The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  His jaw clenched. “I’m the same man. You know everything about me that is important.”

  “What? That you are an outlaw and a thief? A murderer—”

  “Don’t,” he growled, his face taut with anger. “I’m no saint, but I’ve never taken the life of another not in battle.”

  “So what happened at Glenfruin, the murder of forty innocent boys, was acceptable because it happened during a battle?”

  Her barb was well aimed; he stiffened. “Do not believe everything you hear, Elizabeth. Though my clan has taken the blame for that act, the killing of those boys was done not by a MacGregor, but by a rogue MacDonald. Our fight was with the Colquhouns—a battle that was fought at the urging of your cousin. Though the wily Argyll may claim otherwise.”

  His accusation took her aback. Lizzie knew there was no love lost between her cousin and the Colquhouns, but she could not believe her cousin was so devious as to use the MacGregors to do his dirty work and then hunt them down for doing it. And the killing of those schoolboys was only one of the atrocities leveled at the heads of the MacGregors. She thought of his brother. Of her dead guardsmen. “Are you suggesting that your clan’s reputation is not well deserved?”

  “Some of my kinsmen are wild and unruly, but could not the same be said of some of yours? Aye, I’ve stolen, but to keep my clan from perishing from starvation or the elements. Is that any different from the land your clan has stolen from me?”

  Was that what this was about? Revenge?

  Unable to hold them back any longer, she let the hot tears roll down her cheeks. “Why? Why me?” she choked, gazing up at him as if there could possibly be an answer that would make a difference, when they both knew there wasn’t.

  Patrick had never imagined that it would be like this. He hated hurting her. Hated making her cry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss away her tears, but he forced himself not to move. She didn’t want his comfort right now, she wanted an explanation. The truth. He owed her that, at least.

  He met her gaze. “The Campbells stole my family’s land. I sought to get it back.”

  “Land?” she said dazedly. “What land?”

  “Near Loch Earn. Argyll has recently made it part of your dowry.”

  The blood drained from her face. She gazed at him in horror, all her emotions, all her heartbreak, revealed clearly in her eyes. She looked so fragile and vulnerable—like a kitten who’d just been kicked. By him.

  He reached for her, but she twisted away. The rejection burned in his chest.

  “So you used me for my land? For some petty revenge on my cousin and brothers?”

  His anger sparked to hear her so casually dismiss the desperate situation of his clan. “I assure you, there is nothing petty in the enmity between our clans.” He had plenty of cause for revenge. But not on Lizzie. “Initially I sought you out for your land, but that is not the only reason I wanted to marry you.” He stepped toward her, the burning in his leg excruciating, halting when she retreated from him as if afraid. Of me. The burning in his leg crept up to his chest. “I care for you, lass,” he said softly.

  “You deceived me,” she shot back at him, anger breaking through the sheen of tears. Her eyes glittered like sapphires. Perhaps there was more wildcat in her than kitten. “Why would I believe anything you say?”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “Truth? What about you is true? Not your name, not your purpose …” Her voice fell off and she looked at him with renewed horror. “Dear God … your wife and child?”

  He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I have never been married.”

  She gasped and covered her mouth with her fingertips. “How could you lie about something like that? Was rescuing me from fake brigands not enough—did you have to invent a dead wife and child to earn my sympathy?”

  He didn’t shy from the scorn that he knew was deserved. “I needed a reason to explain our presence on the road. One that you would not question.”

  “Congratulations,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It was a brilliant plan. And successful, too. I fell right into your trap. Were you chosen for your handsome face or for your skills at seduction?”

  “Damn it, Lizzie, it wasn’t like that.” But a small part of him cringed. He never wanted her to learn of their prior meeting or that he’d thought her an easy mark—susceptible to seduction. Now that he knew her, he understood how much it would hurt her.

  “It wasn’t? I’m surprised you even bothered with seduction at all. Why not just abduct me and force me to marry you? It seems more in keeping with the methods of your crude, bloodthirsty clansmen.”

  He bit back the flare of anger at her derisiveness—some of which he knew was deserved. “ ’Tis not my way. I’d not want an unwilling wife. A forced marriage would be easily set aside.”

  “And you wanted the land.” He could hear the unevenness of her breathing as she grappled with the implications. “You wanted me to fall in love with you.” The hollowness in her voice cut him to the quick. “God, I’m such a fool.”

  He knew what he had done was unforgivable. He knew how she’d been hurt by Montgomery and thought he’d done the same thing. But what had happened between them was different.

  “I wanted you to want the marriage. I make no excuse for what I did, Elizabeth. I hated deceiving you, but I had good reason for what I did. What happened between us was real. Can you honestly believe that I don’t care for you? Everything I’ve done is because I care for you. I’ve fought my own men, my own brother, to protect you.”

  “All that proves is that you didn’t want to see me killed before you could claim your spoils.”

  “Damn it, Lizzie, that’s not true. If I cared nothing for you, why did I urge you to accept Robert Campbell’s proposal? I knew I could not deny you a chance at happiness. I tried to walk away that night you came to the barracks.”

  “But I wouldn’t let you,” she said, her voice teeming with self-disgust. “Your conscience can be absolved, then—if you even have one. But thank God my mistake isn’t irreparable. Thank God I didn’t marry you. I’ll be happy when I never have to set eyes on you again.”

  Her words stung more than he wanted to admit. How much of it was hurt speaking and how much was his being a MacGregor? “You will get your wish soon enough,” he said harshly. He wished that it didn’t need to be this way. Wished that he were begging her to understand instead of trying to make it easier for them to part. Wished that they didn’t need to part.

  Hell, he knew better than to wish.

  His eyes met hers. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparked with fire. “I hate you.”

  Her words unleashed something primitive inside him, the flare of emotion hot and quick. Anger. Frustration. And fear that it might be true. He didn’t think, just reacted, pulling her into his arms. His heart pounded wildly, dangerously, with the primal need to prove her wrong.

  She doesn’t hate me. I won’t let her.

  He hardened against her, his body responding to the familiar feel of her pressed against him. Never had he felt so out of control. He wanted to ravage her senseless.

  Kiss her.

  Take her.

  She gasped and tried to wrench out of his arms, but he held her firm.

  He could feel the frantic beat of her heart, see her mouth tremble, her eyes wide and damp with tears. They stared at each other for a long moment, her soft mouth parted just below his. He could almost taste her sweetness on his tongue, calling to him.

  His body hammered, the urge uncontrollable … almost violent.

  The realization stopped him cold, and he released her as suddenly as he’d taken hold of her. What the hell was he doing?

  What was between them could not be denied. But proving it would do nothing but salve his own male pride.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, turning away from her and allowing his blood to cool. She eyed him warily.

  Finally, he spoke. “You can hate me later. But righ
t now, I’m all that stands between you and survival.” He could just imagine her out here alone. A pampered girl brought up at court in the Highland wilderness. She wouldn’t last a day. What the hell had he been thinking? “I don’t think you have any idea of the precariousness of our situation, but if we are to have any chance, I need to get this ball out of my leg.”

  His body still teeming with violent emotion, he sat before the fire, pulled his blade from the scabbard at his waist, and went to work.

  Lizzie watched Patrick wipe the flat of the blade of his dirk back and forth over his breeches—cleaning it, though the leather was caked with dirt and dust—her heart still pounding from the ferocity of his attack. No matter that for a moment she’d wanted his lips on hers.

  I hate him. Never had she felt this kind of anger—irrational in its intensity. If he weren’t already shot, she would have done it herself. She would rather be anywhere than here with him.

  He was a MacGregor. Brother to the man who’d attacked her. He’d wanted her not for herself, but for her dowry. He’d used her like a pawn on a chessboard, deceiving her, making her fall in love with him, all for the sake of a few merks of land.

  It was all a lie.

  I’m such a fool. Actually believing that he cared for her. Of course she did, that’s what he’d wanted. It was all part of his cruel plan. She crossed her arms around her waist as if warding off the attack, struggling to keep herself from falling apart. She’d thought she’d found happiness, but all she’d found was betrayal. How could she have been so mistaken? Again.

  God, it hurt. The burning in her chest. The feeling that her heart had just been ripped out and stomped on.

  I should be used to this. But it wasn’t just disappointment. Her feelings for Patrick had gone so much deeper than anything she’d ever felt for John Montgomery.

  Tears burned behind her eyes, anger and heartbreak converging in a powerful storm. Her mouth started to tremble. Her breath hitched.

  Be strong.

  She wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry, but she would never let him see how much he’d hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced back the emotions, knowing this was not the time.

  He was right. When this was all over she would never have to see him again, but right now she needed him. She hated it, but it was the truth.

  She tried not to look at him. She shouldn’t care about what he was doing.

  She heard a tearing sound and knew that he was making the opening in his breeches bigger.

  Dear God, he was actually going to do it. She felt a cold chill settle in her stomach.

  Telling herself that it was only because she needed him to survive, she asked, “Do you need any help?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, I’ve tended enough battlefield wounds to know what to do. It’s not too deep—I can see the ball. If he’d waited a few more feet before firing we would not be having this conversation.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You might not want to watch.”

  She pursed her lips. She wasn’t some squeamish girl. But she found herself clenching the wool of the plaid between her fingers nonetheless.

  After taking a long drink from one of the skins—which she suspected held something stronger than water—Patrick put the hilt of his eating knife in his mouth and used his dirk to dig into the soupy, bloody mess. The reason for the knife in his mouth became clear a moment later. His entire body tensed at the invasion—his teeth clamped down hard against the hilt, the muscles in his neck and arms went taut, and a guttural sound emitted from deep inside him. The pain must have been unbearable, but his hand showed no hesitation. In one smooth, determined stroke, he plunged the tip of the dirk deep into the hole.

  He made another grunting sound as he appeared to maneuver the tip under the ball. The hand that held the knife pressed down, levering the ball up; then, using two fingers from his other hand, he dug it out.

  Blood gushed from his leg—so much blood that she feared something must be wrong. Unwittingly, her heart fluttered wildly.

  He used the cloth that she had given him bunched up in a square to press against the wound and took another long drink from the skin before he started to heat the blade of his dirk in the fire.

  She might despise him, but she could not sit aside any longer. Without a word, Lizzie got up, walked over, and knelt beside him, taking over the stanching of blood with the cloth. The metallic scent mingled with the smell of whisky.

  Their eyes met, and she read his thanks in his gaze.

  He held the blade in the flames, turning it until it glowed. After removing the steel from the fire, he lifted her hand and the cloth from his leg. Gesturing for her to get back, without hesitation, he placed the flat of the blade against the open wound.

  His entire body clenched. The scent of burning flesh nearly made her gag, but she forced herself not to turn away. She put her knuckle in her mouth to keep from crying out. God, how could he do such a thing?

  Having someone else do to him what he’d just done was bad enough, but doing it by yourself … took some kind of strength. Toughness that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few seconds, he removed the blade from his leg and the hilt of the knife from his mouth.

  Lizzie tossed up her skirts again and ripped a fresh piece of muslin from her underskirt, which now came down only to her knees. She handed it to him, and he used it to bind the seared wound.

  They exchanged a long look. The lingering pain in his eyes made her heart twist, and she had to fight the urge to comfort him. He was so pale, with deep lines of pain and weariness etched around his mouth.

  He seemed to understand her quandary.

  “Go, get some rest, Lizzie,” he said gently. “We only have a few hours. It’s too dangerous to travel into these hills at night; we’ll need to leave at first light.”

  She wanted to say something, but what was left that hadn’t already been said? Instead she nodded and returned to her place on the plaid. Alone. She lay down and purposefully turned away from him, lest she be tempted to watch over him. He didn’t need her; why had she ever thought he did? Closing her eyes, she let the pull of exhaustion take her under.

  The crunching sound of someone walking quietly over rocks sounded in her ear where it pressed against the ground, startling her awake. Her eyes fluttered open in the semidarkness, and she was relieved to see that it was only Patrick. For a moment, her heart leapt with joy—forgetting where they were and what had happened—then the truth brought her crashing back to reality. Reality in the form of a dark, rocky cave, musty with animal scents, with more crevices than she cared to explore.

  The fire had gone out, but surprisingly, she wasn’t cold. She looked down to see the plaid wrapped around her.

  “You can tend to your needs down by the loch,” he said, raking his fingers through his still-damp hair. “I’ve left you some dried beef and a bit of oatcake. It’s not much, but we need to ration just in case.” He motioned to a rock near the saddlebags. “I’m going to climb up the hill to get a better vantage of the area before we go.”

  Lizzie felt an unwelcome pang in her chest. He looked horrible. Though if she didn’t know him so well, she might not notice the lines of strain etched around his mouth, the flatness of his eyes, and the slight pallor of his skin. The signs of a long night spent in pain that no dunking in the loch could wash away. Her foolish heart went out to him. She’d be surprised if he had slept at all.

  “Your leg …,” she started. “Does it hurt very badly?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “But …” She bit her lip, unable to hide her apprehension.

  “I’m not going to die, Lizzie,” he said gently. “Not yet, at least. But my brother and yours, when they discover what has happened, will be doing their best to see otherwise. I’m going to need you to be strong if we are to have a chance. I won’t lie to you, lass. The next few days are going to be diff
icult. Can you manage?”

  “Of course,” she retorted, annoyed that he thought her so weak.

  Later, she would come to question that confidence.

  Chapter 18

  Lizzie was holding up better than Patrick had expected. Stubborn pride apparently had its benefits. He’d issued her a challenge, one that she would not easily forgo.

  From the way she carefully avoided his gaze, he knew she was hurting. Her initial anger had turned to sadness—as if she were mourning the death of a loved one. And though she was not the sort to appear sullen or to mope, this quiet acceptance was almost more difficult to take. He wished she would lash out at him, but that was not her way.

  He’d known it would be difficult when she discovered the truth, but seeing the betrayal in her gaze was far worse than he’d imagined. The only consolation was that at least he was not deceiving her any longer.

  Their slow trek through the boggy pass between Loch Katrine and Loch Achray known as Bealach nan Bo, Pass of the Cattle, where his clansmen brought their cattle (some reived) from the Highlands into the Lowlands, had taken longer than he’d anticipated, complicated by his efforts to hide their muddy tracks and avoid dangerous bogs. But as they climbed higher and the ground became firmer, he was able to quicken their pace.

  The low clouds and fine mist that descended as the day wore on did not bode well, and Patrick wanted to reach the edge of the tree line along the hill of Binnein before the rain came. There weren’t any caves in the area, but he would be able to fashion some sort of shelter that would keep them dry enough while they waited to see if they’d eluded their pursuers.

  He was used to being hunted and disappearing into the wild, but this time it was different.

  He glanced over at Lizzie, noticing her flushed cheeks and heavy, uneven breathing. She wasn’t used to this kind of exertion, and even with the aid of the walking stick that he’d made from a tree branch, she was struggling. But if they wanted to stay ahead of his brother, they had to keep forging along.