Patrick blocked another blow to his head; steel clashed against steel, reverberating in his ears and the force of the blow shuddering through his body. He responded with one of his own, grunting as he swung his blade with two hands across his body in a wide arc. This time his brother was a fraction of a second slow, and Patrick’s blow knocked him back.
It was the opening he’d been waiting for. With a fierce cry, Patrick swung his sword again and again, raining down on his brother blow after blow of powerful strikes. Gregor couldn’t withstand the force and started to fall back, blocking rather than fighting.
Patrick had him, and they both knew it.
One final blow brought Gregor to the ground. Patrick had the point of his sword at his neck before Gregor could recover. Patrick’s heart was hammering from exhaustion and the rush of blood from the fight. He wanted to kill him, and the force of it shook him. He could see the rage he was feeling returned in his brother’s gaze. And something else—hatred. Gregor wanted him to do it.
God, he was tempted. But this was his brother, the only brother he had left. Other than Annie, the last of his family. He’d won; that was enough. “Yield,” he said softly.
Hatred blazed back at him, and Patrick knew that Gregor would not have shown him the same mercy. He pushed the blade a little deeper, drawing blood. “Do you yield?”
“Aye,” Gregor grunted through clenched teeth.
“Say it,” Patrick demanded.
“I yield, damn it.”
After a moment, Patrick pulled back his sword, leaving Gregor seething in the dirt and mud. Gregor was furious, but he would get over it. His challenge had failed.
Patrick mounted his horse and swung it around, closing the short distance to Lizzie in a few moments. He dropped to the ground and approached her cautiously—walking past one of the men who’d fallen trying to protect her. The one who’d been dragged by his horse hung at a grotesque angle only a few feet ahead. She was watching Patrick with wide, terrified eyes, staring at his face as if she’d never seen it before.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She took a few steps back. “W-who are you? W-w-what do you m-mean to do with me?”
Her stammer made something in his chest twist. She’s scared of me. “I won’t hurt you.”
She gave a sharp cry of disbelief. The hurt swimming in her eyes made his heart wrench. “God, how can you say that?”
Patrick was so focused on soothing her, he didn’t notice the movement until it was too late. He heard Robbie’s cry of warning behind him and looked up just in time to see the barrel of a pistol pointed directly at him.
The Campbell dragged from his horse was not dead.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He heard the blast. Saw the smoke. Then the force of the shot knocked him back. White hot fire seared through his thigh.
Robbie rode by and with the MacGregor battle cry ended the Campbell’s life, this time for good. But the damage had been done. Only ill aim had saved Patrick’s life.
His head cleared and the impact of his injury hit him hard—not just the lead ball, but the import. In showing his brother mercy, he’d allowed him an opportunity. One that Gregor would not hesitate to use. Patrick could not risk Lizzie’s life on his brother’s honor.
With a bullet lodged in his thigh, he would be no match for Gregor. And with only four of his own men against Gregor’s ten ruffians, they would not be able to defend Lizzie should he die.
Gritting his teeth to bite back the cry of pain, he got to his feet.
“Hold them off,” he said to Robbie, mounting his horse. The pain that shot through his leg almost made him keel over—only the knowledge of the ugly death that awaited Lizzie kept him seated.
Robbie nodded. “Aye, Chief.”
“The cave,” Patrick answered the silent question. “If you can get there tonight without being followed. Otherwise rally the men at Balquhidder Kirk as planned.”
Robbie gave him a short nod, and before the others realized what he was going to do, Patrick snatched Lizzie off her horse, set her before him, and plunged into the trees.
Chapter 17
Lizzie thrashed wildly against him as they raced through the trees in the darkness, the horror of the day finally catching up with her.
Patrick’s arm jerked hard under her ribs, cinching her tight against him. The familiar muscled wall of his chest felt as yielding as granite.
“Damn it, Lizzie, stop,” he said harshly in her ear, his voice rough with pain. “I’m trying to save both our lives, but if you keep hitting my leg like that, we’re going to fall.”
She stilled. His leg. God, he’d been shot. The moment of bloodcurdling panic when the ball had exploded was still etched on her foolish heart. Even after he’d discarded and betrayed her, she didn’t want him to die. Not yet, at least. Not until she knew the truth. Then she might do the foul deed herself.
She remembered the shock, the hard slam in her chest, when he’d lifted his sword against her clansmen, preventing him from shooting the very MacGregor who’d attacked her. He’d joined the MacGregor against her clansmen and then turned around and fought him. It didn’t make sense.
It was obvious that they knew each other—more than knew. Looking back and forth between them as they battled—there was something … She closed her eyes, fighting the sour taste that rose in the back of her throat. No! She didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to even acknowledge the possibility. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”
“Would you rather I had left you back there with them?”
“So you are the better of two evils?”
He barked a sound like a laugh, but it was too filled with pain. “In this case, yes.”
Though she wanted nothing more than to rail against him, to confront him and demand an explanation, the precariousness of their circumstances proved a temporary deterrent. One thing Patrick had said earlier she did not doubt: The MacGregor scourge meant to hurt her. And like it or not, all that stood between her and the vile beast was Patrick. A wounded Patrick. She bit back a wave of panic.
She fell silent as they careened through the forest, the pounding of her heart every bit as fast and furious as the clopping of the horse, until Patrick suddenly reined in the massive destrier, bringing them to a stop near a large rock.
“Why are we stopping?”
“We’ll never outrun them on horses. We need to try to lose them, and I need to get somewhere safe to get this ball out of my leg.”
“Where are we going?”
“North.”
She froze. Dunoon was to the south. “But—”
“Going to Dunoon is no longer possible, Lizzie. Not now, at least. I’ll get you there, but I can’t do it alone. Not with them following us. We’d never make it.”
He dismounted, careful to land on the rock so as to leave no footprints, and quickly lifted her down beside him. After removing the packs and plaid from the horse and tossing them over his shoulders, which were already laden with his bow and claidbeambmór, he slapped the horse on the flanks, shouting a command in the Highland tongue. The horse took off like a bullet, disappearing through the trees and darkness before Lizzie even had a chance to react.
It suddenly felt very quiet and very dark. The sliver of light from the moon was not strong enough to penetrate the heavy canopy of trees.
“With any luck, it will be some time before they catch up with the horse,” he whispered near her ear, then he dropped to the other side of the rock and held his hand up to her. “Careful where you step. They’ll be tracking us.”
Where were they? She’d lost all sense of direction some time ago.
Reluctantly, she slid her hand into his and leapt down next to him. Standing so close to him, with his familiar masculine scent wrapping around her, set off a tumult of conflicting emotions. She thought she’d known him so well. She could close her eyes and feel exactly what it was like to be held in his arms—to press her cheek against his incredible che
st. To trace the layers of hard muscles with her hand. To look into his eyes when he pushed inside her, filling her inch by incredible inch.
Once again she’d confused sex with love.
Part of her wanted to catapult herself into his arms and burst into tears; the other part wanted to pound her fists against his chest and hurt him the way he’d hurt her. He’d deceived her—the extent of which she was almost too scared to find out. “Why are they tracking us? You know the men who attacked me, don’t try to deny it.”
“I won’t deny it. You can question me all you want, Lizzie, but not now. We have to move fast.”
“Wait.” She looked down. “Your leg.” Blood had saturated the brown leather of his breeches. A large stain had formed high on his left thigh, and the dark hole near the outer portion showed where the ball had entered. Quickly, she lifted the front of her wool skirt and ripped the bottom portion of one of her muslin underskirts. Holding it out to him, she said, “You’d better bind it with this.”
He gave her a curious stare, before quickly doing as she bid. “Thank you.”
She nodded, and then they were off. He pulled her through the woods after him, opposite the direction in which they’d been riding. Obviously, he hoped they would follow the horse. Even wounded, he wound through the trees with the agility and speed of a wildcat; she could barely keep up with him. The occasional grunt over uneven ground was the only reminder that he had a ball lodged in his leg. Despite the chill, sweat gathered on her forehead and between her breasts. Her breath was harder and harder to find amid the frantic pounding of her heart. They ran until she thought her lungs would burst.
She started to drag.
He slowed and offered her a drink of water from a skin in his pack. She took a deep gulp, thankful for the moment of respite.
“We can’t stop, Lizzie. It’s just a little farther.”
She gasped, fighting for breath, unable to tell him that she couldn’t go on. God, what was wrong with him? He was barely even out of breath. In the darkness, she could just make out his jaw clenched against the pain, which must have been excruciating.
“I can carry you, if you are too tired,” he offered.
Her eyes widened. He was serious. She made a garbled sound, half cry and half laugh, and shook her head. He would do it, too. Even as angry as she was, she couldn’t imagine what the added weight would do to his leg. Moreover, she sensed that she would need him as strong as possible for what lay ahead. Maybe his clansmen were right: Nothing hurt him.
Why had she ever thought he could care?
Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to focus on her burning lungs.
After about another mile—though it felt like fifty—the sky opened up a little, the trees were not as close together, and the ground underfoot grew denser with bracken and heather. He let her rest for a few moments while he gathered an armful of fallen branches and moss, which she hoped meant a fire in the near future.
Once beyond the shelter of the trees, they were forced to move more slowly as the footing became more precarious. The footholds in the heather could be quite boggy.
A short while longer and she was looking up at an enormous rocky mountain. “What is that?”
“Beinnmheadhonaidh.” Hill of the Caves, she translated. “Lowlanders call it Ben Venue.”
He’d mentioned a cave to Robbie, so perhaps this was their destination? She hoped so.
He slowed their pace even further when the heather and bracken gave way to rock. “Careful,” he warned, “the stones can be slick from the mist even if it isn’t raining.”
She was trying, but it was difficult to see.
They skirted around the base of the mountain until they got to a narrow, steep ravine. When she looked up, all she could see was the rocky face of the cliffside.
She stopped in her tracks. “You can’t mean to climb up that?”
He chuckled. “Nay. You can’t see it right now, but about a hundred yards up is an opening in the rocks. The cave is known as Coir nan Uriskin.”
The Cove of the Satyrs. “Sounds idyllic,” she said dryly. “I suppose it’s haunted, too.”
“Nay.” She heard the amusement in his voice. “Though this area is supposed to be the meeting place for all the goblins in Scotland.”
She shivered. Even though she wasn’t superstitious, the place was eerie in the darkness. “Won’t they know where to find us?”
He shook his head. “They should be traveling south for a while; this will give us a few hours.”
“What about Robbie and your other men?”
His face was grim. “They can take care of themselves.”
He would be with them if it weren’t for me.
After a short but demanding climb, he tossed a few rocks deep into the cave—apparently to scare off any wild beasties using it for a home—then pulled her into the wide cavern of the cave. Once inside, she saw that it was about as big as her chamber at Castle Campbell—though decidedly danker. Heaving an enormous sigh of relief, she looked around for a place to collapse.
“Sit here,” he said, spreading out the plaid he’d removed from the horse on the rocky floor of the cave. The thick wool provided little cushion to the hard floor beneath, but in her state of exhaustion it felt like a bed of feathers. “We won’t be able to stay here long, but I need to get the ball out of my leg.”
His matter-of-fact tone took her aback. “How do you intend to do that?”
“With my dirk.”
My God, he was going to dig it out himself. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“I’ve done it before.”
Not an answer, although she supposed in a way it was. He handed her a skin of water and a bit of dried oatcake, which she chewed slowly as he moved about the cave. She was hungry, and the oatcake barely made a dent; she hadn’t eaten since they’d left early this morning. A lifetime ago.
Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, and her body began to feel the effects of the cold, damp night air, making her all the more grateful for the fire that Patrick had started to build.
He’d arranged some rocks near the back of the cave in a circle and laid the branches on top. After gathering some moss in a ball, he started to peel the outer layer of bark off a piece of birch with his dirk, then proceeded to crush it.
“What are you doing?”
“The wood and moss are too damp to catch a spark from my flint, but there is oil in this bark that ignites readily.”
And after a few strikes of the flint, she heard the distinct snap and popping of oil as the bark caught flame in the pile of moss. He blew on it until a flame appeared, and then carefully moved it to the pile of wood. Minutes later, a fire crackled to life.
She studied his handsome face in the flickering light—the hard angles of his cheekbones, the square of his jaw, the straight line of his nose.
Her heart clenched as his face merged with another. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
“You’re one of them,” she choked. “You’re a …” She could barely get out the words, the name fell so distastefully from her tongue. “MacGregor.” An outlaw, a scourge, an enemy to her clan.
She could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that he didn’t like her tone. He turned slowly to face her, his expression a mask of angry pride. “If you’ll remember, I’m no longer allowed to use that name.” His gaze pierced her. “But, aye, I was born Patrick MacGregor, eldest son to Ewin the Tutor.”
She gave a strangled cry. The crushing weight in her chest was unbearable. Having the truth confirmed was a brutal shock, her suspicions notwithstanding.
A MacGregor. He was a MacGregor. He’d tricked and deceived her. But why?
Her heart pounded. She didn’t know whether she could withstand the truth, but she had to hear it all—every ugly, hateful bit of it.
Her eyes didn’t leave his face, looking for some sign of emotion in that steely façade. Tell me it’s not what I thi
nk. “And the man who attacked me? The man who wants to kill me?”
His mouth was pulled into a grim line and the pulse at his neck began to tic, but he did not flinch from her gaze. She braced herself for the worst. It came.
“My brother.”
A choking sob tore from the depths of her shattered heart with wrenching pain that dwarfed any that had come before. That vile, brutish man was his brother. She could only stare at him mutely as the ramifications tossed around wildly in her head. Of the first time she’d seen the MacGregor scourge. Of the first time she’d seen Patrick.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, with the burgeoning realization that she’d been used. “Your appearing on the road that day was not a coincidence.”
A flicker of regret passed over his face. She’d penetrated the implacable façade, but it was too late. “Nay, it wasn’t a coincidence, though no one was supposed to be hurt.”
Her chin quivered uncontrollably. “I’m to believe that? MacGregors are hardly known for their compassion and gentlemanly manner.”
He ignored the barb, although his eyes flared. “As you no doubt realized by what you saw today, my brother and I are not exactly seeing eye-to-eye on things.”
If she didn’t feel as though she were dying inside, she would have laughed at the understatement. “You mean he wants to kill me and you don’t?”
He grimaced. “Something like that. But I never thought he would take it this far. Gregor is hot-tempered and can be difficult to rein in, but he’s always been loyal.”
She stared at him, seeing him for the first time. Seeing things she’d never seen before. The strength and toughness had always been there, but now she saw the hard-edged ruthlessness. “God, I don’t even know you.”
He strode over and pulled her to her feet, forcing her to look at him. “I’m the same man I was before. The same man you said you loved.”
How dare he throw that back in her face! Force her to see what a complete fool she’d been. “I loved Patrick Murray, not a ruthless outlaw. I loved a man who doesn’t exist.”
The Campbell Trilogy Page 60