The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  Jamie Campbell knew that as well as she did.

  Sensing Caitrina’s anguished thoughts, Mor folded her gently in her loving arms. Caitrina closed her eyes, taking comfort there and feeling her resolve strengthen as the wind blew over her, the tangy scent of the sea following close behind.

  Slowly, Caitrina pulled away, her gaze once again turning to the churning mass of dark blue waves and the shadow of the Isle of Bute slowly fading in the orange glow of the darkening sky.

  “What will you do?” Mor asked.

  “What I must. What else can I do?” Caitrina replied, her voice as hard as the glistening jagged rocks that lined the seashore like polished ebony.

  She would do her duty, but one day Jamie Campbell would regret forcing her like this. She would give him her body, but she would never belong to him.

  All that was left of her heart was buried deep in the sand with her father’s tattered scrap of plaid.

  Chapter 11

  They were married on Sunday four days later—two days after Alasdair MacGregor and his men, accompanied by Jamie and her uncle, surrendered to the Earl of Argyll at Dunoon.

  As a condition of her acceptance, Caitrina was spared the presence of the earl and Jamie’s brother at their wedding. The Campbell contingent consisted only of the score of guardsmen who accompanied him. The ceremony was held in the small chapel of Toward Castle located opposite the keep beside the new hall. The pews were filled by all that remained of her family—her aunt, uncle, cousins, Mor, and, even though it was unusual for them to be present for such an event, the handful of clansmen who’d accompanied them from Ascog.

  Ignoring the protestations of her aunt, Caitrina refused the elaborate velvets and brocades and chose instead a simple dark blue woolen kirtle and a plain sark. The simple clothing seemed more in keeping with the somber occasion.

  There was no joy in this marriage—only duty.

  Caitrina steeled herself against the unwelcome twinges of awareness that preceded the event, reminding herself that this was a marriage of necessity only.

  Still, when she entered the dark stone chapel and gazed down the narrow aisle to the sight of Jamie standing beside the minister, she felt a hard flutter in her chest.

  It’s only nerves. It was her wedding day, after all, no matter how unwanted.

  But that did not explain the way her heart seemed to stop beating when their eyes met. She felt the intensity of his gaze all the way to her toes. It was as if he’d reached out across the room to claim her with his arms, so thoroughly did he possess her with that one long, penetrating look. For one instant it felt right—as if this were meant to be. Until she remembered how he’d compelled her to this.

  She could not deny, however, that he looked magnificent. His hair was swept over his brow and shone burnished brown in the soft candlelight. The square jaw and hard lines of his handsome face appeared golden in the flickering shadows. Damp tendrils of his silky dark hair curled at his neck.

  He stood tall and proud, towering over the minister and her uncle, who waited beside him. Although he was resplendent in his fine doublet and Venetians, the soft black leather could not tame the harsh masculinity of his wide shoulders, muscular chest, and powerful legs.

  Slowly, she made her way toward him until she stood before him, close enough to smell the hint of soap that lingered on his skin.

  He held out his hand to her. For a moment, the world stilled. In his open palm, she confronted her future. Callused from his sword, his hand was peppered with white lines of battle, giving unmitigated proof of his occupation. He might have the refined manners of a courtier, but there was no doubt that Jamie Campbell lived by the sword. He was a hard, ruthless warrior—Argyll’s Henchman—and if she placed her hand in his, she would be his wife.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Trying not to tremble, she lifted her hand from her side and laid her palm atop his, feeling a shock of warmth that flooded her when he enfolded it in his.

  He must have sensed her unease because he leaned down and whispered, “Breathe.” The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, sending a shiver running through her. “It will be all right.”

  There was something in his voice that touched inside her, that made her want to believe him. Nodding, she let out her breath and turned to face the minister, repeating the vows that would bind her to Jamie Campbell forever—or until death parted them.

  And then, before she could change her mind, his fingers cupped her chin and he placed a chaste kiss on her lips, sealing their vows. The kiss jolted her from the daze that had surrounded her throughout the ceremony.

  It was done, and she was his wife—a Campbell. She’d become her own enemy.

  Jamie sat at the dais beside his new bride, watching the raucous clansmen deteriorate into drunken revelry and bawdiness as the feast, hours long already, progressed into the evening. Any wedding, even an unwanted one, was an excuse for celebration and was expected as a matter of course by the clansmen. Looking around, he found it hard to believe this was anything other than a happy occasion.

  Motioning to a passing serving girl, Jamie indicated for her to pour him another glass of wine. It was utterly unlike him, but there was no question: He was stalling. He turned to his bride on his right. “More wine?”

  Caitrina shook her head no, which was about the sum total of their communication throughout the evening.

  He could feel her growing tension as the night progressed and the time for their wedding night drew closer. Awareness hummed between them, so thick it was nearly palpable. Hell, he didn’t blame her. He’d waited so long for her to be his wife, it felt strange to have it be so in truth. And as the time drew near for him to make her fully his, Jamie felt his anticipation tempered by a burgeoning trepidation. He wanted tonight to be perfect, but he knew his bride would be reluctant … to put it mildly.

  The entire day, he’d felt as if he were leading her to the executioner. He hadn’t quite known what to expect from her, but this stoic lass bravely doing her duty stung.

  He’d hoped that she might feel something for him. That after consideration she might view marriage to him with some contentment, if not pleasure.

  Obviously, he’d hoped for too much. For such a normally pragmatic man, it was an uncharacteristic display of idealism. She was marrying him to see her home restored to her clan, and that was it.

  He was getting what he wanted, but he wondered at what cost. Would she ever forgive him? Was he doing the right thing?

  Earlier when she’d first entered the chapel, he’d felt a twinge of uncertainty, seeing her wide blue eyes and pale, creamy skin. She’d looked so nervous—more fragile than he’d ever seen her. He’d tried to reassure her. Initially it had appeared to help, but it hadn’t lasted. What he really wanted to do was touch her—to hold her in his arms and calm her fears—but he knew any attempt to do so would likely make it worse.

  How could he prove to her that he was not a monster—that he wanted to protect, not harm her? It would take time and patience, he realized. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he would have to woo his bride. It was ironic: He’d never been in the position of having to woo a woman, let alone one who was his wife. He couldn’t understand why he would be willing to go through the effort, except that he was. He could have just walked away, as she’d asked. Maybe he should have.

  No. Whatever it took, he would make her happy.

  He studied her over his goblet. The longer he looked at her, the more moved he was by her beauty. The plain clothing she’d chosen only seemed to emphasize rather than dull her radiance, as she’d probably intended. But there was nothing she could do to obscure her striking coloring—the flawless pale skin, deep red lips, dark blue eyes, and jet black hair.

  Nor was there any denying the perfect symmetry of her features. Even in profile he could see the high curve of her cheek, the lush fullness of her lips, the feathery softness of her lashes, and the gentle slope of her tilted nose. But her true beauty seemed to come from within. It
was the fire of her spirit that had always drawn him. The passionate, brazen girl with the flashing eyes that challenged him like no other. A woman who rose from the ashes of destruction ready to fight for her clan.

  She must have felt his study, for he detected the faint pink edge of a blush crawling up her cheeks.

  She turned to him, her eyes meeting his for the first time since that morning. “It’s rude to stare.”

  Jamie smiled, irrationally pleased that she’d not lost her bold tongue. Her somber air had worried him more than he’d realized. He lifted a brow. “Was I staring?”

  “You were.”

  He shrugged, unrepentant. “You are very beautiful.”

  The compliment bounced off her. “And a beautiful wife is important to you?”

  He smiled. “It certainly doesn’t hurt.” His finger traced the rim of his goblet; he knew what she was getting at. “But if you are suggesting that it is only your beauty which drew me to you, then you are very wrong. I’ve known many beautiful women.”

  She wanted to ignore him, but curiosity apparently got the better of her. “Then why?”

  He paused, searching for the right words. “You intrigue me with your boldness and spirit. I’ve never met a woman like you.”

  “You mean if I had been biddable and shy, I wouldn’t have interested you?”

  She looked so disgusted, he had to chuckle. “Probably. Perhaps you should give it a try.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ha! It won’t work. You can be sure that you have found yourself a shrew for wife. You are worse than my broth—” She stopped, eyes wide, stricken by what she’d been about to say.

  He caught her hand in his, pleased when she did not pull it away. “Your brothers used to tease you?” he asked gently.

  She nodded, her eyes swimming with anguish.

  His heart went out to her; he couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose one’s entire family in a single day. That she had not succumbed to grief was testament enough to her strength. “You must miss them very much.”

  “I do,” she said softly.

  He would give anything to return them to her, but that was one thing he could not do. “I wish Lizzie had been here today. I’d like you to meet her.”

  “Your sister?”

  He nodded.

  “Where is she?”

  “At Castle Campbell.” His face darkened. “I thought it too soon, that she would be safer in the Lowlands.” At her questioning glance, he explained. “When I returned to Dunoon after leaving Ascog, I discovered that Lizzie, who’d been due to arrive before me, had yet to arrive. I immediately left for Castle Campbell and discovered that the MacGregors attempted to kidnap her—to use her against me.”

  Caitrina gasped, not hiding her shock. “That’s horrible. She must have been terrified.”

  Jamie frowned. She should have been, but strangely enough, his sister had proved surprisingly unaffected. It seemed odd, but he hadn’t had time to contemplate it because his guardsman had arrived with news of the MacGregors at Ascog. “She was lucky. There were a group of men in the area who drove off the outlaws and foiled the attempt. Lizzie was scared, but unhurt.”

  Caitrina was silent for a moment. “This is the matter you were tending to when your brother and his men came to Ascog?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Yes. It was only because the guardsman who delivered the message to my brother decided to track me to Castle Campbell that I was aware of what was happening at all. I only wish it had been sooner.”

  “So do I,” she said softly, dropping her gaze.

  He looked at her bent head, her silky hair like polished black ebony glistening in the candlelight. He wanted to tuck her head under his chin and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he knew, for her, it wouldn’t be. Nothing could change that day and bring back her family. Nor could he change his clan’s part in their death. But he could give her back her home—and if she let him, a new family.

  At times like now and earlier in the chapel, he would feel a moment of connection, but they were so fleeting that he wondered whether he only imagined them. Still, it gave him hope of something to build on.

  Of course, there was another connection that they had to build upon as well, and the time was drawing near for him to show her just how powerful a bond passion could forge. Their sexual attraction might be the best way for them to grow closer. Though he hated to upset the quiet truce they had established, he knew he could delay no longer. They were married, and he would be damned if it would be in name only. He’d wanted her since the first moment he’d seen her, and his wait was finally at an end.

  “I will send for Lizzie soon. With Alasdair MacGregor’s surrender, it should be safe enough for her to travel.”

  “You think the feuding will end?”

  Jamie shrugged. “For a while. Without their chief and most of his guardsmen, the clan will be disorganized. Lizzie will be well protected”—he paused—“as will you.”

  He read her shock. “You think I might be in danger?”

  “You are my wife, and as you’ve pointed out numerous times, I have many enemies. Anyone close to me is a potential target. But don’t let it concern you, I would never let anyone harm you.”

  “And yet you travel across the Highlands with only a handful of men.”

  Was she worried about him? The mere prospect warmed him. “I can take care of myself.”

  She looked as though she wanted to argue, but a serving girl approached with more wine. He waved her away. It was time.

  “Your uncle has arranged a chamber for us in the tower. I will join you there in a short while.”

  She paled, and he could see the sudden flare of panic in her eyes. “Surely it is early yet,” she said quickly. “The dancing has yet to begin, and—”

  “If you would rather, we can go together now,” he interrupted in a voice that boded no argument. Her maidenly reluctance was expected, but he would not be gainsaid. Their marriage would be consummated. He gave her a long look. “It’s up to you.”

  If it was up to her, she wouldn’t be in this position, Caitrina thought.

  Dear God, her wedding night. Her pulse raced with a flash of panic. A thousand divergent thoughts flew through her head, slamming and bouncing off one another in a confused heap. The moment she’d been dreading was upon her. It seemed that once she’d agreed to marry him, she could think of nothing else. Too often, the memory of what they’d shared by the loch intruded in her thoughts. She remembered how he’d made her feel and wondered if he would touch her like that again—until her body softened and shattered into a sparkling sea of sensation.

  Worse, she feared that if he did, the carefully constructed wall she’d erected would begin to erode.

  Would he be gentle? Would it hurt? She’d see his hands and imagine him touching her, stroking her skin. She’d look at his mouth and imagine him kissing her, sliding his tongue in her mouth, making her knees weak for want of him. If only it were fear that she felt, but she couldn’t deny that it was also anticipation. And that was the most troubling part of all. Liquid heat poured through her whenever he touched her.

  She gazed into his eyes, seeing compassion, but resolve. If necessary, she suspected he would lift her in his arms and carry her up the stairs himself, like some Viking marauder of old. He was a ruthless man, and she best not forget it.

  Mustering what courage she could, she straightened her spine and stood up from the table. “I will bid my aunt and uncle good night, then.”

  He nodded. “I will not be long.”

  “Take as long as you need,” she offered carelessly, feeling anything but.

  Caitrina lingered over her good-byes, but in the end she knew she could not put off the inevitable. She made her way back to the old keep, and Mor led her up the stairs to the chief’s chamber. In honor of the day’s occasion, her uncle had given them his room for the night. Tomorrow they would return to the Isle of Bute and Rothesay Castle, where they would stay as t
he king’s guest while the repairs to Ascog began.

  The room was large and sparsely furnished, with only the occasional needlepoint or stuffed velvet cushion to hint at her aunt’s presence in the room. Though she specifically avoided looking in its direction, she was keenly aware of the four-posted bed with silk hangings looming large opposite the door. Tamping down the sudden spike of her heartbeat, she turned away, putting the ominous piece of furnishing behind her.

  Mor fluttered about the room, chattering about the day’s events and recounting the latest gossip from the servants—doing anything to avoid the topic of the coming night. The airy cheerfulness was so unlike her, Caitrina realized just how nervous her old nurse must be, and it increased her own apprehension.

  Would it be worse than she thought?

  When the basin had been prepared for her to wash, and the candles—from what Caitrina could tell, every one available in the room—lit, as she did every evening, Mor helped to remove her gown. But the ordinary and habitual had taken on an uncomfortable significance. With each piece of her clothing that was removed, Caitrina’s nervousness and awareness of what was about to happen increased. So that by the time Mor dropped the silk nightraile over her head, Caitrina could barely hide her trembling.

  Mor moved to the chest of Caitrina’s meager belongings, which had been moved down to her uncle’s chamber for the night. After removing a thick woolen wrap from the small pile of clothing, she handed it to Caitrina. “Put this on, my love. You look cold.”

  Caitrina slipped her arms through the wide sleeves and belted it tightly around her waist. “Thank you. Indeed, it’s freezing in here.” But they both knew it was not the temperature that was making her shiver.

  Plucking the pins from Caitrina’s hair, Mor undid the work of hours in minutes, and her long, heavy locks tumbled loosely down her back. Caitrina’s nerves were so frayed and ragged, she nearly jumped each time Mor’s knuckles accidentally scraped her back as she dragged the comb through her hair. As if she could hold back the inevitable with her ministrations, Mor combed her hair until every strand ran smooth and each curl lay in perfect symmetry.