The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  But what if she could never give it to him?

  He was inextricably tied to his cousin—a man she could not abide—and his own brother had destroyed her clan.

  How long would it be before she asked him to choose between her and his family—his duty?

  He dreaded the day, though he knew it would come. For there were some things he could not—would not—do. He nestled her more firmly under his arm. Even for her.

  Chapter 13

  A knock at the door stirred Caitrina awake. It took her a few moments to realize where she was and that she was alone. She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved—probably a little of both. In the stark light of day, the memories of what they’d shared last night took on new meaning, and she was more than a little embarrassed by her passionate response to their lovemaking.

  If she needed a reminder, all she had to do was look down at the sheeting twisted around her naked limbs to recall exactly how bold she’d been. Her cheeks heated. Quickly, she bent over to pluck her nightraile from the floor, then dropped it over her head, fastened the ties at the neck, and bade the person at the door enter.

  It was Mor. She bustled into the room, a stack of drying cloths piled to her nose. “The laird bid me wake you so you had time to bathe before breaking your fast.” She placed the linen atop Caitrina’s chest and began to stoke the fire. “He wishes to leave within the hour.”

  Caitrina stretched lazily, reluctant to leave the cozy warmth of the bed. “What time is it?”

  Her old nurse walked to the windows and tore open the shutters. Blinding rays of sunshine poured across the polished wood-planked floor. “Nearly midmorning.”

  “Already!” Caitrina exclaimed, suddenly wide awake. “We were supposed to leave for Ascog at daybreak. Why did someone not wake me?”

  “The laird instructed me to let you sleep.” Mor didn’t seem to be any more happy to take his orders in the morning than she had in the eve. She gave Caitrina a pointed look. “He said you needed your rest.”

  Caitrina turned so Mor would not see the telltale blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “You are all right?” Mor asked hesitantly. “He was not too rough—”

  “I’m fine,” Caitrina said hurriedly. Better than fine. She’d never felt so … fine. She could still see the frown on Mor’s face, so she reached out to clasp her hands and look into her worried eyes. “Truly, Mor, I’m well. He was … gentle.” Surprisingly so. Completely at odds with the fierce, implacable warrior she thought him to be. Last night, she’d seen a side of him she hadn’t expected, and she didn’t know what to do with her newfound knowledge.

  She still couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d surprised her on so many levels. First by his sensitivity to her lingering fears from the soldier’s attack and then by his ceding to her complete control in their lovemaking. Never could she have imagined that he would give her such a gift when his sheer physical strength, his natural authority and command, and the sexual virility that exuded from him all spoke of dominant male. And her confidence that he would stop at any point had calmed her fears like nothing else—he’d known what she needed even before she did. Had she once thought him cold and ruthless? Perhaps to his enemies, but to her he’d been understanding, tender … almost loving.

  Satisfied by Caitrina’s response, her old nurse nodded, and she was saved from further conversation by the arrival of the wooden tub.

  While she was relaxing in the warm water, her thoughts drifted more than once or twice to her husband. Instinctively, she realized that something had changed between them, but what? Would it be uncomfortable to see him? Would he pretend nothing had happened? Had anything happened? She half expected him to open the door at any minute, but it wasn’t until after she’d broken her fast that she saw him.

  He entered the great hall with her uncle, and her heart jumped. She tensed, waiting for his reaction. His eyes found hers and, perhaps sensing her uncertainty, he smiled.

  He took her breath away. And with that one simple gesture, perhaps a little of her heart as well.

  It should be a sin to be so handsome. With his eyes twinkling, his dark ruddy hair slumped over his brow, and his sensual mouth curved in a wide grin, there was no one who could compare. He looked more at ease than she’d ever seen him. She’d never realized how much he was always on guard.

  But there was something else.…

  She drew in her breath. His clothing. For the first time since she’d met him, he was wearing the traditional breacan feile of a Highlander—the belted plaid was worn over a fine linen shirt and secured at the shoulder with his chieftain’s badge. If anything, the garb made him look even more impressive. She recognized the plaid as similar to the one he’d lent her the first day they’d met. She was so used to seeing him in court clothing, but it reminded her that despite his worldly Lowland ways, he was, in fact, a Highlander.

  She couldn’t help wondering if it meant something.

  He strode toward her and took her hand, lifting it to his mouth. “I trust you slept well?”

  Aware of the eyes on them, she still couldn’t prevent the heat that rose in her cheeks. “Yes, thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he teased.

  Mortified, she stumbled, “I didn’t mean—” She stopped, seeing the laughter in his eyes. “Wretch,” she murmured.

  He laughed and drew her hand into the crook of his arm. “If you are ready, we can bid our farewells.”

  It was strange. Standing beside him side to side, her hand resting against the hard muscle of his arm, she felt connected. They were connected, she realized, as man and wife. She could never have her old life back, but maybe, just maybe, she could make a new one—not better or worse, but different.

  Saying good-bye to her uncle, aunt, and cousins was more difficult than she’d expected. She owed them so much and knew that she could never repay their kindness.

  It wasn’t until her cousin John pulled her aside while Jamie spoke privately with her uncle in the laird’s solar that reality intruded on the dreamlike spell woven by their passionate wedding night.

  “It won’t be easy for you, lass, married to a Campbell. You’ve made a great sacrifice for your clan, but if you find it more than you can bear, send for me.”

  Caitrina lowered her gaze. Sacrifice. It wasn’t half the sacrifice it should be. Still, her cousin’s concern—even if misplaced—touched her. She felt a jab in her chest. It was something Malcolm or Niall would have done. “Thank you, John, but it won’t be necessary. I’ll manage well enough.”

  He gave her a hard look. “Don’t be deceived by the pleasure of the marriage bed, lass.” John’s blunt—and too accurate—appraisal of the situation took her aback. “He wants you, but Jamie Campbell is every bit as dangerous and ruthless as they say. I’ve seen him in action. He’ll never allow himself to be swayed by a woman. His first loyalty will always be to his cousin. Don’t let the costume fool you,” he said, referring to Jamie’s choice of clothing. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one to notice the change in attire. “He’s a Campbell through and through—and as such, will never be a friend of ours.”

  Caitrina tried to cover her embarrassment. Was she so transparent? Was her fascination with her husband so easy to see? She thought of her vow to stay distant, of her vow for revenge against the Campbells, and was shamed by her weakness. How easily she’d succumbed. But never had she imagined he could be so tender … sweet … almost loving. Pride forced her chin upward to meet her cousin’s gaze. “You don’t have to remind me. I know well whom I’ve married.” And what I’ve become.

  “There will be grumbling,” he warned.

  Her cousin was right. Those who remained of her clan would not like what she’d done. She felt a flicker of unease. Jamie would never tolerate disloyalty or disrespect—how would he bring them in line? “They will see that it is for the best.”

  They had to. She would not suffer the same heartbreak of her mother: to be cast out from her clan
for marrying the enemy.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jamie and her uncle come back into the room. He headed right for her with a dark glower on his face, almost as if he could guess what they were talking about.

  John gave her another long look, this one almost pitying. “For your sake, little cousin, I hope you are right.”

  The short journey across the Clyde from Toward to Rothesay proceeded without event, and by midafternoon, Caitrina found herself ensconced in Rothesay Castle, the luxurious former Stewart stronghold with its unique design of circular towers that would serve as her home until Ascog could be repaired. It was far grander than any place she’d ever lived and took some getting used to—as did having a husband.

  Over the next few days, they established a tenuous truce. One forged in the darkness of the night, where nothing could come between desire and passion. He’d come to bed late, take off his clothes before the smoldering fire, slip into bed beside her naked, and wait for her to come to him. As he’d done the first night, he never let her forget it was her choice—she was the one in control. And like a moth to the flame she was helpless to resist the primitive calling.

  In the darkness, where no one could see her need, she reached for him. Sliding her hands over his big powerful body, savoring the strength flexing under her fingertips, she gave free rein to her desire. She told him with her passion what she could not say with words—of her hunger, of her wanting, for him. And with a tenderness that she would have thought impossible for such a powerful man, he fed that hunger, giving her pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined.

  But as tender and loving as he was in bed, and as much as Caitrina had learned of his body, in many ways her husband was still a stranger to her. The light moments of intimacy they’d shared after that first night had not returned. He cradled her in his arms, but he never tried to talk to her, never shared his thoughts. They spoke in gasps and groans, in quickness of breath, and in tightening of muscles—the language of pleasure—sharing the secrets of their bodies but not of their hearts. She knew how to take him in her hands and milk him until every muscle in his body clenched with the need to find release, how to tease, how to touch, but nothing of his feelings for her.

  And in the morning when she woke, sore and sated, he was gone. It was as if he’d sensed her subtle retrenchment and had decided not to press her.

  She almost wished he would.

  Watching him organize the men to begin the repairs on Ascog, she wondered whether she’d imagined those brief moments of lightheartedness. He was every inch the chief—every inch the commander. Every inch a Campbell.

  Only in the dark, wrapped in his arms, did she wonder if there was something more.

  By unspoken agreement, they assiduously avoided any mention of his family—or of hers. But it hung between them: his cousin who ruled the Highlands with an iron fist and his brother who’d killed her father and destroyed her home—not to mention Jamie’s own fearsome reputation.

  As her cousin John had suspected, Caitrina had been overly optimistic in her kin’s understanding of her predicament. She knew Mor and the other servants who had been with her at Toward had done their best to explain the situation to the others, but the Lamonts would never welcome a Campbell into their midst, and the resentment toward Jamie and his men by her Lamont kin who descended on Rothesay Castle once it was known that she had returned was palpable. They took his orders, too intimidated to do otherwise.

  His power was undeniable. As she’d noticed from the first, it seemed to surround him. He held himself with the bearing of a king. They were all aware that there was not much he couldn’t do; he was limited only by his own forbearance. His authority might be unquestionable, but it was deeply resented.

  It wasn’t until the third day when she’d finally made her way to Ascog, however, that she realized just how precarious the situation could be.

  The morning was already half gone as she strolled along the short path that led from Rothesay to Ascog—nary a half mile separated the two castles. The sun was masked by a heavy layer of clouds, and an autumn chill permeated the air. Her step slowed as she drew near. Though returning to her home had been all that she could think of at Toward, it had proved much more difficult than she’d expected. It was, after all, the place where her father and brothers had lost their lives only a few months before, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to confront the emotions that seeing the destroyed castle would provoke. Seeming to understand her turmoil, Jamie had not pressed her but told her that when she was ready, she should send for him.

  But when she woke this morning, finally ready to face the ruins of her home, he had already gone. Though she knew he slept beside her, he’d seemed to make it a practice to leave before she woke, further driving a wedge between the closeness they had in the night and their distance during the day. Instead of sending for him, she’d decided to go on her own, wanting to be alone when she viewed the ruins for the first time.

  Her heart pounded as she crested the hill that served as the majestic northern backdrop to Ascog Castle. She drew in a sharp breath and tears burned her eyes as the charred shell of Ascog came into view. Streaks of ash had turned portions of the gray stone black. All that remained in the inner barmkin gate was the stone tower—bereft of its wooden roof. Indeed, everything made of wood—all the small outer buildings that circled the courtyard—was gone.

  Despair mingled with relief. It was a ghostly shell of the place that she’d loved—but like her, it was still standing.

  Her gaze swept over the barmkin, seeing the swarm of laboring men removing the ashes and debris. Her eyes blurred as memories of a happier time spun by. She could almost see Brian running after one of his dogs or Niall and Malcolm trying to clobber each other as they practiced with their claidheamhmórs. A single tear slid off her cheek and dropped on her arisaidh. God, how she missed them.

  The weight of all she’d lost dropped over her shoulders. Loneliness and sorrow swept over her.

  The work that it would take to restore the castle to its former glory was nearly overwhelming. Responsibility, duty—things that in her old life had always belonged to someone else—hit her full force. It belonged to her now, and she could not turn back. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, she drew a deep breath and started down the hill.

  Though some of the debris had been cleared, there was still much to be done, and she intended to be there for every step of the rebuilding. As she’d assumed Jamie would be. But when she passed through the gate into the courtyard, she was surprised to find no sign of him.

  The men, most of them former servants or tacksmen of her father’s, stopped their work and eyed her warily. Their reticence stung, but she plastered a wide smile on her face and spoke to one of the men she recognized.

  “It’s good to see you, Callum.”

  “And you, mistress,” he replied, returning her smile. But then he sobered. “We’re sorry for your loss, lass. Your father was a great chief.”

  She nodded, a ball of emotion lodged at the back of her throat. “Thank you,” she managed. “I miss them very much.”

  She made her way through the crowd, greeting others by name and asking about their families. Sensing the lightening of spirit, she broached the subject of repairs. Callum stated that they had a few more days of clearing the debris, but by the end of the week, they expected to start cutting the trees that would be used in the rebuilding. With wood scarce in the Isles, they were fortunate indeed to have the forest nearby with a ready supply of timber.

  Another man stepped forward, this one not much older than her, and asked the question that was apparently on everyone’s minds. “Is it true, my lady? Were you forced to marry the man who killed your father?”

  “No,” she answered, startled. “I mean, I did marry, but my husband had nothing to do with the attack.”

  “But he’s a Campbell,” Callum said angrily. “And Argyll’s Henchman.”

  “Yes,” she hedged
. “But …” Her voice dropped off. But what? What could she say? This was worse than she’d imagined. Lamonts would never welcome a Campbell as their leader. All she’d thought of was reclaiming her home for her clan. But she knew that was only the partial truth. Jamie had forced her hand in this marriage, but she’d not put up much of a fight. On a base level that she could not explain, she wanted to believe in him. She met Callum’s gaze fully. “Now he’s also my husband.” She looked around, still surprised that she’d yet to see him. “The laird,” she ventured. “Has he gone to the forest to see to the timber?”

  One of the men spat in the dirt. “ ’Tis not timber the Henchman seeks, but men.”

  Caitrina frowned, instinctively rebelling at the use of the nickname, though realizing that she’d called him worse. She felt a strange urge to defend her husband but knew that to do so would only alienate her clan further. “I don’t understand.”

  Another man spoke. “He’s clearing the forests of your father’s men, rounding them up for Argyll.”

  No. The breath was knocked out of her. “There must be some mistake.”

  But there was no mistake, because at that moment she turned, hearing the sound of horses. And riding through the gate, leading a handful of bound men, was her husband. She recognized the bound men only too well as some of her father’s former guardsmen.

  Jamie wiped the dust and sweat from his forehead and dismounted. Despite the cool morning, he was hot and tired from chasing Lamonts since dawn. About the last person he wanted to see was his beautiful wife.

  His beautiful wife, who was staring at him with silent accusation in her eyes.

  The past few days had worn on him. He was doing his damnedest not to press matters between them, but his patience had been stretched to its limits. Passion wasn’t enough, damn it. He wanted all of her.

  After their wedding night, he’d hoped it might be a new beginning for them. But whatever her blasted cousin had said to her that morning had cured him of that notion. He’d sensed her withdrawal, her subtle pulling away.