Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

  He thought of her bravery moments earlier when she had confronted him, tried to explain. She would want to tell Alina in her own way.

  He left the room. He felt aimless. And empty. Lonely. He thought he had conquered that, but knew now he had not. There was no one with whom he could confide. Not Douglas or Archibald. Neither would understand.

  Lachlan? But Lachlan lived in his own world, studiously avoiding responsibility.

  He would have to depend on his own instincts.

  Felicia Campbell had destroyed his instincts.

  He went to his chamber. There was always wine there.

  Once there, he took off his plaid and linen shirt. He looked at the bandage protecting his arm and took it off. It still ached, was a little warm but far better than it had been.

  He needed to shave, but that could wait. He needed rest. Yet while his body was weary, his mind was far too active to rest. Images flickered through it. The golden-haired Campbell heir. The woman he’d thought was Janet Cameron smiling up at him with dazed eyes after his first kiss. Felicia Campbell with her cropped hair and defiant gaze.

  Their fates were in his hands, and he damned well did not want them there.

  He pulled on a fresh shirt and trews. After a moment’s hesitation, he filled a tankard with wine from a cask he had brought from Paris. It was early morning, but he’d had no sleep. Neither had his prisoner.

  He went down to the dungeon. He felt the increasing chill as he went down the steps. He saw the glow of two candles impaled on iron spikes. Two of his men sat at a table, playing a game of chance.

  Both stood immediately.

  He looked around. He had not been here since he was a lad, when he and Patrick had explored the place. He still remembered the chills that ran through him, though he had been determined not to show it as Patrick strutted around.

  He shivered from the cold.

  “Where is he?”

  “At the end, milord. We gave him food and blankets as ye ordered.”

  He nodded. “I want to see him.”

  A guard took one of the lanterns and a large key and led the way down the corridor to the last door. An iron-grated window allowed him to look inside.

  James Campbell was lying down on straw, but he quickly stood as the light penetrated the cell. He blinked for a moment, then his gaze met Rory’s.

  “Open it,” Rory told the guard, “then you can return to your game.”

  The guard fitted the key in the lock. The door creaked and grated as it opened. Rory doubted whether it had been used in years.

  “I will git ye a chair, milord.”

  Rory nodded and took the lantern. He did not worry about Campbell escaping. There was, quite simply, no place for him to go.

  Blond bristles stubbled the man’s face. His eyes were tired. But Rory didn’t see fear. He saw the same defiance that had been in Felicia’s eyes.

  The guard returned with a chair, then disappeared again. Rory didn’t sit but put a foot on the chair.

  He saw a bowl on the floor. A cup. Several blankets.

  Still, it was icy inside. And damp.

  He held out the tankard to Campbell, who regarded it much as he would a vial of poison.

  “It is good wine,” Rory said, and took a taste himself before handing it to Campbell.

  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” the Campbell asked, still not accepting it. “And your wine?”

  Rory wondered the same thing. He shrugged. “I remember it being cold and damp.”

  “And you care?”

  “A dead hostage does me little good.”

  “Then I will humor you,” Campbell said. He finally took the tankard and took a sip, then another. His gaze went back to Rory. “My cousin?”

  “She is unharmed.”

  “You have talked to her?”

  “Aye.”

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  “You should worry about yourself, Campbell.”

  “If you misuse her—”

  “You are in no position to threaten,” Rory said. He felt the unreasoning anger rising in him again. He tamped it down.

  “Not at the moment,” Campbell retorted.

  They glared at each other.

  “It was a fool’s errand, coming here alone,” Rory said after a moment’s silence.

  “I did not intend to come here, only to a village. I wanted to know if anyone had heard of a lost lass. I meant no harm here.”

  “You know why she fled Dunstaffnage?”

  The Campbell took another gulp of wine, then said, “I wish to see her.”

  To make sure their tales matched?

  “Why did she leave Dunstaffnage?” he asked again.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “I want your version.”

  They were circling around each other like two dogs ready to attack.

  Campbell’s jaw set. “You cannot think she is a spy.”

  “Nay.”

  “How did she come to be here?”

  Rory did not like being on the receiving end of the questions, particularly when he knew he was in the wrong. Campbell had ventured on Maclean land after Campbell raids on Maclean villages. Rory felt no compunction about taking him prisoner. However, his men had gone on Cameron land to abduct a young woman who had done nothing to harm them. But would admitting that make his clan guilty of treason, since Felicia was meant for the king’s choice?

  He had no good choices. He just didn’t know what the worst ones would be.

  It wasn’t like the sea. There he had responsibility for his men, but each of them knew the risks when they signed on. Too many innocents were at risk now. No matter what move he made, people would probably die.

  His only chance was the man in front of him. But could he trust a Campbell?

  That was the reason for his visit, to take measure of the man. Would he be of more value as a hostage or as an ally? Could he possibly become an ally?

  If the Campbell truly cared about Felicia, perhaps.

  But Rory had so many conflicting emotions inside, he did not know whether he could make the right decision. There was anger, jealousy, loss, fear for his people, even terror for Felicia if she was, indeed, to marry Morneith.

  “You haven’t said yet why Lady Felicia left Dunstaffnage.”

  The Campbell stared at him for a long time, then shrugged. “I was in London delivering a message from King James. She left in Janet Cameron’s stead with the Cameron escort. An escapade gone bad. She was separated in the fog.” His eyes did not flicker, but Rory sensed the tension in the man’s body that belied the words.

  He was protecting her.

  And Rory knew why. If Felicia had openly defied the king, she could be charged with treason.

  Rory made his decision. The Campbell appeared to have ethics that he had not believed Campbells possessed. James Campbell probably felt Rory had none. Yet they needed each other if James Campbell was to save Felicia, and Rory bis clansmen.

  “If I release you from here, do I have your word you will not try to escape?”

  James Campbell stared at him. For a moment, Rory thought he would refuse.

  “I can see Felicia?”

  “At my pleasure,” Rory granted reluctantly.

  Campbell continued to hesitate, and Rory knew how difficult it must be for him to yield to a Maclean. He could see that the Campbell probably preferred the discomfort of the cell to accepting a favor from a Maclean.

  “What do you want in return?”

  “Your ear. We might have common purpose.”

  Campbell still hesitated. “And Felicia?”

  “She is comfortable enough.”

  Campbell finally nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “You have my word. As a Campbell.”

  Rory wished he had not added the latter. The Campbell word was suspect, even when it came from Felicia. Especially from Felicia.

  He did not need to be reminded.

  “
You will stay in one chamber,” he said, “albeit a far more comfortable one than this. We have clansmen here from villages recently raided by Campbells. Family and friends died. I would not like to find you with a dirk in your back.”

  James Campbell’s stare drilled through him.

  Rory took his foot off the chair. He had always considered himself a good judge of character. He certainly hoped that he was now. Never had it been so important.

  It went against everything he was and had been to trust a Campbell. And he might well be dooming the Macleans.

  Chapter 16

  Robina appeared at the door of Felicia’s chamber just minutes after Rory left.

  Had he ordered it, or had Robina been hovering around?

  How long would it take before everyone in the keep knew that she was a Campbell? She had no fear for her safety, though she did fear seeing the stunned disappointment and accusation in their faces.

  The same expressions she had seen on the face of the Laird of Inverleith.

  She did not know what she should have done differently. She could have tried harder to escape the keep, or she could have allowed herself to be taken to the Cameron keep. She might have told him sooner. But she simply had not known what he would do. She wished she had explained.

  She no longer had his trust. Jamie might pay for her silence. She could not bear it if he were killed because of her actions.

  Robina took one look at her hair, and her eyes widened. “Oh, my lady, what have ye done?” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth as if horrified by her utterance.

  “It is all right, Robina,” Felicia said. “I know I look …”

  Robina burst out in tears.

  “I look that bad?” Felicia said.

  “Yer hair, your bonny hair,” Robina wailed.

  Felicia had never thought it bonny. It was untamable and too bright a color. In truth, her head felt very good without it.

  “The lord …” Robina wailed again. It was obvious that she was among those who had harbored the unlikely hope that their lord and Janet Cameron would wed.

  “The lord wishes nothing to do with me,” she said. “And I must tell you. I am not Janet Cameron.”

  “Not Lady Cameron …?”

  “My name is Felicia Campbell.”

  Robina’s mouth fell open. Her eyes grew even larger. “Camp … Camp … bell,” she stuttered.

  “Aye, but it does not change what I am,” Felicia said softly.

  “But, but … how …”

  “Archibald took me by mistake, and I feared telling anyone.”

  Robina’s face filled with confusion. “The Campbell the lord just brought in—”

  “He is my cousin. I suspect he was searching for me.” She paused. “I will understand if you no longer wish to serve me.”

  Robina shook her head. “No, milady. Ye are a kind soul. I saw it with Alina. Ye canna pretend that kind of caring. I will heat some water for yer bath and wash yer hair. Ah, milady, yer hair,” she wailed again. She started to cry, and Felicia sensed it was more because of her shorn hair than the fact she was a Campbell.

  Felicia wondered how many others would share that generous feeling.

  And how could she bathe in comfort when Jamie was locked in some dungeon? If only she could see him. If only she could help him …

  Instead, she took Robina’s hand. “Thank you.”

  The girl bobbed, then hurried out the door.

  Felicia went to the small, steel mirror and looked at herself. She had not had the heart to do it earner. Truly she must be a terrible sight to make Robina react so.

  And she was.

  Jamie would be as horrified as Robina. Strange that Rory had not seemed to share that distaste. His horror came from the fact she was a Campbell. He had not seemed to care about her hair.

  Felicia brushed it and ashes fell around her.

  A bath first, then she would see Alina. She would scare the child to death if she appeared now.

  She felt a little like death herself. The chill had not left her, nor had the great void left by Rory’s rejection been filled by Robina’s generosity.

  Felicia took off the lad’s clothing and wrapped herself in the nightrobe Moira had provided her days ago, then went to the window and looked out. A small group of horsemen were waiting for the gate to open. Each one was inspected by Archibald. Not so much as a mouse could leave without permission.

  Robina returned, followed by several clansmen with buckets of water. They filled the wooden tub that was kept in the small room off the chamber. All of them cast quick glances at her, but she did not know whether it was because of her hair or because they knew who she truly was. She saw no antagonism, no hatred in their faces, only respect and curiosity. She decided it was her hair. They could not know.

  When the men left, Felicia sank into the water, and Robina washed her hair, then, when Felicia left the tub and put on a chemise and gown. Robina brushed her hair dry.

  Next she would see Alina and try to explain to the child and her mother. She did not wish them to hear from someone else if, indeed, they had not already.

  Robina stepped back and looked at her critically. “’Tis really not so bad now, milady.”

  Not so bad. Faint assurance. Mayhap Morneith would be so appalled he would refuse her.

  She recalled the way Rory had touched her hair, even crusted with ash, almost as if … he cared about her. There had not been Robina’s horror.

  But there had been anger. Deep anger and betrayal.

  Would he take it out on Jamie? She did not think so. She would not think that of a man who had spent a day hunting for a lad, then riding all night to get him to Inverleith.

  But she was only too aware of the hatred between the clans.

  Hate twisted people. Had it done that to Rory Maclean?

  She turned back to Robina, who eyed her warily, obviously wondering again if she had said the wrong thing.

  “Thank you, Robina.” Felicia took the few steps to her and took her hand. “You have been a true friend.”

  “A friend, milady?”

  “Aye.”

  Robina smiled slowly.

  “I am going to Alina,” Felicia said. “I must tell her.”

  Robina nodded. “Her mother is helping in the kitchen. Alina is alone.”

  Felicia steeled herself. She would talk to Alina, then try to find out something about Jamie. If she must, she would beg to be allowed to see him.

  Perhaps Lachlan?

  But then Lachlan had not been to see her. Perhaps he, too, felt betrayed.

  Felicia steeled herself and opened the door. There was no guard, but she had no doubt that Macleans had been warned to watch out for her if she wandered away from the two rooms allowed her.

  She opened the door to Alina’s room. The child was alone, and sleeping. Felicia touched her forehead. It was cool to the touch. Her breathing was easier.

  Hopefully the pain had subsided as well.

  Not wanting to wake her from much-needed sleep, Felicia sat down in a chair, and waited.

  Rory accompanied James Campbell up the steps to the kitchen. Ignoring her wide-eyed stare at the Campbell, Rory ordered a maidservant to bring food and goblets up to Patrick’s old chamber. He led the way up the steps to the third level. He stopped at his chamber to fetch the jug of wine as the Campbell waited in the doorway, and then he opened the door of the chamber next to his.

  It was as spartan as Rory’s own. His father had believed that comfort would lead to softness. But it was certainly an improvement over the dungeon.

  Once inside, Campbell looked around the room. There was a small window set deep in the stone walls, a narrow bed, wardrobe, and chest for clothes. A small, battered table with two uncomfortable-looking chairs completed the furnishings. Wall brackets with candles were set into the stone walls.

  The fireplace looked as if it had been unattended for decades. Ashes still littered its floor. The smell of dust was heavy in the room.

>   Rory was in no mood to apologize. Instead, he lowered the jug of wine to the table. “Sit down,” he said.

  Campbell started to say something, a protest most likely, then apparently decided better of it. He sat.

  “You will stay in the room for the time being,” Rory said. “There will be a guard outside.”

  “I gave my word,” the Campbell protested.

  “Aye, but forgive me if I do not wish to rely entirely on it,” Rory said wryly. “It’s for your protection as well. Several of my clansmen would enjoy plunging their dirks into you.”

  “I fear no Maclean.”

  “No? Well, I fear the consequences if you were slain in Inverleith.” Rory knew he probably should not have admitted the last, but if there was any solution to this devil’s mess, it would be only with the Campbell’s help. “Not only for Macleans,” he added, “but for Campbells.”

  The Campbell raised an eyebrow as if in doubt.

  “I have been away, but even so I know James is worried about Henry, and war looms between the two countries. James does not want the clans fighting amongst themselves. It would require a protracted siege to take Inverleith. You know it, and the king knows it. He would not want two armies poised against each other if Henry invades.

  The Campbell was listening.

  The next part would be more difficult. Much more difficult.

  “And then there is your cousin.”

  The Campbell’s mouth thinned.

  “Did you know about her betrothal to the Earl of Morneith?”

  “She told you?”

  “Aye.” He did not say that he had forced it from her just moments earlier. “Did you know about it?”

  Anger jumped into the Campbell’s eyes. Until that moment, any emotion had been held well in check.

  “You did not object to sacrificing her?” Rory said contemptuously.

  “I did not know. I think—” He stopped suddenly, as if realizing he was being baited into saying things he did not intend to say.

  “And if you had known?” Rory bored. He had to know more about James Campbell before he ventured further.

  “I would have found a way to prevent it.”