by Paula Quinn
“We could use a man like you here,” Cunningham told him now. “None of my guardsmen ever fought the way you did today. That scoundrel bastard might have killed Charlotte, or made off with her, if not for you.”
Patrick flicked his gaze to Cunningham’s daughter seated next to Duff. He kept his expression neutral, preferring not to get into another brawl with one of her brothers, although when faced with eight armed riders who meant to kidnap her, they stood motionless. Duff, at least, hadn’t moved because there was a knife to his sister’s throat that could cut quickly enough had he attacked. Patrick understood and didn’t fault him for it.
“I’m glad I was here to lend my aid,” he answered. Was it fate that brought him here to save her? Nae, he thought slipping his gaze to her again, if no one had helped her, she would have saved herself. He remembered the wee black dagger she kept hidden under her skirts. He wondered what other weapons she possessed.
It was difficult not to aim his most charming smile on her though, for she was exquisite in every damn way. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. When her father had questioned her about how the Dunbars knew of her, she’d insisted she didn’t know and then said as little as possible. Patrick guessed her father didn’t know about her late night visits to Blind Jack’s.
What other secrets did she keep? Patrick wanted to discover them all.
He thought about her being crushed up against him for a moment while he had taken down her attacker, the fear and anger that made her large dark eyes shine like moonlit seas. The same eyes that had cut through a crowded pub to slay him. The same nimbus mantle falling down her back. She’d looked right at him but if she recognized him, she’d made no show of it, nor had she mentioned it.
“Why were you so quick to aid her?”
Patrick blinked, severing his gaze from hers and returning it to his host. Cunningham certainly was a suspicious bastard. “Because there was a man holding a blade to her throat and no one else was moving their arse fast enough.”
Patrick didn’t give a damn who he insulted. He hadn’t forgotten the blows inflicted upon him by Cunningham’s sons.
“We had no choice,” argued Hendry, a most unlikeable fellow with pinched lips and a belligerent, though striking gaze. “One wrong move and he would have sliced her.”
“And yet,” Patrick answered in a voice rich with sarcasm, “he did nothing when I approached him.”
“In fairness to my sons,” Cunningham said, dragging Patrick’s attention back to him. “Dunbar thought you would stand with him.”
His good mood restored, Patrick flashed him a grin. “I was verra believable.”
Cunningham returned his smile but there was no sign of humor in his eyes. “You find ease in deceit, Campbell?”
Patrick shrugged one shoulder and relaxed his mouth as he boldly turned to look at Charlie. “Depending on the purpose, aye.”
He didn’t miss the slight curl of her tantalizing mouth before she looked down, shielding her midnight gaze beneath a spray of sooty lashes. Could he seduce her? Perhaps take up a true chase for the first time in years? He didn’t believe she’d be an easy victory and it tempted him beyond control. He’d have to begin in the next few hours, before he set out on his way again. He’d like to reach Tarrick Hall by tonight. He’d return to finish another time.
Hendry sneered and rose to fetch himself another drink. “And you would have us believe you’re a man of honor?”
“I’d have ye believe no such thing,” Patrick protested watching him. “No’ that ye’d know what honor was if it smashed ye in the face and broke yer nose.”
Hendry opened his tight lips to say something but Duff stopped him. “Be silent, fool,” he warned and then addressed Patrick. “Campbell, you have our gratitude for saving our sister.”
Duff Cunningham was a few years younger than Patrick, with dark, almost black hair, which he wore loose to his shoulders, and eyes of tempered steel. He was tall and built for tossing folks around. Patrick’s borrowed shirt, given to him by Charlie’s bonnie sister, had no doubt come from Duff’s own cabinet since he was the closest in size. Something about the cut of his jaw and the silvery tint of his eyes reminded Patrick of someone else. Presently, he couldn’t place who it was.
“Of course!” Allan Cunningham agreed. “And that’s why you’ll stay for a few days and enjoy my food and drink.”
“Ye have m’ gratitude fer that,” Patrick said, accepting the offer. “I could use a rest from m’ travels. A soft bed mayhap.” What harm was there in staying another day? He hadn’t seen his uncles in a decade. Another day or two wouldn’t hurt. There were things he wanted to find out, like what made Miss Charlotte Cunningham smile? He didn’t want to rush.
He brought his cup of warm wine to his lips and swept his gaze back to her. Her hair fell down her shoulders and over her cleavage like an inky cloud. He wanted to touch it, scoop the weight of it off her neck and kiss…
“Are you looking for a wife?” her father asked, hauling him from his thoughts once again.
Patrick nearly choked on his wine and sat up in his chair. “Nae.”
“Because I must tell you,” Cunningham went on. “I wouldn’t be against a Campbell union. I could use the influence and strength of your clan to aid us against our enemies.”
“Father!” Charlie bound from her chair looking mortified and furious.
“Sit down, Charlotte. You’ll do as I say. You could use a firm hand and I could use—”
“I dinna want a wife,” Patrick interjected.
“Someone needs to keep you in your place, gel,” her father told her, ignoring her dark, blazing eyes and Patrick’s vehement refusal. “You have chased away every prospect other than Alistair Dunbar.” He pointed to her brother, “And Duff here refuses to let you go to a man who sends his brother to kidnap you. A Campbell union would serve us and you well.”
“’Twill have to be someone other than me,” Patrick said, rising from his chair, demanding to be heard.
Hell, he should have said he was a MacGregor.
“Why?” Her father set his wide, insulted gaze on him. “What’s wrong with her?”
That seemed to be the last straw for her. Without another word, she hiked up her flimsy skirts and stormed out of the parlor.
Patrick waited a moment when no one moved to go after her. He did.
No one stopped Patrick from following her out the door. Hell, her father was likely drawing up her dowry. They were mad. The whole lot of them, he thought, slowing his pace. This morning he was tied up and left in horse shyt by the Cunninghams and now they wanted him to be part of the family. Mad.
What did he want with a lass who painted her eyes black like some Pictish queen and dressed herself in fabric crafted for fairies? Who cared if she was so beautiful that men risked their lives to try to capture her? He wouldn’t. A wife. He laughed between his steps. He’d rather shove a dagger into his temple than be saddled down with one lass for the remainder of his days. He would win her favor and bed her thoroughly, proving to himself once and for all that he wasn’t turning into some soft, needy fool.
He watched her stomp toward the vale in her bare feet, her black hair snapping behind her.
What kind of arse was her father to mortify her the way he had? She had looked angry enough to shout, but she hadn’t spoken a word in her defense. Patrick doubted her father would have cared if she had. It was clear the Cunninghams were a patriarchal family. Where was Charlie’s mother?
He hadn’t been the one asking questions when brutes one and two had brought him to meet their father before the Dunbars showed up. Allan Cunningham had wanted to know one thing and one thing only. Was his prisoner a Fergusson?
Charlie had warned him in the stable to say no—and judging by her overly suspicious and insensitive father, she’d risked much.
Why?
He picked up his pace again, cursing under his breath. He wanted to tell her not to fret. He was leaving. He didn’t want
a wife, though if he did, he might admit that he wouldn’t consider it terrible if it were her.
Where the hell was she going? She hadn’t slowed her pace and as he closed the distance between them, he thought he heard her voice.
“I don’t want prospects, you lout!”
Aye, it was her voice. Patrick listened as he came up behind her quietly.
“And no man will ever put me in my place! I’ll tell you that!”
Patrick knew they were alone but he looked around anyway.
“There is nothing wrong with me that a future without you in it wouldn’t cure. How dare you offer me up to—” Her words stopped and she spun around to see him behind her. The storms in her eyes scattered as they widened with surprise. Her long dark hair brushed across her face in the cool, summer breeze as she looked beyond his shoulder to see if he’d been followed. He knew he hadn’t been. When her sunlit gaze darkened on the empty field, he also knew it was somehow more insulting to her that they’d been left alone.
He held up his palms as an offering of peace before she turned that tongue on him. “I stand with ye, lass.”
She let out a perfectly feminine little sigh that fired up something completely male in him. “I meant no insult inside the parlor, Mr. Campbell—”
“Patrick.” He smiled at her. And it was one of his best. He liked this lass. He let his gaze rove over the rest of her, taking in the delicate rise of her breasts as he came closer. He’d like her in his bed.
He offered her an unrepentant grin when he lifted his eyes to hers again. She was even more beautiful up close, her black waves cascading down her cheeks and shoulders, unrestrained by the absence of her circlet.
He remembered her wielding her sling at the riverbank, unfazed by his most flowery words. How difficult would she be to seduce?
“I meant none, as well,” he told her, tilting his head to meet her gaze.
Her expression softened and he had the feeling that he was among the very few to see the vulnerable tilt of her mouth. “My father can be difficult at times.”
If that’s what she considered the bastard, he wouldn’t argue. “Dinna fret. Ye willna be forced to marry me.”
She lowered her eyes to her bare feet peeking out of the grass. “’Tisn’t you,” she said quietly then turned and continued on her way.
What was it then? He found himself wondering while she left him. He should return to the stable, get his horse, and leave. Caring wasn’t in his best interest. He should leave because he wanted to touch her, kiss her, from the moment he first laid eyes on her. When he did—and he would if he stayed—he wouldn’t be wed at the end of a pistol whether for her “honor” or not.
Still, she was more than beautiful. She possessed an air of mystery, a spirit of boldness even at the edge of a blade, and docility when standing before her father. She stirred up a desire in Patrick to know more about her.
He caught up and walked beside her despite all the warnings going off in his head. “What is it then?” he asked her, waiting for her to look up again. Hell, he was counting each moment. When she finally did, his eyes took in the splendor of her face, the slight dimple in her chin.
“A marriage would get ye oot of here. Would it no’?”
“And put me under the hand of a man like Alistair Dunbar,” she pointed out.
Aye, men like the Dunbars didn’t care about bare toes and grass, or daisy circlets and perfect aim with a sling. Or what any of it meant about her. He shouldn’t care either.
“My father might be a devil,” she continued, turning to look up at him beneath the shadow of her lashes, “but I know him. I know how to appease him.”
Ah, so her meekness toward the patriarch was given with guile. Clever. But why the need? He could have asked her, but instead he found himself saying, “But what aboot marryin’ a different kind of man?”
“There are no different kinds of men, Mr. Campbell.”
Was that laughter he heard coming from her? He’d spoken the truth. He knew the men personally.
“Oh, you disagree?” she asked letting her mirth soften into a challenging smile at his sudden brooding. “Do you think you’re any different with your twinkling green eyes and devilish dimple, that you know how to use to your greatest advantage? I saw how you graced Alice our cook when she brought your cup. You even flashed your reckless grin at my sister. If that advantage is to get a woman into your bed, do you think your treatment of her is any less demeaning? You are a rake are you not?”
“Of the worst sort,” he admitted, looking into her midnight eyes. He should look away, for it felt as if she were looking inside him, fussing about in places that swept old ideals to the surface. Ideals he didn’t want disturbed. “But I can assure ye,” he added truthfully. He wouldn’t deny he was a rogue, but he was not a mindless pig. “I was no’ tryin’ to get yer cook or yer sister to m’ bed. I was simply smilin’ in greetin’ at meetin’ them.”
“Well then,” she muttered, “You’re even more dangerous than I thought.”
Hell, but her tongue was viperous indeed. He smiled now, though he tried not to. She was correct about him. “I wasna speakin’ of m’self when I spoke of different men. There are plenty of men where I live who would never mistreat a lass.”
She cut him a wry side-glance. “How did you stray from that dignified path?”
“Och, lass,” he laughed, his good mood returned, and lifted his face to heaven looking for some help. None came. He guessed he didn’t deserve any. “Ye’re withoot mercy.”
“Not if you’re deserving of it.” Her gaze caught his and held it. “Are you?”
His unrepentant grin intact, he shook his head. “’Tis doubtful.”
Was that a smile he saw hovering over her delectable mouth? “You’re truthful,” she allowed, “that’s something.”
He didn’t know whether to keep smiling or cringe when he asked, “Are we looking for m’ virtues then?”
“I doubt there’s time,” she tossed at him and turned away, her saucy hips swaying beneath her thin skirts.
“All right then,” he continued not knowing why. It could have been because it was a nice day and walking with her in it put him in good spirits. Or that her stark rejection sparked a challenge he rarely faced and sorely missed. “I didna stray,” he admitted when she stopped and returned her attention to him. “I chose a different path.”
“You do realize that telling me that doesn’t help.”
He smiled again in defense of her relaxed mouth tilted up at him. “Doesna help what?” He let his gaze linger on her mouth, not to seduce her, but because he had the urge to kiss her senseless.
Instead of looking away in modesty, false or otherwise, she set her luminous eyes on his mouth, matching his boldness. She looked away though after only an instant or two.
“Your schemes to win my favor and whatever foolish notions you have about what will happen after you do,” she answered.
He shook his head and clamped his hands behind his back. “I have no intention of touchin’ ye.” He wanted to do so much more than that.
“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to cause you harm after you helped me today.”
He wanted to laugh again but not because she thought she could harm him. She’d already proven that she could. He enjoyed her saucy mouth and despite her rejection of him—or because of it—he found his interest in her piqued. Of course, not every woman found him irresistible, but none had ever been so vocal about it.
“Speakin’ of harmin’ me, yer skill with a sling is impressive. Where did ye learn to use such a weapon?”
She cut him a glance as suspicious as her father’s. “I learned many years ago.” The thin lines of kohl around her eyes made them appear larger and more fathomless than a hundred seas. “My father does not approve.”
Aye, because she’d learned from a Fergusson, Patrick had no doubt. It had to have been a Fergusson. His uncle Tamas was the only man he knew who could wield one with perfect accura
cy. Tamas, along with Patrick’s other uncle, John, lived with their families at Cameron’s holding not too far from here. Had Tamas taught her? One of his cousins, mayhap? Did she know his cousins? She likely knew them better than he did. What the hell was all the hate toward his kin about anyway? There were so many things he wanted to know, but he’d have to use caution to find any answers. He didn’t want to give his identity away. Not even to her. Not yet.
“Why did ye tell me no’ to admit to bein’ a Fergusson if I was one?”
“The Cunninghams hate the Fergussons.” She stopped and turned to him again. “Did you deceive my kin, then?”
He could tell her the truth, that his mother was a Fergusson, but strangely, the thought of Charlotte Cunningham hating him didn’t appeal to him.
“Nae, I didna deceive them,” he told her. “M’ brother Luke is Lord of Campbell Keep in Glen Orchy.”
The curl of her mouth and the playful tilt of her chin rattled his senses and tempted him to unclamp his hands behind his back and go back on his word.
“You have a brother?” she asked. “Is he very much like you?”
“No’ verra much like me,” he laughed thinking how different he was from Luke. “He lives by dusty, old ideals.”
“Oh?” She arched her brow. “Which ideals are those?”
“Just certain…values that are more…” He paused and looked at her. What did he care what she thought of him? Why the hell was he explaining himself—and worse stumbling around it? “…knightly to m’ ways of thinkin’.”
“I see.” She smiled but turned her attention back to the foothills.
What did she see? Did she think he lacked any ideals at all? Hadn’t he saved her life? He could be chivalrous if he needed to be.
“Mayhap,” he said, doing his best not to move closer to her. “I should stay fer a few days after all. The Dunbars will likely return and yer guardsmen are dead. Ye’ll need protectin’.”
