Laird of the Mist

by Paula Quinn

  “And hang you he did.” Duncan smiled dryly. “But MacGregor let you live. You were fortunate. When the Devil strikes, he leaves no Campbell alive.”

  Robert’s eyes narrowed on his uncle. “How then did you escape him?”

  Duncan lifted his shoulders in a hesitant shrug, but he looked away from his nephew when he spoke. “I had gone for a morning ride after helping your sister with her swordplay. When I returned, your father’s land looked much like this. Katherine was gone.”

  “And Amish and John?” Robert asked, drawing both hands down his face in an effort to calm his frantic heart. “Were they killed, as well?”

  “I don’t know what became of them. They were not among the dead.”

  “We must send word to the lord protector.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Cromwell will do nothing. He sent over four hundred men to hunt the Devil after he killed my father. Most of those men were killed by Highlanders who side with the MacGregors. He will not tax his army so again. That is why he leaves the duty of killing the outlaws to the noblemen of Scotland.”

  “But you are his vassal, uncle. Your entire garrison was killed. Surely he will send reinforcements.”

  “It will take time.”

  “Then I will find her myself,” Robert vowed.

  “Where do you propose to look first?” Duncan did naught to conceal his mocking smirk. “This man holds no patch of ground in Glen Orchy, Glenstrae, or Rannoch. He left the banks of Lammond long ago and disappeared into the north. Since then, he has been as difficult to capture as the mists that hide him. If Cromwell’s army could not find him, you certainly won’t.”

  Robert’s expression hardened, reminding Duncan of the lad’s father when Colin had set out to find the MacGregor after he had escaped. Liam Campbell had been pleased. At least, he had accused, one of his sons did not shyt his breeches in the face of a common outlaw. But Duncan had known the truth of it, even if his father was too blind to see.

  Colin had been well loved by their father. He was tall and well muscled compared to Duncan’s scrawny physique. His dark good looks had also earned him the favor of the castle wenches at Glen Orchy. Robert’s resemblance to his father was a bit unnerving. Their eyes were the same, light brown flecked with gray and green and glinting with determination. But the similarities between father and son ended with their physical appearance. Robert Campbell was no coward.

  “I know in which direction to ride,” Robert said stiffly.

  “And when you come upon him,” Duncan challenged, “how will you succeed in gaining your sister back when you could not even keep your sword in your fists the first time you faced him? I fear you will not escape his wrath a second time.”

  “I do not care if he kills me. I will free my sister from him first.”

  “Braw words.” Duncan searched his nephew’s eyes and was pleased at the raw resolve lighting their depths. The Devil had to be stopped, but Duncan had decided long ago that he would not give his life simply to avenge those who perished at the fiend’s hands. His father might have thought him a fool, but he was not fool enough to think he could live through an encounter with Callum MacGregor. Nae, but he enjoyed taunting the beast. The law was on his side when it came to hanging the rebellious Highlanders and branding their women. But he had not thought the Devil would ever return here. MacGregor had to be completely mad to slaughter Kildun’s garrison a second time.

  “Callum MacGregor needs to be dead.”

  “If he has harmed my sister, he will be.”

  “If?” Duncan tempered his query with a withering sigh. He would never make the same error his father had made in allowing doubt to grow in the heart of his kin. Robert had to know and understand well that the MacGregors were their enemies. Doubting the like gave room for pity, and pity bred sympathy. Nae, Duncan would nurture Robert’s fury and mayhap the lad would succeed in ridding them of the Devil once and for all. “Lad, I’ve no doubt he will violate her. Let us pray he does not kill her.” He smiled tightly when Robert rushed for the stables again. “We will need more men!” he called out.

  His nephew slowed to a halt and looked over his shoulder at him. “You said it would take time.”

  “Not if they come from Scotland,” Duncan promised. “I can assemble at least one hundred within a few days. But Robert,” his uncle added when Robert turned to face him fully. “When we find the bastard we will employ a more effective strategy than charging his holding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Duncan looked toward the castle doors, returning once again to that day—and the only thing that had stopped MacGregor from killing him. “He has a weakness. And I know what it is.”

  Chapter Eight

  “GOD CURSE YOU!”

  Kate’s eyes darted to the right to see who had hurled the offense, but the dozens of faces staring back at her all looked equally guilty.

  Beside her, Callum lowered his gaze, avoiding the accusation and anger thick in the air. He knew he was not welcome in Roderick Cameron’s village. They were afraid of him. ’Twas why he had dismounted before he entered the village and commanded his men to do the same. Leading his warhorse by the bridle gave him a less intimidating appearance.

  “Go back to the hell that spawned ye!”

  These people wanted peace, no matter what it cost them.

  “Why do they hate you?” Kate tugged on his plaid. “I thought you said their laird was your friend.”

  When Callum lifted his eyes and met her incensed gaze, the sudden urge to smile near overwhelmed him. It astonished him that even while he was being so painfully reminded of what he had become, the indignation Kate felt over his rebuke could soften his black heart.

  “They dinna all hate me. ’Tis only the MacGregors who curse me.”

  She stopped walking, stopping him, as well, with her hand still on his plaid. Her eyes opened wider, and Callum allowed himself a moment to bask in the knowledge that she truly didn’t know who he was. As far as she was concerned he was simply a MacGregor laird, guilty of the same as any other. And some traitorous part of him gloried in it. She didn’t know of the blood that covered his hands. That covered all of him. He should tell her the truth, but the truth was too harsh and ugly, and it would change the way she looked at him.

  “Your own kin hate you? Why?” she demanded to know.

  A glossy curl obscured the alluring curve of her cheekbone. The tilt of her chin tempted him to lean down and kiss her until she went weak in his arms.

  “Many of these people have changed their names and live here now as Camerons. They want the world to ferget us. I keep reminding the world that we still exist.”

  “How do you remind them?”

  “By keeping our name alive and avenging the wrongs done to my kin.” Hell, she tempted him as no one had ever done before to give account of what his name meant to him.

  Her expression on him softened briefly, and he was the one who felt weak. “You sound more like their hero than their enemy.”

  For an instant, he wanted to stay in that moment forever. But the lives he’d taken for his name, and in the name of vengeance, were too great an iniquity to be forgiven. He ground his jaw and picked up his steps again. He was an outlaw, a murderer, the most feared MacGregor in Scotland, and the one with the largest price on his head. He was not a hero.

  “Come,” he said, grasping her hand as he cut toward the stone keep overlooking the village. “I must be granted permission before we go further.”

  They were met just outside the fortress by Roderick Cameron. He was an imposing man with thick gray hair plaited on either side of his weathered face. The plaid draping his expansive shoulders and belted low on his waist was fashioned of many colors. His eyes were the shade of a stormy sea, but when they settled on Callum they softened with fondness.

  “How d’ye fare, MacGregor?” He slid his gaze to Kate and smiled in a way that told her he thought Callum was faring rather well. He swept his arm across the threshold to ushe
r them inside the keep. “Enjoy the comforts of my home as is afforded to friends.”

  Callum placed his hand on the chieftain’s shoulder. “I must refuse yer generous offer. I would chance nae further peril to yer people. I wish only to see the woman.”

  “Verra well.” The Cameron held his palm up to stop two of his men when they stepped forward to accompany him. “This way.” He led Callum and his small troop toward a cottage at the farthest edge of the village.

  Kate fell in behind the two lairds and found her pace even with Graham’s. All around her, the inhabitants stepped outside their doors, drawn by the presence of the tall, dark laird accompanying their own. Kate regarded none of them, for their stares were hard, fearful, and mistrusting.

  She knew both the Campbells and the MacGregors had their enemies, but she wasn’t sure whom these people regarded with more contempt, her or Callum. “What wrongs have been done to them, and how has he avenged them?” she asked Graham softly, though her gaze remained fastened on Callum’s back.

  “I fear ye’re about to find out, lass.”

  She tilted her face up to look at him just as they reached the cottage. Graham swept his cap off his head and moved to the side of the entrance, after Callum and Roderick disappeared within. His hand reached for Kate when she moved to follow them.

  “Mayhap ’twould be best fer ye to wait here with me.” His words were firm, as was his hand on her arm, but the gentle entreaty in his green eyes told her his request was given for her own good.

  Kate brushed his hand away and stepped inside. A small fire burned beneath a trivet in the center of the outer room. Firelight mingled with that of the sun’s rays spilling across the rushes from the window.

  Callum stood with the Cameron and another man, slightly smaller in stature, his palms resting on the shoulders of a boy with large, doleful eyes and a dirt-streaked face.

  “’Tis yer laird, boy,” the man said, looking as wide-eyed as his son. Kate could not tell which of the two chieftains the man referred. “Pay him the homage he deserves.” He pushed the child to a kneeling position in front of Callum, but Callum raised his palm to stop him.

  “Tell me aboot the attack.”

  The man pushed his son away with a quiet order to leave the cottage. He waited until the boy was gone before he spoke. “’Twas a band of Menzies who did this to m’ Rhona.”

  Callum’s jaw twisted around a low curse battering against his teeth.

  “We’ve had nae quarrel with the Menzies fer years.” Cameron assured him. “These men acted on their own. No’ under any command of their laird.”

  “They marked m’ wife’s face in accordance with the law!” The man stepped closer to Callum, his eyes gleaming with defiance and fury. “They are Argyll’s dogs, fer they spoke of their reward as they burned oot her eye.”

  A sharp gasp drew the men’s attention to where Kate stood at the door, her face ashen and her hands trembling as they twisted the woolen folds of her skirts. “What has my uncle to do with this?”

  “Yer uncle?” the man asked, sounding as horrified as Kate looked. His expression changed quickly to loathing as he drew a small dagger from a fold in his plaid. “Have ye come to finish what yer kin began, then?”

  Before he took a step in her direction, Callum blocked his path and snatched the dagger from his hand.

  “I will avenge m’ wife,” the man insisted.

  Callum’s rigid gaze stilled the remainder of his protests. “No’ on her.” The thread of warning in his softly spoken words was unmistakable. “Bring me to yer wife. I’ve tarried here long enough.”

  The man did as he was commanded without sparing Kate another glance. “M’ Rhona is here,” he said, pulling away the curtain that separated the outer room from the sleeping quarters. “Her sister is changin’ the dressin’ to her wound.”

  Kate watched him lead Callum inside. The Cameron did not follow. When they were alone, the older chieftain turned to her, a deep frown drawing his gray brows over his eyes.

  “A Campbell,” he whispered.

  Kate turned to him, still horrified that her uncle was responsible for branding a woman. “You needn’t worry that I’ll tell my uncle you are friends with Callum.”

  He stared at her, looking somewhat perplexed by her casual use of the laird’s name. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dinna care what ye tell him, lass. The MacGregor saved my life.”

  Kate smiled, glad to hear it. “He saved mine, as well.”

  Now the Cameron stared outright at her, his jaw going slack an instant before his scowl returned full force. “The Devil has never spared a Campbell’s life, let alone saved one. Surely he has ye too frightened to speak the truth.”

  Kate’s feet took root in her spot. The Devil? Nae. Och, God, nae! Fear and anger warred within her, stopping her from running out the door or charging through the curtain. It was Callum who killed her father! Her grandfather! He had lied to her. He was the Devil MacGregor! He has never spared a Campbell’s life. Dear God, was Robert dead, as well? She swayed on her heavy feet, feeling ill, her breath growing tight. She had smiled at the murderer, likened him to a knight of old! Now his cold regard made perfect sense. He had no heart.

  The curtain snapped open. Callum stood in the doorway. His expression bore the remnants of horror but hardened with each breath into a mask of barely contained control. His eyes blazed with fury, hatred, revenge. Kate took an involuntary step backward when he stormed across the rushes. It was easy to see now how he had gained such a worthy title.

  “Devil,” she whispered as he passed her, heading for the door.

  His scorching gaze swung to her, halting her drumming heart. He moved toward her before she could run, and closed his fingers around her arm. Without a word, he dragged her back to the curtained doorway and then left her there gaping at the sight within. She heard his determined footfalls as he left the cottage. His coarse command for his men to await his return two leagues outside the village faded against the gurgled wheeze of a woman’s breath and the mournful sobs of her sister as she applied more ointment to the charred flesh beneath her fingers.

  Chapter Nine

  KATE STARED SILENTLY into the growing flames, fed by Brodie’s careful attendance. Vaguely, she was aware of Jamie covering her shoulders with a thick plaid of coarse wool. Sitting beside her, his dark eyes flickering against the firelight, Angus held out his pouch of brew to her. When she refused it, he tapped it against her arm.

  “Drink. There’s a deep chill in the air this night. The whiskey will keep ye warm.”

  Indeed, the cold seeped into her marrow, but the weather was not to blame. Callum was out here, somewhere, alone. Roderick Cameron had told her where Callum had gone. What he intended to do. She was not afraid for Callum’s life, or for the lives of the men who had branded Rhona MacGregor’s beautiful face. Nae, if their judgment was about to come upon them, it was a righteous one. The chill that iced her blood came from the memory of looking into their executioner’s eyes. He was going to hunt them down. He would show them no mercy, for there was none in him to give.

  He never left a Campbell alive. Her grandfather. All the men of Kildun’s garrison.

  Her father.

  She looked up at Graham when he folded his legs and sat opposite her.

  “Is my brother dead?” Her quavering voice shattered the silence around them.

  Graham pulled off his cap, tucked it into his plaid, and raked a golden lock of hair out of his eyes. “Nae.” He shook his head when Angus held up his pouch. But for the pop of a thin branch burning in the fire, quiet had once again descended on the campsite.

  Please God, Kate wanted to believe him. If the Devil killed Robert, too, she would cut his throat while he slept.

  “Is it only Campbells he kills?” she asked coolly.

  Jamie shifted closer to the fire. Brodie spat into it and then lay down, closing his eyes for the night. Graham’s gaze, though, never wavered from hers.

  “Nae
, lass. He kills friends of the Campbells, as well.”

  Kate’s blood drained from her face at the indifference in the commander’s voice. Her uncle deserved to be flogged for his part in Rhona MacGregor’s branding, but how could life mean so little to these men? She knew she could never understand, for she cared even for the lives of her cattle. “Why? Why all the killing? I know our clans have been warring for centuries, but what is behind it all? A woman? What offense did my clan commit so long ago that cost my father his life and still brings such scorn to all your faces?”

  No one answered her right away. Brodie opened his eyes and cast her a narrowed look before closing them again and shaking his head.

  Graham poked a long stick into the embers, his handsome face growing pensive. “Would that this war was about a lass,” he said. “Fer nae matter how fine she was, it would have ended before it ever touched Callum and Maggie.” He caught a small piece of dried meat that Angus tossed him and took a bite. He chewed for a moment, then continued. “This war began three centuries ago. Callum was born with its purpose already flowing in his veins.”

  “Aye, I know of the battles,” Kate told him. “But I don’t understand what sort of men would fight them for so long?”

  Graham’s eyes glittered at hers across the firelight. “Men who are the sons of kings,” he said, his words weighted with the measure of respect and affection he felt for them of whom he spoke. “Ye want the full tale of it, then?” When she nodded, he pulled in a deep breath and threw the remainder of the meat into the fire, as if the telling of it ruined his appetite. “The MacGregors are a royal race, descended from King MacAlpine. Their territories were once vast and held by the old ways—by right of sword. A fierce and mighty clan, they fought at the side of Robert the Bruce. But they were betrayed, and their land in Glen Orchy was given over to the Campbells, who had gained influence in the royal court.” His voice was soft and deep, compelling even Brodie to sit up again and listen. “The MacGregors found themselves reduced to the position of tenants on the lands that were once theirs.”