by Paula Quinn
“Nae,” Patrick assured her. “I’m told she almost reached the castle before he did, so eager was she to arrive there. She became a mother to many and a tutor to all. She taught a beast to be gallant and turned Highlanders into knights.”
“With dusty old ideals,” she teased gently.
He smiled. How could he not? She’d dragged him into the light again, made him look the careless, reckless rogue straight in the face.
He didn’t dislike who he saw. It was him—the man he was, the person he knew. He just didn’t know if he wanted to continue being that man. The idea of such change though, well, damn it, it scared the hell out of him.
“Everyone in Camlochlin was taught them. The ideals of honor were as deeply planted as love fer country or swordplay. Whether or no’ all her children practice them, they are impressed upon us all.”
At the sight of her curling her lips, he grinded his jaw to keep from cursing himself. She had the most damned delectable mouth. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he there? Kissing her?
“You will have to prove that to me, Mr. Campbell.”
His smile warmed on her for a moment before he laughed and shook his head. “I know. I know I do.”
He didn’t shrink away from her challenge. She wasn’t going to be easy to win, and that made trying more exciting. That is, if he decided to try.
“You still have hay to bale.”
Nodding, he stood up. “I’ll get to it then.” He didn’t want to leave. The fever was obviously getting worse.
“Mr. Campbell?” she said, stopping him as he stepped around her chair. “Before you go, tell me a bit more of Camlochlin, where the wind is infused with virtuous poetry. Is it pleasing to the eye?”
He almost wished one of Camlochlin’s bards were present so that he could sing of its beauty. He could never do it, but his words would have to do. “It looks like God’s fury and splendor collided on earth. ’Tis like the crowning glory upon the world. ’Tis unforgettable once ’tis seen. That’s why so few have ever seen it.”
She stared up at him with a fanciful tilt to her smile and he never wanted to look away again. “Where is this soul-wrenching place?”
“Far into the clouds.”
“It doesn’t sound real.”
He felt the words bubbling to the surface. Before he thought about why he would utter them, they poured forth from his mouth. “’Tis. I can prove that to ye too, lass.”
Patrick left the cottage spilling quiet oaths before him. Did he just offer to bring her home? How could he have spoken such a thing when he had no intention of ever doing it? Bringing her home meant he was promising something to her—his devotion and his love.
What was wrong with that? a part of him asked. Charlie was different. Hell, she was so unlike any lass he’d ever known. She wound herself around him in strips of colored veils, some painted with compassion and wisdom, others in courage and confidence. She was delicacy draped in regal robes. Watching her with Robbie Wallace the night she supplied his rent was like being caught up in the radiance of a star—and in the light, he was revealed.
He felt neither pleased nor displeased with himself. He knew he could be a different kind of man if he was willing to work at it. He didn’t know if he was willing. And Charlie would make him work.
He was a selfish knave who thought only of his own happiness. Even now.
Damn it, that was hard to admit. He would have never done the like a few months ago, too caught up in the fulfillment of his desires to consider himself further. He’d known there was something different about him. He’d felt the change. The emptiness. But he hadn’t truly stopped to examine who he was until he met Charlie. And now that he had, he knew he wasn’t good enough for her. But could he be?
Why did she make him want to be? Another part of him argued as he reached the haystacks. Did he want to give up so much so soon? He’d just met the girl. What did he know of her, save that she had good aim and a kind heart? He’d help her mission as much as he could and then he’d be away from here with or without Duff, free of cares and duties, with no desire to change for anyone.
“Are you going to live here, Patrick?”
Torn from his thoughts, he looked down to find Nonie following him and smiled. Should he tell her what she wanted to hear, or the truth?
“I’ll stay until the bad dreams and the monsters in them go away.”
“You won’t leave?” she asked. Her large blue eyes stared up at him.
“No’ until ye let me.”
“You promise?”
“Aye, I promise.” He bent to her as if she held reign over him.
“Nonie,” her mother called, coming toward them. “Leave him to his work. What has your father told you about loitering around the pitchfork when work is being done?”
“To be away,” Nonie repeated somberly. She looked at Patrick one last time, returned his smile, and wandered off.
“She’s fond of you,” Mary told him, reaching him.
“As I am of her.”
“’Twill be difficult for her when you leave.”
Patrick dipped his gaze to his boots. He didn’t want to think about leaving Nonie, at least until her and her family were safe from Hendry Cunningham.
It didn’t bode well for him. He didn’t want to lose his heart to anyone, especially a lass. He didn’t want to live a predictable life or have a syrupy heart. If he didn’t leave soon, he might not ever want to. He should leave tonight. He lifted his gaze and looked over her shoulder at the cottage. The sooner he left, the easier it would be to forget Charlie.
“I canna stay—”
“She will likely be wed this time next year.”
“Who?” he asked, turning back to her.
“Charlie.”
Charlie would likely be wed this time next year? Aye, he realized, Mary was correct. Patrick knew firsthand how eager Allan Cunningham was to hand his daughter over in exchange for safety.
The thought of her with another man churned his guts. And she wouldn’t be happy about it either. Another man would try to tame her spirit. What a pity that would be.
“Last month,” Mary continued mercilessly, “her father offered her the Baron of Ardrossan when he passed through. I thank the Good Lord the baron didn’t find her to his liking. Of course, what man would when she drops a bowl of hot soup in his lap and then blames her poor strength on her illness?” Mary paused to giggle. “She confided in me that ’twas no accident and that she was in perfect health.”
Patrick found himself smiling. Clever lass, he thought, looking over Mary’s shoulder again. “Is she so determined to remain unwed then?” he asked before he could stop.
“For now,” Mary told him, bringing his gaze back to her. “But I suspect if the right man came along, her mind could be changed.”
“The right man,” he laughed without any trace of humor. Who was worthy of such a radiant prize? He shook his head and jabbed his fork into the hay. “A woman like Charlotte Cunningham deserves m’ grandmother’s Sir Lancelot. No’ me.”
Mary shrugged her slender shoulders and turned to leave him to his work. “I don’t know who Sir Lancelot is,” she called out, “but if he’s anything like Patrick, Protector of Dreams, then I think Nonie would disagree with you.”
Patrick carried his hay into the barn. He had protected Robbie today. He was helping Robbie with their work. He’d already decided to fight to earn some coin for the Wallaces’ rent next month. Mayhap, he wasn’t that terrible.
The rest of the day, baling hay and all, was quite pleasant.
Chapter Fourteen
After a mortifying afternoon, the day had been quite pleasant for Charlie as well. Once she’d assured her gracious hostess that she was completely recovered, Mary had agreed to let her help prepare supper. They’d shared wine and laughter while they worked. Charlie had even blushed a time or two when Mary teased her about the way Patrick’s eyes followed her. Elsie had told her almost the same thing.
She deci
ded to find out for herself and chose a stool opposite his when he sat down to eat.
He looked at her and smiled, then just as quickly turned his smile on the deep bowl of hot rabbit stew Mary set before him.
She realized quickly that if she meant to catch him, it would mean she had to watch him. She didn’t think she’d be able to stop herself if she wanted to. Cloaked in firelight and shadows, his green eyes danced with a passion for life. His irresistible grin hinted of decadent pleasures and effortless confidence. Like a flame he drew her into the temptation of wanting to share her life with him.
Robbie said a prayer over the table and then reached for the loaf of baked black bread his wife delivered next. He tore off the first piece and then handed the loaf to Patrick, who did the same.
“Taste the stew, Mr. Campbell,” Mary offered, finally taking her seat and swiping Jamie’s thumb from his mouth. “Charlie helped me prepare it.”
“I must warn ye,” he said, his dimple flickering between shadows and light as he lifted his spoon to his lips. “M’ mother is known as the best cook from Dumfries to the farthest reaches of the north.”
“Oh?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Your mother is from Dumfries?” Was his mother a Kennedy, Gordon, Dunbar? Why hadn’t he told her his mother had lived in this region?
“Glasgow,” he answered, lowering his gaze to his stew.
Was he keeping something from her? She decided to ask more questions. He was practically still a stranger—except that he’d kissed her. “How did you come to live in the Highlands?”
He set down his spoon and picked up his cup. After a drink, he returned his eyes to her. “M’ grandmother, a Campbell, married the man who built Camlochlin within the mountains. M’ kin have lived there fer many years.”
“Well, we are glad you’re here now,” Mary said then turned to her. “Aren’t we, Charlie?”
Charlie blushed to her roots, not because of Mary’s obvious matchmaking, but because she was glad. So glad. He’d brought a gust of fresh air into her life.
“So far,” Charlie admitted and caught his soft smile and lingering gaze.
Conversation and bread were shared amidst rounds of laughter and two pitchers of ale.
“Nonie tells me that you are here to help her in her dreams,” Robbie said, turning to his guest.
Charlie looked at Nonie sitting between her brothers and couldn’t help but smile. The child was quite beautiful with sunlit locks tumbling around her pink, dimpled cheeks. She quibbled with her siblings and laughed easily, as a little girl ought to do.
Last night Patrick had promised Nonie that he’d remain close by. How long would he stay?
“Even though m’ true identity as a dream protector is to remain secret,” Patrick replied, putting a finger to his lips and winking at Nonie. Her eyes opened wider and she nodded, silently promising to keep his secret. “I will tell ye this, Robbie,” he said, turning to Nonie’s father. “I dinna think she’ll be needin’ too much help from me. Yer daughter is courageous.”
“Aye, I am, Papa!” Nonie called out, scratched behind her ear, and then returned to her bowl.
Patrick’s smile widened and he cut his gaze back to Charlie. She blinked away guiltily from her appraisal, but not before feeling a tingle in her kneecaps.
The others were correct, his gaze fell back to her often during supper. She caught him looking over and over again from beneath the veil of her lashes, the slant of her glance. She didn’t need to see though. She could feel his attention on her, merry, mischievous eyes, and something more, something deeper and more primal aimed only at her.
What they may or may not have noticed was that Charlie looked back at him often. She couldn’t help it. His good humor was infectious, his rich, robust laughter inviting. Even his hearty appetite and the way his mouth moved when he chewed drove her to distraction. Soft light from the hearth spilled over the cut of his auburn-bristled jaw. A jaw strong enough to withstand Duff’s mighty fists—and Hamish’s. The curled dip of his plump lower lip taunted her with memories of how it felt against her mouth, her teeth. She wanted more. Her desire made her feel flush—or was it the ale?
She had to take hold of herself. She refused to faint again. She had to stay focused, see to her plans. She didn’t want—
“Is there a woman waiting for you to return home?” Mary asked. Charlie listened.
He soaked up the last bit of stew on a piece of black bread and put it in his mouth. “I’d like to believe m’ mother and sisters, well.” He paused his words and his chewing for a moment as if a thought had just popped into his head. “Violet at least,” he continued, swallowing, “would be pleased by m’ return. M’ aunts and cousins, as well, but there is no lass who awaits m’ return.”
“You have two sisters, then?” Charlie asked, feeling overwhelmingly relieved and trying to conceal it from him by asking about his kin. Why did sitting with him around the Wallace supper table, sharing food and drink and laughter, feel like everything had finally come into place? Like she fit. Did she want this? What about her plans with Elsie?
“Why won’t Mailie be pleased by your return?” she asked, her pulse racing at her thoughts.
He laughed, and she watched the muscles in his throat flex. “I was hopin’ ye wouldna remember m’ mention of her and ask me that.”
“Now you must answer,” Mary told him, getting up to pour her husband more ale.
Patrick conceded, sitting back to think more about his answer. “Mailie,” he began, “grew up with her head hidden in books, where men behave in a certain manner and honor rules the day. I dinna behave like those men and it vexes her greatly. I confess I’ve gone oot of m’ way to frustrate her. She hasna lost hope though. She is sure she can change me.”
“Can she?” Charlie asked him with a smile teasing her lips.
He looked at her with a spark in his eyes that proved what he said next was true, “I’m no’ the romantic type.”
Charlie already knew it. She didn’t need him to make any confessions. He oozed sex and sensuality in everything he did, whether he was winning hearts, or trying to win hers. Was he succeeding? He dazzled her eyes with his laughter, the arch of his playful brow, the quirk of his sinister mouth—sometimes at the same time—all seemingly unimportant, but meant solely to entrance, just as his pretty words did. He was rough and unrepentant, captivating in his charms.
And he refused to be tamed. Just as she did.
When supper was over and the table cleared, Patrick thanked Mary for a meal his mother would have enjoyed and promised Robbie to return tomorrow.
“Will you carry me to bed, Patrick?” Nonie asked, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.
He couldn’t refuse her, even though he couldn’t wait to be alone with Charlie. A moment or two would make no difference. The wee lass was too tired to walk herself to bed. What choice did he have? Bending, he scooped her up into his arms.
“Me too!” Jamie insisted and lifted his short arms to him.
While he bent to take up the boy, his brother Andrew climbed atop Patrick’s back and wrapped his arms around his host’s neck. Patrick made a show of his struggle to regain his stature and laughter rang out all around his ears. He smiled.
“And tell us a story!” Robert insisted, tugging on the rim of Patrick’s sleeve when he straightened.
A story? he thought while he carried Robbie Wallace’s bairns to bed, with Charlie and Mary trailing close behind.
What stories did he know, save for the ones involving antics not fit for children’s ears? He glanced over his shoulder at Charlie. He certainly didn’t want her to hear any of those stories.
“Don’t you know any stories?” Robert asked as they reached the room and their bed.
“Of course I know stories,” Patrick replied and dumped the children, laughing into bed. “I’m simply thinkin’ of the right one. Let’s see now—” He tapped his finger to his chin while he backed into the seat nearest them. He held up his finger, remembering
one his father used to tell him.
“All right then. This story involves an old crone and a legendary knight called Sir Gawain. He was nephew to a verra great king. He was well-known throughout the land as a formidable defender of the poor and of maidens, and the most trustworthy friend.”
“I like Sir Gawain,” Nonie said looking up at him.
“Then ye’ll like this story.” Patrick grinned, looking up at Charlie in the doorway, watching, listening.
“The tale goes that one Christmas the great king was accosted by a verra dangerous warrior. To avoid a fight, he agreed to a challenge. He was to return to the warrior in a year with the answer to this question: What thing is it that lasses most desire? If the king didna return, or if he couldna answer the question, he would lose his land and liberty.”
“What’s liberty?” Robert asked, finally lying back in the bed.
“Liberty is freedom,” Patrick told him, then continued. “The year passed and the king still had no answer. But he kept his vow and rode off to find the warrior. On his way, he met an old crone. Och, but she was ugly. Hunched over, her long nose near hit the ground!”
The children laughed and Patrick took his time elaborating on the witch’s unfortunate features.
“The king, bein’ great as he was, suspected the witch knew the answer to the question, so he offered her his knight and nephew Sir Gawain as a husband in return fer the answer. She agreed and a bargain was struck.”
“Sir Gawain had to marry the ugly crone?” Robert asked, looking horrified. Jamie and Andrew responded with loud squeals of disgust.
Patrick’s smile deepened. He usually didn’t have much use for children, but he liked the ones he was with now. The sight of them and the sound of them worked their way around him like one of Charlie’s veils.
“Did I mention,” Patrick answered, “she had a wart or two, dark ones with hairs shootin’ oot every which way.”
More laughter. He felt another pair of eyes on him and tilted his head to catch Charlie looking serenely enchanting in the soft candlelight.