by Tarah Scott
“Aye,” Cameron said. “Campbells.”
Marcus surged to his feet. He strode to the wall, where hung the claymore belonging to his ancestor Ryan MacGregor, the man who saved their clan from annihilation. Marcus ran a finger along the blade, the cold, hard steel heating his blood as nothing else could. Except… Campbells.
Had two centuries of bloodshed not been enough?
Fifty years ago, King George finally proclaimed the MacGregors no longer outlaws and restored their Highland name. General John Murray, Marcus's great uncle, was named clan chief. Only recently, the MacGregors were given a place of honor in the escort, which carried the “Honors of Scotland” before the sovereign. Marcus had been there, marching alongside his clansmen.
Too many dark years had passed under this cloud. Would the hunted feeling Ryan MacGregor experienced ever fade from the clan? Perhaps it would have been better if Helena hadn't saved Ryan that fateful day so long ago. But Ryan had lived, and his clan thrived, not by the sword, but by the timeless power of gold. Aye, the Ashlund name Helena gave Ryan saved them. Yet, Ryan MacGregor's soul demanded recompense.
How could Ryan rest while his people still perished?
Marcus removed his hand from the sword and faced his father. “It's time the MacGregors brought down the Campbell dogs.”
* * *
Feminine laughter spilled from the kitchen into the great hall during the evening meal. Marcus sighed with contentment. Light from sconces flickered like a great, filmy curtain across the room. Two serving girls carrying trays of food stepped from the kitchen, and the men, who blocked the doorway, parted. The sense of contentment came as an almost unconscious realization. He had missed sharing the evening meal with his clansmen. Marcus leaned forward, arms crossed in front of him on the table, and returned his attention to the conversation with Cameron and Daniel.
“We will be ready at first light, laird,” Daniel said.
“The Campbells will not be expecting trouble,” Cameron put in.
“If word has reached them that I've returned, they may be,” Marcus said.
Cameron grunted. “Lot of good it will do.”
The feminine voice Marcus had been waiting for filtered out from within the kitchen. “Easy now, Andrea,” Elise said.
The conversation between his father and Daniel faded as Marcus watched for her amongst the men who crowded between the door and table. The thought of seeing her beautiful body heated his blood. Elise stepped from the kitchen, balancing a plate of salmon. She passed the table's end where he sat and carefully picked her way through the men until reaching the middle of the table. She set the oval platter between the chicken and mutton.
“Beth, place the carrots to the left. Andrea—” She took the plate of potatoes from the girl, then set it to the right and turned toward the kitchen.
“Elise,” one of the young warriors called, “come, talk with us, lass.”
Her mouth quirked. “If I play with you, who will finish dinner?”
The man's hearty chuckle gave evidence she hadn't fooled him, and he approached with friends in tow.
Cameron stood. “Elise,” he called over the men's heads, “come here.”
She turned. When her gaze met Cameron's, warmth filled her eyes. She dried her hands on her apron and headed in his direction.
“Go on, lads,” Cameron said to the men who teased her. “You have better things to do than dally with the lassies.”
When she came within arm's reach, he gripped her shoulders. “Meet my son. He's returned today.” He turned her.
Her gaze met Marcus's. Her smile faltered but quickly transformed into polite civility. “We've met.”
“Oh?” Cameron replied, all innocence.
“Yes. He came by when Tavis, Bonnie, and I were on our way home this afternoon.”
“Ahh,” Cameron said, then turned and gave the man beside him an energetic greeting.
Elise looked again at Marcus and motioned toward the kitchen. “I have work to do.”
“Aye,” he said. The memory of her breasts pressed against his chest caused him to harden.
She backed up a few steps, then turned and ran headlong into the man behind her. He reached to steady her. A flush colored her cheeks and Marcus bit back a laugh when she dodged the warrior. Marcus leaned forward, catching one last look at her backside before she disappeared through the kitchen door.
Chapter Three
At the sound of horses padding past the cottage she shared with Winnie, Elise looked up from the table where sat the teacup she had been refilling. She glanced from the curtained window to Winnie, who remained bent over her needlework. Elise took two steps to the fireplace, hooked the kettle over the fire, and went to the window. She pulled back the lace curtain to see a procession of warriors filing past the cottages.
Marcus MacGregor rode at the head of the company. He sat straight, his body shifting in easy motion with the horse's rhythmic movements. Her father had exuded the same careless confidence. Elise recalled her mother often watching from a window as he rode away. The warmth spreading through Elise now gave her an understanding of what her mother must have felt.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered.
“What?” Winnie called, but she didn't answer, mesmerized as Marcus turned his profile to her and addressed the man to his left.
The edges of his dark hair curled along the line of his ear and down his neck. He smiled. The remembered feel of his solid chest against her breasts arose with surprising intensity. What would his chest feel like beneath her fingers? Her pulse quickened. Where had that thought come from? Marcus's horse disappeared around a sharp turn in the path. Elise surveyed the long line of men following.
“Where are they going?” she murmured.
“To the Hastings Campbells,” Winnie said.
“I thought the MacGregors and Campbells were feuding.”
“They are.”
The last of the men disappeared from view. “Why go then?”
“To deal with Shamus's murderer.”
Elise swung her gaze back to Winnie. “Shamus has been dead two months. Why has Cameron waited so long to bring the guilty man before the law?”
“Cameron is the law,” Winnie replied.
A tremor rippled through Elise. Price, too, had appointed himself law. “How can Cameron be impartial? It is his kin who was murdered.”
The housekeeper grunted. “How impartial should he be?”
“Surely he wouldn't kill in cold blood?”
Winnie's head snapped up. “Cold blood? What the Campbells done—killing Shamus—that was cold blood.”
Elise realized she had crushed the curtain and released it. She crossed to the table and grasped the back of the chair across from Winnie. “Has Cameron identified the killer?”
“Each kinsman is responsible for the other.”
Elise stared. “Have you any idea what you are saying?”
“Every Highlander will tell you the same.”
“Even the Highlands of Scotland can't be so uncivilized as to seek recompense of the guilty party's neighbors. The man who committed the crime, he alone is responsible.”
“Mayhap,” Winnie said as she squinted at the tiny stitching. “But his kinsmen would have to hand him over to his accusers, and the Campbells are not known for thinking themselves guilty for ridding the world of a MacGregor.”
Elise kept her tight grip on the chair. Would the MacGregors hand her over to Price? Would the ten thousand pound reward sway them? “So an entire clan will suffer for one man's wickedness?”
“'Tis a funny thing you'll find in the clans,” Winnie said, her attention intent on the sewing. “Some do nothing but fight. Others are peaceful, while some are just plain scoundrels. Whatever they are, 'tis generally agreed amongst themselves. Like begets like. If a man differs, he can take refuge elsewhere.”
Warmth rippled through Elise. Just as she had taken refuge here. She watched Winnie stitch the intricate needlework on the linen
blanket meant for Chloe's new baby. How much like her were these people? Sadness wound through her. What did it matter? When Price finally believed she had perished at sea and stopped advertising the notice, she would then board a ship without fear a bounty hunter was looking for her. Her wedding band, hidden behind a loose stone in the ladies' drawing room, would buy passage to America. There she would testify that she shot Robert in defense of her brother and herself.
Would her word be enough? She wasn't the only person who had survived the sinking of the Amelia. Someone had reported to Price that she shot Robert. Was that person friend or foe? Would that person try to stop her from bringing Price Ardsley to his knees? Elise startled at the realization that she intended to dispense her own brand of justice.
“Justice isn't always what it should be,” she murmured.
Winnie snorted. “It is the law of the land—every land—and the Campbells know it. They're a bloodthirsty lot.” Her countenance softened and she nodded toward her teacup. “Fill my cup.”
The normalcy of the request loosened the tightening in Elise's stomach. She retrieved the kettle from the fire and poured hot water into Winnie's cup, then dropped in a tea ball.
“You canna' know,” Winnie began, still working her stitching, “what it is to have everyone against ye, even your own king.”
Elise returned the kettle to its place and seated herself at the table. Her soul grew heavy at hearing how more than two hundred years ago the government gave the Campbells all MacGregor land, heedless of the fact the property was occupied.
“Even the MacGregor name was outlawed,” Winnie said. “Our line would have died if not for Ryan MacGregor.”
Winnie went on to tell how the foresight of a single man saved an entire people. Ryan MacGregor, traitor to the Scottish crown, married a woman wealthy enough to shun the insidious alliance of the merchants and government, then bought land and furnished his people with weapons to keep it.
“How he angered the Campbells,” she said with satisfaction. “We still lived and died by the sword, mind you, for a Campbell cannot bear to see a MacGregor at peace. But we had a sword to fight with.”
But the horror had only begun, Elise realized as Winnie went on. The political tide then turned against all Highlanders.
“Clearances, they call it. Evictions.” Winnie jabbed her needle into the cloth. “Murder. Our chiefs evicted us. Their own kin. All in the name of progress. But the Duchess of Sutherland, she is the devil incarnate. Ninety families, she started with, but the numbers got as high as two thousand families in a single day.”
Elise gasped. “Dear God, how is that possible?”
“It happened.”
“Who is this duchess?”
“The most powerful woman in all Scotland—mayhap, the world. She owns tens of thousands of acres of land. When she realized ranching held better profit than farming, she began evictions. Thousands thrown out of their homes no matter their age or infirmity. Many were left by the wayside to die like animals. Not a family lives who hasn't been touched by the clearances. My great uncle Duncan McKay,” Winnie's voice grew shaky, “he and his family, caught in the dead of night. Four bairns burned in their beds.”
Elise's throat constricted at the picture of burning beds and children screaming for their parents.
Soundless tears rolled down Winnie's cheeks. “Duncan lived, poor devil, despite being nearly burned to death. They brought him here.”
“Here?” Elise asked in a choked voice.
“Aye. My mother was Cameron's father's healer, then his for many years. But she couldna' do a thing for Duncan. He could have lived, or so she said, but the spirit died with his wife and children. There are others, but Duncan I remember best.” She looked up “Have you ever seen a man burned?”
Unreasonable panic rose with the memory of the fire that had so quickly spread across the Amelia's cabin floor. Elise shook her head.
“Pray you never do.” Winnie returned to her embroidering. “The Campbells stood alongside the duchess. They had government and church sanction. We were to be broken, you see. It did not matter that our men fought for the crown while their families died at home. We never bowed to their authority and that pricked them.”
“And the Campbells,” Elise said, “they took part in the… the…”
“Aye.” Winnie nodded. “They made it their business to see to the MacGregors.”
Elise's heart swelled when she learned of those few leaders who stood by their own. Of how the MacLeod chiefs improved the lives of their clansmen by ensuring their monies were shared amongst the people. The MacDonalds, too, had not partaken in the atrocities.
“Then,” Winnie said, her voice softening, “we have the MacGregor.”
Warmth emanated from her as she related how Cameron MacGregor, along with his young son, Marcus, defended their people. Only a few scant years ago Marcus picked up the gauntlet passed from father to son and returned to Brahan Seer with over a hundred ragged and defeated Highlanders. They were all he could save from the Sutherlund riots at Gruids.
“The Campbells were there,” Winnie went on. “They gained noble rank—at the expense of the MacGregors. It's our wealth they stole. But we didn't lay down for it—and how they hate us for it.” Her fingers convulsed on the embroidery needle. “They hate Cameron even more because he offered asylum to any Highlander. Two years ago, Marcus met them with a fist of iron when he attacked the Bannatyne Campbells.”
“Dear God, why?”
“Katie MacGregor. If you had seen what they did to the lass—” Winnie forced the needle through the soft linen as if it was leather and gave a sudden cry.
A small pearl of blood splotched the beige cloth from beneath.
“Winnie!” Elise jumped to her feet.
Winnie snatched up the cloth and began sucking the blood from the linen. Elise grabbed the rag hanging over the hearth and wrapped it around Winnie's finger. Elise gripped it tightly, stanching the flow of blood. Winnie examined the cloth, then began sucking again.
“Shall I fetch some water?” Elise asked.
“Nae,” Winnie replied, still sucking. “The saliva of the blood's owner is what takes blood from cloth.” She looked at the cloth. The blood had disappeared. “This isn't the first MacGregor blood spilled because of Campbells, and it will not be the last.”
A chill snaked through Elise. Would the next dead MacGregor be amongst those who just set out for Campbell land?
* * *
Elise bolted upright in bed, the echo of a scream giving way to the pounding in her ears. She looked wildly about the room but, instead of flames surrounding her as they had an instant before, only the hearth burned with soft, red embers. A faint light radiated from the coals. She gulped a deep breath upon recognizing the shadowed contours of the cottage she shared with Winnie. Which dream had awoken her this time? The one where she hadn't escaped her stateroom before it went up in flames, or the one where the flames of hell surrounded her?
Dear God, forgive me.
She choked back tears. He might forgive her, but Amelia and Steven wouldn't.
“Elise.”
Elise jerked her attention to the far side of the room where Winnie slept.
“What is amiss?” the housekeeper asked in a sleep-laden voice. “You cried out—” Her gaze swung in the direction of the door. “What in God's name?”
The insistent knocking at the door penetrated Elise's brain and she realized the noise had yanked her from the dream.
Winnie threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. She draped a wrap about her shoulders and hurried to the door. “Who is it?” She yanked open the door. “Mary, girl,” Winnie growled at the maid, “you had better—”
“The men have returned,” the maid interrupted. “They're demanding supper.”
“Mother of God,” Winnie whispered. “Go along, child. I will follow in a minute.” She shoved the door shut and scampered on tiptoe across the drafty floor to her bed.
“I'll
come,” Elise said as Winnie pulled off her shift and reached for the grey dress draped over her bed's foot board.
“No need.” Winnie slipped the dress over her head.
Elise got to her feet. “No sense lying here while you work.”
She quickly dressed, then grabbed the plaide from the foot of her bed and draped it over her shoulders as she followed Winnie out the door.
Minutes later, Elise slowed two paces into the kitchen, startled by the grim silence that pressed in about the room. Winnie hastened to the counter where Mary and another girl were placing mutton and chicken on platters. Elise shook off the morose feeling and tossed the plaide she wore onto the counter, then hurried forward to join in the preparations.
“Nae, Wilma,” Winnie admonished. “Leave the plate of mutton. You and Mary fetch wine from the cellar. The men will sleep better with a little help.”
The girls hurried off. Cold chicken, bread, and peas were quickly placed on platters. Elise took the platter Winnie placed in her hands and headed for the great hall.
The camaraderie which generally characterized gatherings in the eating hall was absent. When Elise set the peas on the table, her heart stirred at sight of the men's exhausted faces. She cast a furtive glance at Marcus. The hard set of his mouth and hollow eyes startled her. What had happened to the carefree devil who held her in his arms only a few days ago? She returned to the kitchen.
“Take those.” Winnie pointed to the bottles of wine sitting on the table, then turned back to the bread she had unwrapped from its cloth cover.
Elise hesitated. Four uneventful months at Brahan Seer had dulled her senses. Why hadn't she realized Cameron's son would be with his men tonight? A tremor rocked her belly. Neither had she considered that he could have read the wanted notice for Elisabeth Kingston while in London. He was far more sophisticated than Michael and, surely, far less trusting. Given time, would Marcus MacGregor recognize Elise as the nickname for Elisabeth?
“Elise.”
She snapped from her thoughts and saw Winnie staring expectantly at her. Elise grabbed the bottles of wine on the table and reentered the hall. Marcus's plate was untouched. She set the wine on the table. His gaze met and held hers for an instant before he shoved back his chair and rose.
