She emphasized the last word with damning finality. “I saw you. Do you deny it?”
He shook his head. “Nay. I came as soon as I could, hoping to prevent a battle. But I was too late.”
“You expect me to believe that?” she said, scorn dripping from her voice.
Her anger was a relief. She was undeniably fragile, but not broken. He hoped like hell that he would never have to see fear in her eyes again.
“After what you said when you left?” she continued. “Should I believe it wasn’t a threat when you told me I would regret refusing you? You told me I knew
nothing of the real world and that one day it would find me.”
The tears that rolled down her cheeks ate like acid in his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight, and he caught a glimpse of the strength that still burned inside her.
“Well, you were right, I know now that the world is a cruel place. You’ve made your point brutally clear, now leave me be.”
Her accusations rang with more truth than he wanted to acknowledge. He had wanted her disillusioned, to see his side—but not like this. “I spoke out of anger,” he said, taking a tentative step closer. God, he could smell her. The sweet flowery scent made him yearn to bury his head in her neck and hair. The urge to touch her was overwhelming. He took a deep, controlling breath. Right now he needed to make her understand. “I’m sorry for your loss, lass. You must believe that I had nothing to do with the attack on your clan.”
Slowly, he reached down and put his hand on her cheek, bracing for her rejection, more relieved than he could imagine when she didn’t flinch away from his touch. He wiped the tears from her face with his thumb, savoring the touch of her baby soft skin. Her mouth trembled and he ached to taste her, to wipe away her confusion with his kiss. He tilted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would never hurt you.”
For a moment, it looked as though she wanted to believe him, but her eyes hardened and she turned her face from his hand. “So the timing was just a coincidence? You had nothing to do with the attack? You knew nothing of the charge leveled against my father that he was harboring the MacGregors?”
He hesitated. “I did not order the attack on your clan.”
“And as to the other? That Argyll believed my father was giving aid to the MacGregors? You had nothing to do with that as well?”
He held her stare, not shying from the truth.
She gasped. “You did know.” He watched her work it out in her mind. “You didn’t come to Ascog for the gathering or to woo me, you came to spy on my father.” She gazed at him accusingly, eyes wide with hurt. “God, you used me.”
“No,” he said roughly, his arms flexed rigidly at his side. Every instinct clamored to take her into his embrace and force her to understand, force her to deny what crackled like wildfire between them. Even with the waves crashing and the wind snapping all around them, he was aware of nothing but her. “My mission was to find proof that the MacGregors were at Ascog, but what happened between us had nothing to do with Alasdair MacGregor.”
Her eyes scanned his face. “Why should I believe you? Why would I believe anything you say?”
He held her gaze. “Because it’s the truth.” He studied her face, wondering how much she remembered of what had happened. He tensed, thinking of the soldier. He’d never forget the feeling when he’d seen her unconscious, her face bruised, blood running down her pale temple, and one of his brother’s men trying to force himself between her legs. If he’d been a few minutes later … The primal explosion of rage had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He’d wrapped his arm around the bastard’s neck and broken it with one satisfying snap. Jamie didn’t regret the loss of life, only how quickly the scourge had found it. If she did not remember, he would not be the one to remind her. “You were in and out of consciousness. Do you remember nothing of what happened?”
Confusion clouded her gaze. “A little.”
He probed carefully, not wanting to cause more pain by dredging up memories of the soldier. “I carried you from the tower. It was burning. There was smoke everywhere.”
She started—as if she’d suddenly remembered.
“I wasn’t there to hurt you, Caitrina.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—something significant and for a moment heart-stopping.
She believed him.
But it wasn’t enough.
“Even if what you say is true, it was your clan who attacked my home and murdered my family.”
Jamie dragged his fingers through his hair. He dared not point out that it was worse than that—that the man who’d led the attack was his brother.
He dreaded this conversation, but it must be had. “Your father refused to comply with repeated requests to give over the MacGregor.”
“How could he when he didn’t know where the MacGregor was?”
Jamie drew a long breath. “Aye, lass, he did.”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “You lie! The soldiers tried to say the same. How dare you spread falsehoods about my father to justify the actions of a bloodthirsty tyrant!”
Jamie clenched his jaw, not about to defend his cousin’s actions to her—not when she was of no mind to listen. Jamie did not blind himself to his cousin’s faults. Argyll could be ruthless in doing what needed to be done—then again, much the same could be said about Jamie. But his cousin was the best hope for the Highlands against a king who sought to marginalize his “barbarian” subjects.
The king wanted the lawlessness in the Highlands curtailed, and Argyll was one of the few Highlanders with the power to see it done. If Argyll didn’t, it would be Lowlanders who did. The old ways of the clan chief’s authority were fading. Troublesome clans like the MacGregors only succeeded in making the rest of the Highlanders look like barbarians and made the king’s policies harsher. One day, Jamie hoped he could make her see that.
“We found proof that your father had been protecting outlaws by giving them food and shelter.”
The blood drained from her face. “No. My father wouldn’t do that. He would have told me.”
“Would he?” Jamie watched her as she grappled with the implications. “Did he take you so much in his confidences, then?” She flinched, and Jamie knew he’d hit upon a tender spot. “Surely you know the bond between the MacGregors and the Lamonts—the old tale of hospitality.” Her eyes shot to his. She did. “You noticed nothing amiss in the weeks before the games?”
She shook her head furiously, but then uncertainty eroded her adamancy. He had shaken her with his pronouncements, but her pride was fierce. She didn’t want to see gray where there was black and white. “I don’t believe you. You’ll say anything to defend your clan.”
He hated having to hurt her, but he could not let this stand between them. His brother had been overzealous, but Campbells would not shoulder all the blame for what had happened. “I regret their deaths, and might have been able to prevent them had I been there,” he said. “But your father was not without blame. He chose to fight rather than produce the rebels. This is the Highlands, lass, he knew the consequences of his defiance. He knew that blood would be shed.”
At that moment, she hated him. Caitrina wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears so she wouldn’t have to listen to his Campbell lies.
But deep in her gut, she knew he spoke the truth about the MacGregors. She thought back to that week before the gathering, thought of her father’s odd behavior, and it made horrible sense. She knew her father—he was honorable to the core. He would not refuse to give them shelter. He couldn’t. But, dear God, to take such risk when everyone knew the lengths Argyll would go to see the MacGregors destroyed.
But no matter. She straightened her spine. It did not justify what had happened. “So my father’s death and those of my brothers and clansmen were justified? Merely a minor inconvenience in Argyll’s witch hunt for Alasdair MacGregor?”
“It was a noble sacrifice that I hoped—and tried—to avoid. I sympathize with his quandary, but your father broke the law, Caitrina, and he well knew what would happen if he was caught. I warned him myself.”
“And that makes it right? You think the deaths of over forty men is fair punishment for harboring a few outlaws?”
Tiny white lines appeared around his mouth, the first outward sign that she’d gotten to him. “The most wanted outlaws in the land.”
“The MacGregors are our allies and not all thieves and murderers as you say.”
“It depends on your perspective. Many of my clansmen and the Colquhouns would vehe
mently disagree.”
She had only a vague understanding of what had happened at the battle of Glenfruin, but she did know that the MacGregors had been accused of—though denied responsibility for—what amounted to a slaughter, including the stabbing of forty men who’d been taken as prisoners. Whatever the truth, the MacGregors had taken the blame. But she knew that there were always two sides to a story. Her father had thought the MacGregors worthy of protection; she would not second-guess him. “You’re a Highlander—unless you’ve forgotten.”
His eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“A Highlander would understand the sacred obligation of Highland hospitality. If what you say was true, my father was honor-bound to shelter the MacGregors.”
His jaw flexed. “I understand the obligation well enough, but ’tis no defense for breaking the law, Caitrina.”
“Have you no compassion? Or does your cousin’s law not allow for that?” His face was a mask of stone, hard and unyielding. “God, do you have any emotions at all?”
He took a step toward her, and she could tell he was holding on by a very thin thread. “Unfortunately, I do,” he said, but his steely voice belied his claim. “Though right now it pleases me no more than it does you.”
She felt a jolt of awareness at his admission and turned away, not wanting him to see how he affected her. Did he feel something for her?
It didn’t matter.
Then why did something deep inside her yearn for it to be true?
“Just go away,” she said furiously. “If it’s absolution you seek, you will not find it from me.”
He grabbed her arm and spun her back to him; she felt the warm press of his fingers through her sark like a brand.
She knew he hated when she dismissed him, but nothing could stop her from provoking him—from making him as angry as she. But it wasn’t just him; she was angry at the invisible force that seemed to draw them together, that would not let her ignore or forget him as she wanted, that made her deeply conscious of him and the strange physical awareness that seemed to drench her body with heat: his warm masculine scent; the shadow of stubble along his square jaw; the wide curve of his mouth that made her think of kissing. It was so unfair. He’d been battered by the past few months as well, but it only served to make him more ruggedly handsome.
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