“Perhaps not,” Lizzie agreed, anxious to avoid the subject.
“Then what is it? Are you worried that your cousin will betroth you to a man you cannot abide? The earl loves you too much to ever see you unhappy.”
“He would never do that,” Lizzie agreed. She was lucky. Not only did she have the love of her family, but they also respected her in a way that was hardly typical of the position of most women in today’s world. She’d been educated by tutors alongside her brothers before they went to Tounis College, and was as knowledgeable about Highland politics as any man.
Indeed, it wasn’t her cousin’s choices in husbands that had proved the problem. John Montgomery had actually been her choice. The two men her cousin had picked for her would have been infinitely better choices, but circumstances beyond her control had forced them apart.
Her first betrothal, to James Grant, had been arranged when she was a child, but it had been broken by Duncan’s treason.
Duncan. The brother she’d idolized, lost to her almost ten years ago. God, how she missed him. Despite the proof against him, Lizzie had never believed him guilty of the betrayal that had cost the Campbells the battle of Glenlivet and ultimately their father his life. She hoped one day to see him return to prove it. She’d begged him to do so many times in the occasional letter she managed to smuggle to him. Their communication was the one secret she kept from her family. But she was enormously proud of the name he’d made for himself on the continent after having it erroneously blackened at home.
Lizzie had also welcomed her second betrothal. She’d known Rory MacLeod since she was a child, and would have been hard-pressed not to have been at least a little besotted with the handsome chief. Unfortunately for her, he’d been ordered by the king to handfast with Isabel MacDonald and had fallen in love with his beautiful bride.
“Then why are you so upset?” Alys asked. “Do you not wish to be married?” She sounded as if the very idea were unfathomable.
“Of course I do. It’s just that I want …” Lizzie stumbled over the words, embarrassed. It sounded silly, particularly after her disappointment with John. Women in her position married for duty, not for love. Feeling the telltale rush of anxiety that precipitated a stammer, she took a deep breath, counted silently to five, and then forced herself to speak slowly and softly. “I want what you have.”
Alys’s eyes widened with understanding. It had probably never occurred to her—or to any of Lizzie’s family, for that matter—that she would wish for something so fanciful and not be content simply to do what was expected of her, as she always did. She would do her duty, of course, but that didn’t mean she could completely quiet the whispers in her heart.
The maidservant studied Lizzie’s face for a long moment before answering. “Aye, I want that for you, too, lass. But you’ve nothing to worry about. The earl will find you a good husband, and once he gets to know you, the man won’t be able to stop himself from loving you.”
Alys said it with such conviction, Lizzie realized that arguing was futile. It sounded so much like something her mother would have said that tears blurred her eyes, and she had to turn away. Not a day went past that she didn’t miss her mother. Her death only months before that of Lizzie’s father had been a cruel blow that Lizzie felt every day.
She gazed out the window to distract herself from the memories, the countryside rolling by in a vivid panoply of green. The heavy spring rain had reaped its munificent bounty, turning the glens thick with grass and the trees dense with leaves.
The light dimmed as the hours passed and they moved deeper into the forest, sending shadows dancing across the walls. The carriage slowed, and an eerie quiet descended around them. It felt as though they were being swallowed up. Like a sponge, the canopy of trees took hold, soaking up the noise and light. Unconsciously, Lizzie’s fingers circled the hilt of the small dirk she wore strapped to her side, as she silently thanked her brothers for insisting that she learn how to use it.
The coach jerked hard to the side, knocking Lizzie from her seat once again. But this time the carriage did not right itself, and they came to a sudden stop.
Something didn’t feel right. It was too quiet. Like the still before the storm.
Her pulse quickened. Tiny bumps prickled along her skin, and the temperature seemed to drop as the chill cut to her bones.
They’d come to rest at an angle so that both women had settled on the right side of the carriage opposite the door. It took a bit of maneuvering to get themselves up.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Alys asked, giving her a hand. Lizzie could tell from her quick, high-pitched tone that the maidservant was nervous as well. “A wheel must be stuck—”
A primal cry tore through the shrouded trees, sending an icy chill straight down Lizzie’s spine. Her eyes shot to Alys’s in shared understanding. Dear God, they were under attack.
She could hear the voices of her cousin’s guardsmen outside, shouting orders back and forth, and then the name clear as day: “MacGregors!”
Lizzie couldn’t believe it. The outlaws must be mad to risk …
Her blood went cold.
Or so desperate, they have nothing to lose.
Fear started to build along the back of her neck. A whispery breath at first, then an icy hand with a tenacious grip. She fought to catch the frantic race of her pulse, but it kept speeding ahead.
A shot fired. Then another.
“Donnan!” Alys cried, lurching for the door handle.
“Don’t!” Lizzie stopped her, the maidservant’s rash act finally wrenching her from her shock. “He’ll be fine,” she said more gently, knowing she had to calm the other woman’s rising panic. “If you go outside, you will only distract him. We need to stay inside where they can protect us.”
Alys nodded, fear for her husband rendering her temporarily mute.
Lizzie’s heart went out to her; she was unable to imagine how difficult it must be to sit and do nothing while outside the man you loved was in danger. “It will be all right,” she said as much to calm Alys as herself. If only Jamie were here. Argyll’s guardsmen were well trained, but the MacGregors were reputed for their battle skills. Even her cousin had hired the proscribed warriors at times, before relations between the clans had splintered. But no one could defeat her brother. He was the most feared warrior in the Highlands.
The two women put their faces to the small window, trying to see what was happening, but the smoke from the musket shots was thick, and the fighting seemed to be in front of the carriage, beyond their field of vision.
The noise was deafening, but the most horrible part was imagining, trying to match the sounds with what might be happening. Unfortunately, there was no mistaking the sound of death. It surrounded them like a tomb in their small carriage, closing over them until the air was thick and difficult to breathe.
Alys began to weep softly. Lizzie took her hands and, unable to find words, hummed a song to soothe her. The music worked its magic, and the older woman began to relax.
“Oh, my lady. Even in the midst of hell, you’ve the voice of an angel,” Alys said, tears glistening in her eyes. The fine lines around her eyes etched deeper.
Lizzie managed a small smile, having always found it ironic herself that the girl with the stammer had been gifted with song. While she was singing, her voice had always been miraculously free of fumbling.
She put her arm around Alys and they huddled together, listening and praying.
Lizzie had never been so terrified. It felt as if every nerve ending, every fiber of her being, were honed to a razor’s edge on what was happening. Everything felt as if it were moving too quickly: her mind, her pulse, her breathing. But strangely, at this moment of extreme danger, she’d never felt more alive.
But for how long?
The handle to the door rattled, and she jumped. A menacing face appeared in the window, and her heart lurched forward, slamming into her chest, and then came to a complete stop.
; Alys screamed. Lizzie wanted to, but though her mouth was open, the sound wouldn’t come out. She couldn’t breathe; all she could do was stare at the face in the glass. At the wild man. His hair was long and unkempt, his features hidden beneath the dirt and hair that covered his face. All except for his eyes. They were glaring at her with hatred. It was like looking into the face of a feral animal. A wolf. A beast.
For the first time, it occurred to her what these men might do to them if they were taken. The thought of him touching her … Bile rose at the back of her throat. She would slit her own throat first.
The door started to open. Lizzie grasped the handle from her side and pulled hard, finding an unexpected burst of strength as she engaged in a battle that she was sure to lose. “Help me!” she yelled to Alys.
But before Alys could move to do so, another shot rang out, and the man jerked and froze in a state of momentary suspension. His eyes went wide, then wider, right before his face smacked hard against the glass with a horrible thud. As the dead weight of his body pulled him down, his nose and mouth dragged against the glass, stretching his features into a hideous mask of death.
The muscles she’d been clenching released. Her breathing was hard and quick as air once again tried to get into her lungs. The immediate threat was past, but Lizzie knew it was far from over.
Her heart was still racing, but her mind was oddly clear, focused on one thing: keeping them alive.
That an attacker was able to get so close to them did not bode well for their guardsmen. She looked out the window again, trying not to think about the dead man lying right below them, and weighed their options. They had only two: Stay put or try to hide.
The carriage that had felt safe a few minutes ago now felt like a coffin waiting to be lowered into the ground. It was worth the risk. She turned to Alys. “We need to go.”
“But where?”
“We’ll hide in the forest until it is over.”
Alys nodded, too shocked to argue. It was clear to both of them that even without deference to rank, Lizzie had taken charge.
“Are you ready?”
The older woman nodded dumbly.
Lizzie could tell that Alys was hanging on by a very thin thread—ready to slip into panic at any moment. “Stay close and follow me.” She paused. “And whatever you do, don’t look.” Tears of understanding swam in Alys’s eyes. “Promise me,” Lizzie said more forcefully, taking her shoulders and giving her a hard shake.
“I promise.”
“Good.” Taking a deep breath, she lowered the handle and pushed open the door. When it was wide enough, she poked her head out to get a look around. The acrid smell hit her first—of gunpowder and the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. It filled her nose and burned the back of her throat. She coughed, covering her mouth and nose with her hand against the urge to retch.
Though she wanted to follow her own advice to Alys, Lizzie knew she had to look.
She braced herself, but it wasn’t enough to prepare her for the shock of what she saw. Dead men littered the forest floor, strewn in awkward positions. Bellies slit open. Holes torn in chests. Unseeing eyes. Blood. So much blood.
The horror would have paralyzed her if she’d allowed herself to look at their faces, for some were men she knew. Instead, she forced her eyes from the dead to the living. To the men still engaged in battle.
It was as she feared. The Campbells were outnumbered. The surprise attack had worked to immediately lessen her guardsmen’s numbers, giving the MacGregors the advantage. She counted only a handful of Campbells and almost twice that many MacGregors, who were easily identified by their Highland clothing and barbaric appearance. Unlike the leather doublets and breeches worn by her cousin’s men, the MacGregors wore leines and dirty, tattered plaids belted at the waist. Their hair and beards were long and unkempt. Only a few wore the added protection of a cotun, and none had armor. They were armed with pikes, swords, and bows, and she even saw an old ax, but they carried no guns. Not that it would help her cousin’s men. Though they were well armed, when the battle drew close their guns had become virtually useless against the great Highland claidheamhmór.
The clang of steel on steel rang in her ears. She was just about to turn away when she stilled, catching sight of Alys’s Donnan. He was holding off a particularly large MacGregor, but it was clear that he was overmatched. The MacGregor warrior didn’t let up but kept striking and striking, wielding his sword with vicious brute strength, if not finesse.
She knew what was going to happen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. When the MacGregor finally connected with flesh, slicing Donnan across the belly, she choked back a sob in her throat.
Though she knew it was impossible, it was as if the MacGregor heard her. His gaze locked on hers, and everything inside her froze as she stared into blackness. Into the eyes of a man without a soul.
His mouth curved in a menacing smile, and he started moving purposefully toward the carriage.
She dared to breathe only when one of her cousin’s guardsmen stepped in his way.
“What is it?” Alys said from behind her.
“Nothing,” Lizzie said, trying to keep her voice steady, though inside every inch of her was shaking. “We need to go. Now.”
Taking hold of Alys’s hand, Lizzie stepped carefully out of the carriage. Anticipating Alys’s instinct, Lizzie looked back at her and reminded her, “Don’t look.”
The ground was spongy under her feet with dirt and moss still damp from the earlier rain. The thin leather slippers she wore had little traction, so she had to move cautiously. They stepped around the disabled carriage, heading toward the woods.
All of a sudden, Alys cried out as her hand was ripped from Lizzie’s hold.
She spun around, gazing right into the obsidian eyes of the man who’d slain Donnan. Despite the chill in the air, her skin dampened with fear. He was even bigger and more fearsome-looking up close. And dirt seemed to fill every line and crevice of skin that wasn’t covered with hair.
“Going somewhere?” He spoke in the Highland tongue, his voice thick with a heavy brogue.
Alys struggled against the massive circle of his arms, but it only made him squeeze her harder, until the older woman winced in pain.
“Let go of her,” Lizzie demanded, taking a step toward him, finding courage she didn’t know she possessed.
“Or what?” He sneered, lifting the dirk he was holding to Alys’s throat. “I don’t think you are in any position to be issuing orders, Mistress Campbell.”
Lizzie sucked in her breath, never taking her eyes from the blade at Alys’s throat. He knew who she was. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her clansmen still fighting, trying to get to her, but they were overwhelmed. “Let us go. You don’t want to do this. You’ll die if you hurt us.”
“I’ll die anyway,” he said flatly. “But I shall have some fun before the devil bids me welcome.” He took a step toward her, loosening his hold on Alys.
Lizzie saw her opening and didn’t think but simply reacted. In one smooth motion, she grabbed the dirk at her side and threw it as hard as she could. His eyes flew open in surprise. He let out a strangled gasp when the blade sank into his belly with a satisfying thud.
She was out of practice. She’d aimed for his black heart.
He sank to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain. “To hell with it—I’ll kill you for this, you little bitch.” He yelled to one of his men nearby, “Get her!”
She was about to grab Alys’s hand and tell her to run when she heard the sudden thunder of hooves coming toward them.
The MacGregor scourge heard it, too.
Neither of them had time to react before the riders were upon them. Warriors. Perhaps a half dozen strong. But who were they? Friend or foe?
Her pulse raced as she waited to find out, horribly aware that their fate likely hung in the balance.
She could just make out their faces.…
She sucked in her breath, her g
aze locked on the man a few lengths in front of the others, tearing through the trees at a breakneck pace toward them. Every nerve ending prickled as she beheld the fearsome warrior. She prayed he was a friend. One look was all it took to know that she would not want him as her enemy. The man had the look of a dark angel—sinfully handsome but dangerous. Very dangerous.
The shiver that swept through her was not from fear but from awareness. Awareness that made her skin tingle just to look at him. Enormous warriors armed to the teeth and clad in heavy steel mail did not usually provoke such a distinctly feminine reaction—except that he wasn’t wearing mail. The hard lines of his formidable physique were all him. She sucked in an admiring breath, noticing the way the black leather of his cotun pulled tight across a broad chest and snugly around heavily muscled arms, tapering neatly over a flat stomach.
He was built for destruction, his body forged into a steely weapon of war.
But it wasn’t just his physical dominance that set him apart from the others. It was the ruthlessness in his gaze, the hard, uncompromising bent of his square jaw, and the strength of his bearing. He wore a steel knapscall, his jet black hair just long enough to show below the rim. Thick and wavy, it framed his chiseled features to perfection. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a wide, sculpted mouth were set off by deeply tanned skin. Only a nose that had been broken more than once and a few thin, silvery scars gave proof to his profession. He was a Greek god carved not from marble, but from hard Highland granite.
He met her gaze for an instant, and a charge shot through her with all the subtlety of Zeus’s thunderbolt. It rippled through her like a warm current from her head, down her spine, extending to the tips of her fingers and toes, shocking her with its intensity.
Green, she thought inanely. In the midst of the most terrifying experience of her life, she noticed the striking color of his eyes. Not the obvious skill with which he wielded his sword or the way he ordered his men with the barest gesture into formation or even—God forbid—whether he intended to finish the job that the MacGregors had started, but that his eyes blazed like the rarest emeralds sparkling in the sun.
The Campbell Trilogy Page 37