by Paula Quinn
He nodded, touching his finger to her face. “My aunt Anne gave me something that summer. Something I wanted to give to ye.”
“What was it?”
“My grandmother’s ring. I hid it in our cave, beneath a silver rock with the symbol of a heart… well, I tried to make it look like a heart, but it looks more like a circle.”
She laughed softly and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Ye hid yer grandmother’s ring in a cave?”
“Aye, ’twas where I wanted to ask ye to be my wife.”
Dear God, how she loved this terribly romantic man, how she had always loved him.
“Then ask me there, in our cave, and I will say aye and make love to ye while the wind cuts through the braes.”
“I’ve always loved that sound,” he told her, pulling her closer into his treasured embrace.
“Aye, my one and only love,” she said as he lowered his mouth to hers. “So have I.”
CAMLOCHLIN CASTLE
SPRING 1688
Epilogue
Mairi did not care much for sewing, but her embroidery was improving. Counting stitches also kept her mind off food, and the scent of peat moss and burning candle wax, things she normally loved—when she was not early with child. It was her third, and she had hoped that this time she might escape spending her mornings with her head in a basin.
She examined her work and what was supposed to resemble a thistle but looked more like a thorny twig. Close enough. Her eyes settled on the heavy ring encircling her index finger. They had retrieved it together from the place under the rock with a circle carved into it. Connor had bent to one knee and promised her the moon and the stars and every summer spent at Camlochlin until they grew old together, and then they made love for the last time in their private, secret place.
She sighed, feeling ridiculously happy and a bit weepy. She looked up at the women sharing the new day with her. Claire lifted her robin-blue gaze from her stitching and smiled at her. Maggie paused behind Davina’s chair to have a look at her work, nodded her approval, and then continued to rock Rob and Davina’s baby daughter, Abigail, in her arms.
“Well,” she said, checking Mairi’s work next, “at least ye’ve learned how to cook.”
Mairi caught Isobel’s brief look to heaven, and then the two exchanged a covert smile. Dear Lord, who would have ever thought she and Isobel Fergusson would become such good friends? When she had first returned home and discovered that Tristan had wed the daughter of her clan’s worst enemy, she did not speak to her brother for two days. But Isobel soon won her over when she told Mairi that she did not give a rat’s arse if she liked her or not—and then offered to teach her how to cook.
Mairi looked down at Isobel’s swollen belly and felt a pang of envy that her sister-in-law suffered no ill effects from her present babe, or her son before it.
Her mother’s soft voice reading aloud from one of her cherished books drew Mairi’s eyes to her next, and to the minky-haired babe in her lap trying to claw at the pages. Her daughter Caitrina was still too young to understand her grandmother’s tales of love and honor, all of Kate’s grandchildren were, but that did not stop her from telling them.
Hell, but she loved being home, surrounded by the people she loved most in the world. She loved Ravenglade with its high turrets and towers and sprawling green fields. It was her home. Wherever Connor was, was home. But Camlochlin…. She wiped a blasted tear from her eye and sniffed just as the solar door opened and the men entering threatened to purge her of every drop of water in her body.
Her father brought the scent of heather with him, clean, misty, fresh, and familiar. He caught her eye while bending to kiss the top of his wife’s head, and winked at her. Rob entered right behind him, arguing a point with Tristan, who hefted his son in one arm and Rob’s eldest in the other. He smirked at the rest of them, proving that he did not care a whit who was right. He just enjoyed getting Rob riled up.
Colin appeared next, back from England for a se’nnight’s visit with his kin. Mairi smiled at him, deciding that even his justacorps and droopy bow beneath his chin could not hide that he was born and bred in the Highlands.
Stepping through the doorway after them, taking his own leisure, as usual, came the two who near caused Mairi to weep all over her embroidery. Her watery eyes took in her husband’s shapely legs, the great plaid belted at his waist, and their two-year-old son squirming to be off his shoulders.
Connor smiled at her tears, knowing well enough by now that they sprang from her deepest emotions. The oaf liked that she had no control over them in her condition. He still irritated the hell out of her at times, but she suspected he did it because he liked fighting with her.
He set their son down and watched when Malcolm ran to her.
“Momma, I’m going to help faither build ye a house! He said I could!”
She brushed her needles aside and gathered her eldest son into her lap. “Are ye now? And where might this new house be?”
Mairi followed his gaze to Connor pushing off the door to come to her. “I thought just below the braes of Bla Bheinn would be nice.”
Here? In Camlochlin? Where he’d first told her he loved her?
Finally, the surging well burst.
Damn it.
On a secret mission for the king of England, Colin MacGregor never expected a “traitor” like this: lovely, gentle—a damsel in genuine distress.
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DEVON, ENGLAND
SPRING, 1688
Chapter One
Colin MacGregor reined in his horse along the rocky cliff side behind Dartmouth Castle and looked around for a flat place to sit. Dismounting, he pushed back the hood of his mantle and he untied the sack dangling from his saddle. He pulled a small pouch from inside and took a seat beside the pounding surf. He was about to change his identity, including his religion, his moral code, and his entire past.
Hell, he thought, opening the pouch to eat, the cheese looked a bit moldy. He sighed, rubbed his belly, and tossed the cheese back from whence it came.
Leaning back on the rocks, he gazed up at the sheer fortress wall. Dartmouth was more of a fort than an actual castle, built in the fourteenth century to guard the mouth of the Dart estuary. Isolated and deep within Protestant territory, ’twas a good enough place to land an army of ships if a certain Dutch prince wished to invade England.
Colin scanned the gun tower and surrounding gun platforms added later by Henry VIII. Pity, there were no fearsome looking soldiers guarding the walls. He ached for a good fight when the time finally came.
When he’d left his home on Skye to join the king’s Royal Army three years ago, he had no idea that his battles would be silent, purely political ones. Back home, he had fought in the rebel militia for a cause that had more to do with protecting Highland rights than with a religion. ’Twas what he continued to fight for in England. That, and the fact that her monarch was not only Catholic but Colin’s kin by marriage, as well. For that, James had his loyalty in whatever kinds of battles needed to be fought. Mostly, those battles required the sharp edge of Colin’s mind, rather than his blade. He honed both with the same relentless diligence, despite his glorious war having become dull and rather tarnished. Worse, his king, his friend, had become a tyrant. And he, the king’s snake.
Reaching for his bag of water, Colin wondered if England would not be better off without James. It pained him to think on it. He’d once respected the king’s sacrifice for his beliefs, even giving up his firstborn daughter. But James no longer had the good of the people first on his mind. His passion for absolute power had created many enemies. And now, with his wife, the lovely Queen Mary, pregnant with a possible male Catholic heir, those enemies were about to take action.
Wetting his tongue, Colin
raised his gaze to the square battlemented tower and the high lookout turret rising from it. He wouldn’t let his nerves get the better of him. He never did. This wasn’t the first time he would be living as Colin Campbell of Breadalbane, cousin to the Campbells of Glen Orchy. A spy. A snake, living among nobles who already knew him as a Protestant Campbell. The information he had gathered at various tables from France to Scotland about secret correspondences between England and Holland had all led back to Geoffrey Dearly, Earl of Devon. This was it, Colin was sure of it, the last time he would have to sit in the company of his enemies and speak like them, laugh with them. He would learn their secrets and then return in battle to butcher them.
Hell, ’twas about time.
A movement high atop the turret caught his eye, and as he focused on what it was, his thoughts of victory scattered to the four winds. Slowly, he corked his water bag and let it drop to the rocks.
’Twas a lass, her long flaxen tresses and flowing white gown snapping against the bracing wind as she stepped up onto the edge of the crenellated wall. Was she a woman about to leap over the edge to her death, or an angel readying to take flight? He waited, his heart beating more wildly in his chest than it had in years, to see the answer. If she was a woman, he could do nothing to save her if she fell. He had seen death, had caused much with his own blade, but he had never been witness to someone taking her own life. Why would she? What in hell was so terrible in her life that smashing her body against jagged cliffs and rocks was a better alternative?
When she bent her knees, his heart stalled in his chest.
He couldn’t catch her. Damned fool.
But she didn’t jump. Instead, she nestled herself into the groove of a merlon. He watched her, unnoticed while she wrapped her arms around her knees and set her chin toward the estuary. She reminded him of a painting he’d seen in King Louis’s court, of a woman looking out toward the sea, waiting for her beloved to return to her. Something about this lass above him stirred his soul. Was she waiting for someone? Mayhap a guardsman from Dearly’s garrison? She looked small and utterly alone surrounded by stone, water, and the vast sky behind her. Who was she?
A better question he put to himself next was what the hell did he care who she was. He didn’t. ’Twas the most vital part of this duty he was born to carry out, what made him better at it than anyone else. He attached himself to no one. Mercy could get him or, worse, the king killed. He had no issues about befriending no one, since the men he’d been sitting with over the past three years had been traitors to the throne and could never be trusted.
Pulling his hood back over his head, he looked at the lass one last time. She dipped her head, catching his movement. When she scrambled to her feet, he clenched his jaw to keep himself from calling out, have a care! She would not hear. Thankfully, she stepped back down off the wall and disappeared.
Left with nothing but the passing memory of her, Colin returned his thoughts to the duty at hand: find a place at Lord Devon’s table: infiltrate his garrison, learn their secrets and their weaknesses, and get out alive. ’Twould be simple enough, he thought, returning his pouch and himself to his horse. If he was correct about Devon’s alliance with the would-be usurper—and Colin was certain he was correct—the earl would need every available sword for hire he could find. Fortunate for him, the deadliest mercenary ever to wield a blade or fire a pistol was about to land on his doorstep.
Colin smiled to himself as his horse cantered through the yard of St. Petroc’s Church, sited before the castle, where a dozen or so of Devon’s men were loitering, looking bored until they saw him.
Dismounting, he pushed back his hood and held up his hands as the men raced toward him.
“Stranger.” One stepped out from among the rest and gave him a thorough looking over. He was tall and broad shouldered in his stained military coat. His dark, oily hair fell over gray, bloodshot eyes. “What brings you to Dartmouth?”
Colin watched while the man eyed the swords dangling from both sides of his hips beneath his wind-tossed mantle, then at the pistol tucked into his belt. “I seek an audience with the earl.”
The man’s gaze settled on the flash of a dagger hidden within the folds of Colin’s open vest. “You carry many weapons.” He dipped his wary gaze to Colin’s leather boots next, where more daggers peaked out at him.
“The roads are dangerous,” Colin explained with a slight a crook of his lips, still keeping his hands up.
“So is straying into a place you don’t belong,” the speaker countered, reaching around his belly to the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Who are you and what business do you have here?”
“I am Colin Campbell of Breadalbane and I’ve come to offer my blade to Lord Devon.”
“Well, Colin Campbell of Breadalbane,” the soldier said, puffing up his chest, “I am Gilbert de Atre, Lieutenant of Dartmouth, and I’ll be the judge on whether or not you’re fit to fight by my side.”
Colin lowered his hands slowly but kept them where de Atre could see them. He knew hundreds of men just like this one. He’d seen that same challenging smirk dozens of times before. He wasn’t sure what it was about him that made some men want to test him. Mayhap ’twas his weapons and the way he carried them, or the cool, composed indifference of his expression. He feared little and it intimidated less formidable men. Usually, he ignored such bravado, especially when his task was to make nice and fit in. This time though, he had to fit into an army, not at a noble’s table. He would need to earn their respect before they trusted him. Colin did not mind having to fight to prove himself. In fact, he looked forward to it. A test of his skill would provide an excellent opportunity to learn what he was up against, and also to show these men that he would be an asset to their company. He would go easy on them all, of course. No reason to reveal too soon what they were up against.
“Remove all those daggers and pistols you have hidden on you,” de Atre demanded. “I don’t trust any Scot with two hands.”
Stripping himself of his extra weapons, Colin promised himself that de Atre would be among the first to feel his blade when he returned with his army. Especially after the lieutenant attacked while he was removing a dagger from his boot.
Colin fell back on his haunches, then rolled away in time to avoid the blow. He came back up on his feet instantly and slid his sword from its scabbard.
De Atre’s smile widened into a yellow grin. “Come, stray, let us see what you’ve got. But be warned, I’ve sent all your brothers back to their mothers castrated and broken.”
Colin’s lip curled as he readied his blade. “Not my brothers, you haven’t.”
His metal flashed as it came up, blocking de Atre’s next strike above his head. He parried another hit, and then another, scraping the edge of his blade down de Atre’s. Pushing off, he stepped back, loosened his shoulders, and rolled his wrist. The blade danced with fluid grace beneath the sun, casting a flicker of doubt in de Atre’s eyes.
Not yet.
He tightened his stance, as if suffering from a bout of nerves at what he was facing. De Atre advanced and swung wide. Colin avoided the slice to his belly with a step to his left. He ducked at a swipe to his neck and parried a number of rather tedious strikes to his knees. After a few moments, it became clear that he could fight the lieutenant while he was half asleep. He suppressed the urge to yawn, thinking about what kinds of beds were given to the garrison soldiers. Hay would be a welcome respite from the hard, cold ground he’d been sleeping on for the past se’nnight.
He blinked when de Atre’s blade struck his, raining sparks down on their faces. After a quarter of an hour, Colin did his best to look suitably worn down from such a worthy opponent.
A spot of bright military blue-and-white lace crossed his vision and he followed it. The captain of the garrison caught his gaze across the crowded courtyard and held it curiously while Colin parried and blocked another blow.
’Twas time to lose.
Colin hated to do it, but ’twas fo
r the good of England and Scotland. He held up his blade and feigned a swipe. De Atre struck his sword and Colin let it fall to the ground. Defeated, he raised his palms once again. “Perhaps after I’ve filled my belly, we could give it another go?”
De Atre sized him up with a snarl. “You have balls to ask for food after you just showed yourself wanting. Filling your belly won’t help you.”
Humility and reverence. No man could resist having each displayed at his feet. “I am hungry and eating may not help with fighting against you, but if you feed me I’ll swear my blade, as unworthy as it is, to your lord.”
“You have potential, Campbell. That’s why I let you live. You will—”
“You there. Come forward.”
Colin flicked his gaze to the man who spoke, taking in polished black boots, crisp breeches, and a clean military coat adorned in lace. He was older than the lieutenant, mayhap in his fortieth year, clean-shaven and lithe of build.
“I am Captain Gates,” he said when Colin reached him.
“Captain.” Colin met his level gaze. If his father or brothers were standing in his place, they would have dwarfed the Englishman, but Colin was not built purely for brawn, but for speed and agility, as well.
“Your name?” the captain asked, scrutinizing him with narrowed blue eyes the same way his lieutenant had, but with interest rather than challenge.
“Colin Campbell of Breadalbane.”
“What do you want here, besides our food?”
“I wish to offer my services to your lord.”
“And what kind of services might those be?”
“Sewing, most likely,” someone jeered to Colin’s left. Good. Let them believe him no threat.
“I could use some training, I know.” He caught the captain’s slow smile when he turned to offer de Atre his brief acknowledgment. “I am a quick learner. I wish to offer my sword to the earl.”
