by Paula Quinn
Patrick coughed and Hendry laughed.
“Let me speculate.” Patrick interrupted the merriment with a dark smile of his own. “Ye used to pull the wings off bugs, and now ye slap lasses around.” He flashed his teeth. “Am I correct?”
Hendry answered with a fist to Patrick’s mouth.
“Aye,” Patrick said quietly and moved forward to wipe the blood from his lip on the ties that bound him. “I thought so.”
“Hendry!” the man who had entered with him shouted, appearing in the light. “There will be time for that later. Can you not control that wretch within you for a full hour?”
Aye, Patrick wanted to agree out loud, at least with the part about Hendry being a wretch.
The other man moved forward, towering over Patrick, who couldn’t stand. Unlike his brother, this one’s wide shoulders blocked out the light behind him.
“I’m Duff Cunningham.”
Patrick tossed him a brief smile. “A pleasure. Now can ye do somethin’ aboot the rope? ’Tis beginnin’ to wear on m’ good nature.”
“Who are you?” Duff Cunningham said as woodenly as the post Patrick was tied to.
“Patrick Campbell of Breadalbane, and ye better have a good reason fer takin’ me from the road. M’ uncle is the Duke of Argyll.” A very distant uncle, but it wasn’t a complete untruth. His great uncle Robert Campbell had once been the earl.
“You weren’t on the road,” the dark giant countered. “You fell at my sister’s feet.”
“Not that close, I’d argue. More like a target at fifty feet.”
He thought he saw a hint of a smile on Duff’s face. If there was one it was gone when he spoke again. “What were you doing at the riverbank?”
That seemed to be the important question of the day. Were these people feuding with his uncles?
“I was lost and thought to refresh m’ horse, which ye have m’ gratitude fer bringin’ back here with me.”
“We didn’t bring it back,” Hendry said. “We left it—”
“Mine is in the third stall on the left.”
Duff stepped out of the stall and looked to the third stall on the left. When he saw that Patrick was correct, he hurried back to the post and bent to check the tight knots around his prisoner’s wrists. When he was satisfied that Patrick couldn’t have left the post to find out where his horse was, he bent to his knees and set his level gaze on him.
“How did you know?”
“He’s m’ horse.”
Duff waited for more but when none came, he straightened again to his full height. “You’re in trouble often and need to know where your horse is in case a quick exit is needed.”
Patrick looked up and offered him a benign smile. “Ye make it sound so unsavory.”
“Verra well then,” Duff said, ignoring Patrick’s light humor and producing a dagger. “If you’re telling the truth you will get your horse back and leave here.” He cut the rope loose from the post but left Patrick’s hands tied.
“Who decides whether or no’ I’m tellin’ the truth?” Patrick asked while he rose.
“My father,” Duff said then led him out of the stable.
Sunlight stung Patrick’s eyes so he held up his bound fists to shield them. He spotted Charlie watching them from behind a short wall and a field beyond. Her dark locks snapped against her face and she cleared them. Her gaze remained on him.
He smiled at her and then fell to his knees when Duff sent his fist into Patrick’s guts.
Chapter Four
Charlie’s muscles twitched when Duff hit him. Fergusson or not, the auburn-haired rogue was trouble to be certain, but he’d done nothing to deserve a beating.
Unless a mere glance from him was considered so dangerous.
Judging by Charlie’s weak knees, it was. The confidence he possessed emanated from his eyes and went straight to her head. They pierced her defenses and sparked her embers to life. The carefree quirk of his mouth tempted her to defy him. She had no idea how such a challenge would play out, but he tempted her to engage. Trouble; like she said.
With the sunlight behind him, she hadn’t been able to get a clearer look at him in the stable than she had at the river—or the pub. Just as well, his husky voice in the shadows had been enough to stir her blood and make her feel overly warm.
Now, she watched from a short wall separating the yard from the field, as he doubled over at the force of Duff’s blow.
“He’s like snake rising from the pit,” Elsie said of him rising from his knees, one hand on his sore belly.
A snake? Charlie thought as he stood and faced Duff head-on, his bare muscles tight and ready to respond. More like a wild stallion at its peak.
“Why,” Elsie inhaled, sounding affected by the handsome Highlander in a way that had little to do with her condition, “he’s as big as Duff.”
Aye, Charlie had already noticed. And he was strong. He’d walked away from a brawl with Hamish.
“Do you think Father will kill him?” Elsie asked from where she sat on the wall with her legs dangling over the other side, the muirs forgotten in favor of a handsome stranger.
“I don’t know,” Charlie told her as the prisoner spoke words she couldn’t hear and her brother laughed in his face. “It depends on him and who he is.”
“I know Father is afraid that we will be abducted by Fergussons,” Elsie sighed. “Do you think the stranger meant to abduct you at the riverbank?”
Charlie had told her about the encounter while Duff and Hendry were inside the barn. She’d also told her sister of seeing him at the pub the night before.
“I don’t think so.” Was she wrong? Possibly. She looked away when the trio reached the house. Everything she knew about men she’d learned from those who lived with her and from the kind who frequented pubs. If the stranger had meant to abduct her he would have used stealth or strength, not charm.
“I’m glad you helped him, Charlie,” her sister told her when Charlie joined her on the wall.
“If we can help, we should.”
Elsie pulled in a shallow breath and nodded in agreement.
“Come,” Charlie tugged her sister’s skirt, “let us go for a walk in the sun. ’Twill help your breathing.”
“If he is a Fergusson,” Elsie ignored her request, “can we still help him? I know what the Fergussons did, but mayhap they all are not bad—”
“They came here because our brothers killed Kendrick, lest you forget, Elsie.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but if we can help, we should, aye, Fergusson or not?”
It would be risking much. Charlie set her eyes on her sister. “Now, dearest, I would not have you do anything that might get you into trouble with Father.”
“But you get into trouble with Father all the time,” her sister argued.
“That’s different.”
“Why?” Elsie’s blue eyes widened.
Charlie shook her head. She didn’t want to have this conversation yet again. It was different because Charlie could take care of herself. Duff had taught her how. She’d watched him practice every day. Hidden behind the henhouse, she imitated his movements and practiced them as often as she did with her sling.
“If the stranger is a Fergusson and he tells Father, then he is a fool and helping him further will only jeopardize us.”
“Of course, you’re correct,” Elsie sighed, sounding somewhat deflated. “But can we at least go—”
The remainder of her request was cut off by Hugh, one of their father’s guards, racing his horse toward the wall. Almost a dozen more mounted men raced up behind him.
“Riders approaching!” he shouted at the girls.
What? Charlie’s heart hammered in her throat as she leaped from the wall. Who were the riders? Were they Fergussons? She turned to look back at the house. Had they come for him? Oh, what had she done?
Hugh looked pale when he reached them an instant later. His eyelids drooped. “Get…inside,” he said weakly, and then fell out of
his saddle, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his back and blood staining his tunic.
Kevin fell from the watchtower, an arrow jutting from his chest. Bhaltair shouted but his words were cut off when he fell next.
Elsie screamed as the riders thundered closer.
Charlie seized her sister’s hand and raced with her toward the house. She felt for her sling but the men who killed Hugh were too close. She lifted her skirts and grabbed her obsidian dagger. “Duff!” she shouted as loud as she could.
Somewhere behind her she heard the riders getting closer. She’d almost reached the house when a man whose voice she didn’t know shouted behind her.
“Stop, lass! Or you will share the fate of your father’s guards.”
Charlie stopped and pushed Elsie behind her when she turned to face him. They were close to the door. “Get inside,” Charlie warned her sister.
“I won’t leave you!” Elsie insisted.
Charlie grinded her jaw and made a quick note to throttle her foolishly devoted sister later. Elsie couldn’t lend a hand. She didn’t know how to use a sling. She’d never practiced archery or any kind of fighting. But she knew what was needed to remain safe. Charlie fingered the small hilt in her hand.
Charlie faced the eight riders dismounting from their horses, looking her and Elsie over with blatant male intent. If they touched Elsie, she’d kill them or die trying. She was sure she could get at least three of them down before she died. Were they Fergussons? Unlike the soul most likely still bound while he faced her father in the parlor, the men in front of her clearly had more treacherous intentions.
“What do you want here?” she called out, doing her best to keep her breath even. She’d never faced down so many men bent on trouble. Where in blazes was Duff? She was afraid but she’d learned well how to mask it. “I warn you though, if ’tis not forgiveness for killing my father’s guards, this day will likely be your last.”
For a moment the men looked surprised by her boldness and then they laughed.
“Do you intend to slay me with your beauty then?” drawled the one who’d ordered her to stop.
Charlie rubbed her fingers over the obsidian. His flattery meant nothing. She didn’t want to kill. She never had before, but she would if she had to. If he touched her sister, she’d cut his throat. “If you come closer you will find out.”
One corner of his bearded mouth hooked into a smirk as he held up his dagger. “Seems like I’m the one with the weapon.”
“Seems like it,” she allowed, standing her ground.
“I will strike a bargain with you,” he called out, amused. “I will not come any closer. You will come to me.” He beckoned with his blade. “Come here or I’ll have my men kill her.” He lifted the dagger over his shoulder and was about to motion the men behind him to move forward.
Charlie broke away from her sister and took a step forward, her heart pounding madly in her chest. If they hurt Elsie—
She almost reached him when the front door swung open and Duff appeared like an angry dragon from its cave.
The rider snatched her wrist and pulled her in the rest of the way. He spun her around to face her family and hauled her spine against him. He brought his cold blade to her throat and set his balmy breath upon her cheek.
“Take another step and she dies. ’Twould be a pity, nay? I know my brother would be disappointed.”
Duff went still. His steely eyes burned with the promise of retribution. In the next instant though, he was shoved out of the way as her father stepped outside. Allan Cunningham growled a warning to Elsie, who stepped back into Hendry’s chest as he, too, exited the house.
“Who are you and what are you doing on my land?” her father demanded.
Charlie hoped they weren’t Fergussons because they were surely going to die for coming here and threatening her life. Duff was going to kill them. She could see it in his eyes. Damn it, but when would this feud end?
“I’m Archie Dunbar,” her captor called out, “and I’ve come here to fetch a wife for my brother Alistair. Your daughter’s beauty is spoken of throughout Galloway. We didn’t know about the golden haired one though. Mayhap we’ll take her too.”
Not if Charlie could help it. She’d rather die than marry this brutish pig’s brother, and she’d rather gut him down the center than let him anywhere near her sister.
“You’ll never leave here alive,” her father promised, ignoring his prisoner, the man from the riverbank, still bound at the wrists, still shirtless as he too, appeared at the doors.
“And who will stop us?” Charlie’s captor asked, his lips close to her ear. “Your guardsmen are dead. If you have any sense, you’ll go back inside and leave her to us.”
“If he had any sense,” her father’s prisoner stepped forward and held up his bound wrists, “he wouldna have taken a Campbell prisoner.”
A Campbell. The charming rake was a Campbell? Damn it, if her kin killed him they’d have the whole bloody kingdom at their front door. Charlie watched him spread his devilishly disarming smile on the beast at her back.
“I’m Patrick Campbell. Cut me loose and I’ll fight at yer side.”
Charlie caught the subtle shift of his gaze toward her when she glared at him, doing her best to keep her eyes above his chin and ignoring his long, sculpted physique and broad shoulders. Was he speaking to her or her captor?
Dunbar laughed at his offer. “You don’t even carry a sword.” He looked him over. “Or even a place to hide one.”
It was true. Charlie hadn’t noticed it before. Patrick Campbell spoke like a Highlander and had dressed like one when she’d first seen him at Blind Jack’s, yet he carried no obvious weapons.
“I dinna need one,” he claimed, his amiable smile changing slightly into something more ominous.
Charlie knew it was true. He had fought Hamish with no weapons other than his fists. What kind of Highlander didn’t carry a sword? The kind who doesn’t need one.
Campbell moved closer to her and the eight men behind her. His gait was wrought with ease and confidence while her brothers and her father remained still.
“I’ll kill you for this, Campbell,” Duff swore.
“That’s doubtful,” Campbell tossed back without turning around. Instead, he looked at Charlie, now only a few inches away, standing between him and her captor.
If there wasn’t a blade to her throat, she would have taken a moment to admire him and all his hard angles.
“Untie me,” he said to Dunbar, “and I’ll fight them all with no help or risk of injury to ye or yer men.” He lifted his bound wrists up, close to Charlie’s face and the dagger at her throat. “The Duke of Argyll will hear of how ye aided his nephew.”
Dunbar seemed to think it over for a moment and then moved the dagger away from her neck to possibly cut Campbell loose. But instead of waiting to be free, the Highlander moved in a blur of speed snatching the dagger from Dunbar’s hand. In one fluid movement that Charlie almost missed by blinking, Campbell, still bound and clutching the hilt in his fingers, lifted his arms and then brought them back down to capture Dunbar’s head between his forearms, and Charlie’s head between his thick upperarms.
An instant turned into an eternity while he pulled Dunbar closer, wedging Charlie up against his chest. Time slowed as she looked up and he tilted his head to meet her gaze. She stared into his summer-glade eyes—ringed by lashes that were that long—and the evidence of Hamish’s wrath on his lip. His current wounds and an older one which had broken his nose saved him from being pretty. His mouth crooked ever so slightly—just enough to flash his dimple and completely befuddle her. A rascal. That’s what he was. He was helping her. But why? Before she had to ponder it further, the instant was over.
He hauled Archie Dunbar an inch closer and knocked him out with a clean blow, forehead to forehead. He moved quickly and lifted his arms to release Dunbar from his hold then gave him a powerful kick in the guts to topple him over.
“Run!” He
pushed Charlie behind him and faced the rest of the Dunbars alone.
Duff reached them at the same time and an instant before the stunned expressions on the faces of Dunbar’s men wore off and they rushed forward.
“Give me your hands!” Charlie commanded, tugging on Campbell’s sleeve. When he obeyed, she cut him loose using her black blade.
The fool took a moment to smile at her before she tucked the dagger back under her skirts.
Hendry finally joined the fight but Charlie couldn’t take her eyes off Mr. Campbell in the melee. He took down three men on his own with nothing but his fists.
Charlie was certain she saw teeth flying.
Duff sliced his sword across the chest of another man and stepped over his dead body to move on to the next opponent.
“Charlotte.”
She tore her gaze from Campbell fighting together with her brothers. Pushing back the Dunbars, and saving her and Elsie. She didn’t know why he did, but she was grateful.
“Aye, Father?”
His eyes on her were hard, as if this were her fault. “Bring Elsie to her room.”
“Aye, Father.” She began to leave but he called her back. “Meet us in the parlor when this is over. I’m curious to know how your beauty is spoken of throughout Galloway when you haven’t left Pinwherry.”
Chapter Five
Patrick sat in the parlor, unbound, donning a borrowed shirt, and sipping wine.
He hated wine.
Thanks to the Dunbars, who had taken their dead and left, he was no longer a prisoner of Cunningham House but a welcomed guest. Things had worked out well; then again, they usually did where Patrick was concerned. He was a lucky scoundrel else he would have been killed half a dozen times already by angry brothers and fathers. Still, he didn’t like that three Dunbars had died today. Aye, the men were bastards coming here to kidnap a wife, but Patrick had always preferred not killing if he didn’t have to. The Cunninghams didn’t share his sentiments.
How had that boded for his Fergusson uncles, living close by? Patrick knew the two clans were longtime enemies, but the hatred with which Allan Cunningham spoke seemed fresh enough. His host wouldn’t say what had kept the feud going when Patrick had asked him and Patrick hadn’t pushed the issue. He’d leave and ask his uncles any questions he had.