Campbell gave him one more long look before turning back to Lizzie, apparently satisfied by Patrick’s explanation. “Forgive me,” he said. “Of course I’ve not forgotten the debt we owe to Murray here. I’m most grateful for his skills.” A wry grin turned his mouth. “Even if it means I must lose a wager.”
Lizzie, being Lizzie, immediately responded to his self-deprecating charm and moved to soothe his injured pride. “But you acquitted yourself quite impressively as well. I’ve never seen such exceptional shooting.”
Bloody hell, Patrick thought with renewed irritation, staring at the hand she’d instinctively placed on the other man’s arm. Even when he lost, Campbell managed to come out ahead.
The group of riders who made their way back to the castle was decidedly more subdued than the group that had set out a few hours ago. The dramatic conclusion to the archery contest seemed to have exhausted their excitement, and none more so than Lizzie. She couldn’t believe what Patrick had done. Two arrows fired at one time and both with exceptional accuracy. Never had she seen anything like it.
He was magnificent. A champion to set any woman’s heart aflutter—and she was certainly not immune.
From the first moment she’d met him, Patrick Murray had seemed an answer to her dreams. A romantic dark knight who’d ridden into her life slaying dragons. She wanted to believe in faerie tales, but her past had made her cautious. Part of her still couldn’t quite believe he wanted her. Really wanted her.
But she knew that her time enjoying the attentions of two men was at an end; she had to make a decision before matters spun out of control. Next time, their confrontation might not be so civilized.
A contest to decide a lady’s favor might make for a romantic story, but she had no intention of allowing her future to be decided by the vagaries of male pride. Just how she would decide, however, was equally unclear.
She felt a sharp tug in her chest. There was something else she’d been avoiding, but she owed her future husband the truth. Would either man still want her when they learned that she was not a maid?
She sighed, not looking forward to that conversation but knowing it must be had.
Having satisfied her obligations as hostess by conversing with each of her guests, she slowed her mount a bit to fall back with Patrick and his guardsmen, who were bringing up the rear.
Though he was often out of her sight, she knew the reverse was not true. No matter his brooding silence, he took his job as her protector seriously. The weight of his gaze followed her wherever she went.
If only she knew what he was thinking. Unfortunately, trying to discern his feelings was like trying to penetrate granite.
She drew up beside him. Robbie, who’d been riding on his other side, greeted her with a smile and then quickly fell back to talk with some of the other men, leaving them alone.
They rode in silence for a while. She eyed him curiously. He certainly was not acting like a man who’d won. But there wasn’t much that made sense about his actions today.
“Are you going to avoid talking to me all day?”
He lifted one brow in a sardonic arch. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to me, after last night.”
Her cheeks pinkened at his bold reference to the intimacies they’d shared. “If that’s an apology—”
“I wasn’t aware I had anything to apologize for. You didn’t seem to have any complaints at the time.”
Pink deepened to scarlet. He was purposefully trying to embarrass and discombobulate her. But she refused to be so easily diverted.
“That was quite a display today.” He gave no indication that he heard her. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Your skill is remarkable.” She pursed her lips together; his blank expression was infuriating. “That was a compliment if you didn’t realize it.”
His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
“It’s strange, though …”
He turned to look at her. “And now I suppose you are waiting for me to ask why?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “It’s strange that with skill such as yours no one has ever heard of you. Do you not participate in the Highland games?”
“As I told Campbell, skill is best determined on the battlefield. I have no use for contests.”
“Hmm.” He was unusually modest for a warrior. Most men weren’t nearly so circumspect—particularly in the Highlands, where a warrior’s reputation was as powerful a weapon as his sword and bow. Was there another explanation for his reticence? She straightened her back and looked him full in the eye. “Why did you purposefully miss your second shot?”
The dark slash of his brow cocked. “What makes you think I did?”
“I saw the small adjustment you made right before you fired.”
“It’s called aiming. Although I appreciate your confidence in my skills, I do occasionally miss the mark.” He met her gaze. “What reason could I have to do so?”
She lifted her chin. “You tell me.”
“There isn’t one, but I thought—since you seem to be doing such a good job of figuring everything out—that you might have something in mind.”
His evasiveness left her even more convinced that he was hiding something. “Why would you want to conceal your skill?”
His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “I can hardly be accused of that.”
She ignored his attempt to deflect the question. “That’s just it. What I don’t understand is why, after going to all the trouble to lose, you changed your mind.”
He met her gaze, his green eyes hot with intensity. “Maybe I decided that the prize was worth the price.”
Me. A shiver ran down her spine. The look in his eyes sent heat pouring through her veins. It was a look of possession. Of pure masculine desire. It claimed her so thoroughly that it took her a moment to find her voice. “What price? What would you possibly lose by winning?”
He didn’t answer right away, turning his gaze back toward the path that wove through the forest, choosing his words with care. “I deemed it prudent under the circumstances.”
Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t understand.”
His jaw flexed tight. He spoke through clenched teeth, extracting the words with difficulty. “Robert Campbell is a powerful man.”
Lizzie tilted her head, studying the hard lines of his proud, handsome face. “And you thought besting him would bring retribution?” She shook her head. “You don’t know Robert.”
His gaze could have cut stone. “Not, apparently, as well as you do.”
Her cheeks heated, though she’d done nothing to be ashamed of. But clearly he didn’t like how readily she’d jumped to Robert’s defense. “All I meant is that Robert is not the kind of man to begrudge another for winning. Surely you can see that now?”
He shrugged, his words pried reluctantly. “So it seems.”
His explanation made sense but didn’t ring completely true—not from what she knew of him. Patrick Murray wasn’t the kind of man to back down from a challenge. “And that’s the only reason?”
His gaze locked on hers. “I don’t think I need to point out the difference in our positions.”
The accusation in his gaze made her cringe.
She knew she should say something. She could see it in his eyes: He thought she was going to choose Robert.
Her heart tugged and then lodged in her throat. She wanted to say something.
But what could she say when he might very well be right?
It was past noon by the time they arrived back at the keep. Lizzie hurried inside to see to the midday meal for the guests, carefully avoiding Patrick’s gaze.
He watched her go, anger and frustration simmering inside him like molten lava ready to explode. He didn’t know whom to blame: Lizzie for her indecisiveness or himself for giving a damn.
He might have proved himself the better man on the battlefield, but it wasn’t enough to change her mind. All he’d achieved was salving his own pride and making himself a target of unwant
ed attention. His skill had made the Campbells curious. And curiosity for a man at the horn could be deadly.
Danger lurked in every direction: from the surly guardsman Finlay to Auchinbreck to Campbell and now to Lizzie herself. It was only a matter of time before the truth was discovered.
He had to leave. Soon. He wouldn’t unduly risk the lives of his men, not if it could be avoided. It was probably too early for Gregor to have returned from the Lomond Hills, but Patrick would make his weekly Saturday pilgrimage tonight nonetheless.
But first, he needed to clear his head. He was pulled as taut as a damn bowstring, besieged by conflicting emotions. His plan. Lizzie. Everything was unraveling around him, and he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
After seeing to his horse, he decided that a cool plunge in the loch would help cure what ailed him—in more ways than one. He was leaving the stables on his way to the barracks to fetch soap and a fresh shirt when the last man he wanted to see stepped in front of him.
“I was looking for you,” Robert Campbell said.
“Apparently you found me.” The flash of angry sarcasm was reflexive, if unwarranted. He sighed and then said more evenly, “What do you want?”
Campbell reached in the small pocket of his doublet and pulled out a gold coin. “I didn’t get a chance to give this to you earlier.”
Patrick shook his head. “Keep it.”
The other man took umbrage at his refusal. “But you’ve earned it. I always pay my debts.”
“I’ll not take gold won by a play upon words. Consider us even.”
Campbell studied him for a moment. “Are we even?” Patrick didn’t have to guess what he meant. “I don’t think so,” Campbell said. “What can you give her?”
Patrick didn’t want to hear this. He took a threatening step toward the other man and said in a low voice, “It’s none of your damned business.”
Campbell didn’t move an inch, squaring off to meet his challenge. Patrick had to admire his courage—no matter how ill conceived. He didn’t know what Patrick could do, and right now Patrick teetered close enough to the edge to show him.
“I’m making it my business,” Campbell said boldly. “You reach too high. Elizabeth Campbell is cousin to one of the most powerful men in Scotland. What can you possibly think to give her?”
Patrick met the other man’s gaze full force. “I can make her happy.”
“Are you so sure of that? Look at this place. You would take her from this castle, to live where? In some small bothan?”
Patrick stared at him stonily. If he only knew … A hut would seem like a palace compared with some of the places he’d stayed.
“Elizabeth has been raised in luxury and wealth her entire life. She was born to be the lady of the keep. You are a guardsman. Do you realize what you’d be doing to her by marrying her? You’ll be taking her away from everything she’s ever known. Taking her away from this life. Taking her away from her family. Jesu, man, have you looked at her? She’s a delicate rose, not sturdy Highland heather.” He pointed to an old serving woman laboring with her buckets by the well. “Would you have her look like that?”
Patrick stared at the woman, feeling his stomach curdle. She wasn’t old at all, he realized—probably of age with Lizzie—yet she looked ten years older. Her face was not creamy ivory, but freckled and leathered from the wind and sun. Thick boned and wide hipped, the woman had little trouble carrying the heavy buckets across her shoulders. How would Lizzie manage such a basic task? She was so tiny. So delicate. Her hands so smooth. Her skin so clear and unblemished. She’d never done menial labor in her life.
He swallowed the wave of bitterness that stuck in his throat. He had nothing to give her. He was an outlaw. A man without a home. Without land. Without a damn future.
Even if she could forgive him for the deception and accept his being a MacGregor, life at his side wouldn’t be easy. If she suffered only a portion of the pain and hardship he and his clansmen had endured for years, it would still be too much.
A change of clothes and food in his belly did not alter the fact that when he left Castle Campbell he would still be a hunted man. Her family would protect her, but he did not deceive himself that she would be completely insulated from the forces seeking to destroy his clan.
She would suffer.
Lizzie was wholly unprepared for the life he would give her. How would she survive? Too many of their women had died last winter—from starvation and an unusually harsh cold. Women who were much better prepared than Lizzie.
He would never let that happen. He would take care of her. Protect her. He met the other man’s stare, feeling like a man grasping for a thread to save a sinking ship. “She will be well cared for.”
Campbell studied him with an intensity that made his instincts flare. “What is it that you really want? You don’t look like a man prone to tender feelings. Do you love her?”
He stiffened. That was none of his damn business. He cared for her. As deeply as it was possible for a man like him to care for anyone. But love … that had died in him long ago. What had started with the death of his parents had been completely destroyed by the years of seeing nothing but hatred, death, and sorrow. Patrick squared his jaw, feeling the tic at his neck jump. “Do you?”
Robert Campbell had seen too much. “I can.”
Patrick flinched, unprepared for the force of the blow. Lizzie deserved someone who could love her. Not a man with scars too deep to heal.
He looked into Campbell’s eyes, at his solemn, earnest expression, and saw what he’d been trying to avoid. Robert Campbell was a good man—the better man for Lizzie. He could give her everything Patrick could not. A safe home, a loving husband—the knife burning in his chest twisted mercilessly—a houseful of blond-haired, blue-eyed children.
“She deserves to be loved,” Campbell continued. “Not to be married for her tocher and advancement. You’ll only bring her down.”
He would give anything to be able to deny it. But it was the truth—partially, at least—no matter how ugly. “I care for her,” Patrick said, unable to completely mask his bitterness. But it filled his mouth, his soul.
“Then don’t make her choose,” Campbell said softly, wielding his sword with deadly finesse.
“You’re so sure she’ll choose me?”
“Nay. But I’m not sure she won’t, either.” Campbell gave him a hard look. “Do what’s right. Walk away.”
“And what makes you so bloody sure that’s the right thing to do?”
Campbell smiled, and it wasn’t without sympathy. Patrick almost hated him for it. “I think you know it as well. It’s what made you miss that second shot, isn’t it?”
He turned and walked away. Campbell didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. He’d said enough.
Patrick clenched his fists, his body tense with rage. He wanted to lash out. To strike at the truth that Campbell had forced him to confront.
He’d been living in a fantasy world. If he proceeded with his plan, not only would he be using her for his own ends, but in doing so, he would destroy her. If she married him, she would have nothing.
Part of him still didn’t want to let her go.
Robert Campbell had everything that belonged to him. The injustice ate at him, but he wouldn’t ruin Lizzie’s life to save his own. She deserved better than to be the innocent instrument of his revenge. She deserved to be happy, in a warm, comfortable home, surrounded by the loving family she’d always wanted.
Innocent.
Like my mother.
The realization filled him with shame. His mother would be horrified to know what he was doing in her name.
Was he the kind of man to make war on women and children?
Do what’s right. Walk away.
Patrick had made his decision. Campbell might have lost their battle, but he’d won the war. Patrick would leave. He cared for Lizzie enough to do what was right. He could not destroy her happiness for his own. His figh
t to restore his family’s lands wouldn’t end, but it would have to be won another way.
Though he’d known his plan was a gamble from the beginning, failure in any guise was difficult to swallow. But it was nothing to the pain that knifed through him at the thought of leaving Lizzie, forsaking the only woman he’d ever wanted for his own.
He felt as though he were being ripped apart. In giving Lizzie a chance at a happy future, he knew he was destroying his own and failing his clan. Doing what was right wouldn’t put food on his people’s plates or keep them warm in the dark of winter.
Was the happiness of one lass worth such a cost? He sure as hell hoped so or he would live with the consequences.
Chapter 13
Alys removed a dark sapphire gown from the ambry and held it up to Lizzie, who was standing barefoot in her sark in the middle of her bedchamber, feeling quite superfluous. Making a face, the older woman tossed it atop the growing pile of discarded velvet and satin on Lizzie’s bed—not that you could tell there was a bed under there right now.
Lizzie groaned, rolling her eyes with nonexaggerated hardship. “What was wrong with that one?”
“Too dark,” Alys murmured, her head already burrowed deep in the ambry as she rifled through Lizzie’s quickly depleting wardrobe. “All these deep jewel tones are harsh with your pale coloring.”
“Perhaps you mean insipid?”
Alys’s eyes sparked. “I mean pale. It is not the same, but you do need to be careful when choosing colors.”
Apparently. Lizzie watched with bemusement as gown after gown was tossed out behind Alys, until she finally emerged holding a shiny satin gown of such pale blue, it looked almost like quicksilver. “Ah, let’s try this one. It will be perfect with your luminous pale skin and eyes.”
Lizzie shook her head and folded her arms defiantly—already anticipating the argument that was sure to follow. “I can’t wear that. It was made for a masque at court a few years ago. I was supposed to be Demeter.” The gown was cut in a simple Grecian style, with little embellishment and no ruff or lace to speak of. “It doesn’t even have a farthingale.”
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