The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  “I’m afraid Patrick’s right, Robert. My brother was quite clear about it.” Her lingering anger at Patrick for his cold treatment made her turn and give him a sugary sweet smile. “But Patrick and his men won’t interfere. I’m sure we’ll hardly know they are there.”

  She saw the sudden spark of anger in his eyes and knew her barb had struck. Good. She was tired of being alone in her uncertainty.

  Her words had also served to mollify Robert. He spoke to her, not to Patrick—a subtle reminder of Patrick’s position. “Very well, but I hope they can keep up.” He paused, a sudden gleam in his eye. “As long as they are going along, we might as well see what they can do with a bow.” And with that none-too-subtle challenge, they were off.

  For the next few hours, they rode across the countryside stalking their prey. But hunting deer and fowl soon became secondary to the subtle battle being waged between Patrick and Robert.

  Lizzie felt as if she were at the center of a tournament with two knights jousting for her favor. Each time Robert took a shot, Patrick would respond with one of his own. If Lizzie had been worried that Patrick would trounce Robert with his skill with the bow, it had been for naught. Surprisingly, they appeared evenly matched.

  Appeared.

  Though there was nothing Lizzie could point to, she had the distinct feeling that Patrick was holding back. But why?

  As the unofficial competition continued, the tension between the two men mounted—as did her unease. She’d never seen Patrick like this before; he seemed not just dangerous, but unpredictable. There was a reckless edge to him that did not bode well.

  Though she admitted a certain womanly thrill to have two fierce warriors fighting over her, she’d begun to fear that their game might take a very real turn. Thus, she was glad when the men decided to stop and water the horses at the edge of a narrow loch.

  The break, however, would prove no rest for her unease. Indeed, the battle was only climbing toward its climax.

  Patrick and a few of his men were sitting on a group of boulders nestled beside the loch, eating oatcakes and dried beef, when Robert ambled over toward them. Lizzie felt the back of her neck prickle. He was carrying his bow. He stopped right before Patrick, who looked up only when Robert addressed him. “You’ve fine skill with the bow.”

  Patrick nodded his head in acknowledgment.

  Lizzie feared what was coming next. She hurried toward them, intent on intervening, but it was too late.

  “But it’s hard to measure the skill of a man in the wild,” Robert said indolently. “I’ve always thought it better decided by contest, don’t you agree?”

  Patrick took a bite of beef, then chewed it slowly before responding, appearing to weigh his words carefully. “I find no better measure of skill than in the wild. Life or death seems a fair enough determinant. A contest serves no purpose but to satisfy pride.”

  Though there was nothing overtly wrong with Patrick’s manner, it was also clear that he did not offer any deference to Robert for his station. He hadn’t even bothered to stand up.

  Whether it was because Patrick did not rise to the challenge or because he’d issued a subtle one of his own, Robert dropped the pretense of equanimity. His face turned florid, and the charming smile flattened into a hard, thin line. “Spoken like a man afraid to test his skill.”

  A harsh silence fell.

  Lizzie sucked in her breath, not daring to let it out before Patrick responded. To a one, Highlanders were an exceedingly proud race, and Patrick, she knew from experience, was no exception. Inadvertently she’d pricked his pride before, but it was nothing like the blow just wielded by Robert.

  Patrick’s jaw flexed, the only outward sign of his rage. Though on the surface he was calm and controlled, Lizzie could tell that he was fighting to hold back some very fierce emotion. He stood to face Robert, a dangerous glint in his eye. “There is very little I fear, my laird.”

  The two warriors squared off against each other. Patrick held the advantage in size, though both men were tall and muscular. For a moment, she thought they might come to blows. She knew that this was about far more than skill with a bow and arrow; this was about her. Robert was trying to put Patrick in his place—force him to acknowledge that he reached too high.

  Thinking to defuse the situation, Lizzie quickly stepped between the two men. “Should we start back?” she asked, her voice a tad too chirpy. “We’ve success enough for the day.”

  It was a testament to the dangerousness of the situation that both men ignored her.

  She looked to Robbie, silently begging him to do something, but his face was every bit as implacable as Patrick’s. Robert’s challenge could not be ignored.

  “We can’t have a contest without a prize,” Robert said. “Should we say a gold scepter piece?”

  Lizzie bit her tongue to keep from objecting on Patrick’s behalf. She knew he was not a man of wealth. A scepter was worth twelve pounds Scots, and more gold than Patrick might earn in a month. But it was also clear that the money was not the real prize. The real prize was her.

  Obviously, they thought to leave her no say in the matter. As if she would let some ridiculous contest decide her fate. Her outrage, however, would have to wait.

  Patrick shrugged indifferently. “It’s your challenge.”

  Robert smiled. “Shall we say three shots, closest to the target?”

  “What target do you have in mind?”

  Robert turned to Elizabeth. “My lady, might we borrow one of your ribbons?”

  She colored and lifted her hands to unwind one of the blue satin ribbons securing her hair, but Robert stopped her. “Please. Allow me.”

  His fingers brushed her neck as he carefully slid one from her hair, lingering for perhaps a moment too long. Had Patrick noticed? She peeked sidelong from under her lashes. The white lines etched around his mouth told her he had.

  Ribbon in hand, Robert walked about a hundred paces away from their position and tied the length of blue satin around the nearest tree at about eye level. At that distance, only the thinnest line of color appeared around the tree. When he returned he said, “Any arrow that strikes blue will count as a point.”

  “And if they all land in blue?” Patrick asked.

  Robert smiled. “A bold question, but I appreciate your confidence. In the unlikely event that all our arrows hit the ribbon, the closest to the knot wins. If you can see it from here.”

  Patrick’s expression was grim. “I can see it.”

  Robert drew a line in the dirt with his dirk and then turned to Patrick. “We’ll need a judge. Do you have any objection to the Laird of Dun?”

  “Nay.”

  The Laird of Dun made his way down to the target, and both men took their positions behind the line. Robert would shoot first.

  There was complete silence as he carefully threaded the arrow, lifted it to his eye, drew back his hand, and released it with a loud swoosh. It was followed seconds later by a solid thump! in the tree beyond.

  Elizabeth could tell by Robert’s reaction that it was a good shot.

  Dun confirmed it. “Damn good shot, Campbell. Right through the ribbon.”

  Two more followed in quick succession, each better than the last. Of Robert’s three shots, all had found the thin blue target.

  His men cheered. It was an impressive feat of shooting. Robert didn’t boast, but his eyes when he looked at her said it all: He’d won the prize—or at least he thought so.

  Patrick’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he strode to the line. But they were all well aware that if he missed the ribbon with any shot, he would lose.

  He moved quickly and surely. With cool precision he prepared his shot, drew back his hand, the bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders the only indication of effort, and fired.

  In spite of her unease, Lizzie was swept away by the excitement. Her heart pounded as she awaited the result. She could tell nothing from Patrick’s stance.

  Dun shouted ex
citedly, “Magnificent! A perfect shot, dead center, right through the knot.”

  The men cheered wildly.

  Robert’s face drained, along with some of his bravado. His gaze turned sharp as it fell on his adversary. “Impressive. A one-in-a-thousand shot.”

  More like one in a million, Elizabeth thought, staring at Patrick with unconcealed awe. She’d seen his presence on the battlefield and watched enough of his practice to know that he was an exceptionally skilled warrior, but nothing had prepared her for such a feat.

  “I’d wager there aren’t a handful of men in Scotland who can make that shot,” Robert pointed out, echoing her thoughts.

  It might have been an innocuous statement but for the effect it had on Patrick. If she hadn’t been watching him carefully, she wouldn’t have seen the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense slightly as his hand reached back to pluck his second arrow from the quiver. He threaded the bow again, but something had changed. His movements had lost their ease and grace.

  Something was wrong. She was even more certain of it when he glanced in her direction, something he’d avoided most of the day. His eyes flickered with … regret? But why?

  He lifted the bow and took steady aim. Right before he let the arrow fly, he made an almost imperceptible adjustment.

  Her breath caught and her pulse raced. It felt as if she were standing in a dark tunnel where all she could hear was the sound of the arrow ripping through the air before it landed with a resounding thud.

  She didn’t want to look. She knew.

  “You missed!” Robert shouted, unable to hide his glee.

  And Robert had won.

  “Aye,” Patrick said, lowering his bow.

  Disappointment washed over her. She was unable to escape the feeling that he had just made some kind of choice. The pang in her heart throbbed. It didn’t make sense.

  She cast a surreptitious glance at him, but he’d already turned away, conceding defeat.

  Whether it was just the contest or her, she didn’t know.

  Patrick hadn’t missed a shot like that in years. But skill like his did not go unnoticed, and the last thing he needed was for Robert Campbell to start asking questions.

  He’d sworn not to let himself be goaded by Campbell today, but he’d been unable to ignore the outright challenge. If Campbell wanted to let a contest determine the better man for Lizzie, so be it—he would damn well find out.

  Patrick had wanted to win so badly, he could taste it. He’d allowed the thought of the satisfaction he would feel to wash over him—but only for a minute.

  It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he’d forced himself to stand down. To do otherwise would invite too many questions.

  But losing did not sit well. Pride warred with discretion. It was one thing to lose and another to do so purposefully. He told himself that it was only a simple challenge, that Lizzie had nothing to do with it, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d let her down. That in conceding the contest, he’d conceded much more.

  That Robert Campbell was the better man.

  Every instinct cried out to prove otherwise.

  He dared not look at her. Weathering the wounded look in her eyes following his cold withdrawal last night was hard enough; disappointment would cut him to the quick.

  He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He should have made love to her and had it be done. In allowing it to become personal, he’d lost focus on his goal. His moment of nobility had served only to give her the opportunity to reject him, making today’s events even more difficult to swallow.

  But he would have done just that if Campbell hadn’t chosen that moment to bring up the one subject Patrick could not ignore.

  The group had started to disperse after the anticlimactic end to the contest, but Robert, buoyed by his victory, had taken Lizzie by the arm and drawn her to the edge of the loch. Patrick was in no mood to hear the other man’s subtle wooing and started to walk away, but one word stopped him in his tracks.

  “Edinample is situated much on a loch like this.”

  Patrick’s blood ran cold. Edinample. The castle built on the ashes of his family’s old keep. His entire body drew tight with rage. Rage that boiled inside him with nowhere to go. He could feel it consume him. Hot and furious, it pounded in his head and roared in his ears.

  Robert’s voice carried toward him, every word fanning the flames. “I would like to take you there one day. My father only finished building the castle a few years ago, and it’s quite beautiful. Though it could use a lady’s touch.”

  Patrick snapped. The image of Lizzie making a home with Robert Campbell on Patrick’s lands—the place where his parents had been murdered—was too much to withstand.

  If Campbell wanted a damn contest, by Hades, he would have one.

  Possessed by a recklessness more characteristic of his brother and rage born of resentment so deep that it seemed to penetrate his bones, Patrick pulled out his bow and walked back over to the line etched in the dirt.

  “Campbell.” His voice rang out like a thunderclap, drawing all eyes to him.

  The other man turned, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Patrick’s mouth drew back in a feral smile. “You did say three shots, didn’t you?”

  Campbell’s brows drew together. He eyed Patrick warily, as if it were a trick question—which it was. “Aye.”

  “Good.” Patrick slid two arrows from his quiver. “I’ll be taking my third after all.” Carefully, he threaded both arrows on the string, aimed, and let them fly—two in one shot.

  He heard the collective gasp, followed by a stunned silence.

  “Jesu!” said one of the men, his voice tinged with awe.

  God, it felt good. Too damn good.

  The Laird of Dun rushed back toward the tree, the others trailing after him. Only Patrick, Lizzie, and his guardsmen stayed behind. His men didn’t need to look—they knew what he’d done. And from the satisfied gleams in their eyes, he knew they were pleased with the result, no matter the increased risk to their safety. A MacGregor besting a Campbell was always a reason to celebrate.

  Lizzie, however, was staring at him with a strange look on her face. Not surprised, but questioning—as if she were trying to put something together. He met her stare unflinchingly, part of him wanting her to know the truth. He was tired of deception. Tired of hiding, of being forced to live the life of an outlaw.

  Would she understand? If it was only him to consider, he might be willing to take the chance. But his men’s lives were in her hands as well.

  The crowd had reached the tree. Loud cheers went up when they saw what he had done. Both arrows had pierced the piece of ribbon and landed on either side of his first.

  He’d won.

  But at what cost?

  Chapter 12

  Patrick was about to find out.

  Robert Campbell strode toward him, one of Patrick’s arrows in his hand. From the rigid set of his shoulders Patrick knew he was furious, but the assessing glint in his gaze bothered him far more. The other man stopped before him, studying his face for a long time before saying anything.

  “A definitive win,” he conceded. Gracious, Patrick noted, even in defeat. Glenorchy’s son was proving to be a difficult man to despise. Hell, the only mark against him that Patrick could find was that he was Glenorchy’s son. A problem for a MacGregor, but not for a lass seeking a powerful alliance. “Next time I will have more care in choosing my words.” He tapped the arrow in the flat of his hand a few times, the dull thud an ominous tolling. “Quite remarkable. I’ve only seen something like it once before.”

  Patrick held his body in check, though every instinct flared. He kept his voice politely questioning. “Aye?”

  “Aye,” Campbell repeated. He stared right into Patrick’s eyes. “A few years back I saw the outlawed MacGregor chief shoot down two men with one shot. The Arrow of Glenlyon is regaled not only for his skill with a bow, but also for his un
usual trick shots.”

  Patrick didn’t betray a muscle at the mention of his cousin. “ ’Tis no trick, just hours of practice. I’ve seen the MacGregor’s skill as well—’tis where I got the idea.”

  Campbell’s eyes turned hard and flat; perhaps there was a bit of his black-hearted father in him after all. “You know the outlaw, then?”

  He was treading disturbingly close to danger. Patrick figured that it was better to appear forthright and admit some familiarity. “We’ve met. My laird provided caution for him and his clansmen a few years back.”

  Campbell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Aye, I remember. I also remember that Tullibardine sheltered the scourge the last time the MacGregors were put to the horn.”

  “And was fined heavily for his actions,” Patrick reminded him. “ ’Tis not a mistake he will make again.”

  “Hmm …” Campbell weighed the arrow back and forth in his hands, then held it up to examine the shaft and fletching.

  The feathers. Hell. The distinctive fletching was identical to that of his cousin. Patrick forced himself to breathe evenly. He noticed that Finlay had come up behind them and was following their conversation with keen interest.

  Finally, Campbell handed it back to him. “The MacGregor is also said to have the finest arrows—he makes them himself.”

  “Is that so?” Patrick said with just the right amount of interest. His pulse raced, knowing the treacherous path this conversation was taking. “Then we have that in common. I make my own arrows as well.”

  Lizzie’s interruption came not a moment too soon. “What are you suggesting, Robert? You can’t think Patrick has anything to do with those vile men.” She shuddered. “If not for Patrick and his warriors, I would not be standing here.”

  Vile men. He had no right to blame her after what his brother had done, but the revulsion in her voice ate at him nonetheless. What would she do when she found out the truth?

  Could she ever accept him for what he was? A MacGregor. An outlaw. It was a question he’d never dared ask himself before, too wary of the answer.