The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  He took a few steps in the direction in which she’d disappeared and called her name. The sound that came back to him sent ice storming through his veins. Drawing his dirk from the scabbard at his side, he plunged into the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie sat on her knees at the edge of the loch, dipping her hands in the icy water, removing the last stains of the battle from her fingers. If only the memories were as easily washed away. She mourned the men who had died today, and pitied the suffering their families would endure when she brought them the news. She would never shirk her duties, but some were harder than others. She sighed, thinking of the conversations before her. Much harder.

  At first she thought the rustling sounds she heard behind her were leaves being tossed about by the wind. But then she felt the distinct weight of eyes upon her. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, like tiny sentries alerting her to danger, but she forced herself to stay calm.

  It was probably nothing.

  She dried her hands in her skirts, got to her feet slowly, and turned around. Her entire body went perfectly still, frozen with fear. It wasn’t “nothing.” Standing not twenty feet from her in the shadows of the trees stood a lone wolf. His golden yellow eyes were fixed on her with cold calculation—not unlike the MacGregor warrior’s gaze had been earlier. It was the look of a hunter. It was a look that promised no mercy.

  He was close enough for her to see the dampness shining on his black nose and the gray streaks in his black coat. His mouth was pulled back in a sinister impression of a smile, revealing long, sharp teeth. Was it possible to see hunger in a gaze? Because the wolf was looking at her as if he were starving and she were a tasty feast. Though from his immense size, he certainly didn’t appear to be suffering from any lack of sustenance. His head came up to her waist, and he was built thick and solid, easily outweighing her.

  Her heart was beating so fast that it hurt, straining against the tight confines of her chest.

  She heard Patrick call her name, and the wolf howled in response. She wanted to scream for help but dared not do anything to startle or provoke the vicious beast.

  Hearing the sounds of footsteps coming toward them, the wolf growled and his fur bristled. Spit slid in heavy sheets from his mouth as he crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce.

  She held her breath, praying that someone arrived—

  “Don’t move.”

  The sound of Patrick Murray’s deep, steady voice was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.

  Move? She couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her feet seemed to be stuck in a bog. “I w-won’t,” she whispered, fear carrying her past caring about her stammer. Patrick tossed a rock in the wolf’s direction. Rather than scare him off, however, it seemed only to make him angrier, thinking that Patrick was infringing on his territory. The beast had claimed Elizabeth as his prey and wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

  Tiring of Patrick’s efforts, the wolf attacked without warning, leaping forward and closing the distance to Lizzie in a matter of seconds. She didn’t even have time to breathe, let alone get out the scream that strangled in her throat, before two front paws hit her square in the chest and knocked her harshly to the ground, taking the air from her lungs.

  For one terrifying second, she felt his suffocating weight on top of her; the horrible stench of his fur and breath enveloped her in a sickening noose. His teeth were so sharp. They were going to hurt.…

  Suddenly the snarling beast was ripped off her.

  Patrick had wrestled the wolf to the ground, one arm wrapped around his neck. The animal’s long teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he twisted wildly, gnashing and snarling at his captor. Lizzie knew from his size how strong the wolf must be, but he was no match for the fierce warrior. Patrick’s eyes were cold and determined, not a hint of fear in their dark green depths.

  She stared in awed wonderment as he subdued the ferocious animal as if he offered no more fight than a rabbit. She’d never seen anything like it—his strength was extraordinary. His arm squeezed around the wolf’s neck, the muscle in his arm bulging against the leather of his cotun like a boulder, until the wolf hung limp.

  Lizzie swore she saw regret on his face as he tossed the lifeless animal to the side and came quickly to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded dumbly as he helped her to her feet. “I—I’m fine.” She struggled to control her stammering tongue. But the strain of what had just happened, added to the horror of the earlier attack by the MacGregors, proved too much. She didn’t care. Her carefully wrought composure dissolved. She could barely stand, her legs felt so weak. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, her throat tightened, and hot tears stung her eyes.

  He was standing so close to her, all six feet plus inches of masculine strength. So solid and safe. Her valiant protector. It seemed only natural to seek the safe enclosure of his embrace. She ran into his arms, burying her head against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled … wonderful. Warm. Of leather and pine needles and strength. Savoring the distinctly masculine scents, she closed her eyes. Only then did the tears start to fall.

  Patrick MacGregor, a man known for his cool authority, for his decisiveness in battle, for his strength and toughness in the most extreme conditions, was at a complete loss. He looked down at the flaxen head of the tiny feminine bundle against his chest and didn’t know what to do, having little experience with comforting weeping women. He felt a hard twinge in his chest. A flood of warmth that almost bordered on … contentment. An emotion so foreign to him, he didn’t know what to make of it.

  After a moment’s confusion, he relaxed and acted on instinct, allowing his arms to come around her and snuggle her closer to him.

  He figured it was the right thing to do—despite the fact that it seemed only to make her cry harder—when every muscle in her body seemed to heave a sigh of relief and she collapsed limply against him.

  He felt a surge of protectiveness. An overwhelming urge to keep her safe. Ironic, given his task.

  Still, it pleased him that she’d turned to him so easily. He knew not to read too much into it; he was convenient, nothing more. And she’d been pushed to the end of her rope by the day’s events. But it didn’t mean he didn’t like it.

  Holding her like this, it felt … nice.

  More than nice. He couldn’t help but notice how well they fit together. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and his arms wrapped perfectly around her. Her hair smelled like lavender, and was so silky soft that he couldn’t resist the urge to touch it. He let it slide under his palm as he stroked her head soothingly, his own pulse beginning to slow.

  Her weeping did not diminish his opinion of her strength. The lass had been through a lot today; she’d earned the right to her tears. She wasn’t the only one reeling from what had nearly happened.

  He didn’t know how to describe the feeling that had shot through him when he’d heard the wolf howl. His heart had seized for one paralyzing second. If he didn’t know better, he would think it had been a flash of panic—laughable under ordinary circumstances.

  But these were hardly ordinary circumstances. If anything happened to the lass, he would have only himself to blame. He’d put her in this position. She was his responsibility.

  Unlike the attack on her carriage earlier, the wolf had not been planned.

  After a few minutes, her sobs began to slow, and he became uncomfortably aware of the effects of holding her so closely. The incredible softness of her breasts crushed against his chest made his blood fire. He felt the weight come over him. The heavy pull in his groin. The hardening. It had been too long since he’d had a woman, and it had caught up to him—at the wrong time.

  She sniffled and gazed up at him with watery eyes, her long lashes clumped and spiky. Her face was bathed in tears and moonlight, with an opalescent glow that seemed almost unworldly. For a moment it was only the two of them, man and woman, in a realm untainted by blood feuds. In a world where a
Campbell heiress might welcome a MacGregor suitor. Where deception was unnecessary. Where kissing her seemed the most natural thing to do—the only thing to do.

  Her mouth, with her soft pink lips parted only inches below his, tantalized. A sweet, sugary confection for a man starved with bitterness. Aye, she was ripe for seduction. He just hadn’t anticipated how strong the urge would be for him to do so. He ached to kiss her, to take her lips beneath his and slide his tongue deep in her mouth until her breath came fast and hard. Until she moaned for him. He could almost taste her honey sweetness beneath the saltiness of her tears. His entire body felt possessed by desire. The primitive call was bone-deep, encompassing every part of him.

  He lowered his head.

  And stopped.

  It was too soon. One wrong move could ruin everything. She was a frightened lass; he couldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. Not yet, anyway.

  He knew he’d been right when her eyes widened, as if all of a sudden realizing what she’d done, and she pulled away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … I didn’t mean …” There was a long moment of awkwardness, where she fumbled with her skirts and took great efforts to wipe away the dirt and leaves that still clung to the wool where she’d fallen. “What must you think of me?”

  He knew from the way she avoided his gaze that she was embarrassed. “I think that you were scared. I was here. There is nothing to explain.”

  Her gaze met his uncertainly, as if trying to convince herself of the same. She managed a tentative smile. “It seems I am doubly indebted to you and owe you thanks again for saving my life. If you hadn’t called out when you did …” She shivered, her gaze falling on the dead animal.

  Her gratitude weighed uneasily upon him. “I would never have allowed you to come out here on your own if I’d suspected. But it’s unusual to see wolves in these parts.” He looked with regret at the fallen beast. “Stranger still to see one on its own.”

  She made a face. “I’d rather not see any.”

  “Soon enough you will get your wish.” His words came out harsher than he’d intended, and he explained. “If the king has his way, there will be no wolves left anywhere in the Highlands. Forty years ago, it was necessary to build spittals on the roads for travelers to take refuge. Today, it is rare to see a wolf at all.”

  Perhaps that was why he felt such a strange kinship with the wolf. The king sought the extinction of them both. The laws enacted to eradicate the race of MacGregor did not differ much in language from those to eradicate the wolves.

  “You sound as if you have sympathy for their plight. But you saw what happened. Surely we must do something to prevent further attacks.”

  “It isn’t usually in a wolf’s nature to attack man. It’s only because we leave them no choice that they are forced to fight back.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Cutting down their forests, encroaching on their land. They have an ancient right to roam this land, and it’s been taken from them. What else can they do but fight?”

  He realized he could have been speaking about his own people. Like the wolf, the once-proud race of MacGregors, whose badge proclaimed their descent from kings—S Rioghail Mo Dhream, “Royal Is My Race”—had been stripped of their land, backed into a corner, turned wild and ferocious in their effort to protect what was theirs. Fitting, then, that they were known as “the Sons of the Wolf.”

  Her head tilted as she studied his face. He feared his impassioned speech had revealed more than he’d intended.

  “Ancient right? It’s an interesting concept.” Her mouth lifted in a half-smile. “One that my cousin would take umbrage with, since he holds the charter for this land.”

  She said it in jest, but truer words could not be spoken. It was upon the same basis that the Earl of Argyll and his kinsman “Black” Duncan Campbell of Glenorchy had deprived the MacGregors of their land. Hundreds of years of ownership ignored for the failure to produce a piece of parchment.

  Her words also served as a harsh reminder of why he was here: land.

  When his gaze fell on her again, it was with cold resolve. No matter how sweet, he would not forget who she was and what she would bring him. He’d waited too long to get back what was his.

  Ripe for seduction, he reminded himself. A means to an end.

  “We should return. The others will be waiting and wondering what has happened to us.”

  Lizzie gave him a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with a shared understanding. “We shall have much to tell them. I fear that your exploits this day are in danger of taking on heroic proportions.”

  He didn’t know whether it was that smile, the twinkle in her eye, or the resilience with which she’d weathered a trying day and managed to find humor, but Patrick realized that his mission was going to be more difficult than he’d ever imagined.

  Thief, brigand, outlaw, scourge: Those were names he was familiar with, not hero. Yet for a moment, this wee lass could make him want to believe that it was a possibility. Make him believe that there might be a flicker left in the embers of his blackened soul. That maybe there was still something inside him that hadn’t died.

  He regretted that one day soon he would have to prove her wrong.

  Chapter 4

  Not long after they left the loch, the great shadow of Castle Campbell came into view, its austere gray stone walls rising high on a hill surrounded by dense woodlands.

  Like its Highland counterpart of Inveraray Castle, the Lowland stronghold of the Earl of Argyll served as an imposing reminder of the strength of the clan. The fortress had once been called Castle Gloom, and from its steep, imposing setting and stark stone walls, it wasn’t hard to see why. But to Lizzie it was home.

  After all that she’d been through this day, she should feel relieved to reach the safety of the formidable keep. To smell the familiar pungent aroma of ramsom that filled the steep ravines; to hear the rush of the Burn of Sorrow and Burn of Care, which flowed below to the west and east of the promontory upon which the castle stood. But for some reason, she was reluctant for this part of her journey to be over. She suspected that it had something to do with the man riding beside her.

  A man she barely knew, but whom she’d thrown herself at like … like … She blushed. Like a common strumpet.

  The poor man was still mourning the loss of his wife and unborn child for pity’s sake!

  Was she so desperate for romance that she could fall for the first handsome man who was kind to her? Apparently so.

  Despite his gallantry, she was mortified by what she’d done. With that face he was probably used to women falling into his arms, but Lizzie had never done anything so remotely improper. Had never so completely abandoned decorum to seek comfort from the embrace of a stranger.

  Yet it had felt incredible. Warm. Safe. Secure. And so much more. She’d felt a connection. An awareness that went beyond simple attraction but seemed to take hold of every part of her body. In his arms she’d felt alive. As if her body had woken from a long sleep and tingled with pleasure at the wakening.

  Something had come over her, and she’d felt an intense urge to touch him. To slide her hands over his arms and feel the heavy muscles beneath her fingertips, to trace the hard lines of his chest and back. To absorb his strength.

  Her body had flooded with heat. With heaviness. And then for a moment her heart had stopped, thinking he was actually going to kiss her. His mouth had been only inches away. The wide, sensuous lips, the dark stubble along the hard lines of his jaw, the spicy warmth of his breath on her head.

  But he hadn’t. Whether she’d only imagined it or he had simply thought better of it, she didn’t know. She had had no business encouraging him in the first place, but she could not deny the twinge of disappointment.

  She told herself it was for the best. Now that he’d seen them safely home, he would be leaving, continuing on his journey across the sea to escape the memories of the past. It was ridiculous. The poor woman was gone, but Lizzie f
elt a twinge of envy. His wife had been a fortunate woman indeed to have a man care for her so deeply. Enough to drive him far from his home when he lost her.

  That he’d not yet recovered from the loss was obvious. Though on the surface he was friendly and charming, Lizzie sensed the sadness lingering underneath. And there was a hard bleakness in his gaze that came with pain and suffering.

  After all he’d done for her, Lizzie wished there was something she could do to help him.

  She’d hoped to have the opportunity for further conversation, but as they neared the castle they were forced to ride single file as they negotiated the treacherous narrow path that wound around the castle from the north, fording the Burn of Care on the east.

  All too soon they rode under the shadow of the great Maiden’s Tree—the old plane tree near the entrance that dominated the approach—and under the spiked iron yett of the castle.

  She lost sight of him temporarily in the furor that followed their arrival, when the reason for their unexpected return became known. It seemed all at once the barmkin filled with people as efforts were quickly under way to rescue those they had been forced to leave behind after the attack. Only after additional men and a cart to bring home the wounded had been dispatched and she’d finished the difficult conversations with the families of the men killed did Lizzie have the opportunity to ensure that Patrick and his men had been taken care of.

  She scanned the courtyard, still teeming with people. Though it was dark, torches lined the perimeter, providing just enough light to make out the faces of her clansmen flickering by. But there was no sign of Patrick and his men.

  They seemed to have disappeared.