Richard did know it. He had heard the rumors the young Rose was spreading and realized that, sooner or later, Sir John would have to stop the man's tongue. He only wished it did not have to be now, when the men were already so tired. "Aye, but the chase might last forever at this rate, and the men are eager to go home."
"Soon," John promised. "But for now, the hunt goes on."
Bracken and pine needles muffled the footfalls of the horses as he led the weary men through the forest of hawthorns, oaks and pines, his senses alert for the slightest irregularity. Just when he'd begun to think night would fall while the forest still sheltered the outlaw in its murky depths, he saw a trampled patch of bracken where several horses had passed recently. His exhaustion left him in an instant when he scented the danger vibrating through the cool air around him. Raising a hand to warn the men to silence, he swung himself down from his horse and crept forward on foot.
The last of the light filtered through the trees, revealing the group of men sprawled on the ground in the tiny clearing. They were talking among themselves and sharing a skin full of wine, their plaids tossed carelessly over their shoulders, their bows forgotten at their sides. The leaves whispered, brushing John's cheek in the gust of a breeze as he peered through the changing patterns of green and gray to locate the man who must be Hugh Rose. Even in the fading light, he could see the blaze of wild red hair that, along with the outlaw's fierce war cry and his uncontrolled lust for the kill, had earned him the nickname The Devil Afire.
Hugh was laughing as he leaned back on his elbow, his hazel eyes blurred with the effects of the wine. John took in the scene in disbelief. These men knew the Campbells were close behind them—they had led their enemies in a game of cat and mouse for many days—yet now they seemed oblivious of any danger. The sound of Hugh's laughter came to John on the back of the wind, full of self-confidence and the supreme arrogance of the fearless. Clearly the thought of death held no terror for the outlaw. That made him a dangerous adversary indeed. With a wordless curse, John turned away to return to where the men waited.
Motioning silently for Richard, Andrew, Duncan and Adam to follow, he took his bow from the saddle horn and moved back through the soft bracken toward the clearing. The men understood his intention without words. They circled behind the concealing trees, moving inexorably forward until only the descending darkness and moving leaves held them apart from their enemies. Each Campbell drew his sword, positioning himself near one of the outlaws; then, at John's signal, they screamed the Campbell war cry, "Cruachan!" and rushed from the protection of the trees.
The men in the clearing did not have time to take a breath before they found themselves lying in the grass with the Campbell blades pressing into their throats.
John knocked the wineskin from Hugh Rose's hand, forcing the young man to his back in the same moment. His blood was singing with the scent of victory; it had been so easy, after all. Then Hugh smiled crookedly.
"Ye must be John Campbell," the outlaw observed in a voice laced with secret amusement. "No doubt ye finally got tired of the game." His eyes glinted bright and clear, with no trace of drunkenness to dim them. "Or mayhap ye realized the only way to best us is to creep up in the darkness and strike before we have a chance to defend ourselves. That seems to be how the Campbells win most of their victories." He could feel the anger radiating from John's body and he smiled again. "Only, when ye took Muriella Calder that way, ye didn't get such a good bargain, did ye?"
The rage that had been building inside John for the past week fed upon itself, growing more powerful with each ragged breath. He pressed the point of his blade deeper into the outlaw's chest until he heard the slight explosion of breath that told him he had broken through Hugh's plaid and doublet to the vulnerable skin underneath. For a moment, his fury blinded him, but something kept him from ramming his sword home. Was it the watching eyes of the men—his own and Hugh's—or the sudden memory of his father's voice? Think before ye act, Johnnie. Think!
"Well?" Hugh cried, unnerved by his captor's restraint as he had not been by the sight of the gleaming blade. "What are ye waitin' for? Don't tell me ye're a coward as well as a thief!"
John's hand trembled with the force of his anger, but still he did not move. His father's words came back to him like a warning. There's no room for foolish emotion in a man meant to lead the Clan Campbell. It weakens yer judgment when ye need it most. John fought against his fury with the tiny whisper of reason that still remained in the back of his mind. "I'm no’ the one who steals from the crofters and lairds alike, burning his way across the north and killing any man who gets in his way," he said at last.
Hugh curled his lip in disdain. "What else would ye have me do? When ye took Muriella from me, ye took Cawdor too, leaving me and the whole Clan Rose with nothing but my sword arm to keep us alive."
"There are other ways to survive, and well ye know it."
"For a Campbell mayhap, who has the King and the Earl of Argyll on his side," the outlaw snapped, "but no' for a Rose without money or power." Despite the pressure of John's blade against his chest, Hugh rose on one elbow. "I won't sit quietly in my crumbling keep, watching my family slip away one by one. I may not have the King's ear, but I promise ye this: I'll make such a noise in these glens that the Campbells won't forget the sound of my voice for a long, long time to come. Even though ye kill me now."
There are ways to get what ye want without killing, the Earl had told John once. Maybe his father was right. Death was too good for Hugh Rose; it would transform the reckless outlaw into legend for the Highlanders to worship, and John did not want that. "No," he said softly. "I think I'll let ye live."
Hugh's mocking smile faded and his eyes were dark with something that might have been fear. He could feel the curiosity of the other outlaws like a cold hand at the back of his neck. "But I'm telling ye, ye'd best stop yer killing and stealing or I'll make ye regret it." Hugh was staring up at him now, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. "And just so ye see that I mean what I say, I'll leave behind a little warning."
The young man winced as John raised his weapon to bring it down with devastating accuracy along Hugh's sword arm, cutting deep and to the bone. The blood poured out, clear and red, staining the saffron shirt, dark doublet and bright plaid that lay crumpled on the ground. John heard the gasp of disbelief from the other outlaws; they did not fear death, but this was humiliation. He also saw the hatred in Hugh's eyes beneath the glaze of pain, but that he chose to ignore. "Take their weapons and leave them," he ordered his men. Then, slowly and quite deliberately, John turned his back on Hugh Rose.
Chapter 26
Muriella leaned forward, pleased that some of her hair had begun to escape from her crown of braids to whip about her face. The smell of loam and loch was heavy in the air as her horse carried her closer and closer to the silver blue waves whose rhythmic lapping called to her. The moisture clung to her cheeks, cool and invigorating, completely unlike the musty chill inside the walls of the keep. She knew Megan was behind her, but the sound of the hoof beats was lost in the enchanting rush and thunder of the wind. Throwing back her head in pure enjoyment, she urged her horse to greater speed.
As the thrumming of hoof beats grew louder, Muriella pressed her knees into her animal's warm, heaving sides until he flew over the fine-grained earth, outdistancing Megan's horse with ease. But no, Muriella could hear the other animal coming closer after all. She smiled. If Megan wanted a race, a race she would have. Muriella's heart pounded in time with the motion of the horse beneath her, and the wind threw her breath back into her face. She was mesmerized by the speed and the breeze and the hypnotic voice of the loch.
As she approached the stones jutting out into the water, she realized the other horse had come up beside her. Then a hand reached out to grasp her reins and she looked up in astonishment at John's sun-browned face. All at once, she found it difficult to breathe. She had not seen her husband in three months. For an instant, the sight of his blue
eyes and wildly curling beard caused an ache in her chest, and she could not seem to find her voice. "Where—when did ye get back?" she asked at last. Without being aware of it, she smiled.
John caught his breath and leaned toward her, drawn by the momentary warmth of that smile. "Just now. I haven't yet been inside the keep." He and his men had been riding for many hours, exhausted by their efforts against the rebels and the long trip back to Kilchurn. He'd been looking forward to settling himself in front of the fire in the Great Hall with a tankard of ale in his hand. But when he saw his wife riding recklessly along the shore, some instinct he could not explain had made him follow. "Tell me what ye're running from," he said.
Muriella shook her head. The horses circled, heading back the way they had come, and she saw Megan waiting farther down the strand. "Not from—to. The water brought me here." Brushing a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, she turned toward the iced blue ripples that moved rhythmically inward toward the shore. "Can't ye hear it calling?" She closed her eyes, conscious that John's callused hand still clasped the reins so his fingers curled next to hers. "Listen," she murmured softly. "'Come,' they say, 'now. Come to me now.'"
John considered his wife in silence, surprised by her carefree manner and whimsical expression. While he was away, he had remembered only the blank, shuttered look he had come to dread. That disturbing memory was one of the things that had driven him on, made him hesitate to return to Kilchurn, long after his allies had turned for home.
But now Muriella's eyes were clear and sparkling, her cheeks rosy from the touch of the wind, her lips curved in a secret smile. She swayed gently, echoing the undulation of the lapping waves.
John sat upright, startled by the tremor of pleasure that shook him. He was glad to be home, surrounded by the familiar safety of the keep where he had grown up, glad to be riding along the shore with Muriella beside him. There was something about the ineffable simplicity of her pleasure that drew him as strongly as her fear held him apart. "Muriella," he murmured.
She opened her eyes, at ease with the sight of his darkly bearded face, and surprised that she should feel such calm. "Are ye back to stay?"
"Aye, the rebels have been subdued at last."
Muriella felt a flicker of apprehension. She leaned toward John, her knees pressed tight against her horse's sides. "What of Maclean?"
"He fled to Duart when he saw he couldn't win," John declared in disgust. "No doubt he's still hiding there, hoping we'll forget." He released his wife's horse and touched the battered hilt of his sword. "But we won't forget. He'll learn that in time."
Muriella thought of Elizabeth and her heart sank. "Will ye attack Mull then?"
"No." John's jaw tightened while he glared at the wind-whipped sand as if he regretted the fact. "'Tis over—for now. We've won this time, yet lost only twenty men."
"Only twenty," his wife repeated hollowly.
"War always means death for some," John said. "'Tis the way it must be. Ye'd best learn to accept that as the men have. They aren't afraid, so long as they die with honor."
"No," Muriella mused, "but then, they aren't the ones left behind." She thought of the last three lonely months, of the long, dim corridors of the keep, emptier by far without the voices of the men to fill them. While the warriors were away, the women had been subdued, going about their chores ploddingly and without laughter. Often, seeking companionship, they had huddled together in the solar to sew and weave the yawning days away. Only the colors and patterns beneath their hands grew and changed; all else remained the same: hushed and expectant, waiting for the men to return. If they returned.
Muriella pushed the thought to the back of her mind. The waiting was over; the men were home. Yet, inexplicably, the loneliness lingered. And somehow, the sight of John's face, softened by his disheveled hair and framed by the drifting clouds all around, only made the ache deeper.
* * *
Later that evening Megan and Muriella joined the women grouped around the fire, listening while the men told stories of their adventures in the north of Scotland. The warriors did not seem at all dangerous now, perched as they were on benches or the floor, their tankards beside them, the firelight softening their rough-hewn faces. The keep rang once again with the triumphant laughter of men and women alike, so the huge, vaulted room seemed a little warmer and the stone walls a little less forbidding.
"Besides," Andrew Campbell was saying, "once we saw the back of the Macleans, we didn't get another glimpse of their faces. Turned tail like a pack of crazed hounds, they did."'
"What did ye do then?" Jenny asked.
"Well"—Andrew rubbed his chin thoughtfully—"we went to Urquart for a day or two. Sir John wanted to see for himself that all was quiet there."
Jenny sighed with disappointment. "Wasn't there anything more excitin' to keep ye busy?"
Andrew beamed at her. It was just the question he had been hoping for. "We did search the north for rebels who weren't wise enough to go home, and caught some, too. Sir John seems to smell 'em out, even when we're certain there're no more to be found." He leaned forward so his bright red hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently. "But 'twas no' long before we saw he was really lookin' for one man." Pausing dramatically, he took a large drink of ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Don't play with us, Andrew. Who was it?"
Andrew grinned, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, "The outlaw, Hugh Rose."
At the sound of that familiar name, Muriella straightened. Surely she had misunderstood. Hugh—an outlaw? Hugh, who had been her only childhood friend? She realized with a stab of dismay that she had not even thought of him for many months. She turned, suddenly intent, as Jenny spoke again.
"Ye mean the one they call The Devil Afire?" she asked, barely able to contain her excitement.
"The very same."
"I hear he's gey handsome," the servant Mary observed from the corner where she crouched near the fire.
Frowning, Andrew shook his head. "I wouldn't be knowin' that. But I know the man's been makin' trouble with the Calders for a long time, and he couldn't seem to decide who his friends were in this war. One day he and his men would attack a band of Campbells and the next he'd swoop down on the Macleans. It didn't seem to matter to him."
"Andrew!" his brother Richard said warningly, "didn't ye ever learn when to shut yer mouth before it gets ye in trouble?" He glanced in Muriella's direction.
"Don't be such a worrier, lad. Can't ye see the ladies're hangin' on every word?"
"Aye," Jenny said. "We want to hear more. Though I'll wager ye didn't catch that Devil. I hear he can vanish into the air with a wave of his hand."
"But that's where ye're wrong. Sir John tracked him for near a week before he trapped Rose and his men in a wee clearin'. He surrounded the place and, with only four men, he had the outlaws cryin' for mercy. So what do ye think about that?"
"I think ye should learn when to hold yer tongue."
John spoke from outside the circle of men and women, his voice rough with anger. Muriella looked up to find her husband regarding Andrew with displeasure. He must have arrived near the end of the story; he had certainly not been there before.
"But m'lord," Andrew objected, "ye didn't say—"
"I expected ye to use yer wits, man. But no matter. 'Tis done now. Only remember in the future, what ye do under my command is my business and no one else's."
Muriella was hardly aware of Andrew's grumbling as she watched the light play over her husband's face. Had he really made Hugh cry for mercy? She could not imagine such a thing. At the moment, all she could remember was Hugh's shock of bright hair and his warm, comforting laughter. With sudden resolution, she rose to follow her husband when he turned away.
John started up the stairs, trying without success to still his unreasonable fury. He paused with his hand on the balustrade when he realized someone was coming. Turning, he found his wife looking up at him. "Aye?" he said
, more brusquely than he intended.
"I want to know what happened in that clearing. I want to know if Hugh—if my cousin is dead." Her green eyes were tinged with gray.
Damn Andrew Campbell! John had hoped to prolong the fragile sense of peace he had shared with his wife on the beach earlier. But he guessed from the shadows in her eyes that the momentary calm had fled. God, how he wished there was nothing to tell her, that he could laugh off Andrew's story and make Muriella smile again. But he would not lie.
John drew a deep breath and said carefully, "Hugh Rose lives."
"But Andrew said—"
"I've told ye Hugh Rose is alive," her husband interrupted, "and 'tis the truth."
His lids were half-lowered so she could not see the expression in his eyes, but she noticed how his fingers tightened on the worn oak balustrade. It might be the truth, but it was not everything. Twining her fingers together within the heavy damask folds of her gown, she murmured, "Andrew called him an outlaw. Why? What has he done that ye should hunt him down that way?"
John ran his hand through his hair again and again, searching for the words to answer her. The moment when she had faced him across a room full of torn red tapestries, he'd caught his first glimpse of the horror she lived with day and night. He had been stunned at the revelation. If Hugh's violent deeds were not already inside her head among the other visions of blood and death, then John would not be the one to put them there. "It doesn't matter what he's done. I warned him, ye see, and no doubt he'll change his ways soon enough. Ye needn't concern yerself with such things."
"But—"
"No," he said, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. He would not let her push him to anger this time, for her sake as well as his own. "We won't discuss it further." Before she could object, he turned on his heel and left her standing alone at the foot of the wide stone stairs.
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 26