Laird of the Mist

by Paula Quinn

  God’s mercy, he had warned her twice to remember who he was, and she needed to do just that. It was one thing to liken Callum to a champion of his people—for saving her from death—but caring for any MacGregor was considered treason. And the Devil was the most forbidden of them all. She sat up, cursing her wakefulness under her breath, and turned toward the sleeping laird.

  Callum was not sleeping but sat propped against a tree, his legs outstretched before him and crossed at the ankles, his eyes on her.

  She cast him a diffident smile. “Sleep eludes me.”

  He did not move, but his expression appeared to soften beyond the glimmering firelight.

  He was a stranger to her, and yet the chill of midnight tempted Kate to move closer to the familiar warmth of his body. She drew in an uneven breath instead. “I fear I will never sleep at night again if I keep sleeping in the day.”

  “A burden, to be sure,” he agreed, his voice light and teasing. “But if the restive sparkle in yer eyes tells the tale true, ’tis one less troublesome than the one I will be sufferin’ again on the morrow.”

  Kate’s eyes flashed at him, and a hint of a smile etched her lips to match his. “Suffering indeed. If you had to endure the tedium of traveling with an insolent ogre day after day, you, too, would bless unconsciousness when it came to claim you.”

  His eyebrows rose with surprise, but instead of scowling at her as she expected, he grinned and set her heart to pounding. “Have ye always been so braw, Kate Campbell?”

  “Nae,” she assured him. She tucked her legs beneath her and turned her gaze to the flames. “When I was a child I was very much afraid of thunder. The ground rumbled much the same way when the Highlanders raided. But Robert always promised to protect me. He was quite gallant, even as a boy.” She smiled, remembering. “My father often mused that my mother should have named her son Galahad.”

  “One of King Arthur’s knights who fought against the Picts.”

  Kate slanted her gaze at him. “You know of them?”

  Callum nodded, “Graham once spoke of them. Men whose armor shone with the radiance of righteousness.”

  “Aye.” Kate met his steady gaze. “They believed in what they fought for. Robert used to tell me it is not the victory but why a man fights the battle which makes him a hero.”

  Callum regarded her in silence. A play of the light across her eyes it was not: he saw himself, and who he might have been, in their shimmering reflection. He cast his glance downward. “I have naught in common with such men. ’Tis late.” He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “One of us needs to sleep, else we’ll ride my horse into a tree.”

  Kate lay back down and stared up at the treetops. A moment of silence passed before she broke it again. “Robert used to tell me tales when I could not sleep.”

  “I am no’ yer brother.”

  She sighed and turned to her side to find a more comfortable position, then . . .

  “My faither was a hero. He led the Griogaraich against his enemies with Hamish Grant at his side fer many years before he was killed. When we were lads, Graham and I once . . .”

  Kate closed her eyes and let the sound of his rich, lilting voice carry her away to her dreams.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WHEN THEY STOPPED at an inn two nights later, Kate was so deliriously happy at the thought of sleeping in a bed, she didn’t notice the possessive way Callum kept his fingers clenched around her wrist after they dismounted.

  Callum had agreed to stop here because they were at the edge of MacDonnell country, and though none were permitted to aid the MacGregors, most Highlanders did. His men could use a hot meal, and mayhap if Kate slept in a bed this night, she would cease falling asleep in his arms. Every time she pressed her cheek against his chest, as if she belonged there—or when she looked into his eyes like he was her champion—she tempted him to forget all he lost in her grandfather’s dungeon and imagine that something new and wonderful was still possible in his life. Hell, he was going daft, and the dulcet sound of her breath, the achingly sweet comfort she found in his embrace were to blame. He had to find a horse for her to ride and get her out of his arms. And fast.

  But this night he kept her close to him because even though the innkeeper, Ferguson MacDonnell, was his friend, the price on a MacGregor head was too high for some to resist. And since Kate traveled with him, she was considered his. Her life, forfeit.

  He could have entered the inn with caution, but if there were enemies inside, their fear of him would keep Kate alive. So, feeding what they knew of The Devil, he brandished his sword and kicked open the door. He stood beneath the entryway like a wraith freed upon the swirling mist. The inn grew silent while he raked his powerful gaze over every face, warning death swift yet painful should any come against him.

  Angus let out a loud belch, stepped around his laird, and entered the inn first. He sauntered over to a large trestle table where a group of ruffians sat, their cups paused in midair at their lips. He hovered over them with dark, bloodshot eyes. “What ails ye, ye bunch o’ sorry knaves? Have ye never seen a MacGregor before?”

  “Aye, we have,” said the leader of the group. “But none as ugly as you, Angus MacGregor.”

  “Archie MacPherson, I thought ye were dead.” Angus laughed and grabbed hold of the man’s forearm to haul him out of his seat and into his arms. “’Tis good to see ye, old friend.”

  Flanked on all sides by Callum and the rest of his men, Kate watched, relieved that the men were not enemies, for one would have to be a fool to cross the mighty brutes surrounding her. She was also surprised to find more friends of the MacGregors. It pleased and comforted her to know they were not hunted everywhere.

  Now that the threat of bloodshed was over, she relaxed and took in the sights around her. The inn was more like a tavern, with rooms above stairs to accommodate patrons and the wenches who served them with coy giggles on their lips. The scent of ale and sweet wine flooded Kate’s lungs and made her gag at first, but then, oddly enough, the place began to smell cozy.

  “M’laird, welcome,” a small man with a bulbous nose and thick, unruly red hair greeted when he reached them. He turned his pale green eyes on Kate, giving her a hungry looking over that made her shift closer to Callum.

  His response was to toss his arm around her and drag her to him. “MacDonnell.” Callum’s voice was an octave above a growl. “If ye dinna quit starin’ at her, I’ll be forced to stop ye myself.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes darted back to Callum. “My apologies,” he said, offering a swift, repentant smile. “I didna mean . . . I’ll have me Robena prepare a room fer ye right away.”

  “That will be two rooms, innkeeper,” Kate corrected him as he turned to find his wife.

  “My apologies again,” MacDonnell offered her, then glanced back at Callum. “I thought she was yers.”

  “Nae,” Callum said then tugged her back to him when she tried to pull away. “But we’ll be needin’ only one room.”

  “I am not staying in the . . .” Kate’s vehement refusal faded from her lips when Callum set his cool cobalt gaze on her. She felt like she’d been hit with a large stone. She cursed herself and squared her shoulders. It astounded her that she could battle a whole legion of sword-swinging McColls but one look from this man could set her heart to racing.

  “Is she under yer protection, then?” MacDonnell asked, unsure of what to do.

  Callum nodded. “Aye, she is.”

  To be used as bait, Kate corrected him silently. His ransom until he had her uncle. She said nothing in front of the innkeeper, but she planned on setting Callum MacGregor straight the moment they were alone.

  Which was about to be any moment. Kate swallowed audibly when Callum clutched her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.

  “Make certain you request extra bedding from your friend the innkeeper,” she demanded on the way up. “I wish him to know that you will be sleeping on the floor and not in the same bed with me.
I am not a trollop.”

  Callum ignored her. When he reached the room, he flung the door open and stepped inside, leaving her to follow.

  Kate glowered at his lack of chivalry and stepped past him to survey the small room. As she had suspected, there was only one bed. Callum knew his way around the inn, that much was obvious. She eyed the old fur blanket on the bed and wondered how many times he had tumbled a maid upon it. The thought of it brought heat rushing to her face and a sharp prick of anger to her heart.

  “I’ll have Ferguson’s wife bring ye somethin’ to eat.”

  “And where will you be?” Kate asked, turning to him.

  “Below stairs, sharin’ a drink with my men.”

  Her brow rose sharply. Of course, he didn’t want her around while he guzzled his brew and dragged any number of willing wenches to his lap. Well, she certainly was not about to spoil his eve. Let him bed them all, what did she care?

  “I dinna want ye—”

  “Och, I know perfectly well what you want,” she accused him. “Just do not bring your women back here with you. The door will be barred.”

  His only answer was a slow smile that dared her to do it. “Dinna leave this room,” he warned as he left, shutting the door behind him.

  Kate stared at the door, and then snapped her mouth shut. Did he truly believe he could order her about because she was his captive? He was a fool if he did. And an even bigger fool to believe she would obey him.

  An hour later, seated at a long table with his men, Callum lifted a tankard of ale to his lips. Many of the inn’s patrons had retired above stairs, but the tavern was still crowded enough for Callum to almost miss Kate’s entrance. Graham sat beside him, telling him about a wench he planned on meeting later that night, but Callum did not hear a word, so arrested was he by the sight of Kate standing in the doorway. A snood of dyed ruby ribbon was fastened beneath her hair and tied in a bow on top. Long, lustrous blue-black curls fell down her back, almost to her waist. She wore a kirtle of indigo wool, given to her, no doubt, by Ferguson’s wife. A shawl of deep ruby draped her shoulders. It was not the sight of her drawing her full lower lip between her teeth when she could not find her captors, or even her wide, searching eyes, that made his heart pause, but the stubborn tilt of her chin when her gaze finally found his. She knew he would be angry that she had defied him, but she was not afraid. Damn him, but her fearlessness pleased him.

  “Saints, she’s breathtaking,” Callum heard Graham say. Callum nodded as he stared at her with helpless admiration. She was the stark beauty of a winter night shrouded in the soft crimson of the setting sun.

  He swallowed hard, and then his expression hardened, as well. Hell! Any one of these rogue patrons would think naught of causing her harm. Did she not understand his clan was outlawed, that the MacGregors were considered lower than slaves to many Scots? It did not matter that she looked more bonny than ever before; she was a daft fool who would get them all killed.

  He almost knocked his chair over when he stood up as she made her way toward his table. She paused for a moment seeing his fierce scowl but then squared her shoulders and continued on. Jamie reached her before she reached the table and snatched her arm to escort her safely to the bench.

  Kate sat directly across from the glowering laird, which earned her another deep-throated grumble. She toyed with the idea of commenting on his constant sour mood, but he looked about ready to leap over the table and throttle her, so she simply smiled at him instead, though it took enormous effort.

  “Good eve, my laird.”

  “Return to yer room, Kate,” he warned in a quiet, menacing tone.

  “I cannot,” she replied sweetly. “I am hungry. Dear Robena went to so much bother bathing and dressing me, I felt it unkind to ask her to feed me, as well. I would much rather dine here, with you.”

  Callum considered dragging her back above stairs, but doing so would most likely cause a brawl. He looked around at the patrons, his jaw tightening. Many of the men were already staring at her. They looked away when they caught his murderous gaze.

  “Verra well,” he conceded, motioning to a serving wench before returning his gaze to Kate. “Eat, and be quick aboot it.”

  “I hope I didn’t spoil your merriment for the eve.” Kate offered him a cheeky smile that said the opposite, then glanced up at the buxom blonde laying a trencher of steaming mutton stew before her. When the wench threw herself into Graham’s lap and not Callum’s, Kate didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry with herself for being possessive of him. That’s why she’d defied him and came down here, wasn’t it? She hated the thought of him enjoying his evening with a pretty wench. But it was clear Callum MacGregor did not allow himself much merriment.

  “Just eat and dinna concern yerself with me.” Callum tore at his bread and shoved it into his mouth, seeming to forget about her.

  “Very well.” Kate fought the urge to fling her trencher at him. She may have been wrong about him wanting a wench with his supper, but he was a callous bastard nonetheless. She decided not to spare him another thought. Heavens, she was starving! She lowered her head to inhale the delicious aromas of her supper. When a loud belch exploded through Angus’s lips, she lifted her thick lashes from her food.

  “What a perfect tribute to so fine a meal, Angus.”

  The burly brute roared with laughter, but it was the sound of Kate’s mirth that made Callum lift his gaze to her once again. He stared at the slender curve of her jaw, the soft crinkle of her nose when she laughed. He felt entranced by the way her eyes danced. For a moment, he relished the sound of her joy. She made him think of hope. She made him want things he never thought about wanting before. It had taken him years to build Camlochlin. ’Twas his fortress, his sanctuary, second in his heart only to his name. ’Twas all he had and all he ever wanted, hoping for nothing more because he’d probably be dead in a few years. And he did not mind dying, so long as it was on his terms and not the Campbells’, and with bravery in battle. He had never considered having a family, though he would like to have sons to carry on the MacGregor name. He had never hoped to listen to the music of a woman’s tinkling laughter echoing off the steep mountain walls, satisfied in knowing ’twas he who gave her joy. He would not hope for it now.

  “To Brodie.” Angus raised his tankard, breaking Callum’s thoughts, “May the bairn his lovely wife Netta carries fer him look like its mother and not Graham.”

  Graham tossed Brodie a smug wink, which Brodie answered by punching him in the arm. Soon the merriment around them grew. The men swore oaths that would have made any other woman at the table blush and rebuke them. But, damn her, she continued to laugh, addling Callum’s brain thoroughly. Callum did not join in the song, nor in the raucous laughter that followed. He was, for the time being, content to sit and study Kate—when she wasn’t looking at him.

  He watched her so closely he did not notice the man approaching their table from behind her. No one noticed him until he slammed a coin down directly in front of her. Laughter stopped abruptly, and every eye rose to meet those of the stranger, including Callum’s.

  “Ye have had her long enough,” the knave announced to Callum. “And ye’ve done naught but gape at her like a fresh-faced whelp. Now I want her.”

  The only sign of Callum’s fury was the slight clenching of his jaw. No other muscle moved. “Take yer coin and leave before ’tis too late to do so.” His voice was nothing more than a low growl. Kate found herself unable to take her eyes off him.

  “Tonight I’ll have a MacGregor bitch in my bed,” the man behind her mocked.

  Everything happened so quickly in the instant that followed, Kate had no time to react. The stranger’s hand clamped on her sore shoulder, making her cry out as he hauled her to her feet. Callum stood up simultaneously, seeming to defy time as he drew his massive sword. He whirled it over his head and brought it down with such force it smashed into splinters the thick wooden table that separated him from the stranger, sending f
ood and drinks crashing to the floor. Callum leaped over the cleaved wood and held the point of his blade against the man’s throat. His calm expression had dissolved into a storm of black rage.

  “Think well aboot yer next breath. It’ll be yer last.”

  Silence descended upon the tavern, every eye pinned to the man still gripping Kate. Every eye, that is, but Kate’s. Try as she might, she could not tear her gaze away from Callum MacGregor. He seemed to have grown five more inches in height. The breadth of his shoulders cast dark shadows over her and her would-be attacker. As she gazed up at him, her breath went still by the power and steady strength of his arm, the promise of destruction in his piercing glare. She knew why this man had never been caught.

  “Ease yer sword, MacGregor. Ease yer sword.” The stranger released Kate and took a step back. He was three shades paler than when he first arrived at the table. His Adam’s apple danced, swallowing an audible gulp the moment his throat was clear of Callum’s blade. Brodie crunched into a juicy pear. The sound propelled the man to turn and run. Before Callum could sheathe his weapon, the stranger was gone.

  Kate blinked. A hand clasped her wrist tightly. It took a moment for her to realize it was Callum who held her, and when she did, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Bid good eve to my men,” he ordered, cutting her off. Then, before she could do as he commanded, he dragged her toward the stairs.

  “Let me go!” She tried to pull her hand away from him, but she didn’t even slow his pace.