The Wicked Viscount (The Campbells)

by Heather McCollum

  “Lady Campbell,” James said, his voice stern. “It is time for you to retreat.”

  “Your majesty,” she said, but didn’t turn her eyes from the dark leer of Wallace Danby. “I am at your service against these liars.”

  “Put down your weapons,” Nathaniel said.

  “Five against two,” Danby said, his brow going up.

  “After the blood I saw from Cat beating you soundly,” Nathaniel said, his voice as dark as the cold stare on his face. “I would think you would count her. She is a Highlander, which, as you have witnessed, trumps two Englishmen.”

  Danby frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Fine,” he said, his gaze still on Nathaniel. “He is just like his brother, Worthington. Before you know it, he will be ordering you to kill more covenanters and Presbyterians up in Scotland like at Bothwell Bridge. He acts like he is for religious freedom, but before you know it, we will all be made to kiss statues of saints.”

  Damn the man. Danby thought to remind her that she should change sides against them. “Free your country from Catholic tyranny,” Danby called out. “Kill Worthington, too, and his Highland warrior in black,” Danby laughed. “We will say we came upon them killing the king.”

  “Attack these traitors,” King James called, pointing his sword at Danby and the two guards standing with him. Iain Padley stood by the bushes, a short sword in his hand as he waited to see how the tide would turn before he threw in with one side or another. Dr. Witherspoon held his sword pointed toward Nathaniel, though his hand shook.

  Nathaniel met the doctor’s gaze. “I thought you saved lives, doctor. I am fairly sure they discourage killing in medical school. Honor and integrity have no place in a man murdering a king in cold blood.”

  The doctor’s face tightened in the light of the lanterns brought by the guards. “My son followed Charles’s orders to quell the height of Scottish Presbyterianism.” He kept his sword pointed at Nathaniel. “I believe he even served under you, Lieutenant Worthington, and followed you to his death. I made many vows when your troops brought me his bloodless body, ones that yes, went against my training as a doctor. But I am a man and a father first, and I will not live under more tyranny.”

  Bellowing his final word, he ran toward Nathaniel. The doctor wasn’t a trained swordsman and slashed toward Nathaniel with abandon. He’d have had a much better chance of success if he’d lunged at James, who held a thin rapier. Nathaniel easily hit the sword from the doctor’s hand with the lethal grace of a Highland warrior and brought the woven steel basket of his Scottish broadsword down on Witherspoon’s skull.

  Cat charged toward Nathaniel as he stood. “Run for help,” he yelled at her.

  “Bloody hell that,” she yelled back and tried to step before James. “Ye don’t trust in my abilities.”

  “Woman, you are in the way,” James cried, trying to push her behind him.

  Danby came at Nathaniel, but Nathaniel had trained these many months with the Campbell warriors, learning to fight with lethality over style in a fencing arena. Danby slashed high, and Nathaniel dove under to pivot around, meeting the man as he swung again. They stood nose to nose between crossed swords. Cat wished to help but didn’t want to distract him as he showed the arseworm his mighty strength. She threw one of her daggers at the back of a guard who raised his sword against James. It struck him in the upper shoulder from the back, and James finished him off swiftly.

  Danby’s words caught her ear, and she spun back to Nathaniel’s fight. “You could have been powerful in the new parliament,” Danby said.

  “A parliament of men who kill kings and rape women,” he replied, shoving Danby to bring his sword point around.

  “I needed a reason for sending the guards away from the garden. Lucy seemed like a very luscious reason.”

  Nathaniel slammed his sword upward to deflect the attack from the one remaining guard. Without hesitation, Cat threw her dagger, hitting the guard in the gut. He grunted and fell forward. There was no time for the roll of nausea in her stomach. She spun, grasping her remaining sgian dubh as she noticed another man move within the shelter of the shadows, a tiny spark making her blood rush.

  “A musket,” she yelled, turning in time to see Nathaniel slice downward, crushing through Danby’s defense, his blade shooting forward to skewer the nobleman through his chest. Danby fell off the sword as Nathaniel yanked it free. The bastard dropped to the dirt as Nathaniel spun away from him, looking for the spark that marked the lit musket.

  Cat aimed at the bushes with her last dagger, balancing it loosely in her hand. Where are you? Just like the boar in the thicket in Killin, she couldn’t see exactly where the man stood. She missed her bow, her sister, her home. A wave of emotion made her tremble, and she inhaled slowly, willing her heart to calm. If she missed and lost her last dagger, she’d be defenseless.

  “The musket,” Cat yelled again, glancing back at the king who fell the one remaining guard. To her horror, Nathaniel leaped in front of the king, blocking him. Cat’s gaze snapped around to focus on the lit match in the bushes. Please God.

  With the prayer, she lunged forward and released her last dagger through the air. She heard the blade hit, the man yell, and the gun fire all on top of one another. Spinning, she saw Nathaniel on the ground, covering the king, and her chest contracted. Oh God! Nathaniel!

  …

  Nathaniel rolled over just as Cat dropped to the ground before him. “Are ye shot?” she asked, one hand reaching out to grasp his shoulder, while the other pawed open his jacket in search of blood. She was so close that he could pull her into him, but he didn’t, he wouldn’t, not when he still condemned himself for keeping his past from her.

  “No,” he said softly, relishing the feel of her touch, trying to capture the moment in memory, knowing she’d never do so willingly again.

  “They are all dispatched,” James said, dragging Matthew Hunt out from the bushes, the musket still in his hands and Cat’s dagger lodged in his throat.

  Nathaniel waited until Cat pulled away, her fingers curling in on themselves, curling into tight fists. He rolled to his feet. The numerous lanterns in the clearing lit the macabre scene, and he could see the marks she’d earned earlier on her knuckles.

  “You are hurt.”

  Her braid was flung out to the side, dirt smudged along one cheek. She frowned and shook her head, looking away from him. “Very little.”

  “We must go,” James said, over the shouts of guards running out from the palace, probably summoned by the musket exploding. He was right. Without knowing which side these men stood, the three of them could find themselves fighting twenty guards armed with muskets.

  James ran down one of the paths, his sword before him, leaving the lights behind. Nathaniel grabbed Cat’s less injured hand, tugging her to hurry the way they had come from the castle. They had done their duty keeping the king alive when he was attacked, but now Nathaniel would ensure that she reached the palace safely.

  They kept to the maze of tall holly hedges, their hands still together until they rounded a tight turn. Then they sprinted as quietly as possible to the massive stone wall of the palace where two doors remained unguarded. Sliding inside, they raced up the steps to the gallery floor. No one stood now with lanterns. There were likely more involved, and if Lord Stanton was dictating matters, many of those wishing to be part of the new parliament were probably part of the plot. Had they killed King Charles? Without the king’s body or a confession, there was no way to know.

  At Cat’s door, he tried to push his way inside, but the door wouldn’t open. He turned to find her silently holding the key and stepped aside while she sank it in the lock, turning it.

  “See,” she whispered, a lightness in her voice. “I sometimes follow orders.”

  She entered first, with Nathaniel on her heels. He went to the fire and picked up the fire fork to revive the dying embers, placing some coal on several red embers. When he rose, Cat sat on the edge of her bed watching him, her face pi
nched. “I can do that,” she said.

  “I know you can.” He walked to the wash stand to wet a cloth for her injured hand.

  Unspoken words lay heavy in the room, the weight of them thickening the silence. He went to the door, placing the key back in the lock and turning it before going to her. She let him lift her hand where the skin was rubbed bloody from hitting Lord Hunt with her knuckles. “These will bruise,” he said, his voice low as he washed away the dirt and blood. “I will ask Jane to bring around a poultice for the cuts.” Her hand felt so small in his, fragile, and yet Cat was so strong and brave.

  He opened his mouth and closed it twice before words came. “My father had pressed me to join the English army to gain experience, and I advanced rapidly. The men I commanded when I became lieutenant…they became my family of sorts. I led them with strategic forethought to keep loss of life to a minimum. I had planned for light casualties on both sides at Bothwell Bridge. If the covenanters had been merely worshipping, there would have been none dead. It was not, however, a simple conventicle but a series of meetings to plot Charles’s assassination.”

  He stopped, his gaze rising to the beamed ceiling. “I do not recall seeing your father there, but there were many Scots who yearned for battle.”

  He looked back to Cat, his blood pounding through his ears as his gaze locked with hers. “I did not tell you that I was in command at first because it would have made our journey more difficult, and then upon reaching Hollings I was reminded of my oath to Charles to not spread word that the rebels were organized. He wanted to dispel the truth that Scotland was truly rebelling against the monarchy. And then…”

  His mouth pinched into a deep frown as he searched for words, the right words, but there were none. “Then I gave in to the passion flaring between us, Cat, and it was too late. I am sorrier than a simple word can represent.” Her beautiful eyes remained locked to his. Could she read the guilt he harbored?

  He shook his head. “But I cannot bring myself to regret anything that transpired between us, just my failure to confide in you beforehand.”

  No answer came from her, but he didn’t expect one. “Lock the door and sleep. Tomorrow is likely to be long and arduous.”

  Her gaze dropped to the knuckles he’d cleaned and wrapped. She didn’t utter a word, and he exhaled. There was nothing more he could say. He walked to the door and stepped out into the dark corridor to lean against the wall until he heard the key turn in the lock.

  …

  The pinkish light from the window showed it to be just past dawn.

  After Nathaniel had left, Cat had lain awake, her body exhausted but her mind whirling. There was no denying the heart-pounding fear she’d felt at the thought of him being shot, again, when they were out in the gardens. That hadn’t changed since the first time she’d seen him drop from a bullet wound, except now her simple infatuation with the large, powerful Englishman had changed into something much more.

  More what?

  Dangerous?

  Aye, for she’d seen what love could do. Her mother had shown how terrible it was to love a man, even when he grew belligerent, and have him taken from you. Cat had sworn never to let herself do so.

  In the hallway beyond her door, Cat heard voices, female voices. She slid from the warmth of her covers, still wearing her black trousers from the night before. The room was cold, and she was thankful she hadn’t stripped out of them to put the thin shift back on. Cat padded on bare toes to the door while running her fingers through her wild curls.

  “I know her room is down this hall. Her lady’s maid said it was opposite a painting of a unicorn.”

  “How do you know she is even still in bed?” the other woman asked. It sounded like Francis Wickley.

  “It is still early, and she has not been in any salon this morning.”

  “Perhaps she has run back to Scotland after the card game last eve,” Francis said, disdain pinching her voice.

  “I cannot imagine Lady Campbell running away from anything,” said the first woman, who spoke loud enough that Cat could tell it was Lucy Kellington. “Here it is.” Rap. Rap.

  Grabbing the key, Cat turned it in the lock and pulled the door open.

  Lucy jumped back with a little gasp. “Lady Campbell,” she said, her eyes wide for a moment before she smiled. “You are so quick.”

  “Good morning.” Cat met Lucy’s gaze and then the tight-lipped face of Francis.

  “May we come in?” Lucy asked. “I wish to…to ask you something,” she said, lowering her voice.

  Cat backed up. “I have just stepped from my bed,” she said as they pushed through the doorway. She rubbed her cheek, which likely sported creases from her pillow, and walked to the night stand where her twisted hair spike waited and coiled her thick curls into a bun, jabbing the hair spike through it to secure the weight.

  “What are you wearing?” Francis asked, her voice so full of arrogance that Cat’s anger threatened to ignite. But she kept it contained, breathing in deeply through her nose.

  “This is my fighting costume,” she said and picked up the two daggers Nathaniel had retrieved for her from the garden last night. “I can slide my blades into these scabbards.” She slid one into the pouch at her hip and another tied against her upper thigh.

  Francis stood gaping while Lucy smiled, her eyes full of excitement. “See, I told you,” she said. “Lady Campbell is a Highland warrior. The duchess asked her to come when she thought King Charles may have been poisoned.”

  “Where have ye heard about me?” Cat asked, frowning.

  “The duchess told Queen Mary when she heard about…your revelations at cards,” Lucy said. “Also, Lord Worthington said that you were trained in defense when he stopped to talk with me in the salon this morning about what happened in the gardens.”

  At the mention of the gardens, Lucy’s cheeks burned with a blush, but she kept talking. “And that brings me to my request,” she said.

  “Request?” Cat asked, grabbing a wet rag to wash her face and teeth. She drank some water that Jane had brought the day before.

  “Yes. I would like to learn to protect myself,” Lucy said, her glance shifting to Francis. “If I was to be attacked again,” she finished softly. “Would you show us some ways to escape. I was frozen with fear last night.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears, and she blinked. “I do not want to feel that way again.”

  “Then do not agree to meet a man at night, you idiot,” Francis said. “I have told you that before.”

  Cat frowned at the judgmental woman. “Just because a woman puts her trust in a villain, does not mean she deserves to be attacked.” She turned to look at Lucy. “And yes, I will teach ye and any other woman who would like to learn. Self-defense is part of the curriculum at the Highland Roses School. We Roses have our thorns.”

  “Tsk,” Francis said. “Teaching ladies to be barbarians. How very Scottish.”

  “Aye,” Cat said, stepping closer to the openly hostile woman. Even in her bare feet, Cat was taller than her, and Cat looked down into her hard gaze. “As a Scottish woman, I have been stalked by English soldiers for no reason other than the fact I lived alone without a man to protect me. They would have raped and possibly killed me, Lady Wickley. When ye find yourself in my position, with your country invaded by barbarians, then ye may desire a lesson or two on how to stay alive.”

  “I would like to know,” Lucy said. “Even if I am not being overrun by soldiers. There are plenty of beasts right here around us in the palace.”

  Cat backed up to unwrap and check her hand, leaving Francis standing still where she’d left her. The woman had no idea what it was like to live alone with villainous soldiers roaming the woods. She’d lived a pampered life in London with her father protecting her, while Cat’s father had spent his time drinking whisky and ranting about the English.

  Turning around, Cat blinked. Francis had tears rolling down her cheeks. Lucy gave her a quick hug and dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchi
ef. “We should learn,” Lucy said softly. “As women, we are too vulnerable, Frannie. Come now, Lady Campbell can teach us.”

  Apparently, Lady Wickley had some horror in her past as well. Cat dipped her scabbed knuckles in the basin and poured clean water over them. “Very well, before we find food, we will have our first lesson. How to break out of a strong grip.” She demonstrated by grabbing her own wrist and then twisting out of it. Her gaze landed on Francis. “Learning to fight to protect yourself will give you confidence to fight against every fiend, even the fiendish ghosts of our pasts.”

  “Goodness. Look at your poor knuckles,” Lucy said, pointing to Cat’s scraped hand. “She punched them both, between the legs with her knee and in the nose with her hand. They fell to the ground.”

  “I have not seen either Lord Danby or Lord Hunt this morning,” Francis said as if she imagined the worst. She obviously had good instincts.

  “Ye will not see either because they are dead,” Cat said. Mouths dropping open, both ladies stared at her. She nodded as she rewrapped her injured hand.

  “You…killed him? Them?” Lucy asked, her hand to her chest.

  “Lord Hunt was aiming a lit musket to shoot the king later last night.”

  Both ladies gasped, hands going to their mouths.

  “I stopped him with a dagger. Wallace Danby, along with a few others, tried to assassinate the king in the garden with swords. Nathaniel killed Danby, and together we dispatched three guards.”

  Both ladies stared at her with saucer-like eyes.

  “I am actually quite hungry,” Cat said when they didn’t move. “Can we find some breakfast?”

  Lucy closed her mouth first and nodded. “Certainly.” Her face pinched, and she blinked. “Wallace is dead?” She looked like she might cry.

  Cat exhaled, softening. Lucy had apparently cared for Danby if she’d been willing to meet him in the first place. “I am sorry, Lucy. It was a battle, sword against sword. Nathaniel was stronger, or he and the king would be dead this morning.”