Page 18

Lizzie settled onto the stool before the smoldering peat fire and wrapped her plaid a little tighter around her shoulders. Though comfortable and cheerful, Alys and Donnan's cottage was a bit drafty. Next week the villagers would be lighting the bonfires for Oidhche Shamhna, the night of Samhain. The days had shortened considerably, and the air had taken on a distinct wintry chill. Sometime next month the first snow would blanket the hills and glens, making travel much more difficult.

The missive that she'd sent to her cousin would not delay him for long; they needed to leave soon. She'd told Patrick as much this morning when she'd woken up snug and warm, cradled in his powerful arms.

Her heart pinched, thinking of the conversation that had followed. She hated arguing with him. But in the week and a half since Colin and Robert had left, it seemed when he wasn't sneaking into her room late at night to catch a few stolen moments of pleasure, they were disagreeing about their impending nuptials.

She'd thought finding a husband would be the difficult part. Never had she imagined how hard it would be to agree on how the wedding would take place.

Alys finished stirring the pungent, mouthwatering beef porridge in the fire and took a seat opposite her. After plucking some yarn from the basket at her feet, she went to work on a pair of wool hose with a large tear.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, my lady?”

Alys said, peering at her out of the corner of her eye. Even with that small glance, the older woman conveyed so much. She was not fooled by Lizzie's bright smiles and false cheer.

“I thought you might be lonely with Donnan away and wanted to see if you needed anything,”

Lizzie replied airily.

“Hmm,”

said Alys, not believing a moment of it. “Where is your fierce protector? I'm surprised that he let you go to the village alone.”

Lizzie blushed. “With the MacGregor's surrender, there can be little danger. I've walked to the village thousands of times by myself. A great many of those visits to see you and the little ones.”

She looked around. “Where are they, by the way? They usually rush to greet me to see what I've got hidden in my basket.”

“That's because you spoil them with sweets. They are fishing down at the burn, but I'm sure they'll smell those tarts you brought and be on their way soon enough.”

Alys gave her a hard stare. “But don't think to distract me.”

She made a short sniffing sound. “So you snuck away without telling him, did you?”

Lizzie lifted her chin. “I'm the lady of the keep, I don't sneak.”

“Bah! Don't take that tone with me, little one. I know you too well. Here,”

she said as if to make her point, handing her a needle and some wool thread, “you might as well do something if you are just going to sit there with a long look on your face. Or do you want to tell me what is really bothering you?”

Lizzie picked up a pair of small trews that must have belonged to one of the boys and began to sew, finding the monotony of the work oddly calming. After a short silence, she said, “We had a disagreement.”

Alys chuckled. “Is that all? Ah, child, there will be plenty more of those. What you need to learn is how to make up afterwards.”

Her eyes twinkled. “It can be worth every minute of the distress that leads up to it.”

Lizzie blushed, and Alys raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you've already discovered what I'm talking about? That braw lad of yours doesn't seem like the sort to wait for a minister to stake his claim.”

Lizzie's face was on fire. “How do you know what I decided?”

“Anyone around here with two eyes in their head can see that.”

Lizzie's face fell. Was she really so transparent? “You wear your heart on your sleeve, my love. It's one of your most endearing qualities. So if you've made your decision, what is the problem?”

“We can't agree on the wedding.”

She took a deep breath. “Patrick doesn't think my family will approve the match.”

Alys eyed her sharply. “He wants to marry without their consent?”

Lizzie nodded. “I've told him he's wrong, that my cousin and brothers will accept my wishes, but he doesn't want to risk their forbidding the match.”

“He doesn't seem like the kind of man to run from a fight.”

Alys tapped her chin thoughtfully and then frowned.

“What is it?”

Lizzie asked.

“I don't know,”

Alys said. “Something that Finlay said before he and Donnan left with your brother. I thought nothing of it, but he mentioned that he was looking forward to paying a visit to the Laird of Tullibardine and learning more about Patrick Murray. Do you think your Highlander is hiding something?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Nay, I think he truly fears that we will not be allowed to wed. But he doesn't know my family like I do.”

Tears filled her eyes. “He doesn't understand how important they are to me. How it wouldn't feel right marrying without my family around me sharing my happiness. Missing Jamie's wedding was disappointing enough, but unlike him, we've no need to rush.”

“You've told him how you feel?”

Lizzie nodded.

“Be patient, lass. The man loves you. He'll want to make you happy.”

Loves me? She wanted to hope so. Why was he being so stubborn?

The sound of laughter outside drew her away from her maudlin thoughts. A few moments later, Alys's five children came bursting through the door and Lizzie found herself enfolded in a multitude of excited embraces, from her tiny Sari at her knees to not so wee Robin around her neck. Bombarded by questions and laughter, she found it impossible not to feel her spirits lifting.

This was why she'd come. Not only for Alys's counsel, but to immerse herself in Alys's crowded and noisy home, which teemed with the life and happiness she yearned for— and hoped one day soon would be hers.

Rather than barge in as he wanted to, Patrick waited— impatiently—for Lizzie to finish her visit. Arms crossed, he leaned against a tree and watched the chaos through the door left open by the arrival of Alys and Donnan's pack of unruly bairns. At the eye of the storm was his Lizzie— laughing and giggling like a girl as the children climbed all over her in an effort to get whatever was inside her basket.

He sniffed as the faint toasty scent of browned butter and sugar wafted through the air. Cakes or tarts, by the smell of it. An all too poignant reminder of the honey sweet taste of her skin.

Still, even angry, he didn't have the heart to disturb her when she was clearly enjoying herself. Indeed, except for her fine clothing, she looked right at home in the comfortable— though decidedly rustic, compared with the luxury of Castle Campbell—cottage. Not just comfortable, but happy. Maybe …

He allowed himself to hope that maybe life without all the luxuries she was used to wouldn't be as unpleasant as he feared.

Alys caught sight of him first and whispered something to Elizabeth. Her gaze shot to his, and he felt a certain satisfaction at seeing her face drain of color.

Good. She should be scared. Very scared.

Turning her gaze, she said her good-byes—making no effort to rush on his account, he noted—lifted her chin, and strode purposefully to the door.

Patrick's eyes narrowed. Readying for a fight, was she? Well, she wouldn't be disappointed.

His expression betrayed none of the fury raging inside him when she stepped outside and walked toward him, but he knew she could feel it thick in the tension between them.

Let her think about it for a while and stew, he decided. Just as he'd done.

Without a word he took her arm, his fingers clamping like a vise, and started to walk her back to the castle. His men flared out behind them, wisely giving them a wide berth.

She made a sharp huffing sound and marched along beside him in the damp, mossy ground, mud spitting from under her feet. Winter was in the air. The rain last night lingered as a fine mist. Living in the wild for so long, Patrick was able to sense the changing seasons. They needed to leave. Needed to find shelter for the coming winter. Shelter that would undoubtedly make Alys's cottage look like a palace.

Where in Hades was his brother? Nothing more had reached them about his cousin's surrender. He wanted to think there was reason for hope, but until he heard from Gregor he had to proceed with caution.

After a few minutes, she spun on him. “Are you just going to glower or are you going to tell me why you are so angry?”

His eyes darkened. “I told you not to leave the castle by yourself.”

Her blue eyes sparked with defiance that at any other time might be adorable. Right now, however, he wasn't in the mood to admire her spirit.

“I wasn't aware you had any right to give me orders.”

His hands fisted into tight balls at his side, the haughty tone in her voice pushing him close to the edge. He wasn't one of her Lowland toadies. She didn't know how close he was to tossing her over his shoulder and showing her just exactly how far from civilized he could be. Hamish's method of wooing a bride was suddenly sounding very appealing.

“I have every right.”

He lowered his voice menacingly, each word laden with warning. “You will be my damn wife.”

The stubborn lass didn't know when to retreat. She arched one delicate little brow. “Not if we never get married I won't.”

With an emphatic toss of her head that sent her flaxen tresses flying, she started to spin away, but he pulled her harshly against him. His eyes narrowed to slits. “We'll be married, Elizabeth, if I have to tie you up and carry you to the kirk myself. You are mine.”

His gaze slid down to her belly. “Even now, you could be carrying my babe.”

He felt a twinge of satisfaction when her eyes widened and her hands clasped her stomach instinctively. “Surely you are aware that is a natural consequence of our nighttime activity?”

And a child would make it harder for her to undo their marriage. He hated himself for even thinking it.

She swallowed hard. “Of course I am. I'm not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

He gave her a hard look. “Next time you are angry with me, don't do something foolish and risk your life.”

She made a soft snorting sound that only enraged him further. “Don't be ridiculous. I don't need your protection to walk from the castle to the village. If there had been any danger, it is gone now that the MacGregor has surrendered. Do you intend to keep me locked up forever or just until we're married?”

Forever. So that he never had to experience that moment of icy fear again when he knew she'd gone—alone. He was being irrational, but rationality seemed to desert him when it came to her.

“I haven't decided yet,”

he snapped.

She gasped with outrage and tapped her finger on his chest. “I have three older brothers, so don't think you can bully me.”

Unbelievable. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if his men were seeing this. They were, and even from a circumspect distance he could see that their amusement matched his own.

He frowned. “Three?”

She nodded but didn't elaborate. “You are the most infuriating, overbearing—”

“Enough.”

He cut her off the best way he knew how. He pulled her against him, their bodies sliding together with intimate familiarity, and kissed her. Deeply. Passionately. Until the heat of desire tamped down the heat of anger. Until nothing else mattered but the rush of sensation pouring through his body.

Soon he was lost in the soft warmth of her mouth. The silk of her lips. The languid stroke of her tongue against his. His hand slid down her back to the curve of her bottom, wanting to fit her more snugly against him.

“Your men,”

she murmured against his mouth.

He swore and broke off the kiss. He'd forgotten about their audience, and from the smirks on his men's faces, they'd realized it.

He tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “We'll finish this tonight,”

he promised, before releasing her.

“The kiss or the discussion?”

“Both.”

He could see the worry in her eyes, and it clawed at him. Persuading her to run away was proving to be more difficult than he'd imagined, and it was wearing on them both. “It will be all right, Elizabeth.”

She met his gaze uncertainly and nodded.

A movement in the trees beyond her shoulder sent ice shooting down his spine. With his senses honed from years of evading capture, a cursory glance was all it took to assess the situation: His brother had finally returned, the news was grim, and there was an arrow pointed at Elizabeth's back.

Patrick had her behind him, shielding her with his body, almost instantly.

“What are you doing?”

she asked, shocked by his sudden maneuver.

He made a gesture with his hand, ordering his men into position. His gaze shot to Robbie. The silent communication was enough to convey the seriousness of the situation.

“What's wrong?”

Lizzie asked again, looking around.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Do you trust me, Lizzie?”

Her brows furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“Then don't ask me any questions right now and go with my men back to the castle.”

“But what—”

He silenced her with a press of his finger on her lips. “No questions.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but to his relief, she nodded. His men formed a circle around her and led her safely up the hill.

When she was out of sight and earshot, he turned to face his brother, who along with half a dozen other warriors had emerged from behind the trees like bedraggled wraiths. All were covered in dirt and dried blood, their plaids hanging in tatters from their weary limbs like ghostly robes. They were in bad shape, but he was too angry to care. All he could see was the arrow pointed at Lizzie's back and the look in his brother's eye that said he intended to shoot.

“What the hell do you think you are doing, Gregor? I warned you to leave Elizabeth Campbell to me.”

Gregor returned Patrick's rage in kind. “It's too late for that.”

“You're wrong. My plan is working, the lass has agreed to marry me.”

“Plan?”

Gregor sneered. “I should have killed the bitch when I had the chance.”

In two long strides, Patrick had his brother by the throat, holding him a few inches off the ground, eye to eye. “Have care how you talk about the woman who will be my wife,”

he said in a deadly tone, looking right into his eyes so there could be no mistake. But the hard blue gaze teemed with such hatred, there was little left of the brother he remembered.

Disgusted, he released his hold, pushing Gregor away from him.

“She'll never be your wife,”

his brother sputtered, clasping his throat.

Patrick ignored Gregor's taunts. “Where have you been? You should have returned weeks ago. I've news of our cousin.”

Gregor stilled, and the look in his eyes cut Patrick to the quick. He felt a premonition….

“Our cousin is dead,”

Gregor spat. “Murdered by the Campbells, along with our brother Iain, our uncle, and every other man tricked into surrender under the false terms of Argyll's promise.”

Ice froze in Patrick's veins. It took a moment to absorb the shock of his brother's words. A trick? Dead? A quick glance at the other men's faces told him every word of it was true.

He felt as if the blood had been drained out of him, his body sapped of life. He wanted to sink to his knees in an agony of despair and horror. Not since his parents had been murdered had he felt such a blow. It was almost impossible to conceive such a loss. “Dear God,”

he whispered.

“God?”

Gregor roared. “He had nothing to do with this. It was the devil Argyll.”

His voice shook with rage and resentment. “Twenty-five MacGregors have hanged at Mer-cat Cross in Edinburgh this past week alone courtesy of the Campbells. Right now, our chief's head sits on a stake at the gates of Dumbarton beside our brother's.” Something changed in Gregor's eyes, a flash of pain so acute that Patrick braced himself for what was to come. “And while you have been playing the fine gentleman with your lady, mooning after her like some lovesick pup, our sister was being raped by her brother's men.”

“No!”

The sound he made wasn't human. Raw pain tore through his chest like a ragged claw, splicing him apart. Not his sister. Not sweet, stubborn, beautiful Annie. He grabbed Gregor by the shirt and shook him as if he could clear away his words. “What the hell happened? I told you to hide them.”

His throat was tight and his voice raw. “You were supposed to keep them safe.”

“I tried, damn it.”

Gregor wrenched away. “I had them hidden in the braes of Balquhidder, but they were betrayed for gold, and Auchinbreck exacted his retribution on Annie.”

Auchinbreck was a dead man.

“Retribution?”

Patrick growled. “For what?”

“When news reached us of Argyll's treachery—of the deaths of our chief and kin—there were risings from the braes of Balquhidder to Rannoch Moor. We burned a path of vengeance a mile wide.”

“And you didn't think to let me know.”

All of a sudden, the ramifications of Alasdair's death hit him. He pinned his brother with his gaze. “I am chief.”

Gregor's eyes flashed as if he wanted to argue, but instead he shrugged. “There wasn't time.”

It was a damned insufficient excuse, and they both knew it. Did Gregor intend to challenge his leadership? Being chief was not a position Patrick had ever wanted, but he damn well intended to be a good one—certainly better than his brother. If the MacGregors had any chance of survival, it wouldn't be with the mercurial Gregor at the helm. He didn't want to think his brother could be so disloyal, but Gregor had changed. He'd always been able to placate him before. “And the resurgence of fighting is why Auchin-breck sought retribution?”

Patrick caught the flicker in Gregor's gaze. “The men were enraged, out of control. Thirsting for revenge.”

He shrugged. “A Campbell lass got in the way.”

Patrick swore, guessing what had happened. “And our clansmen decided to take some of their rage out on a woman?”

He looked away in disgust. Poor Annie had been caught in the crossfire.

I should have protected her. Could he have done something different? If he'd taken that shot at Jamie Campbell, would his cousin and brother still be alive?

It sickened him to think that less than two weeks ago, he'd sat across the room from the man who was responsible for the rape of his sister. His stomach clenched. He couldn't think about it. “I have to go to her,”

Patrick said. “Where is she?”

Gregor shook his head. “She won't see you. She won't see anyone. Not even Niall Lamont. I knew how Annie felt about him, so I fetched him from Bute. That's what delayed my coming here. But she sent him away.”

“Where is she?”

“Molach, the islet in Loch Katrine, with some of the other women and children. She's safe for now.”

Safe? Annie would never feel safe again.

Black. That was all Patrick could see, all he could feel. Cold. Empty. Dead. Any feeling left inside him had been destroyed by the news of the deaths of his kinsmen and his sister's rape. All that was left was a simmering rage. Rage that lashed inside him with nowhere to go.

He clenched his fists, his mouth pressed into a tight line. By all that was holy, Achinbreck and the Campbells would pay for what they had done.

Only moments ago he'd had hope for the future, and now everything had changed. His cousin and brother were dead, his sister raped; he was chief of a broken clan….

And marrying Lizzie had become impossible.

The return of his family's land was secondary to saving his clan from destruction and his duty as chief. Any hope of a peaceable solution had vanished with Argyll's treachery.

The enormity of his responsibilities hit him hard. He'd been running his whole life, focused on surviving, but now he was responsible for the survival of his entire clan. His duty was clear. His clan would demand vengeance, and he would give it to them—gladly.

Ironic, he supposed, that at the moment he realized he could never have her, he understood Lizzie better. Understood her sense of duty and the struggle she must have gone through to decide to marry him.

He'd been a fool to think he could ever find happiness with a Campbell. With anyone. He should have known better.

“Where is Auchinbreck now?” he asked.

“I don't know,”

Gregor replied. “But we have everything we need to find him.”

Lizzie. Patrick fought the urge to thrash his brother even for the suggestion.

I will kill anyone who harms you. He recalled his vow but had never anticipated that that someone might be his brother. “I won't let you hurt another innocent woman,”

he warned. “It's Auchinbreck who deserves our vengeance, not his sister.”

But Gregor was beyond rationality, and Patrick's words of caution fell on deaf ears. Eyes wild, Gregor gave him a look teeming with scorn. “You've grown soft, brother. The lass has blinded you to what needs to be done. You have a duty to the clan—”

“I don't need you to tell me what my duty is.”

Patrick's voice held the edge of a razor. “I know exactly what needs to be done.”

And it didn't include harming Lizzie.

Gregor studied his face. “You'd put this Campbell slut above your own kin? She'll die, but first she'll suffer like our sister. If you aren't man enough to do what needs to be done, I will.”

Every muscle in Patrick's body flexed, but he kept his voice deadly calm. “Raping a woman does not make you a man. Touch her and I'll kill you. I said to leave the lass be. I'm chief, I make the decisions.”

“For now.”

Patrick's gaze hardened. “Is that a challenge, brother?”

Gregor looked uncomfortable, proving that he was not completely without loyalty. “Not if you do what needs to be done.”

“And by that you mean taking revenge on Elizabeth Campbell?”

Patrick held his anger in check, though his first instinct was to take his dirk to his brother's neck and impress upon him the seriousness of what he was about to say. But one of them had to be rational. “Revenge on innocents isn't going to help our cause.”

“Cause?”

Gregor scoffed. “What cause? The Campbells won't rest until every one of us is dead. I for one intend to take as many of them as I can with me.”

Patrick heard the murmurs of agreement from the other men and knew he had to make them see beyond the thirst for revenge. It was a thirst he shared, but one he had to hold in check for the future of the clan. “So your answer is to give up? Go down in a blaze of glory? Don't you see that every day we survive is a victory? The Campbells have tried for years to get rid of us, but the fact that you and I are standing here shows that they've failed.”

He looked into the faces of the other men. Men with wives and families. “What about our women and children? Would you leave them unprotected, at the mercy of men like Auchinbreck? Would you see the name MacGregor die, never to be reborn?”

Gregor had a mulish look on his face. “The clan wants revenge.”

“And they shall have it. Our murdered kinsmen and our sister will not be forgotten. But if you make war on Elizabeth Campbell, there will be no place for us to hide. Every Campbell will be hunting us, and the other clans will turn against us. Don't you see?”

His brother's eyes had lost a bit of their rabid glaze. Patrick's words appeared to have finally penetrated. He nodded. “Aye.”

“Good. Then ride north and send out the crann tara, the fiery cross. I want every MacGregor from here to Rannoch Moor to gather at the kirk in Balquhidder a week hence.”

Gregor frowned. “What about you? Aren't you coming with us?”

“Aye, but first I want to see what I can discover of the Campbell plans and Auchinbreck's movements. I'll follow in a few days.”

“And the Campbell chit, you intend to just leave her?”

“Aye.”

The tightness in his chest nearly cut off his breath. Every instinct rejected what had to be done. His course had been laid out for him. To join his men. To fight. To punish those who'd murdered his kinsmen and raped his sister.

Only one thing stood in his way.

Lizzie. He was torn between his duty to his clan and his need to see her safe.

His brother's accusation rang in his ears. He wasn't putting her before his clan, but he couldn't leave her unprotected. He thought he'd gotten through to his brother, but with Lizzie's safety Patrick wouldn't take any risk. If anything happened to him …

There would be no one to keep a rein on Gregor.

Lizzie would be as good as dead.

Patrick formulated his plan on his way back to the castle. Tonight he would send a few of his men to follow his brother and ensure his return to the Highlands, and then tomorrow morning Lizzie would get her wish.

She must have been waiting for him, because as soon as he passed through the gate she ran toward him. “What happened? Why did you send me away like that?”

She stopped in her tracks a few feet away when she saw his expression. “Patrick, what's wrong?”

Everything. He forced himself to look at her, wanting to see her for what she was—a Campbell, his enemy, the sister of the man who'd ordered the rape of Annie, and the cousin of the fiend who'd sent his brother and chief to their deaths.

He wanted to hate her.

But all he could see was guileless blue eyes set in a pale face fraught with concern. For him.

His chest twisted. Did she have to be so damn sweet? He wanted to grab her and shake her, lash out until she hated him. It would make leaving her so much easier.

He squared his jaw. “Go. Pack your things and be ready to leave at sunrise.”

“Go?”

she repeated, startled. “Where?”

He met her gaze, giving no hint of the turmoil raging inside. Heaven help him, he still wanted her. But he would see her safely to her cousin and be done. With the removal of him and his men and the conscription by Auchinbreck of half its already depleted fighting force, Castle Campbell would be left woefully undefended. He might despise Argyll, but he knew Lizzie would be safe with her powerful cousin, and he had no choice but to take her there himself.

“Dunoon,”

he said flatly. “Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you shall have your wish.”

And without another word, he turned on his heel and left her standing there, unable to look at her another minute.

He'd thought he was dead inside, thought that he'd lost the ability to feel.

He was wrong.

Letting her go would be like cutting himself in two, and he feared what would be left of himself when she was gone.

His brother's face flashed before his eyes, giving him his answer.