The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  Despair drained through her as she recognized the truth: Some things would never be restored—like her innocence and illusion of indifference.

  When she turned back around, she avoided his gaze but noticed that all vestiges of passion had been erased from his face. His expression was once again implacable. She hated his control. That he could be so unaffected when her world had just shattered seemed somehow all the more devastating. What would it take for this man to feel?

  “Everything will be all right, Caitrina.” He tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. There was nothing he could do to comfort her. “I will speak to your father—”

  “No!” Her eyes flew to his in panic. “You will do nothing of the kind.”

  His steely gaze bored into her, and he drew himself up to his full height—which was imposing indeed. “I will, of course, offer for you.”

  She shook her head. “There is no need—”

  “Yes”—he caught her arm, this time not letting go—“there is. I want you.”

  Her chest squeezed: possession. “You don’t want me. I’m merely another battle to be won. Something you saw and decided you had to have. A pretty decoration to keep by your side. You don’t even know me.”

  His jaw clenched. “I know all I need to know. You are clever, beautiful without artifice, strong, and care deeply for those you love. I’ve seen the way you look after your father and brothers.”

  “Because I love them. You can’t think that I’d ever feel the same—”

  “No,” he cut her off curtly. “I’d not expect that of you, but after what just happened, you can hardly claim that you are indifferent to me.”

  God, it was true. How could I have succumbed so easily? Hot pressure built in her eyes and throat. He’d warned her that she was naïve.… Caitrina stiffened. Her eyes searched his face for signs of duplicity. Had he used her innocence against her?

  She felt like such a fool. “And whatever the Highland Henchman wants he takes, is that it? You knew I didn’t want you, so you tricked me. You are every bit as cruel as they say, not stopping at anything to get what you want.”

  Tiny white lines appeared around his mouth, the only sign that she’d penetrated his steely armor of control. “Have care, Princess,” he said roughly. “I’ve already warned you that I’m not one of your mealymouthed suitors you can wrap around your little finger. You are wrong about my motives. I took nothing that was not willingly offered. Deny me if you wish, but at least be honest with yourself.”

  She knew he was right, but she didn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to marry anyone.” Her voice shook, she feared with a twinge of hysteria. “And I especially don’t want to marry you. I hate you for what you did.” For what you made me feel.

  There was something so intense in his gaze, she had to turn away.

  “Hate me if it makes you feel better, but it doesn’t change the fact that you want me. What we have together—” He stopped. “It is not common.”

  He was only saying that. She clenched her fists at her side, fighting for control. “You may have succeeded in proving that I desire you, but it does not change anything. You are still a Campbell and still Argyll’s toady—the sword arm of a despot.”

  “I’m my own man,” he said flatly. “I make my own decisions. If you took the time to look beyond the golden gates of your castle, you would see the truth plain enough. My fight is with outlaws and men who stand in the way of law and order.”

  “You are a thug and a brute,” she said, her voice laden with scorn. “And a fool if you think I’d willingly marry a man who is feared and reviled as the devil. Who is no more than a hired murderer.”

  The silence was deafening. His face was stony, but for a moment she glimpsed the cold fury in his eyes. Caitrina realized that she’d gone too far. But it was too late to take it back, even if she wanted to.

  He took a menacing step closer, but she stood her ground.

  “You claim to have such a definitive understanding of my character, and yet you do not appear frightened?”

  He was right. Looking at him with all she knew, by all rights she should be terrified. Standing there, his handsome features hard and forbidding and six feet plus of rippling muscles with hands that could crush her in an instant. She’d seen his cold, merciless rage against MacNeil … yet he’d touched her with nothing but tenderness. She lifted her chin. “Should I be?”

  His gaze met hers, deep and penetrating, seeing things she didn’t want him to see. “Perhaps you should be.”

  She was scared—not of him, but of herself.

  Caitrina’s chest squeezed. The tears that she’d fought to control spilled down her cheeks. “Just go away and leave me alone,” she choked.

  He flinched. Or maybe she’d just imagined it, because when he met her gaze, his eyes were like ice. “You shall have your wish. But your scorn is misplaced, and you will regret your refusal of my offer. One day, Caitrina, the brutal reality of our world will find you—and I guarantee it won’t be pretty dresses and fancy slippers.”

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t over. Not by any measure. Jamie turned and left her in the woods, not looking back, the hot rush of anger pounding through his veins. Caitrina Lamont was his. She might not realize it yet, but she would.

  But right now, he was so furious that he didn’t want to tarry a minute longer than was necessary. As soon as he returned to the castle, he gathered his men and with a quick word to the Lamont left Ascog and the maddening lass behind him.

  After what they’d just shared, her scornful refusal stung. He’d thought she was softening toward him, thought that she, too, felt the passionate connection between them. Perhaps he’d erred in forcing her to confront her desire, but nothing could have felt more right. The feel of her coming apart in his arms would not be something he would soon forget.

  He’d never felt like that before with a woman. Ever. The strength of his emotion and the force of his response had shocked him. It was the closest he’d come to losing control. The urge to take her, to slide into that delicious heat, had been unbearable. And when her release took hold, the surge of heat in his loins had turned excruciating. The pressure had been so intense, it had taken everything he had not to let go.

  He shook his head, recalling her accusations. She thought he’d tricked her, but in fact it was the opposite. He wanted her for his wife, but he would not compel her.

  He’d actually hoped she might come to him on her own. But it was clear that her prejudice against him ran too deep. She wouldn’t even try to see him as anything other than a monster—a figment of tales and exaggeration. And Jamie was done trying to explain himself. He’d not grovel to any woman—least of all a cosseted lass who had no conception of the danger surrounding her.

  His thoughts returned to his mission—where they belonged. Despite spending the better part of a week searching the surrounding area and keeping his ears open for any talk, Jamie had not found the proof he sought to substantiate his suspicions. But it did not dissuade him from his belief that the MacGregors were availing themselves of the deep bond of hospitality forged with the Lamonts.

  Jamie understood the Lamont’s quandary—and even sympathized with him. The bond of hospitality was considered a sacred obligation in the Highlands, and if the MacGregors had invoked the old obligation, Caitrina’s father would feel honor-bound to give them shelter. But honor would not change the fact that he was harboring outlaws and, in doing so, breaking the law and putting himself directly in the way of the king’s rage. King James wanted the MacGregors eradicated and would give no quarter to those who helped them. The Lamont would pay a price, though Jamie intended to do what he could to help him.

  Jamie and his men left Ascog and traveled north to Rothesay harbor. If the Lamont was hiding something, he’d want to make sure Jamie and his men were long gone before revealing himself. So Jamie had taken the precaution of removing his warriors from the area, but they would circle back later. He didn’t think they
were being followed, but he wouldn’t take any chances.

  They crossed the Kyle of Bute, landing in Cowal just west of Toward point. He could just make out Toward Castle in the distance—the stronghold of Caitrina’s kin, the Lamont of Toward. From there, Jamie headed north up the

  Cowal Peninsula to Dunoon alone, instructing his men to wait until dark and then to return to Bute and Rothesay Castle. Rothesay had been taken by the Earl of Lennox over fifty years ago but had lapsed to the Crown on his death. From Rothesay, which was less than a dozen furlongs from Ascog, they would watch the area and wait. Jamie would rejoin his men as soon as he’d reported back to his cousin.

  Night was falling, and mist off the Firth of Clyde had begun to thicken as he wound up the hill to the castle gate. It was said that a keep had been on this point for over a thousand years. Dunoon, or Dun-nain, meaning “Green Hill,” was located strategically on the western shore of the Clyde on a small promontory, providing an excellent vantage from which to repel attackers—except on murky nights like tonight, where it was difficult to see his hand in front of his face. Jamie’s approach, however, had been noticed.

  He expected that Argyll, anxious for news of his search, would find him soon. But it wasn’t his cousin who greeted him. It was his brother. Argyll was the keeper of the royal castle of Dunoon, but Jamie’s brother Colin—as chieftain of Campbell of Auchinbreck—was its captain. Jamie had barely finished tending to his horse before his brother intercepted him as he crossed the yard to the keep.

  Colin’s sudden appearance surprised him. To his regret, they had never been close. When Jamie was young, before the death of their father, it had been Duncan he’d always looked up to. Duncan. He stiffened. Even after all these years, the bitterness of Duncan’s betrayal was still raw. After Duncan fled Scotland, it had been Argyll—or Archie, as Jamie had called him then—who had taken his place. Jamie was as close to Argyll as any man could be to someone in his position, but power and authority were a lonely companion. Something that Jamie had learned only too well.

  As Jamie’s role as Argyll’s second in command had grown, creating a barrier between him and his childhood companions, it would have been nice to have a brother to rely upon—to trust. But he and Colin, it seemed, had always been at odds. Part resentment, Jamie suspected, and partly because of his brother’s character. Colin wasn’t close with anyone.

  “I heard you arrived,” Colin said. “Seems your gut was wrong this time, little brother.”

  Though there was some similarity in their features and coloring, Jamie refrained from pointing out that at nearly four inches taller and at least two stone worth of muscle, “little brother” sounded ridiculous. But the quick-to-take-umbrage Colin was unlikely to see the irony.

  Jamie hadn’t missed the slight smugness in his brother’s voice. “I’m in no mood for your guessing games, Colin. If you’ve something to say, say it. Either that or get out of my way so I can find the earl.”

  “He’s not here. He’s been delayed at Inveraray, though he is expected soon.”

  Jamie frowned. “Nothing is wrong?”

  Argyll had lost his countess last year following the difficult birth of his heir and had taken it hard. The troubles with the MacGregors hadn’t helped matters any. The king held him to blame for their continued disobedience.

  Colin shook his head. “The nursemaid hired to care for young Archie ran off, so he had to find another.”

  Jamie paused at the top of the tower stairs and looked at his brother. “So what is it that you are obviously so eager to tell me?”

  Colin smiled. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard by now,” he said nonchalantly. “It seems Alasdair MacGregor isn’t anywhere near the Isle of Bute. He’s been spotted near Loch Lomond.”

  Jamie frowned. “How can you be sure it’s him?”

  “The MacLaren chief wrote Argyll and asked for help in defending his lands against repeated assaults—he swears it is none other than Alasdair MacGregor who has been attacking his people. There have been numerous incidents on the road near Stirling, and ’tis rumored MacGregor has returned to the Braes of Balquhidder.”

  It would make sense, Jamie thought. It wasn’t the first time MacGregor had sought to make his home on the MacLaren’s lands. But it had seemed too obvious. Jamie had been sure MacGregor had gone to Bute, but he felt a surge of relief. For Caitrina and her family’s sake, he was glad to be wrong.

  He wasn’t the only one. Colin took obvious delight in having Jamie proved in error. His brother resented Jamie’s place at Argyll’s side, a place that he believed belonged to him by birthright.

  “So it seems your journey to Ascog was a waste of time,” Colin added, conveniently forgetting that it was he who’d urged Argyll to send troops to Ascog without waiting for proof of Lamont’s complicity. Having crossed the barmkin, they walked up the forestairs to the keep. “How did you find the Lamont’s daughter? As beautiful as they say?”

  Jamie stiffened, knowing what delight his brother would take in knowing the truth—that he’d asked the lass to marry him and been harshly refused. “Fair enough,” he said, and then, switching the subject, “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “You don’t want to wait for our cousin to arrive?”

  Jamie shook his head. “Not while the trail is hot. I’ll leave him a note.”

  As they entered the tower and passed through into the great hall, Jamie looked around, right away noticing the subdued atmosphere. Ever since Colin’s wife had died a few years ago in childbirth, the place had felt like a tomb. Though Jamie could smell the peat, the air was cold and damp. Only a few candelabras had been lit, and there was little sign of life about the place. With Lizzie’s arrival, he’d expected to see her feminine touches livening up the place a bit. He frowned, noticing something else. Lizzie was usually the first person to greet him. “Where’s Lizzie?”

  Colin frowned. “At Castle Campbell. Where else would she be?”

  Jamie felt a flicker of unease. He shook his head. “She wrote me a few days before I left that she was coming here.” He met his brother’s gaze, neither wanting to give voice to their thoughts. “She should be here by now.”

  Colin’s face hardened with anger. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “There is not much that Alasdair MacGregor would not dare,” Jamie said grimly. “He is a man with nothing to lose.” He turned, striding for the door he’d just entered, not wanting to delay another minute.

  Colin cursed and followed after him. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” Jamie said, his thoughts already on the journey before him. “You must be here when Argyll arrives. I’ll go. But I will need men. Even now, mine are on their way back to Bute.”

  Colin looked as if he might argue but seemed to realize someone would have to stay and explain things to Argyll and nothing would turn Jamie from his course. “Take whomever you need. I’ll have Dougal ready the provisions.”

  Jamie was already halfway down the stairs when his brother called after him. “And Jamie …” He turned. “Bring me his damn head on a pike.”

  Colin had always been the bloodthirsty one, but for once Jamie was in perfect accord. “If MacGregor has touched one hair on Lizzie’s head, you can be sure of it.”

  Shaken by her argument with Jamie and the events that precipitated it, Caitrina took her time in returning to the castle. But when she entered the great hall and caught her father’s questioning gaze as he spoke with a few other chiefs, she knew right away that her wish had been granted: Jamie Campbell was gone.

  Just like that. As if what had happened between them had never occurred.

  She felt a jolt of something akin to panic as she fought to stem the unwelcome tide of emotion. This was what she’d wanted. It was only the shock of him leaving so quickly—on the heels of such a cataclysmic event—that made her feel such an overwhelming sense of loss.

  She’d dreaded the explanation to her father, but he’d accepted her decision to refuse without questi
on. He wrapped her in his arms and placed a kiss atop her head, telling her that she must do whatever made her happy.

  But she was anything but happy. The guests who had descended on Ascog for the gathering had departed, but rather than the sense of peace she’d expected, it felt unnaturally quiet—like the calm before the storm. Her father seemed distracted—almost worried—by something, and her brothers were no better. They were hiding something from her, but she knew they would never share it, and she resented being kept in the dark.

  But what bothered her most was that since Jamie’s abrupt departure, she couldn’t seem to get him—or their passionate interlude—out of her mind. In his arms she’d felt safe and protected, and when he’d kissed her she’d felt a connection unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

  Worse, she realized that she’d acted unfairly. He’d come to her rescue not once, but twice. She shivered. If he hadn’t come along when he had, who knows what MacNeil might have done?

  She still couldn’t conceive of marrying a Campbell, but there was no question that she’d welcomed his kiss. And more. Yet she’d lashed out, accusing him of seducing her, when she knew deep in her heart that he’d done nothing of the sort. It was just that she’d been angry at him for making her want something she shouldn’t.

  For pity’s sake, he was the Campbell Henchman. The favored cousin of her clan’s most hated enemy. Just because he was handsome and strong, commanding and intelligent, and nothing like the monster she imagined didn’t change the facts—not all the rumors could be wrong. He claimed to want justice, to see order restored to the Highlands, but wasn’t that just a convenient excuse to justify his actions?

  Caitrina never doubted that despite her undeniable attraction to the scourge, she was right in refusing him. That is, until the morning three days after he’d gone, when she found Mor upstairs in the tower garret, sobbing at the bedside of a young serving girl.

  “Mor, I—” Caitrina stopped. She took one look at the poor girl’s beaten face and had to bring her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. The girl’s face was swollen beyond recognition and covered with welts and cuts where she’d been struck. Dark bruises mottled her freckled skin. She’d lost her kertch, and her long red hair was clumped with twigs and mud. The sleeve of the sark that she wore under her arisaidh had been nearly torn off. “Dear God, what has happened?”