by Paula Quinn
“’Tis only me, lass,” he said before she struck him with another stone.
“Mr. Campbell?” She released her skirts and placed her hands on her hips, her mouth pursed with indignation.
“Patrick,” he corrected, taking a step closer to her.
She backed up. “What are you doing here?”
He sure as hell couldn’t tell her that he’d hoped to steal a kiss from her, or that the mere sight of her tempted him to follow her to England.
“I was goin’ to ask ye the same thing,” he said. “Ye were attacked today, lass. D’ye no’ see the danger in comin’ oot here alone?” Or traveling to Pinmore alone. He wanted to ask her what she’d been doing in the pub last night, but he doubted she’d tell him the truth.
“What I do is no concern of yours. Go back to the house, or wherever it is you came from.” She offered him a curt smile then turned and walked away, continuing on her path.
Patrick watched her go. She was correct. She was no concern of his but that didn’t mean he was going to stand by while she stormed off in the night.
“Where are ye off to?” he asked, catching up, determined to find out her secrets. She remained tight-lipped—the way she’d gone mute when her father questioned her.
He tried another route. “On yer way to a lover then?”
“I should slap your face for suggesting that I’m that big of a fool,” she answered crisply without turning to look at him.
“A fool fer leavin’ the safety of yer home to meet with him, or fer havin’ a lover at all?”
“Both.”
He wished it were morning so he could see her more clearly; the pert tilt of her nose, the alluring cut of her high cheekbones, the beguiling shape of her mouth. He inhaled a deep breath and let the fragrance of the heather-lined foothills, and something more soothing—lavender mayhap—clear his thoughts.
“I’m surprised yer brothers are unaware of yer disappearance. They strike me as overprotective.”
“They are asleep and shall remain that way until morning.”
How did she know they’d sleep through the night? Unless she saw to their guaranteed slumber with an aid in their wine. It made sense since she’d had to slip back inside the house last night. He would have to watch her more closely to ensure he didn’t succumb to the same tomorrow night. If he remained that long.
“Duff shouldn’t have struck you today,” she said quietly, giving in a bit to his company but still keeping her gaze on her path.
“I understand why he did. I have sisters,” he told her quietly, thinking of Mailie and Violet at home. He missed them. “I know the desire to keep them safe from the wrong kind of men—”
“Then why are ye here with me instead of them?”
He smiled despite the thread of guilt she provoked. “They have m’ faither and every other man in Camlochlin to watch over them. They dinna need me there too.” But he was their brother. Shouldn’t he be taking on the responsibility of protecting them too? “Besides,” he shrugged it off, “m’ sister Mailie would sooner fall on a sword than fall for anything less than the perfect knight.”
“Poor thing shall be alone until she’s old and dies.”
Patrick smiled with her, but he couldn’t help but wonder if any man could ever change Charlie’s mind.
“I thought ye believed in those ideals,” he said, remembering their last walk together and the conversation they’d shared.
She shook her head. “I was simply curious why you don’t, since you’re the one who claims to know men who live by them. Men are seldom gallant unless they want something in return.”
Patrick didn’t live by his kin’s creed but he knew she was incorrect. Still, he wasn’t here to prove it to her. “Ye have a difficult life with yer kin,” he surmised instead.
“No more difficult than any other lass my age. My father can be unkind but I have found ways to avoid him and make myself happy.”
“Like this?” Patrick asked softly. “By sneakin’ off alone?”
“Perhaps.”
“So will ye tell me where ye’re off to?”
“If you’re as stubborn as I think you are,” she said, “you’ll find out soon enough.”
He was that stubborn and stayed close by her side.
“My sister tells me that your eyes linger on me.”
Patrick blinked, unprepared for her confession. But he wasn’t one to remain unwary by the small surprises that life threw at him. Hell, he enjoyed any challenge that veered onto his path. Most of the time.
“Yer sister’s astute.”
She paused and turned to him. Her thick black braid caught light from the waxing moon, illuminating rich blues and fathomless onyx.
“Let’s get this straight, Mr. Campbell—”
“Patrick,” he corrected again with a smile.
“I’m not interested in becoming one of your conquests. I don’t want a man whose only ambition is to make certain he’s happy. You’re only interested in your own needs and wants, and I have much bigger things to contend with.”
His smiled faded. “Ye really dinna like me, d’ye?”
She looked up at him and shrugged he shoulder. “What’s to like? You’re pleasing to the eye.”
Patrick was sometimes a heartless bastard. He knew that. He didn’t usually let things affect him. But he felt as if she’d just clubbed the side of his head with a tree, knocking him on his arse.
He was a pretty face and nothing more. She couldn’t think of one other thing. He was truthful. He’d saved her. Had she forgotten that? Why did it hit him so hard? Why did he care?
She clearly did not, but went on mercilessly. “I’m not sure what you’re used to, but I promise you, I’m not it. I have no need for what you offer.”
“I haven’t offered anything,” he pointed out, wounded but undefeated.
She appeared flustered for a moment. She knew he was correct and had no immediate reply. He took it as a small victory. It didn’t last long. “Well, in case you change your mind then, my answer will be the same until you leave.”
He quirked one side of his mouth up into a confident grin and looked down into her dark eyes. “Are ye certain of that, lass?”
“Aye, I’m certain. In fact, I’d rather be drawn and quartered than find myself bound in an unwanted relationship.”
Hell, but she had a cutting tongue. It wasn’t that he’d never been rejected before. He’d just never been rejected so wholeheartedly. Drawn and quartered? Well, damnation. This certainly put a damper on things. He still wanted to kiss her, but now, he felt foolish because of it. And what was it exactly about him that she found so unappealing?
He looked back toward the house, thinking he should return. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave her. He almost laughed out loud. What kind of fool was he becoming? What had come over him? He hardly knew her. He recognized almost instantly that that was the problem. He wanted to know her, damn it. He wanted to know where she was going that was so important she’d risk so much.
“Goodnight, Mr. Campbell.” She walked away from him. Just like that.
He let her go, afraid of what he was feeling. He liked her. He liked the sound of her voice, even when she was reviling him. He liked the way she moved, as if her feet weren’t touching the ground but gliding over it. He liked that she didn’t need a man to make her happy, and that she was willful and braw. What he didn’t like was that she found him undesirable, and that he gave a damn.
Patrick watched her veer off to the left of the village and continue toward a cluster of thatch-roof cottages.
She stopped when she came to a small run-down cottage and turned to find him behind her again. “Do you insist on coming inside?”
“Is that where ye’re goin’?”
“Aye.”
Who was inside? At this point, he had to know. “Then, aye. I insist.”
“You will not tell my father or brothers, will you?”
He shook his head. He wouldn’
t do anything to cause her trouble. “Ye have m’ word to tell them nothin’ of yer adventures, lass.”
She responded to the quirk of his mouth with a foul glance and knocked on the door.
They waited in silence until the door opened. A woman a few years older than Charlie stood on the other side. She was short in stature, with large pale green bloodshot eyes and blond hair tucked neatly into a net caul. When she saw Patrick, she appeared frightened and withdrew into the shadows beneath the doorway.
“’Tis all right, Mary,” Charlie said in a comforting voice while she reached for her and gathered her in a quick embrace. “This is Patrick Campbell. He means you no harm.”
Patrick offered Mary a smile he hoped would reassure her of Charlie’s promise.
Still looking a bit unsure, Mary stepped aside and allowed them entry.
“How is Robbie tonight?” Charlie asked, following her inside.
“He’s feeling better. His leg is healing nicely.”
“And the children?”
Patrick looked around, quiet while Mary replied. The interior of the cottage was small and dimly lit with candles placed throughout. The floors were strewn with fresh rushes and herbs, the walls absent of tapestry to keep out the cold.
“They sleep,” Mary told her in a hushed voice as they approached a room housing a bed presently occupied by four small children. The quartet ranged in size with the two oldest at the edges of the straw mattress and the youngest in the middle. Golden hair splashed across their cherubic faces and rosy cheeks.
“Nonie is still having troubles with her dreams since the incident,” Mary told them. “She finally managed to settle down. Wee Jamie spent the day playing with a wooden stick, pretending it was a sword. He received a nasty splinter in his hand that took me half the evening to remove.”
Patrick’s gaze settled on the smallest of the four. His heart lurched at the sight of the child’s bandaged hand, a pudgy little thumb resting between his relaxed lips.
“He didn’t shed a tear but promised to see to his father’s attacker.”
“You must keep him away from Hendry, Mary,” Charlie warned her gently, her gaze also fixed on the boy. “Remember what I told you.”
So, Patrick surmised, Hendry, whom he’d been correct about in the stable, had attacked Mary’s husband—and in front of these little ones. Why? And what was Charlie doing here with her brother’s enemy?
“Come,” their hostess beckoned, mostly to Charlie, but Patrick went along. “Robbie is having his midnight cup in the kitchen. He’ll want to see you.”
They tread along a short dark corridor until they came to the kitchen, where Mary’s husband sat alone at a long wooden table. Light from the central hearth revealed a man born long before his wife. A beard covered most of his gaunt face. His left leg stretched outward from his chair, bandaged from the knee down. His dark, surprised gaze shone in the firelight when he saw his guests.
“Who are you?” he asked Patrick while he downed his cup and struggled to stand. “You haven’t come to finish what Cunningham began, are you? As you can see, I’m not fit to fight you but if you mean to murder me—”
“Robbie, dear,” Mary hurried to his side and settled him back down. “Charlie brought him. I’m certain he can be trusted.”
Patrick stepped forward and introduced himself, determined to ease the man’s apprehension. “I’m here as yer guest and mean ye no harm.”
All those above and below the Grampians knew the Highland law of Murder Under Trust. It was the most grievous crime to kill or hurt anyone offering hospitality.
It seemed Robbie Wallace knew it as well because after picking up his cup, he offered Patrick his name and a chair.
“Mary, fetch our guest some wine.”
Patrick held up his palm. “Another time, mayhap, lady.”
“You will not drink with me?” Robbie squinted his eye on him like he was reconsidering his first assumption.
“Anything but wine.” Patrick shrugged, meaning no offense.
“Whisky then?”
Patrick returned his host’s smile and leaned back in his chair, relaxing his back against it. “That, I will accept.”
“We cannot stay overly long,” Charlie looked down at him and pinched his arm.
“A drink,” Patrick ignored the pinch and continued to make himself comfortable. “Ye didna come all this way just to bid these good people goodnight, aye, Angel?”
“Oh, she is that,” Mary hurried back to the table with a jug and a platter of honey cakes, set both down on the table, and clasped Charlie’s hand. “An angel.”
“Oh?” Patrick asked curiously, enjoying the blush that such a title spread across the bridge of Charlie’s nose. Who was she? Why did her brothers’ enemies adore her? “Long enough fer two stories then?”
Chapter Eight
I owed dues to my lord Cunningham,” Robbie Wallace told Patrick over a cup of warm whisky and sweet honey cakes. Charlie had pulled up a stool, likely one of the children’s, and sat beside him. If Robbie’s rendition of the events that led Hendry Cunningham to beat him across the leg weren’t drawing all Patrick’s attention, her nearness and that damned hint of lavender would have distracted him.
“How late were ye?” Patrick asked. He wanted as clear a picture of the Cunninghams as he could get. The tenants of Camlochlin sometimes paid his uncle Rob, the chief, but they often fell behind. They were never troubled for it.
“A sennight.”
Patrick passed a side-glance to Charlie but her gaze was fixed on her hands in her lap and she didn’t see him. He didn’t blame her for her kin’s actions. She clearly had nothing to do with it.
“He is returning tomorrow to collect it,” Mary told him.
“D’ye have it?”
Robbie lowered his gaze to his cup. His wife looked at Charlie.
“Aye, you have it,” Charlie told her father’s tenant and dipped her hand into her cleavage. Patrick’s gaze followed it until she produced a small pouch. She stood up and placed the pouch on the table before Robbie. “This time, you’ll use it and save your wife and children the sorrow of your pride.”
Patrick watched her as full comprehension struck him and he understood what she was doing here—why it was so important for her to come.
Mary sniffed and brought Charlie’s hand to her lips for a series of kisses.
“You’ll send word to me if you’re in need again,” she told the weeping woman. “You won’t wait until ’tis too late, aye?”
“But ’tis too much to ask of you,” Robbie said, fingering the pouch. “You help all the folks of Pinwherry. There will come a time when you must cease. Besides, I am the provider of this family—”
“As a father,” Charlie said cutting him off gently. “There are many things you provide. Guidance, for one. You need to be here to teach your sons to be the kind of men they ought to be. Not men like Hendry or your liege. Safety, for another. You keep them safe by paying my brother.”
Patrick was still, barely breathing. Had he heard Robbie right? Doing this once for a family in need was one thing, helping everyone in Pinwherry was another. It was too much. Sooner or later she would get caught…or killed. He smiled at her when she turned to him. He could do nothing else. Mary Wallace was correct about her. She was an angel. Who was he to tell an angel to stop what she was doing?
“We should go.”
Patrick nodded. They’d been gone too long. He wasn’t the kind of man who took killing lightly, but if her father or one of her brothers laid a finger on her, he’d kill them.
After bidding Robbie farewell, they followed Mary back out.
“Ye help all the villagers?” Patrick asked Charlie as they passed the doorway to the children’s room.
“When I can,” she whispered back.
“Mama!” One of the children cried out.
It was the girl. Nonie her mother had called her earlier. She sat up and cried out again, disturbing her slumbering siblings. Mary h
urried to her side with Patrick following close behind. He didn’t think about why he went, he only knew that the child’s terror gripped him by the heart. He knew what night terrors were like. He’d suffered them as a young lad after he nearly drowned in Camas Fhionnairigh. Many of his kin had been playing in the waves that morning, but none of them knew he’d gone under. At least, it had felt to him like no one had, for he’d swallowed two gulps of water before his mother pulled him up. He suffered with the memory of it for a year.
“Mama, they were here! They came back!” she cried, waking her brothers. “They came back!”
“Who’s that?” the youngest asked, popping his thumb from between his teeth. He sat up and spilled golden curls around his little round face.
Hearing him, the girl looked over her mother’s shoulder and whimpered when she saw Patrick.
He knelt at her bedside and plucked the candle from her night table and held it between him and the children. “Nonie, yer mother was findin’ me.”
“Who…who are you?” the girl asked, wedged deeply in her mother’s arms.
Hell, but she was so damned small and her eyes were so big. How could such a wee face, a quartet of them as a matter of fact, have such a thunderous effect on his heart? He smiled at them. They smiled back. They appeared to range in age from mayhap three to six with Nonie being somewhere in the middle. Her brothers didn’t concern him. Nonie did. She was terrified and he would give anything to ease her fear.
“I’m Patrick, Protector of Dreams.”
Her eyes opened wide. “You are?”
He nodded and whispered. “If yer dreams frighten ye, tell them to me and I shall help ye vanquish them.”
Her eyes opened even wider. She moved a little closer and he inclined his ear to her. But she reached out her small hand and brushed her fingers over his wounded jaw. “Did an ogre do this to you?”
“Aye,” he told her softly.
“And then what happened?” asked one of her brothers.