Page 11

As the sun reached its zenith in the summer sky and the days began to shorten in their steady march toward fall, Lizzie had started to wonder whether her family had forgotten her.

It had been quiet—too quiet.

Except for a short missive from her cousin expressing his relief at her well-being following the attack and vowing retribution for the incident, she hadn't heard anything from Dunoon.

The prolonged silence made it easy to forget the plans for her future and to dream of other things. Things that, were it not for her lingering hurt, would be easy to believe possible.

Lizzie knew she had no cause to be distressed that Patrick Murray had sought his pleasure elsewhere, but it did not stop her mind from torturing itself with images of him doing so every time he ventured into the village. Images that were as sharp and cutting as any knife.

At first, she tried to avoid him. Every time their eyes met she would look away, the tightness in her chest nearly unbearable. But occasionally their gazes would snag for a long heartbeat, and she swore she could see pain that mirrored her own.

As the weeks passed, she found herself grateful for the pain. It was the only thing that prevented her from making a much bigger mistake.

Like doing something foolish and losing her heart.

Patrick had appointed himself her personal guardsman, and his constant presence had begun to fray the edges of her resolve. Whenever the opportunity arose, he was at her side, his intense, enigmatic gaze following where he could not. At meals, in the garden, in the barmkin, he was there. He'd invaded her home, her thoughts, her dreams.

She could not avoid him. Without her even realizing it was happening, a comfortable pattern had developed between them in the natural interweaving of their days. In the morning while she saw to her duties around the keep, he rode or hunted with the other guardsmen. While she tended the garden, he practiced his battle skills in the yard, often stopping on his way to and fro to exchange a word or help carry a basket. If she ventured beyond the castle gate for a walk to the village to visit Alys or for a ride, inevitably he managed to be in the group that accompanied her.

His attentiveness had been noticed, of course, but not remarked upon. Her brother had left instructions that she was to be well guarded, and Donnan, now recovered, had come to rely upon the skilled warrior almost as much as she did.

It alarmed her to realize just how accustomed she'd become to his solid presence.

Still, in many ways he was as much of a mystery to her now as the day she'd first met him. He did seem happier, but sometimes he got that faraway look in his eyes and she knew he was remembering. Her attempts to broach the subject of his past were met with silence or a swift change of topic.

Did the subject cause him too much pain, or was there another reason for his reticence? Lizzie couldn't help but wonder whether he was hiding something. Something was not quite right about him. A little too controlled. Always careful to mask his reaction. Maybe it was simply that she wasn't used to being around guardsmen.

Being so much in his company, however, did not come without a cost. She alternated between not being able to imagine life without him and wishing him thousands of miles away. Her attraction to him had intensified to the point where it felt as if she were jumping out of her skin every time he entered the room.

Though he'd kept his word and not made any attempt to kiss her again, he touched her so often that she could think of little else.

Never had she been so aware of a man. Every detail seemed etched in her mind, from the lines that crinkled around his eyes when he let go a rare smile to the scar that bisected the edge of his right brow, to the way his eyes changed from mossy green to dark emerald with the falling of the light.

And his face. She'd looked for flaws—hoping to find something to bring him down to the level of mere mortal— but further inspection had done nothing to dispel her initial impression. Patrick Murray was simply the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

Her fascination, however, had begun to chafe. She didn't know whom she was angrier with: herself for wanting him or him for making her want him.

Lizzie was no fool; she knew what he was doing. The question was why.

She wiped her brow under the wide brim of her hat and stood up, her legs unsteady after being on her knees in the warm sun for so long. Though there was a small kitchen garden to the west of the keep, the formal—and unusual— terraced gardens to the south were where she spent much of her time. Today, rather than stroll around the grounds, she'd been pulling weeds.

As she walked past the rocky knoll known as “John Knox's Pulpit,”

since Knox's stay at Castle Campbell nearly half a century before, and up the path back to the inner yard, she kept her eyes fastened on the dirt and rocks at her feet, careful to avoid glancing in the direction of the practicing warriors. Her fascination with Patrick Murray had gotten so ridiculous that no longer could she watch his practice—particularly sword practice on warm days.

She'd almost reached the safety of the keep when a large shadow crossed her path. Her step faltered. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, and her skin seemed to hum with the sudden spark that crackled in the air with all the subtlety of lightning.

She didn't need to look up to know who was standing before her.

“Will you be going for your ride as usual this afternoon, my lady?”

Gritting her teeth and willing herself to indifference, she lifted her gaze … and gasped. She couldn't help it.

Chest. All she could see was a naked wall of chest. A tanned, gleaming, naked wall of chest, with muscles rippling like sharp shards of stone chipped from the face of a rocky crag. She couldn't look away, momentarily mesmerized by the wide span of hard—very hard—male flesh. His body had been honed to steely perfection, as much a weapon as the sword he wielded with such ease. Built for battle … and female fantasies.

No man should look like this. Her eyes gorged on the taut, flat stomach and broad shoulders. On the arms as thick and powerfully wrought as any smith's. And on the trickle of sweat that carved a wicked path over the rigid bands of his stomach to disappear beneath the waist of his low-slung trews.

Trews that left very little to the imagination, displaying the powerful muscles of his thighs in formfitting leather. And the prominent bulge …

She shook off her stupor and snapped, “No.”

He took a step closer and she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, mingling with the sultry masculine scent of toil in the sun.

“A walk, then?”

His voice was low and husky, sending a shudder of awareness down her spine. Warmth spread over her like molten lava.

Curse the blighter. He was doing this on purpose. Tormenting her. Making her want him. Eyes narrowed, she met his devilish green-eyed gaze. “You might think to don a shirt before addressing a lady.”

The wretch had the nerve to grin. “My apologies. It must have slipped my mind—with it being so hot and all. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can return—”

“I'm not uncomfortable!”

she shrieked like the madwoman he was turning her into. What had happened to the quiet, sensible woman she'd been before? Trying to calm the rising hysteria, she managed a smile, hoping her face didn't crack. “We wouldn't want to frighten the maids.”

He laughed at her jest and eyed the group of serving women loitering around the well, doing a poor job of pretending not to stare. “I see what you mean,”

he said, folding his arms across his chest.

The muscles flexed and bulged to prodigious—to delicious— proportions. Her eyes widened, and her mouth went utterly dry. Good God, he's magnificent.

She pursed her mouth together like an old shrew and practically hissed, “If that is all, you'll excuse me. I've much work to do.”

She tried to push past him but miscalculated and instead came into full, sizzling contact with the wall of burning-hot skin.

Though they touched for only a second, it didn't matter. The effect, like that of a flame held to dry leaves, was devastating. Her body came alive; every nerve ending combusted with desire. Hot, heavy desire that washed through her veins in a flood of deep, insatiable yearning.

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Whoa. Steady there. You'd best watch your step. There are quite a few rocks around to trip on.”

Lizzie felt her temper blast hot on her cheeks. Frustration turned to anger at the sight of his knowing smile. Her hands balled into tight, rigid fists at her side. “There are very big rocks underfoot, and if they don't stay out of my way, I'll have to see about removing them.”

And with that she spun around and stomped off toward the keep, intending to vent her considerable frustration on some very dusty carpets.

Patrick chuckled, watching her storm away, eyes blazing and face on fire, as prickly as a swarm of angry hornets.

God, she was magnificent. Spirited, passionate, beautiful. A lass any man would be proud to have at his side.

And in his bed.

His slow seduction was working, though he didn't know who was suffering more. Nor did he know how much longer he could be patient.

He spent the days hard as a rock and the nights with his cock in hand, trying to take the edge off his frustration. But erotic dreams were a poor substitute for the woman who inspired them.

His only consolation was that he was not alone in his sexual frustration. Did she touch herself and think of him?

Hell. He adjusted the source of his constant agony and steered his thoughts from silken softness.

How much longer could she resist what was between them?

If her reaction today was any indication, he hoped it wouldn't be too long. Aside from his personal discomfort, his brother was growing impatient, and reining him in had become increasingly difficult as the weeks passed. Patrick was fortunate that Gregor had gone to the Lomond Hills to check on their clansmen—but he would return. Soon.

With that in mind, an hour later, after finishing his practice for the day, he washed and went in search of her.

Frowning, he wondered which of the many tasks left at her feet she was attending to today. Not only did Lizzie fulfill the usual duties of the lady of the keep such as overseeing the household servants and the numerous spinners and weavers tasked with clothing the clansmen, planning the meals, and seeing to the education of the children, she was also serving as lord in her cousin's absence, including arbitrating disputes, overseeing the accounts, and managing the castle affairs. If all that weren't enough, she'd been asked to supervise the large construction project under way to add a hall and chamber range to the existing keep.

Her family demanded too much of her.

Having lived in less-than-extravagant circumstances for much of his life, Patrick was surprised by the amount of work and responsibility in running a castle. After observing her these past weeks, he admired her—more than he should. His mouth fell in a grim line. But it also made him realize how ill prepared he was for such a life—and the birthright denied him. What the hell did he know about being laird?

When he didn't find her in the laird's solar poring over some dusty account ledger, or in the kitchen storerooms going over the week's menus with the cook, he headed toward the clamor of busy craftsmen.

On the south side of the existing keep they were attaching a new hall and then attached to that a chamber range that ran to the east. The structures were nearly complete, and when finished would be far grander than the existing tower house.

Hearing raised voices, he quickened his step. Finally, he found her in one of the small chambers at the end of the east range, arguing with a man he didn't recognize. Her back was to him, and she hadn't heard him approach.

“I'm afraid it cannot be done for less, my lady. The price of stone has soared in the past few months.”

“How can that be when the stone is being quarried from my cousin's holdings?”

“It's the labor in getting it here, my lady. ’Tis not easy work.”

“I fail to see how that has changed, sir. It has always been so.”

He shook his head with exaggerated regret. “I need money to cover my costs. Three hundred more merks on top of what we discussed should suffice.”

He smiled. “For now.”

She waved a piece of parchment in his face. “But we had an agreement.”

He shrugged helplessly. “Circumstances have changed.”

“Don't you mean that the supervision has changed? Would you be demanding more money if my cousin were here?”

The man looked shocked. “You do me a great injustice, my lady. It never occurred to me—”

“Didn't it?”

Patrick could hear the barely restrained fury in her voice. He wanted nothing more than to take the man and toss him against the wall for trying to take advantage of her, but he didn't want to interfere. Nor did he think she would welcome his coming to her rescue—not in this case, at least. He'd learned that Lizzie was more than capable of taking care of the duties that had been thrust upon her. Duties he might have shared under different circumstances.

Thus, he was as surprised as the workman when she said, “Very well.”

The man broke into a wide smile. “I'm relieved that you have recognized the difficulty of the situation. When can I expect the money?”

“You can't.”

The man's face fell. “What? I must have misunderstood—”

“You didn't misunderstand anything. If you do not fulfill the terms of the agreement, you and your men can pack up your belongings and leave.”

Patrick grinned at the stupefied expression on the man's face. Good for her.

“But the earl—”

“As you've no doubt noticed, the earl is not here at pres ent. He's left me in charge. I make all decisions. You can be assured that he will support me on this one when I explain—”

The man's face drained. “That won't be necessary.”

Obviously, he'd underestimated his opponent—a fatal flaw in battle as it was in any context. “There's no cause to bring this matter to the earl's attention. The stone will be here as we agreed upon by the end of the week.”

He hurried away, brushing past Patrick with nary a glance in his eagerness to leave.

As soon as he'd gone, Lizzie sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging with weariness. Something inside him snapped.

Why was she doing this to herself? She was too young to be locked away in this grim castle, weighed down with responsibility that was not hers to shoulder. She should be at parties, being feted, dancing, and enjoying herself.

Or be surrounded by bairns. My bairns, he thought fiercely.

“Why are you doing this?”

She started at the sound of his voice. He hated the way her shoulders stiffened instinctively, as if to ward off attack. From me. The realization struck him cold. She turned her head just enough for him to catch her face unprotected and see the look of exhaustion on her face. It roused every protective instinct inside him.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at him imploringly. “Please, I've not the strength to do battle with you right now.”

Her accusation was well aimed, and Patrick felt a hard stab of guilt. He'd wanted to press her, but not like this— not when she was vulnerable. Right now all he wanted to do was ease the worry from her mind.

He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She tensed but relaxed as his fingers began to knead the tension from her neck. Her skin was warm and velvety, the tiny hairs at the back of her neck as downy soft as the top of a babe's head. She smelled like flowers, and if he dipped his head into her silky blond hair …

He straightened, reminding himself that he'd only meant to soothe her.

“They ask too much of you,”

he said in a low voice. He felt her stiffen. Before she could argue, he spun her around to look into her eyes. “You are doing the work of lord and lady with none of the reward. Does your family realize how much you've sacrificed for them?”

“You're wrong. ’Tis no sacrifice. They ask nothing of me that I do not wish to give.”

He gave her a hard look. “I do not doubt that, Elizabeth. That's what you do: give and give.”

She bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you take care of everyone else before thinking of yourself. You think I don't see what you've done around here. Yet when is the last time you received even a word of thanks?”

Her mouth clamped together. He read the answer in her defiant gaze. “I do not need thanks. I'm happy to help my brothers and cousin where I can.”

“They are taking advantage of you,”

he said bluntly. Though he admired her capability and the way she quietly attended to the needs of everyone around her, it was time someone looked out for her. “Of your kindness, of your skills, and of your strong sense of duty and responsibility. When is the last time you went to court or visited any of your friends?”

She bit her lip, looking troubled. “It's been some time, but the countess was ill.”

“And after that? You've been locked away, taking care of your cousins and brothers when you should be enjoying yourself.”

He took her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Meeting people.”

She turned away. “You make it sound much worse than it is.”

Seeing her hurt, he softened his tone. “I'm sure they don't mean to, but it does not change the fact that they have taken advantage of you.”

He paused. “Haven't you sacrificed yourself on the altar of duty long enough?”

Lizzie's head was spinning. He was confusing her, making her see ambiguity where there was none. She enjoyed her duties. It was only sometimes, when she was tired, that everything suddenly felt so overwhelming.

“You act as if duty is a foul word,”

she said. “But it's not all about sacrifice, it's something you do for the greater good or because it's the right thing to do. My family is important to me. Is there nothing that matters to you?”

His eyes flashed, but he ignored her question. Patrick was unrelenting—in this as on the battlefield. He cupped her chin and stared deeply into her eyes. “Is it the right thing to do, Elizabeth? Do you not deserve to make your own choice?”

In a husband. She knew what he meant. She searched his face, heart pounding. “It is my duty to marry where my family wishes.”

“Haven't you done enough? Or do you need to tie yourself to a man you don't want as well to satisfy them?”

She bristled. “You presume much. How do you know I don't want him?”

A dangerous glint fired in his gaze. She realized her error: He'd taken her words as a challenge. He stepped closer to her, moving her back until she was pressed against the stone wall. He braced himself over her with one hand on either side of her shoulders.

Her breath hitched and her pulse quickened, reverberating through her body until her skin seemed to beat with life. His heat warmed her. His scent intoxicated her—a heady combination of soap and freshly washed male skin with the faint scent of pine that made her think he bathed in a forest. He leaned closer to her, until only inches separated them. The look on his face …

He terrified her. But not with fear.

He's going to kiss me. She held her breath, knowing that she would not refuse him.

But at the last minute his mouth moved to her ear, his breath sweeping over her in a warm whisper. “Because you want me.”

Blast the arrogant brute! And blast him doubly for being right.

But she couldn't forget the hurt. “And what of you, Patrick? Will you marry again? Or perhaps you've already found someone?”

His gaze burned into hers, knowing that something was behind her words. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes heated with the anger and hurt that had been held inside her for too long. “Your trips to the village have not gone unnoticed.”

A look of confusion crossed his too-handsome face. “What does my going to the village have to do with us?”

“I know there are women—”

He swore and gripped her arm, jerked her up against his chest. “Who put such nonsense in your head?”

She didn't say anything, her throat hot and tight from the ball of tears constricting it.

“Finlay,”

he said flatly. She looked at him in surprise. “ ’Tis no secret that he despises me, but I am surprised that you listened to his venom.”

“It's not too difficult to believe. You are a man.”

“Aye,”

he said softly. “But I've not had another woman, Elizabeth.”

Her heart faltered. Her eyes shot to his, not daring to believe … He cradled her cheek tenderly in his big hand.

“How can I when I want someone else?”

He hasn't been with a woman … he wants me.

His thumb swept over her bottom lip as he contemplated her mouth. He lowered his face to hers, their mouths separated by only a hairbreadth. Close enough that she could taste the spiciness of his breath on her tongue. Her body pulsed with need, desperate for the pressure of his mouth on hers. She could lift up and …

He pulled back suddenly—cruelly. His fingers cupped her chin, tipping her head back to meet his cool, piercing gaze.

“But it cannot be, isn't that right, Elizabeth?”

“I—”

Her breath caught. Could it?

He gave her a long look. “Let me know when you decide.”

She hated him for leaving her like this: heart pounding, body soft and heavy, drenched with heat … wanting.

But even though the effects of his touch faded, his question haunted her long after he'd left.

Could she ignore her duty to her family for the sake of personal happiness?

As she made her way back to the great hall, she contemplated the gauntlet he'd tossed at her feet.

There was no denying that on the surface, Patrick Murray—a simple guardsman with no land, wealth, or position to speak of—was an unsuitable choice of husband for her. Yet in the ways that mattered, he was everything she'd ever dreamed of—strong, handsome, honorable. A fierce warrior and natural leader who inspired devotion in his men. Perhaps he was a smidgen rough around the edges, but it seemed only to enhance his appeal.

She appreciated his blunt, straightforward manner, knowing that she could count on him not to hide the truth. She believed him about the village. He hadn't sought out another woman. And it was surprising how much that knowledge mattered. Her growing feelings, suddenly unhampered by doubt and hurt, had broken free of their moorings. She could admit to herself just how much she cared for her dark guardsman.

And just as important, he truly seemed to care for her.

From the first he'd singled her out, making her feel special, desirable. He'd never made her feel self-conscious about her stammer or lacking in any way. And no one had ever worried about her before. His protectiveness was nice—not smothering, but nice. She could get used to it.

Maybe … it was possible.

As she reached the hall, the sounds of a disturbance outside caught her attention. She intercepted the bailiff as he was making his way toward the kitchens below.

“What is it, Donald?”

“Ah, there you are, my lady. The Laird of Auchinbreck has arrived with some men.”

Colin? What could he be doing here? She started toward the door, but the heavy footsteps treading up the forestairs from the barmkin below told her that it was unnecessary. A moment later, Colin and half a dozen men came bursting into the hall, and Lizzie came face-to-face with the explanation for her brother's unexpected arrival.

The blood drained from her face as she met the friendly blue-eyed gaze of the handsome blond giant standing before her.

It seemed she would not be able to ignore her duty; it had just arrived. For standing next to her brother was none other than Robert Campbell.

“Ah, there you are, Lizzie,”

Colin said, moving forward to enfold her in an awkward embrace. Physical affection had never come easily to her brother—actually, affection in general didn't seem to come easily to him. “I was surprised you did not come out to greet us.”

Lizzie didn't miss the subtle admonition so typical of her brother. “I was in the east range and didn't hear you arrive.”

Remembering what Patrick had said, she added, “Overseeing the construction project that our cousin left under my supervision.”

Figuring that Colin could use a little admonition himself, she said, “If I'd known you were coming, of course, I would have been here to greet you and your guests myself.”

Colin frowned, looking at her as if she'd just grown a second head.

But Robert Campbell chuckled. “She's got you there, Auchinbreck.”

He took her hand and gave her a short bow. “We apologize for descending on you unannounced, my lady, but there wasn't time to send a messenger.”

“Aye,”

Colin said, recovering from his shock at her rebuke. “I met up with Campbell here a few days ago near the Lomond Hills. We decided to join forces, but the damn outlaws have vanished.”

Lizzie swallowed hard. It seemed that the prospect of an alliance between the two warring branches of clan Campbell was already bearing fruit. The noose hanging around her neck tightened. Realizing that the men were staring at her, she asked, “So you've given up your search?”

“Nay, little sister, I'll never give up.”

Colin's eyes hardened. “After what they dared try to do to you, the MacGregors will pay. I'll see their heads on pikes—every last one of them.”

Something in his voice made her skin crawl with fear. Colin was a hard man, occasionally even a cruel one. He was a difficult man to love, but as he was her brother, she tried to do so.

Though Lizzie had no wish to encounter the MacGregor brigands again, neither did she want any more bloodshed on her account. But she knew her brother well enough to know that nothing she said would change his mind. He cared for her in his own way. But of all her brothers, Colin valued her opinion the least.

“We decided to retrench for a few days and lull them out of hiding,”

Robert Campbell explained. “Your brother was kind enough to invite me and my men to enjoy the hospitality of Castle Campbell while we wait.”

“I thought it was a good opportunity for you to get to know each other better,”

Colin said meaningfully.

Lizzie felt the heat rise to her cheeks. So much for subtlety. How like a brother to say something to embarrass her. “You and your men are most welcome, my laird,”

she said with a smile directed at Robert Campbell.

He returned her smile, and at that moment Patrick Murray walked through the door from the kitchens, holding an apple in his hand.

He stopped midstep, shock and something else crossing his face before he quickly covered it.

“Excuse me,”

he said with a short nod, heading immediately for the door.

Colin was studying him with a queer look on his face. “Who is that man? I don't recognize him, but he seems familiar.”

“Patrick, wait,”

Lizzie said, stopping him just as he'd reached the door. He turned and looked at her, his face devoid of expression. “My brother the Laird of Auchinbreck has arrived.”

“So I see, my lady.”

His gaze turned to Robert Campbell.

“And this is Robert Campbell,”

she said softly, the hint of an apology in her voice. His gaze chilled, as hard and black as coal. Something painful squeezed in her chest, and she had to look away. “This is Patrick Murray,”

she explained to Colin, “the man who rescued us from the attack. He and his men agreed to stay on for a while.”

“Is that so?”

Colin said, stroking his chin. “It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude, Murray.”

“You owe me nothing, my laird. I was honored to offer the lady assistance.”

Patrick's voice was polite but empty. His gaze when he looked at her was that of a stranger, giving no hint of what had passed between them only moments ago. “If you'll excuse me, I must return to my duties.”

She didn't miss his emphasis on the last word. A gauntlet indeed.