Her pulse started to pick up pace as her chest grew tight with increasing anxiousness. They couldn’t have left already … could they?
She stood on her toes, trying to look over the heads of her clansmen. But when that didn’t work, she stopped one of her guardsmen as he walked past her toward the hall. “Finlay …”
Finlay was one of her cousin’s most trusted guardsmen. She didn’t know him very well, but she sensed ambition in him. With Alys’s Donnan—the captain of the guardsmen—injured, Finlay would probably be made interim captain. He was a rough, coarse man, and his features matched his disposition. The round dome of his bald head seemed to meld seamlessly into a very thick neck, reminiscent of the seals that roamed the waters of the Western Isles. His nose was flat and crooked from being pounded too many times by a fist. Though not a tall man, he made up in width what he lacked in height. He was built like an ox, his chest as wide and round as a cask of ale.
“My lady?” He smiled, a gaping grin of yellow flecked with brown.
Lizzie repressed the distaste that she knew was unwarranted and managed to return his smile. “Have you seen the men we rode in with?”
“The Murray men?”
She nodded, trying not to look too eager.
“The last I saw them, they were in the stables.”
Relieved that they had not yet left, she managed, “Thank you,” before hurrying off.
The door was opened and the earthy, pungent smells hit her as she swept through the doorway, the hay strewn on the floor clinging to the hem of her skirts.
“It’s something to consider,” she heard one of her cousin’s men say. “We could use the extra sword arms.” She didn’t hear the reply because another man, seeing her, cleared his throat and the conversation came to a quick stop. An uncomfortably quick stop.
There was nothing worse than bringing a room to dead silence, unless it was a roomful of men who were then staring at you.
She fought a blush, feeling distinctly out of place. They were obviously surprised to see her. The lady of the keep—the role she’d assumed on the death of the countess—did not usually visit the stables to see to the comfort of guardsmen. But these weren’t ordinary circumstances, she reminded herself.
Knowing that with all eyes upon her like this she would be prone to stammer, she paused and took a deep breath before she spoke. “Food and drink have been set out in the great hall.” She turned to Patrick. “And pallets are being readied for you and your men in the garret.”
“A meal is much appreciated, but we don’t want to put you to any trouble. We should be on our way.”
Lizzie frowned, her eyes narrowing on his handsome face. Was it her imagination or did he look a little pale? “It’s no trouble. After all you have done for us, the least I can do is see that your men have a good night’s rest.” She smiled. “Surely there is no harm in waiting to continue your journey until morning?”
“No, but—”
“It’s the least I can do,” she interrupted, not wanting to give him the opportunity to refuse. She had that sick feeling in her gut again, just as she had when she’d thought they’d already left. It was somehow vitally important that he not leave. Not yet, at least. She looked to the young, dark-haired man at his side for help. “I’m sure your men would welcome a dry night on a comfortable pallet, wouldn’t you?”
Her encouraging smile succeeded only in further discomforting the younger man. He was probably just a handful of years younger than her own six and twenty, but compared with the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Patrick, his long, lean build looked practically boyish.
“I …” He looked helplessly to his captain, caught in the impossible position of wanting to please her and not wanting to oppose his leader.
Patrick took pity on him. He bowed in mock surrender; a crooked smile played upon his mouth. “How can I argue with such a pretty request?”
Lizzie gave him an uncharacteristically impish grin. “You can’t.”
“Then it seems we will be happy to accept your hospitality for the night.”
She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful.”
Their eyes met, and she felt it again. That strange current of awareness that started at her head and shimmered all the way down to her toes. It made her feel warm and syrupy and a little bit drowsy.
“Was there something else, my lady?” he asked politely.
“No, I …” She dropped her gaze, her cheeks heating, realizing she’d been staring. Thankfully, there wasn’t a roomful of men to witness her embarrassment, as most of the others had started to drift away to finish tending to their mounts and then heading to the hall. She swallowed and started over, slower this time. “You seem anxious to leave.”
He’d taken a brush from the bag tied to his saddle and began to slide long, hard strokes over the shiny black coat of his stallion. It was impossible not to notice the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles of his arms as he worked. Very muscular arms. She doubted she could span one with both her hands.
Her mouth went a little dry, and she had to lick her lips to finish. “Is there a job waiting for you on the continent?”
His gaze leveled on her, and her belly fluttered. “Nothing in particular, but there is always a market for good sword arms. Why?”
She cleared her throat nervously. “I just wish there was some way I could thank you for all you’ve done.”
He brushed aside her gratitude. “I did no less than any man would have done in the circumstances.”
She shook her head. Never had she met a man so uncomfortable with praise. “At least let me pay you for your—”
His gaze went cold. “That will not be necessary.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened as she realized she’d unintentionally offended him. He was a proud man, and her offer of recompense had impinged his honor—an odd reaction, she thought, for a man intent on selling his sword to the highest bidder.
She reached out and grabbed his arm. It was hard and unyielding under her fingers, with all the give of steel. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense.”
His eyes were black, as dark and impenetrable as his granite-hard body. He looked down at her hand.
She released it self-consciously.
He lifted his gaze to hers and then turned back to resume his task, finishing a few minutes later. “Is there someplace we can wash before the meal?”
“Of course. I can show you to where you will be staying.” She motioned to the bag tied to his saddle, which he’d removed and hung on the stable wall. “Bring your things if you like.”
He nodded and proceeded to remove the bag and sling it over his shoulders. A few of his men did the same and followed her out of the stables and into the barmkin. She led them across the courtyard and into one of the many wooden outer buildings constructed beside the keep that housed the castle’s guardsmen—though right now it was empty. It was one large room with a wooden floor and a fireplace burning at the far end. Simple accommodation, perhaps, but at least it was warm and dry.
“One of the serving maids will bring you water.” She looked over the tired, dirty men, seeing the scrapes and bruises on some of their faces. “I will also send the healer with some salve if any of your men have need of it.”
He seemed about to argue, but she stopped him with a look and folded her arms across her chest. His mouth curved, and instead he said with a nod, “Thank you.”
She turned to leave but stopped suddenly to look back at him. Something niggled at her. The hard lines etched around his mouth seemed a little deeper. Her gaze slid over his face. “Are you sure you are feeling all right?”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep and a meal will not cure.” Deftly, he turned the conversation back to her. “What of you? You’ve been on your feet for hours, tending to everyone’s needs but your own.”
“There is much to be done,” she said unthinkingly.
“Surely not all of it must be done by you? You must be exhausted, yet I ha
ve not seen you sit down. Is the lady of the keep not allowed to rest?”
He’d been watching her, she realized, and seemed genuinely concerned. No one had ever worried about her before. A warm glow settled somewhere in her middle. “It’s been a difficult day,” she admitted. “So many lives lost. But it would have been much worse without you.”
Worse without you … Something she’d overheard one of her men say when she’d walked into the stable came back to her. The answer was so simple. Why had she not thought of it sooner?
She opened her mouth and then hesitated. What did she really know about him, other than that he’d rescued her … twice? “I …”
“Yes?”
She straightened her spine, knowing all she needed to know. “I have a proposition that might be to both of our benefit.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“I know you are intent on leaving Scotland, but Castle Campbell is a good way from your home.”
“It is.”
“You and your men are looking for employment, and with the MacGregors on the loose and the men we lost today, we are in need of added protection.”
His eyes met hers. “You are suggesting that we stay and work for you?”
“It seems a perfect solution.”
He didn’t seem convinced. “I don’t know,” he hedged.
“Will you at least think about it? You don’t have to give me your answer right away. Stay for a few days, take a look around, meet some of the other men, and then decide.”
He considered her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
Lizzie beamed, unable to contain the burst of excitement. It was the perfect solution. She was so glad she’d thought of it.
It was easier than he’d expected, and what he’d intended all along, yet even more perfect because she believed it was her idea.
As Patrick watched Elizabeth Campbell leave the barracks, he knew he should be pleased. Not only had he achieved the first part of his mission by wheedling his way into her household, he also sensed that she was far from indifferent to him. But it wasn’t satisfaction that he felt. Instead, it was something akin to guilt—ironic for a man known for his ruthlessness both on and off the battlefield.
Unfeeling. Cold. Remote. He’d heard them all, and usually from the fairer sex. But he never made any promises. On the contrary, he was crudely blunt about his needs. It wasn’t his fault if women didn’t want to believe the truth.
Distancing himself from emotion had never been a problem, and in this it would be no different. Any attraction he felt for Elizabeth Campbell would never get in the way of what he had to do.
Robbie came to stand beside him. The younger man shook his head. “I have to hand it to you, Captain. You work fast. And not appearing too eager is a stroke of brilliance.”
Patrick heard some loud grumbling coming from another one of his men and gave a look in his direction. “Have you something to say, Hamish?”
The older man glanced around to make sure they could not be overheard. “Not as fast as taking her.” He shook his head with great sadness. “In my da’s day, a man saw a lass he wanted and he took her.”
Patrick bit back a smile. “Hard to see what’s objectionable in that. Cattle don’t mind lifting, why should a lass?”
His sarcasm was completely lost on the old warrior. “Exactly. ’Twas good enough courtin’ for my ma. None of this trifling about with wooing and seducing.”
Robbie put his arm around the other man consolingly and met Patrick’s gaze with laughter twinkling in his eyes. It was hard to imagine anyone courting the sour-faced old woman who was Hamish’s ma. “Aye, Hamish,” Robbie commiserated. “Those were the days. But the times they are a-changing. Remember what the captain said: A forced marriage brings too many problems, and would be easy to set aside. We want to hold the land, and for that we need the lass willing.”
Patrick could see Hamish’s point. There was a certain simplicity in the old ways, whether it be abducting a bride or claiming land by right of sword. But if they were to have any chance of success, the MacGregors could not afford to be impetuous. They had to adapt to the changing world—one where the king’s authority could not be denied—and employ a bit of strategy in getting their land back. So rather than kidnap Elizabeth Campbell and force her to marry him, he’d suggested a more subtle method of persuasion.
The older man was not pacified. “Put a babe in her belly and she’ll not be so quick to object—kidnapping or no kidnapping.”
Crude, Patrick thought, but true. He’d reached a similar conclusion. A child would help ensure that they stayed wed—and that the land in Elizabeth Campbell’s tocher stayed with its rightful owners.
“Our captain will woo the lass and she’ll marry him soon enough,” Robbie said confidently.
Hamish shook his head again. “These modern lasses are a demanding lot. I still say my way is easier.”
Patrick chuckled at the old warrior’s stubbornness, but he admitted that Hamish might be right. His own plan had seemed much simpler a few weeks ago. Then again, at the time he and two score of his clansmen had been running for their lives following the battle of Glenfruin, holed up deep in MacGregor country on Eilean Molach—one of the tiny islets in Loch Katrine—with Campbells breathing hard down their back, and hadn’t exactly had time to analyze every permutation.
It had been a gut decision brought on by their desperate circumstances and the chief’s determination that the kinsmen should separate. Gathered together on the tiny tree-lined isle were the remaining chieftains and principals of Glenstrae: Alasdair, their uncle Duncan of the Glen, Patrick, Gregor, and their younger brother, Iain.
Four hundred MacGregors had fought at Glenfruin against a Colquhoun force of twice that size, and though they’d lost only two men, one of the losses had been par ticularly costly—Black John of the Mailcoat, Alasdair’s brother and, as Alasdair’s wife had yet to give him a son, his tanaiste. A position that now, temporarily, at least, belonged to Patrick. He had no desire to be chief of the band of renegades. The MacGregors—including some of his kinsmen—were a wild, uncontrollable lot.
By separating, Alasdair was trying to protect them, but also the future of the clan. If they were caught together, there would be no one left to lead—no matter how unenviable such a position was.
Word had reached them on the island that the king had called for every man between sixteen and sixty in Lennox to root out the MacGregors in Loch Katrine. Apparently they were undaunted, this time, by the difficult terrain that the MacGregors relied upon to hide in. The shores of Loch Katrine were virtually inaccessible, steep mountains on one side and rocky, forested banks on the other.
The chief and his luchd-taighe guardsmen had gathered around a fire to decide what was to be done. They were a motley group. Dirty, exhausted, and hungry. Some, like Patrick, still suffering wounds from battle. Even the chief looked tattered and worn down.
They were discussing where to go. The options were few, to say the least. Not many would be willing to take on the wrath of the king, who’d made harboring MacGregors punishable by death. Worse, Argyll had put his Henchman, Jamie Campbell, in charge of hunting them down. Patrick had crossed paths with the Henchman enough times to know that he was relentless and would not rest until they were found.
He regretted the missed opportunity of ridding his clan of their bane two years ago at the games.
Patrick bided his time as names were bandied about and quickly discarded. Even MacAulay and Murray, who’d sheltered them before, would be unlikely to risk doing so at this time.
Finally, he spoke what had been on his mind from the first. What was always on his mind. “My brothers and I will go to Balquhidder.”
Alasdair gave him a long look, guessing at Patrick’s motives. “Glenorchy is no friend of ours. And at least for now, he holds those lands. Though not for long, I warrant.”
Patrick went completely still. “Ex
plain yourself, cousin.”
“Argyll and Glenorchy are squabbling again.”
The two branches of clan Campbell were often at odds—a state that suited the MacGregors just fine. As long as Argyll and Glenorchy were fighting, they would not unite against them. “What does their squabbling have to do with my land?”
Alasdair hesitated. He knew Patrick’s determination to reclaim his father’s lands. Knew how even mentioning the subject would send him into a black mood for days. “Argyll is claiming the land for his cousin’s tocher.”
Patrick’s fists clenched at his side. Claiming MacGregor land. Land that had belonged to his clan for hundreds of years. Land that had been stolen from them twice—first by Argyll, who’d turned them into tenants on their own land, and then by Glenorchy, who’d purchased the superiority from Argyll and refused to recognize them even as tenants and burned them out.
The haunting images assaulted him, but he forced them aside, leaving only the familiar hatred and bitterness coiling inside. The Campbells had paid for their injustice, but it would never be enough. Some things could never be replaced.
But taking back his land would help.
All of a sudden, Patrick stilled. His gaze shot to his chief. “You said cousin. Which cousin?”
Alasdair and their uncle Duncan exchanged looks, as if realizing the reaction his pronouncement would effect. “Elizabeth.”
“Patrick’s Campbell?” Gregor asked.
“Aye,” Duncan said.
Patrick held his expression impassive, masking the turmoil burgeoning inside. The lass he’d once helped now held his land. Fate or irony? He didn’t give a damn either way. It was an opportunity.
The crackle of the fire seemed to accentuate the tense silence.
“Who is she betrothed to this time?” Patrick’s youngest brother, Iain, finally asked.
“No one,” Alasdair replied. “Yet. I suspect that Argyll has added the land to the gel’s tocher to pique interest in her. I’d marry the lass myself—if I didn’t think Maihri would object.”
“She’d cut off your bollocks and serve them to you for dinner for even suggesting it,” Duncan said in all seriousness. The men laughed when Alasdair paled.
The Campbell Trilogy Page 41