by Paula Quinn
He hadn’t meant to break the lad’s heart. Damn it all to hell. He could sink any one of his blades into an enemy without losing a single night’s sleep over it, but the thought of hurting Edmund’s tender feelings made him want to apologize. It would be the first time in his life he’d ever done the like.
“I will not be visiting him again.”
Her cool expression faltered, revealing her weakness. Unfortunately, Devon knew what it was as well. “Why not?” she asked him. “Is it because he is a bastard, or because his mother is a whore?”
Her words angered him. His anger wasn’t directed at her, but at the man who mocked her with them. He wondered what the king would think if he killed William’s host before his army got there.
“Go, Mr. Campbell,” she ordered quietly. “I was wrong about you. Edmund doesn’t need a man like you in his life.” She graced him with one more iron-hard glance, then turned to go back inside her son’s room.
His fingers closing around her wrist stopped her.
“My decision,” he told her when she looked at him, “was made to protect Edmund from any harm that may come to him because of my attention. Words spewed from the mouth of yer enemy, nae matter how vile they are, do not concern me. Nor should they concern ye.”
Her flash of anger dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. She stood there, as still as the silence around them. “I… forgive me for…”
He gave her a brief nod, knowing that whoever he’d pretended to be in the past, whatever role he portrayed so expertly before, was going to be a hundred times more difficult this time.
And this time, he couldn’t fail.
“Edmund understands,” he said succinctly. “I hope that ye do, as well.”
She nodded her head, about to say something else. He didn’t wait to hear what it was but turned on his heel and left.
This time, he didn’t like who he was.
Chapter Ten
Gillian sat on the rocks watching Edmund fish, or, as Captain Gates called it this morn, angling. One fished with a net, but when he cast a pole, he angled. Gillian had never seen a contraption like the one George handed over to her son. Aye, it was just a stick, but it had been carved quite thin and was as pliable as her skirts. From one end hung a string that looked to be fashioned from a long single thread of linen. Fastened to the end of the string was a gorge, about an inch in length, made of bone and sharpened at both ends.
Her first thought had been how in the world was Edmund supposed to catch fish with such a thing? Then she had wondered something else.
“Where did you come by this?” she had asked her captain.
His answer made her ache from a place that frightened her to death. Mr. Campbell had made it for Edmund. Evidently, he’d been at work on it for a few days, finding the correct wood and whittling it late at night, after his practice. He’d carved the bone, as well, with a warning to Edmund to have a care when touching it.
An angle. The mercenary had made Edmund an angle.
Gillian worried her lip, watching her son bobbing the stick up and down in the water. Twice already, something had nibbled at the tiny bit of rice fastened to the gorge.
She had judged Mr. Campbell harshly. But really, what did she know of men save that they were cold, heartless beings? Why would she have expected anything different, especially from a mercenary? She’d been so angry with him for forgetting Edmund. But he hadn’t forgotten him. He had stayed away for Edmund’s safety.
She lifted her gaze to where George stood over Edmund, watching the pole for any movement. He had to have told Mr. Campbell that his attentions were dangerous. She couldn’t be angry with him for it. Not when he was correct.
Ah, but the morning was too lovely to ruin with the terror of thinking about what her cousin was capable of.
Breathing in the crisp, salty air, she looked out over the estuary instead and contemplated the man sitting on her son’s bed last eve. It was astonishing really, that any man in Geoffrey’s garrison would care about Edmund’s childish fears and seek to protect him from them. A magic dagger. Gillian covered her grin with her hand. It was so simple… and so kind. She remembered the way Edmund had reached for him, coiling his little arms around Colin’s neck. The thought of it still brought moisture to her eyes. Edmund had never before done the like with any man. The surprise and initial unease on Mr. Campbell’s face proved that he had never been the recipient of such gratitude from a three-year-old. But he hadn’t pulled Edmund off him, or held him away, as George might have done. No, he’d closed his strong arms around her son and returned his affection.
She closed her eyes now and wrapped her arms around her knees, wondering, before she could stop it, how those arms would feel around her.
“Mummy”—Edmund looked up at her—“you should ask Colin to make you a angle.”
“I might.” She returned his tender gaze, but the thought of speaking to the mercenary again banished the smile from her lips. It wasn’t the rugged symmetry of his fine visage and form that stilled her breath and kept her awake most of last night. It wasn’t the way the soft firelight reflected all the different hues of gold and green in his steely eyes when he set them on her, revealing an inner struggle he fought to win against himself.
No, she didn’t trust herself to speak to Colin Campbell and not beg him to visit her lonely child because of the way he’d playfully tossed Edmund back into bed—the way a father might have done when bidding his beloved son good night. Because of the way he and Edmund had smiled at each other afterward, as if some bond of trust and affection had passed between them that could not be broken.
Did Colin have children of his own? Lord, she knew nothing about him. All those questions she imagined putting to him to help her gain more of William’s favor were forgotten the moment she looked at Colin’s face.
Another thought occurred to her now that made her shift her sore buttocks on the rocks. Did he have a wife? She glanced at George and considered a way of asking him without raising his suspicions that she queried for any other reason than simple curiosity.
“He’s my friend, Mummy.” Edmund grinned around his thumb.
“I know, darling.” She winked at him and returned her gaze to George. “Mr. Campbell knows many games. I wonder if he has children of his own.”
“What other games?” George asked, his sharp eyes falling to her.
Gillian inhaled a long, silent breath. Damn her faithful friend for catching her error. She smiled, hoping Edmund remained silent about magic daggers and flying through the air and landing in a downy mattress. “Naughts and Crosses,” she reminded her guardian, “hunting crabs, swordplay, angling. He must have little ones back in Breadalbane.”
“Nephews,” George muttered, turning back to the water. “He mentioned visiting them before he came here.”
But was he wed? Had he mentioned a woman? God’s teeth, how could she ask without sounding smitten? She would mention Colin no more. In fact, she wouldn’t spare him another thought. What did she care anyway if he had a wife? He was a hired henchman, likely with little coin in his pocket. There was nothing he could do to help her, and trying would be too dangerous to Edmund.
“Pull, Edmund!” George shouted, wrenching her from her thoughts. “Pull now!”
She looked at the pole, one end clenched in Edmund’s tight fists, and the other dipping low in the water.
“Mummy!”
Gates sprang forward at Edmund’s cry and covered his hands before he let go and lost the pole. They tugged one last time and then almost fell backward when a fish sprang from the depths and wriggled frantically from the end of the tread.
Much shouting and jumping ensued—until the fish stopped moving and George informed them that it was dead.
“Why did it die?”
“Come now,” the captain said between Edmund’s tears and a yawn. “It’s time for your nap.” They packed up after that, the thrill of angling losing a bit of its appeal to Edmund, and went home.
Gillian gave
the courtyard a brief looking over and then continued on toward the doors, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t disappointed at who wasn’t there. She would have liked it if Mr. Campbell had seen their fish. That was all. Where was the harm in that? The man had spent two days making the angle. She wanted him to know it had worked.
“Colin!”
She cursed the heart flipping in her chest. She was utterly deranged to let it quake at the thought of speaking to him. But she couldn’t stop it. She was completely mad to allow herself to trust that there was good in any man… especially a Highland mercenary, but someplace deep inside her wanted to trust him.
She looked up to find Colin exiting the Great Hall, looking revived and remarkably refreshed for a man bent on training every hour of the day. Edmund broke away from her and ran the short distance to him.
“I caught a fish!”
“I see ye did.” Mr. Campbell’s eyes settled on her for an instant before moving onward to the limp body caught on his gorge. “ ’Tis a decent sized one, too.”
“Captain Gates helped me.”
Campbell met George’s level gaze and smiled mildly. “That’s what friends do, aye, Captain?”
George appeared only slightly discomfited before he squared his shoulders and nodded. “Of course.”
“Colin.” Edmund tugged on his belt and waited while Mr. Campbell squatted before him. “The fish died.”
“They cannot breathe out of water fer too long, lad.”
Gillian liked how he said “lad.” She liked how he explained things to Edmund, and that he did so at eye level.
“I don’t want to kill them. I want to keep them.”
Colin scowled, making his eyes even more mesmerizing beneath his dark brow. He looked at the fish, and then at her son, and appeared to be battling yet another dilemma. “Sometimes, killing is…” His jaw rolled around words he reconsidered at the last instant. “Is not always necessary. I can show Captain Gates how to remove the gorge without harm to the fish. Then ye need only to throw it back into the water.”
Gillian smiled. She couldn’t help it after seeing the relief and joy on her son’s face.
“But ye cannot keep them, lad. They need water to live.”
“Come now.” George motioned them forward. “The boy is tired.”
“Just a moment, please, Captain.” Gillian stopped him and looked down at her son. “Edmund, thank Mr. Campbell for his gift.”
“There’s no need,” he told her, straightening.
She looked up, the trace of a smile hovering about her lips, sincere and determined not to fade under his cool regard. “I would have my son appreciate a kindness.”
His jaw hardened, but he didn’t argue and accepted Edmund’s gratitude graciously.
“I have to get back,” he said and swept a wooden sword from beneath his belt. “Good day, Edmund. My lady. Captain.”
He was gone before Gillian could bid him farewell.
“We must smell worse than I thought,” George said, quite innocently, moving on toward the stairs.
Gillian eyed him, then shook her head at his back. Aye, that’s why Mr. Campbell fled their presence like they had the plague. It had nothing to do with her guardian’s black warnings to slice him up thinly should he get too close to her.
Ah, dearest George. He meant well.
Chapter Eleven
Colin whirled on his heels and blocked a blow to his head an instant before it would have rendered him unconscious.
“You are distracted, mon ami,” Philippe Lefevre backed up in his polished boots, lowered his waster, and gave him a pitiful look.
Colin smiled and waited for the Frenchman to regain his breath. “Too much wine with my morning meal.” He’d had but one sip, but Lefevre was correct. He was distracted, and Lady Gillian Dearly was to blame.
He knew he shouldn’t have made that damn angle for Edmund. He had feared, while he pinched his fingers on the sharp gorge more times than he could count, that he was going soft. But to have her think him kind? To see her smile at him as if he were some sort of champion from his mother’s books? Hell, he deserved to have his skull cracked open by Lefevre’s blade. Mayhap, ’twould knock some sense into him. What the hell was he doing wasting his time fashioning toys for a lad who pouted at the thought of killing a fish? Unable to sleep at night, haunted by the sound of a lute played by a woman whose son meant more than her dignity?
He swung his waster before him, loosening his arm and scattering his unwanted thoughts. “Ye’re not done already, are ye?”
The Frenchman grinned, swept a lock of blond hair off his shoulder, and raised his weapon. “You enjoy being beaten then?” He rushed forward and brought down his wooden sword hard against Colin’s.
Aye, battle was what Colin desired. He needed nothing more than the rush of chopping his blade across another, the intensity of avoiding being cut in half, the thrill of knowing he could best any man who came against him. Soon, practice would end and he would stand among the dead, victorious, champion of a cause far greater than love.
But when?
“ ’Tis a dreary place, this,” he said, casting his eyes toward the gravestones rising along Dartmouth’s walls. “Does the earl never receive guests, then?”
“Guests?” Lefevre blocked a jab to his ribs and then another to his legs.
“Aye, my cousin in Glen Orchy mentioned other nobles who support Prince William. Yet it appears Devon is alone in this endeavor to see the prince on the throne.”
“You mean the invitation.” Lefevre drove him back, raining a series of hammering blows upon Colin’s waster. The Frenchman was slight of frame, but his strikes were delivered with purpose.
“Invitation?” Colin pretended ignorance… and poor skill, letting his opponent’s blade swish across his belly without proper defense. “They are all coming to sign the same letter then?”
“The letter has been sent to them.” Lefevre corrected, knocking the wind out of him. “It shouldn’t be too long now before it’s returned and ready to be sent off to Holland.”
Then the prince’s arrival was closer than they expected. Colin leaped to the right, avoiding a strike to his thigh, and brought his blade down hard on Lefevre’s forearm.
His opponent backed away, rubbed his arm, and then came at him again. Colin deflected the blow but was surprised by a counterattack to his calf. Lefevre’s waster caught him up on one foot and set his arse to the ground.
He looked up. “How many signatures does the prince require?”
“Seven.”
Seven traitors to the throne. Colin wanted their names to give to the king. He rolled away from the thick slab of wood coming at his face and bounded back to his feet, positioning his sword to strike.
“Who are they?”
Lefevre shrugged his shoulders and then held up his hand, giving up the fight. “I need water.” He frowned when Colin shook his head at him. “Forgive me for lacking the stamina of a relentless young bull. Age will slow you too one day, mon ami.”
“Ye are out of form because ye don’t practice, not because ye are a few years older than me.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Lefevre agreed with an amiable smile. “If we are going to be fighting the Catholics, I should be better prepared, no?”
Colin nodded. “Aye, ye should.” Else his long-awaited battle would be over before it began. “And I shall help ye.”
From over Lefevre’s shoulder, his eye caught Captain Gates exiting the castle. Behind him was Lady Gillian.
“How did you come to be here, Campbell? I thought all you Scots were Catholics.”
Colin smiled, returning his attention to his weary comrade. “I thought all ye French were, as well.”
Lefevre laughed and handed him over to Gerard Hampton, a much bigger opponent.
“You’ll need one of those pistols you carry to stop me.” The giant grinned down at him. “And I’ll never give you the time to load them.”
“Then I shall k
eep them ready to fire at all times,” Colin replied with a friendly grin of his own and readied himself for his next set. He nodded to Gates as the captain passed him, then let his gaze skim over the lady following, not certain why her glance back made him feel more lighthearted than when he’d sat at Duncan Campbell’s table and gained proof of William of Orange’s treason.
The flash of alarm in her eyes alerted Colin to Hampton’s strike. He ducked, pivoted on his heel, and entered the fray.
Hampton’s blows would have been painful if he’d managed to land any. His size made him as slow as a fly in molasses, unfortunately giving Colin more time to look at Lady Gillian while she tended to a tiny garden in the cemetery. She appeared as delicate as the blossoms she was planting but he remembered the cool control she possessed while her cousin tried to humiliate her, the fiery pride in her gaze while she played Martin’s lute in the Great Hall, the lioness demanding he give account for abandoning her son. Hell, her strength and defiance ignited his blood, tempted him to give chase and conquer.
She wore her hair in a long plait over and down her shoulder to her waist. A shaft of light peeked through the clouds and fell directly on her, as if God’s roving eye had spotted something so bonny, He took pause to have a better look.
“I’ll take it from here.” Captain Gates relieved Hampton and stepped into his place, his sword unsheathed and dangling from his right hand. “Throw down your waster and choose your sword, Campbell.” He moved forward slowly, relaxed and fully centered on Colin. “Let us see if your eyes still roam when you’re fighting for your life.”
He didn’t pounce while Colin released his waster and reached for his claymore, rather than the thinner English swords resting uselessly against the western wall. Instead, he took a step back and waited until Colin took position.
“Interesting choice,” Gates acknowledged, sweeping his eyes over the long blade.
Colin didn’t answer, but circled him, ready for a strike. He had the feeling he wasn’t facing the same man from practice a few nights ago. But he was. Gates was clever indeed, mayhap almost as clever as Colin. The captain hadn’t needed to best him the first time they met at blades. He’d chosen the craftier path of catching his prey. By watching them first, same as Colin caught his. He was intelligent and dangerous. Colin was going to have to be more careful around him.
