Patrick’s mind was racing as he realized that the chance he’d been waiting for might have just arrived. Not only would he have the personal satisfaction of seeing his land returned to his family, but it could also be a godsend to his clan. Without land, they’d been forced to steal and scavenge for food. But never had the situation been so dire as after Glenfruin. The people were starving, and he didn’t know whether they could survive another cold winter like the last.
They couldn’t ignore the opportunity. If they didn’t do something, someone else would.
“I’ll do it,” Gregor proclaimed boldly.
“No!” Patrick boomed. The men were silenced by the forcefulness of his outburst. Hell, it had surprised even him. But the thought of his brother with that delicate lass … He moderated his tone. “I will.”
Alasdair met his gaze. The chief did not look surprised by Patrick’s pronouncement. “You have a plan?”
“Aye.” His mouth thinned to a hard line. “To get my land back.”
Alasdair frowned. “You will take the lass?”
It was his first instinct, and one that would exact further revenge, but Patrick shook his head. “Nay. ’Twould be too easy for Argyll to set aside.” And only cause them more problems. He needed Elizabeth Campbell to want to marry him—and stay married.
“The Campbell devil will hardly allow a MacGregor near his precious cousin,” Duncan pointed out. “How do you intend to marry the lass if you do not take her?”
“I’ll have to persuade her,” he said with grim determination.
“And how do you intend to do that?” Alasdair asked.
“Seduce her,” he replied flatly. “As old as she is, the lass is surely ripe for it.” Elizabeth Campbell was vulnerable. He knew it. Not just from the broken engagements and the fact that she was still unmarried, but because he’d seen it. He’d seen her disappointment, seen the heartbreak when Montgomery had hurt her. Almost as if she’d been expecting it. Patrick knew he could take advantage of it. A few kind words. Compliments. Shower her with attention.
The lass was ripe for seduction, and he would be the one to do it. He felt it with an intensity that he could not explain. He recalled her pristine beauty, her fragility. The longing he’d felt for something beyond his reach, something he shouldn’t touch.
He wanted her, and now he could have her.
The chief didn’t look convinced. “If anyone discovers who you are …”
“I know,” Patrick said. I’m a dead man. “It’s a risk. But my face is not as recognizable as yours.”
“True,” Alasdair agreed. “But won’t the lass recognize you? Maybe Gregor should be the one. With my brother gone … you are my tanaiste.”
“Temporarily,” Patrick said. He didn’t look at Gregor, but he could feel his simmering resentment. “The lass won’t know me. She didn’t see my face.”
Alasdair grinned. “From what I hear, one look is enough for most lasses.”
He didn’t bite. His cousin loved to prod him about his damn face. As if something so ridiculous mattered to a warrior. Not that he was very nice to look at right now. He’d have to “find” some new clothing, a bath, and a razor if he was to have a chance at deceiving her as to his identity. “Whatever it takes,” Patrick answered.
He didn’t delude himself that it would be easy, but frankly, a chance in hell was better than none.
The chief nodded. “If you are willing—”
“I am. The risk is nothing compared to what we might gain.” Not only the land, but possibly influence with Argyll. Because of his success in charming King James into pardoning him a few years ago, Alasdair hoped to find it again with the king, but Elizabeth Campbell presented another possibility.
“Godspeed, cousin,” Alasdair said soberly. But his somber expression was soon broken by a wide grin. “I wish I could see Argyll’s face when he discovers one of the barbarians he’s tearing apart the Highlands to find is hiding right under his nose.”
Patrick returned the smile but knew Alasdair was offering him a subtle warning to be careful.
The details of the plan had come later. It had been decided that Patrick, Gregor, and half of the men would head to the Lomond Hills, while Alasdair, Iain, Duncan, and the rest of the men went to the Isle of Bute to seek refuge with the Lamonts. The Lamont wouldn’t like harboring the outlaws, but Alasdair intended to call in an old debt.
From the Lomond Hills, Patrick had organized scouting parties to see what they could discover of Elizabeth Campbell’s movements. Castle Campbell, with its position high in the hills of Ochil, surrounded by steep ravines and trees, was impenetrable. When they’d learned from a loose-lipped Campbell guardsman who liked to drink his ale in the nearby village of Dollar that she would be traveling to Dunoon Castle, Patrick knew it was their chance.
Gregor, like Hamish, had wanted to take the lass, but Patrick had come up with another plan. Instead of attacking the coach to abduct her, they would use the attack—and his riding to the rescue—as a way of gaining her trust. No one would have been hurt had Gregor not taken matters into his own hands, attacking before he was supposed to.
“The chief was right,” Robbie said, returning Patrick to the present. “The lass seems entranced by your pretty face.” He saw Patrick’s dark expression, but it didn’t deter him from adding, “I can’t say I see what all the fuss is about. Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”
“Which is why someday a lass might look on you with favor.”
Robbie grinned. “One lass? And break all those other hearts that teem with hope? Nay, unlike you, I’ll not be looking to wed for some time.”
Marrying hadn’t been on Patrick’s mind either—but he would do what he had to do for his chief and clan. He wished it felt like more of a sacrifice.
All of a sudden, Robbie’s expression changed.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
The younger man frowned. “The Campbell lass. She isn’t how I thought she would be.”
Patrick tensed. “What do you mean?”
Robbie looked at him uncertainly. “She seems … well, kind. On the road she made sure we had enough to eat, sharing the beef and oatcakes she had for her guardsmen. Are you sure—”
“Save your sympathy for our people, who will be starving and freezing this winter if we don’t do something to help them,” Patrick snapped.
“I didn’t mean—”
“She’s a Campbell,” Patrick swore. “When you find yourself losing heart while staring at her pretty face, picture her brothers and cousin instead.”
Robbie took a step back, staring at him with a peculiar expression on his face. “Aye, Captain. I’ll remember that.”
Patrick felt the eruption of temper cool just as suddenly, realizing what had happened—and what he’d been reacting to. Robbie had done no more than voice Patrick’s own qualms—qualms that he hadn’t anticipated. “It’s better than the alternative,” he said, more to convince himself as Robbie walked away.
Patrick yanked off his shirt, using the water brought by the maidservant to wipe away the sweat, blood, and grime from his body. He balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it in the fire, then pulled a fresh one from his bag, silently thanking the merchant he’d stolen the clothing from for being thoughtful enough to have a spare.
Tucking in the shirt, he flinched as his fingers scraped the wound at his side. But he ignored the pain as he pulled on his cotun and strode out the door, heading to the great hall. He tried to blink, but could not clear the black spots in his vision. With some food and a good night’s rest, he would be good as new.
He made it as far as the staircase.
Chapter 5
Lizzie lingered over her food, taking another piece of brown bread and slathering it with fresh, creamy butter, even though she’d had her fill. She sat at the dais beside the bailiff and the seannachie along with other high-ranking men of the clan, the room buzzing with the loud voices of the guardsmen who’d decided to drown the
hardships of the day in a hearty amount of cuirm. Her gaze shifted more than once toward the door, wondering what was keeping them.
It was only the concern that the lady of the keep would feel for her guests, she told herself. But the longer the delay, the more obvious the lie. Her concern was for one man.
Patrick Murray fascinated her. Everything about him seemed intense—larger than life—from his impossibly handsome face to his strength to the darkness and turmoil she sensed simmering just below the surface.
As the minutes ticked by, she became even more convinced that something was wrong. So when the young Murray warrior she’d spoken to earlier—Robbie, she recalled—appeared at the entry to the great hall, his eyes frantically scanning the room, she practically leapt to her feet and hurried across the crowded room.
“Is there something wrong?” Her fingers clutched the wool of her skirts, already anticipating the answer.
Robbie nodded. “It’s the captain, my lady.”
Her heart plummeted. “What’s happened?”
She could tell that Robbie was uncomfortable—as if he weren’t sure he was doing the right thing.
“Please tell me. I only wish to help,” she urged gently.
“He’s unconscious, my lady.” He lowered his voice, and she could see the worry in his roguish gaze. “I thought he was dead. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“He’s wounded?” Lizzie couldn’t control the high pitch of her voice.
“Aye.”
“But how?” Her mind shuffled through the day’s events. She’d known something was wrong. How could she have missed it? “Was he shot?”
The young warrior shook his head. “Nay, he took a blade in the side.”
Surely she would have seen an injury of that magnitude? “But when? How is it possible?” When Robbie started to look even more uncomfortable, she said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Not wanting to waste a minute, she motioned for a serving girl and gave her orders to have the healer meet them in the barracks right away with her medicines. Thinking of what else they might need, she told the girl to find hot water and fresh linens and bring them as well. And some broth. And plenty of whisky.
A few minutes later, she entered the barracks with Robbie. Patrick’s men had laid him on a pallet and were gathered around, staring at him indecisively. Lizzie waved them out of the way and knelt beside the unconscious man, feeling a strange tightness in her throat and chest—as if the swell of emotion inside her had suddenly grown too large to hold.
Why he should affect her so, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing such a big, powerful warrior blazing with life suddenly cut down. His face was bloodless. Fear trickled down her spine. It was easy to see why Robbie had feared he was dead: He looked it.
She put her hand on his cheek, shocked by the cold clamminess of his skin. Leaning over him, she put her cheek next to his mouth. Her chest heaved with relief when she felt the warmth of his ragged breath sweep across her skin.
Though faint, it was a sign of life—one that she intended to hold on to.
He would not die. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Fionnghuala, the healer, arrived, and with the help of Robbie and another of Patrick’s men, they removed his cotun and shirt, slowly revealing the broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and powerful chest that looked as if it had been ripped from steel.
Jesu!
The shock was like a lightning bolt running through her body. Her mouth went dry and she stared at him, utterly transfixed by the naked display of blatant masculinity. She’d never seen his like—his arms and chest could have been chipped from stone. The shape of each hard muscle was carefully honed to lean precision, not an ounce of fat to mar the sharply defined edges.
His skin was dark and smooth but for the smattering of warrior’s marks that gave testament to his profession. He was a man who lived by the sword, and his body bore the scars to prove it.
Her palms itched to feel him, to lay her hands on the hard muscle, to trace her fingers across the ridged bands that were packed in tightly formed lines across his stomach.
Magnificent. Her body flooded with awareness. With heat. With desire. With a sharp yearning that gathered with the intensity of a maelstrom inside her.
Until the healer peeled back his shirt enough to reveal the gaping wound at his side.
She gasped, and her stomach rolled in revolt. How could he have stood, let alone ridden for hours, with such an injury?
The cut sliced across his side from back to front, starting at his shoulder blade and ending a few inches above his waist. It was splayed open, red and raw like a side of beef, the edges crusted with thick globs of blood and tissue, and so deep that she could see the white of his bones. The meal she’d just eaten threatened to return, but she swallowed it back. A steady stream of blood trickled down his side, gathering in a pool on the pallet. His side and stomach were streaked with the stains of blood that he’d obviously made a recent attempt to clean away.
Her eyes sought the grim gaze of the healer, silently asking the question she dared not put to words.
“The blood still runs red, my lady,” the old woman said, offering some ray of hope.
It hadn’t festered … yet. But they could both see that he’d lost too much blood.
The healer started peppering questions to his men and soon grew impatient with their vague responses. It made Lizzie wonder if the Murray clansmen had something to hide. Eventually, however, they were able to determine that Patrick had received the injury weeks ago. A rudimentary attempt had been made to stitch the wound closed, but it must have reopened during the fighting today.
He’d been bleeding for hours.
Her chest tightened, thinking of the wolf’s attack. Of how the added struggle must have sapped Patrick’s strength—yet he’d hidden it well. She’d never guessed.
Why hadn’t he said anything?
Her mouth tightened. Patrick Murray was clearly a man who would not ask for help. What was the fascination with Highlanders and invincibility? Something in the blood, she supposed, along with a healthy dose of stubborn pride.
She squared her shoulders, determination set across her face. “What can I do?”
“We’ll clean the wound as best we can and stitch it closed again. I’ll apply a salve, and then ’twill be in God’s hands.” The healer’s voice did not hold much promise.
“Nay,” Lizzie said with a fierceness that shocked her. “It’s in my hands.” She felt the weight of all eyes upon her, and heat rose in her cheeks. Despite the blasphemy, however, his men looked at her approvingly. Embarrassed by the outburst, she explained to the healer, “This man saved my life twice today, I can do no less.”
The healer gave her a look that said she understood more than Lizzie might want her to, then she turned to Patrick’s men. “I’ll need a few of you to hold him still while I work.”
The men did as they were bid, and the healer began her preparations. Once everything was in place, they began. Using damp swathes of linen, they carefully washed the blood from the wound. Anxiety made Lizzie’s heart pound erratically. She was trying to be careful, but when he flinched at her touch, she gasped and pulled her hand back.
“You’re doing fine, my lady,” the healer encouraged her.
“But it’s hurting him.”
“Aye, and it will hurt much worse before this day is done. If you’ve not the stomach—”
“I’m fine.” Lizzie gritted her teeth and kept swabbing the red, angry cut, steeling herself for his flinches of pain. She wiped her hand across her forehead when they were done, relieved, until she saw the healer lift the flagon.
“What are you doing?”
“The whisky will help wash away the poison.”
Lizzie had heard of this but never seen it done. Having splashed claret on an open cut before by accident, she couldn’t imagine … it would be excruciating. “Are you sure this is necessary?”
�
�I’ve seen it help, my lady,” Robbie added.
Lizzie swallowed and braced herself. “Do it.”
Patrick’s eyes opened as a guttural cry emitted from deep in his lungs. The sound cut her to the quick. His guardsmen held him down, but it was horrible to watch as his body twisted with pain. Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, he stilled.
The healer took out the needle and fine silk thread. “This is going to take a while. I need you to hold the wound closed as I stitch it together.” She looked to the guardsmen. “You’ll need to keep him very still. The tissue around the wound is tender and will cause him a great deal of pain.”
Lizzie felt as if she didn’t breathe for an hour, every inch of her body on edge as the healer worked down the gash methodically. It was a long, painstaking process that taxed every ounce of her strength. When the healer was finished, they applied a salve and a fresh linen bandage over the wound.
“I don’t understand how he walked around for weeks with a wound like that. It must have pained him something fierce,” the healer said, shaking her head.
“The captain doesn’t feel pain like most men,” Robbie said admiringly. “He’s endured far worse.”
“Aye,” added one of the older warriors. “See that right there?” He pointed to a round scar on Patrick’s shoulder. “Took a hagbut shot in his sword arm and fought for hours afterwards.”
Lizzie clamped her lips tightly together. “Everyone feels pain,” she said. “Some are just too blasted stubborn to admit it.” Now the men gaped at her as if she’d blasphemed. “I’ll make sure to tell your captain exactly that when he wakes up.”
Gazing at the handsome but incredibly pale face of the man lying on the pallet, she prayed she had the opportunity to give him that piece of her mind.
He didn’t want to remember.
Patrick struggled against the images, against sleep, but the dream kept coming. Faster now. Barreling toward him with the force of an avalanche. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He couldn’t escape the memories …
The Campbell Trilogy Page 42