by Paula Quinn
He joined her quickly. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to do.”
She knocked, ignoring his defense. “I’m sure these good folks can use your aid.”
“’Twill take all day. I could be—”
She blew out a gusty breath. “You can hone your skills on weaker men later, Mr. Campbell—” She paused to watch him glance up at the heavens. “Patrick,” she amended.
His smile returned almost immediately. “And just so ye know, the men who choose to fight me are strong.”
“According to you, you win often,” she told him as Mary Wallace opened the door. “So they are still weaker than you.”
His dimpled grin made her senses reel, and her nerve endings raw. She tossed him her darkest scowl an instant before turning to Mary and smiling. “Mr. Campbell has come to offer his help.”
“What?” Patrick asked following her inside the house. “Why are ye angry? Is it wrong of me to be pleased that ye think me stronger than any other man?”
She kept walking, her arms stiff at her sides, and her chin tilted slightly upward. “That is not what I said. My presumption was formed by your claim as champion.” She turned so he could see the truth in her eyes. But he wasn’t there.
He’d remained by the door, now on one knee and holding little Nonie Wallace’s hand in his.
Chapter Twelve
What brings you back, Mr. Campbell?” Robbie Wallace held himself steady by clutching the back of his chair. “Has Cunningham—”
“Nae,” Patrick assured him, holding up his hands while he entered the kitchen. “’Tis nothin’ to do with him. Miss Cunningham has asked me to offer ye m’ services.”
Robbie shifted his gaze to Charlie at Patrick’s right. Patrick wanted to look at her too. Was she still angry with him? Why did he concern himself with it? What did she have against fighting when she boasted of her own skill? Fighting—and winning—filled his purse, and presently, that’s what he desired.
But instead he was getting ready to work for nothing, doing what she had asked simply because she’d asked it. He hadn’t wanted to deny her request. The desire to please her should have left him feeling stripped and afraid of losing control of his good senses, but oddly enough, he felt rather pleased with himself. Helping Robbie for the simple sake of helping him felt right.
Mayhap, he wasn’t such a selfish bastard after all.
Miss Nonie Wallace didn’t think so. Convincing Charlotte Cunningham was going to be a bit more difficult. And he wanted to convince her. Damn it. He wanted to protect her—though he wasn’t fool enough to ever tell her. He wanted to stay and get to know her better. She was all finely spun threads of strength and softness. Those threads were winding around him the way ivy clings to stone. He wondered how long he would allow it to grow before no more stone could be seen.
“Your services?” Robbie asked, surprised and grinning now at Charlie. “You mean like baling the hay?”
Patrick almost sighed out loud. “Aye, like balin’ the hay.”
“That’s verra kind of you, Mr. Campbell.” Robbie’s fingers uncurled from around the back of his chair. “I’ll see that you’re fed well for your help.”
“Please, call me Patrick.”
“I’ll make fresh rabbit stew!” Mary exclaimed with excitement. “And Charlotte, you’ll stay for supper, as well.”
It seemed this wasn’t such a poor idea, Patrick thought, accepting the invitation. A good meal and a day with Charlie—
“I’m afraid I must return home.” Charlie spoiled his reverie. “My father—”
He turned to her. “—Knows ye’re with me, a Campbell.”
He knew his words cut by the way she veiled her gaze. Her worth to her father was based on what she could give him. An alliance with a powerful clan. Patrick was sorry, but she already knew the truth of it. She was not a fool.
“Use it to yer advantage,” he whispered, reminding her of her power to make her own choice. “Stay here with me.”
He looked down at her slender shoulders relaxing around her neck. “Verra well.” She lifted her eyes to him, her gaze softening and robbing him of rational thought. “I shall stay then.”
He had only a brief moment to offer her a purely heart-felt smile before Mary pulled her attention away with offers of allegiance and refreshment.
His gaze lingered on Charlie until Robbie cleared his throat. “Aye,” Patrick agreed and clapped his hands together turning back to the farmer. “Where d’ye want me to begin?”
Charlie looked out Mary’s kitchen window and watched Patrick enter the barn. Robbie limped behind him while Nonie skipped along the rear.
What was she to think of Mr. Patrick Campbell? He didn’t want to spend his day in and out of a barn. He could have easily refused her. He would have refused her if he were nothing but the dispassionate scoundrel she first thought him to be.
She thought back to him—as she was sure she would do for the next half a century—on bended knee before Nonie like some kind of fabled champion before his queen. And though he didn’t want to bale hay, he was willing to do it for Charlie. What kind of man was he under all that charm?
There had to be more to him.
If he ever wanted to win her heart.
What would he do with it if he did? Did she want him to keep trying? She liked being with him, slicing away at his rakish defenses, and watching him take the blows with a sturdy chin. He kissed her like she was the only lass in the country and he, the one who possessed her. She wanted more of his mouth—but the danger was in wanting more of him.
Could she toss aside every conversation she’d had with Kendrick about Duff’s father and trust this self-proclaimed rogue wouldn’t do the same to her? What if she was wrong and he was like all the rest? What if she was correct and he tempted her to give up her plans with her sister?
“Charlie, you’re spilling the water!”
Charlie’s attention snapped back to what she was doing. Pouring refreshment for those outside. She corrected the tilt of her pitcher and managed to get some water into the cup. “Oh, forgive me, Mary!”
“What is it that steals your attention and unsettles your heart?”
Charlie wanted to stop her when Mary leaned up and looked out the window.
It was already too late. Mary saw him and smiled.
“I see,” she said, barely concealing her smile and then reached for her tray. “He’s quite pleasing to the eye.”
Aye, he was. “Is that all?” Charlie didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until Mary answered her.
“Nay, not all, else I think you would not have stayed.”
Charlie smiled. Had they spoken about it so many times that Mary knew her this well? They had become quick friends long before Robbie’s injury. She guessed she knew Mary just as well. At least enough to know that beneath Mary’s prim exterior dwelled a strong, bold spirit.
“I see a man with a good heart. A man who taught my Nonie to slay her monsters and then showed up here to keep them from returning. That’s all I know of him, but ’tis a good start.”
A good start to what? Charlie snatched up her tray, spilling even more water, and followed Mary out.
“I would have you know I have no feelings for Mr. Campbell.”
Mary turned on her heel to face her. “Och, forgive me for assuming. If you’ve no interest in him, I think he would be a good match for Eleanor Kennedy. Poor gel has no help since her husband died last spring.”
Charlie stared at her then blinked. What was she supposed to say? Eleanor Kennedy? Patrick would like the young widow. She had long red hair and a saucy mouth.
“He isn’t staying. In fact, he’s trying to earn coin for his journey.”
“Well, Eleanor doesn’t have much coin but I’m certain she will come up with a way to pay him if he ploughs her soil before he leaves.”
Ploughs her soil?
Charlie looked over Mary’s shoulder at Patrick beginning his work. He bent to a large mound of hay and stuc
k his fork in it.
She swallowed and raised her hand to her throat. She didn’t want him to plough Eleanor’s soil. What if word spread that he would work for coin and old Ramsey hired him? What would he think of Bonnie and Brenda, Ramsey’s twin daughters? They were of marriageable age and were looking for husbands. Caitriona Cunningham, Charlie’s cousin, was also without a husband. Caitriona was beautiful, with wheat-colored hair and striking blue eyes. Before Kendrick died, Cait barely left their side. She’d even learned to wield a sling. After the Fergussons had attacked, and Charlie had become a prisoner on her own land, she barely met with Cait anymore for leisure.
Patrick would find her pleasing.
She didn’t care. Why should she? He wasn’t staying.
She didn’t care whose fields Patrick Campbell ploughed.
“Verra well then, on to Eleanor Kennedy’s farm tomorrow!” She stepped around Mary and proceeded toward him, her tray shaking in her hands.
She didn’t make it to him with a full cup. Nonie and her brothers, who appeared from inside the barn, snatched up the three cups she carried.
“Robert,” her father called to his eldest son. “Fetch Miss Cunningham a chair.”
“Aye, Papa!”
“There’s no need,” Charlie protested as the lad ran off to his chore. “I won’t sit while you stand, Robbie. Take the seat or give it to your wife, I will stand here for a little while.”
“As you wish,” Robbie replied and accepted a cup from his wife.
“Here, bring this to Mr. Campbell, will you?” Mary handed Charlie a full cup and smiled.
Charlie looked her petite friend over. She wondered if Robbie knew the spitfire who dwelled within his wife. Judging by his growing family, she suspected he did. She would ask Mary next time they talked. Now, she would demonstrate that her fire would not be so easily doused.
“That’s kind of you, Mary.” She graced her hosts with a smile, accepted the cup, and turned her back on them.
Her composure though, could not withstand the sight of the Highlander pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside. Drenched in sunlight with sweat glistening over his flexing muscles, he looked like some mythical warrior crafted in bronze. Her eyes basked in the sight of him and the strength of his hands and bruised knuckles, the shadow his shoulders cast as he bent to another mound and jabbed his fork in deep. She took a step toward him, trying to deny his mesmerizing effect while she watched him lift the pitched hay in the air, turn, and smile at her. He took the heavy fork in one hand and reached for the cup with the other.
She tried looking around at the land, but her gaze returned to him tipping the cup to his lips. She watched the tilt of his jaw as he drank. His throat was thick and corded and made her think about what it would be like to bite it. She’d heard some of her brothers’ whores talk about things they enjoyed doing to men. She bit her bottom lip instead.
He finished quickly, taking only a sip and then handing her back the cup. “’Tis goin’ to be a long afternoon. I heard ye tell Robbie ye were goin’ to stand fer a wee bit? Aye?”
She nodded, wondering what color exactly were his eyes? Green, like life unleashed? Or burnished gold, forged from liquid fire? They changed often. Humor skipped across the surface of his gaze but something more primal lurked beyond the shadows cast by his dark lashes.
He quirked one corner of his mouth, along with the brow above it. “Charlie?”
She blinked, and realizing that she’d been staring into his eyes like some stricken fool, she felt her blood rush to her face, and then to her head. But she couldn’t pry her eyes away from his.
“If ye dinna mind bringin’ me another cup later,” he said with his gaze going warm over her.
The urge to smile at him proved that his guile could charm even her. It frightened her. She’d never had a problem harnessing her emotions before. In fact, she was a master at it. It’s what kept peace at Cunningham House. Worse though was that she hadn’t been tempted to abandon herself to anyone since Kendrick. She was afraid to abandon herself to Patrick. She’d seen the result of a rogue’s seduction.
But Patrick made her breathless and hot.
Too hot. She tried to swallow but her throat felt like dry tinder. She couldn’t surrender her heart. She wouldn’t.
“Will ye stay and bring me m’ water?”
What? What did he ask? She’d been in the sun too long, fighting too many frightening emotions. She was having trouble thinking clearly. She wanted to nod, but her head was spinning and she felt…No! She didn’t want to collapse at his feet like some weak-willed nymph. But her knees buckled and she felt her head knock against his chest and his arms close around her.
Did many lasses fall into his arms just as easily? For an instant Charlie understood why any woman would, for he loomed above her, gleaming with the sun behind him like some deity come to life, his strong hands steadying her.
She shouldn’t let him touch her. He was too dangerous. “I’m fine. You can let go of—”
Darkness prevailed and ended, at last, her humiliation.
She awoke sometime later in Robbie Wallace’s favored kitchen chair, which was more like a cushioned throne, wide enough to seat two of her. She and the chair had been set before the back door, which was open and allowing a soft cool breeze to waft through her hair.
She heard voices around her and sat up. It was bad enough that she’d fainted, she wouldn’t remain slumped over like a wilted herb. Oh, she’d fainted, fallen at Patrick Campbell’s boots. How would she face him?
Mary was coming toward her with a wet rag in her hands. Her husband limped in behind her.
Charlie glanced around for Patrick and found him leaning against the wall, watching her.
Her face burned. Mortified, she turned away, but not before she saw concern in his gaze.
“You had us worried,” Mary said softly as she bent over the chair and dabbed at Charlie’s face with the cool rag.
“I’m fine,” Charlie reassured her gently. “’Twas just the sun.”
Mary leaned down to her ear. “’Twas more than that.”
Before Charlie could scowl at her, Mary was gone and Patrick appeared in her place—almost as close.
“’Tis good to have ye back.”
“The sun…I was…”
When his dimple deepened, she offered him the scowl she’d missed giving Mary. “You had nothing to do with it!”
His damned grin curled even wider. Hell, but he was arrogant. Her fainting dead away in front of him only convinced him that what he thought of himself was correct.
“I’ll never speak of it again,” he whispered on a silken pledge. He shared a brief, furtive smile with Mary before she walked her husband out of the kitchen then returned it to Charlie when they were alone. “If ye promise no’ to ask me to plough Eleanor Kennedy’s farm.”
Chapter Thirteen
Satisfied that he pulled a smile from her, Patrick reluctantly moved away. Not too far. Not yet. Hell, he was glad she returned to him. To all of them. Her father’s tenants needed her.
It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to lean in and kiss her plump, parted lips. But stepping back gave him a fuller view of her, slumped in an oversized-overstuffed chair, a few strands of her black hair lifting softly off her shoulders in the slight breeze. He would be happy to stand here and gaze upon her for the next sennight.
“Who am I,” she asked with a spark of playfulness flickering in her dark eyes, “to keep you from ploughing any farm you desire?”
Aye, this lass possessed fire. It attracted him, captivated him, and made him want to play along. “Why would I want to go anywhere else, when I’m needed where I am?”
She tossed him a dry smirk. “What makes you think you’re needed?”
He laughed softly. “Balin’ hay? Have ye fergotten why we’re here?” His mirth turned into a smile of uncertainty. “Ye are speakin’ of the Wallaces’ farm, are ye no’?”
The flash of his dimple p
roved he knew exactly what she was referring to.
She kicked him in the knee. “You’re a fool if you think I need you.”
He caught her foot and held it. Boldly, he swept his fingers over her bare ankle and contradicted her with a lazy grin.
Her face flushed and he laughed and let her go before she fainted again.
“Who d’ye want to be, Charlie?” he asked growing serious again.
“No one special,” she answered softly.
He raised a skeptical brow upon studying her. Did she mean no one special to him, or to the world around her? “That will be a difficult endeavor, lass. Ye’ll always be noticed.”
“Such a silver tongue you possess, Patrick Campbell,” she said while he reached for a stool and set it before her. “Tell me, where did you learn to wield it so flawlessly?”
“Everywhere,” he told her as he sat, facing her. “The words are imbued in the wind at Camlochlin—”
“Camlochlin?”
He realized his error too late. If she already knew the name of the MacGregors of Skye’s homestead, then he’d just about admitted he was one of them. He waited an instant to see her reaction. When no fear came to her features, he decided to continue. “M’ home in the Highlands.”
Her eyes danced on him as she settled deeper into Robbie’s chair. “Tell me of it.”
He’d never spoken of Camlochlin with anyone who didn’t live there. Asking for a description made him ponder its grandeur and glorious history.
“’Twas built in the mists by a true chief, determined to keep his clan safe and hidden from the world.”
Mayhap, he could convince her in the telling that this clan wasn’t made up of savage killers bent on trouble. If she did find out who he was, mayhap she wouldn’t see him as a danger.
“He built a fortress of stone and resilience and brought the daughter of his enemy there to be his wife.”
Her eyes widened and shone with interest. “Did he take her against her will?”