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Lizzie thrashed wildly against him as they raced through the trees in the darkness, the horror of the day finally catching up with her.
Patrick's arm jerked hard under her ribs, cinching her tight against him. The familiar muscled wall of his chest felt as yielding as granite.
“Damn it, Lizzie, stop,”
he said harshly in her ear, his voice rough with pain. “I'm trying to save both our lives, but if you keep hitting my leg like that, we're going to fall.”
She stilled. His leg. God, he'd been shot. The moment of bloodcurdling panic when the ball had exploded was still etched on her foolish heart. Even after he'd discarded and betrayed her, she didn't want him to die. Not yet, at least. Not until she knew the truth. Then she might do the foul deed herself.
She remembered the shock, the hard slam in her chest, when he'd lifted his sword against her clansmen, preventing him from shooting the very MacGregor who'd attacked her. He'd joined the MacGregor against her clansmen and then turned around and fought him. It didn't make sense.
It was obvious that they knew each other—more than knew. Looking back and forth between them as they battled—there was something … She closed her eyes, fighting the sour taste that rose in the back of her throat. No! She didn't want to see it. Didn't want to even acknowledge the possibility. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”
“Would you rather I had left you back there with them?”
“So you are the better of two evils?”
He barked a sound like a laugh, but it was too filled with pain. “In this case, yes.”
Though she wanted nothing more than to rail against him, to confront him and demand an explanation, the pre-cariousness of their circumstances proved a temporary deterrent. One thing Patrick had said earlier she did not doubt: The MacGregor scourge meant to hurt her. And like it or not, all that stood between her and the vile beast was Patrick. A wounded Patrick. She bit back a wave of panic.
She fell silent as they careened through the forest, the pounding of her heart every bit as fast and furious as the clopping of the horse, until Patrick suddenly reined in the massive destrier, bringing them to a stop near a large rock.
“Why are we stopping?”
“We'll never outrun them on horses. We need to try to lose them, and I need to get somewhere safe to get this ball out of my leg.”
“Where are we going?”
“North.”
She froze. Dunoon was to the south. “But—”
“Going to Dunoon is no longer possible, Lizzie. Not now, at least. I'll get you there, but I can't do it alone. Not with them following us. We'd never make it.”
He dismounted, careful to land on the rock so as to leave no footprints, and quickly lifted her down beside him. After removing the packs and plaid from the horse and tossing them over his shoulders, which were already laden with his bow and claidbeambmór, he slapped the horse on the flanks, shouting a command in the Highland tongue. The horse took off like a bullet, disappearing through the trees and darkness before Lizzie even had a chance to react.
It suddenly felt very quiet and very dark. The sliver of light from the moon was not strong enough to penetrate the heavy canopy of trees.
“With any luck, it will be some time before they catch up with the horse,”
he whispered near her ear, then he dropped to the other side of the rock and held his hand up to her. “Careful where you step. They'll be tracking us.”
Where were they? She'd lost all sense of direction some time ago.
Reluctantly, she slid her hand into his and leapt down next to him. Standing so close to him, with his familiar masculine scent wrapping around her, set off a tumult of conflicting emotions. She thought she'd known him so well. She could close her eyes and feel exactly what it was like to be held in his arms—to press her cheek against his incredible chest. To trace the layers of hard muscles with her hand. To look into his eyes when he pushed inside her, filling her inch by incredible inch.
Once again she'd confused sex with love.
Part of her wanted to catapult herself into his arms and burst into tears; the other part wanted to pound her fists against his chest and hurt him the way he'd hurt her. He'd deceived her—the extent of which she was almost too scared to find out. “Why are they tracking us? You know the men who attacked me, don't try to deny it.”
“I won't deny it. You can question me all you want, Lizzie, but not now. We have to move fast.”
“Wait.”
She looked down. “Your leg.”
Blood had saturated the brown leather of his breeches. A large stain had formed high on his left thigh, and the dark hole near the outer portion showed where the ball had entered. Quickly, she lifted the front of her wool skirt and ripped the bottom portion of one of her muslin underskirts. Holding it out to him, she said, “You'd better bind it with this.”
He gave her a curious stare, before quickly doing as she bid. “Thank you.”
She nodded, and then they were off. He pulled her through the woods after him, opposite the direction in which they'd been riding. Obviously, he hoped they would follow the horse. Even wounded, he wound through the trees with the agility and speed of a wildcat; she could barely keep up with him. The occasional grunt over uneven ground was the only reminder that he had a ball lodged in his leg. Despite the chill, sweat gathered on her forehead and between her breasts. Her breath was harder and harder to find amid the frantic pounding of her heart. They ran until she thought her lungs would burst.
She started to drag.
He slowed and offered her a drink of water from a skin in his pack. She took a deep gulp, thankful for the moment of respite.
“We can't stop, Lizzie. It's just a little farther.”
She gasped, fighting for breath, unable to tell him that she couldn't go on. God, what was wrong with him? He was barely even out of breath. In the darkness, she could just make out his jaw clenched against the pain, which must have been excruciating.
“I can carry you, if you are too tired,”
he offered.
Her eyes widened. He was serious. She made a garbled sound, half cry and half laugh, and shook her head. He would do it, too. Even as angry as she was, she couldn't imagine what the added weight would do to his leg. Moreover, she sensed that she would need him as strong as possible for what lay ahead. Maybe his clansmen were right: Nothing hurt him.
Why had she ever thought he could care?
Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to focus on her burning lungs.
After about another mile—though it felt like fifty—the sky opened up a little, the trees were not as close together, and the ground underfoot grew denser with bracken and heather. He let her rest for a few moments while he gathered an armful of fallen branches and moss, which she hoped meant a fire in the near future.
Once beyond the shelter of the trees, they were forced to move more slowly as the footing became more precarious. The footholds in the heather could be quite boggy.
A short while longer and she was looking up at an enormous rocky mountain. “What is that?”
“Beinnmheadhonaidh.”
Hill of the Caves, she translated. “Lowlanders call it Ben Venue.”
He'd mentioned a cave to Robbie, so perhaps this was their destination? She hoped so.
He slowed their pace even further when the heather and bracken gave way to rock. “Careful,”
he warned, “the stones can be slick from the mist even if it isn't raining.”
She was trying, but it was difficult to see.
They skirted around the base of the mountain until they got to a narrow, steep ravine. When she looked up, all she could see was the rocky face of the cliffside.
She stopped in her tracks. “You can't mean to climb up that?”
He chuckled. “Nay. You can't see it right now, but about a hundred yards up is an opening in the rocks. The cave is known as Coir nan Uriskin.”
The Cove of the Satyrs. “Sounds idyllic,”
she said dryly. “I suppose it's haunted, too.”
“Nay.”
She heard the amusement in his voice. “Though this area is supposed to be the meeting place for all the goblins in Scotland.”
She shivered. Even though she wasn't superstitious, the place was eerie in the darkness. “Won't they know where to find us?”
He shook his head. “They should be traveling south for a while; this will give us a few hours.”
“What about Robbie and your other men?”
His face was grim. “They can take care of themselves.”
He would be with them if it weren't for me.
After a short but demanding climb, he tossed a few rocks deep into the cave—apparently to scare off any wild beasties using it for a home—then pulled her into the wide cavern of the cave. Once inside, she saw that it was about as big as her chamber at Castle Campbell—though decidedly danker. Heaving an enormous sigh of relief, she looked around for a place to collapse.
“Sit here,”
he said, spreading out the plaid he'd removed from the horse on the rocky floor of the cave. The thick wool provided little cushion to the hard floor beneath, but in her state of exhaustion it felt like a bed of feathers. “We won't be able to stay here long, but I need to get the ball out of my leg.”
His matter-of-fact tone took her aback. “How do you intend to do that?”
“With my dirk.”
My God, he was going to dig it out himself. “Isn't that dangerous?”
“I've done it before.”
Not an answer, although she supposed in a way it was. He handed her a skin of water and a bit of dried oatcake, which she chewed slowly as he moved about the cave. She was hungry, and the oatcake barely made a dent; she hadn't eaten since they'd left early this morning. A lifetime ago.
Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, and her body began to feel the effects of the cold, damp night air, making her all the more grateful for the fire that Patrick had started to build.
He'd arranged some rocks near the back of the cave in a circle and laid the branches on top. After gathering some moss in a ball, he started to peel the outer layer of bark off a piece of birch with his dirk, then proceeded to crush it.
“What are you doing?”
“The wood and moss are too damp to catch a spark from my flint, but there is oil in this bark that ignites readily.”
And after a few strikes of the flint, she heard the distinct snap and popping of oil as the bark caught flame in the pile of moss. He blew on it until a flame appeared, and then carefully moved it to the pile of wood. Minutes later, a fire crackled to life.
She studied his handsome face in the flickering light—the hard angles of his cheekbones, the square of his jaw, the straight line of his nose.
Her heart clenched as his face merged with another. She couldn't ignore it any longer.
“You're one of them,”
she choked. “You're a …”
She could barely get out the words, the name fell so distastefully from her tongue. “MacGregor.” An outlaw, a scourge, an enemy to her clan.
She could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that he didn't like her tone. He turned slowly to face her, his expression a mask of angry pride. “If you'll remember, I'm no longer allowed to use that name.”
His gaze pierced her. “But, aye, I was born Patrick MacGregor, eldest son to Ewin the Tutor.”
She gave a strangled cry. The crushing weight in her chest was unbearable. Having the truth confirmed was a brutal shock, her suspicions notwithstanding.
A MacGregor. He was a MacGregor. He'd tricked and deceived her. But why?
Her heart pounded. She didn't know whether she could withstand the truth, but she had to hear it all—every ugly, hateful bit of it.
Her eyes didn't leave his face, looking for some sign of emotion in that steely fa?ade. Tell me it's not what I think. “And the man who attacked me? The man who wants to kill me?”
His mouth was pulled into a grim line and the pulse at his neck began to tic, but he did not flinch from her gaze. She braced herself for the worst. It came.
“My brother.”
A choking sob tore from the depths of her shattered heart with wrenching pain that dwarfed any that had come before. That vile, brutish man was his brother. She could only stare at him mutely as the ramifications tossed around wildly in her head. Of the first time she'd seen the MacGre-gor scourge. Of the first time she'd seen Patrick.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, with the burgeoning realization that she'd been used. “Your appearing on the road that day was not a coincidence.”
A flicker of regret passed over his face. She'd penetrated the implacable fa?ade, but it was too late. “Nay, it wasn't a coincidence, though no one was supposed to be hurt.”
Her chin quivered uncontrollably. “I'm to believe that? MacGregors are hardly known for their compassion and gentlemanly manner.”
He ignored the barb, although his eyes flared. “As you no doubt realized by what you saw today, my brother and I are not exactly seeing eye-to-eye on things.”
If she didn't feel as though she were dying inside, she would have laughed at the understatement. “You mean he wants to kill me and you don't?”
He grimaced. “Something like that. But I never thought he would take it this far. Gregor is hot-tempered and can be difficult to rein in, but he's always been loyal.”
She stared at him, seeing him for the first time. Seeing things she'd never seen before. The strength and toughness had always been there, but now she saw the hard-edged ruthlessness. “God, I don't even know you.”
He strode over and pulled her to her feet, forcing her to look at him. “I'm the same man I was before. The same man you said you loved.”
How dare he throw that back in her face! Force her to see what a complete fool she'd been. “I loved Patrick Murray, not a ruthless outlaw. I loved a man who doesn't exist.”
His jaw clenched. “I'm the same man. You know everything about me that is important.”
“What? That you are an outlaw and a thief? A murderer—”
“Don't,”
he growled, his face taut with anger. “I'm no saint, but I've never taken the life of another not in battle.”
“So what happened at Glenfruin, the murder of forty innocent boys, was acceptable because it happened during a battle?”
Her barb was well aimed; he stiffened. “Do not believe everything you hear, Elizabeth. Though my clan has taken the blame for that act, the killing of those boys was done not by a MacGregor, but by a rogue MacDonald. Our fight was with the Colquhouns—a battle that was fought at the urging of your cousin. Though the wily Argyll may claim otherwise.”
His accusation took her aback. Lizzie knew there was no love lost between her cousin and the Colquhouns, but she could not believe her cousin was so devious as to use the MacGregors to do his dirty work and then hunt them down for doing it. And the killing of those schoolboys was only one of the atrocities leveled at the heads of the MacGregors. She thought of his brother. Of her dead guardsmen. “Are you suggesting that your clan's reputation is not well deserved?”
“Some of my kinsmen are wild and unruly, but could not the same be said of some of yours? Aye, I've stolen, but to keep my clan from perishing from starvation or the elements. Is that any different from the land your clan has stolen from me?”
Was that what this was about? Revenge?
Unable to hold them back any longer, she let the hot tears roll down her cheeks. “Why? Why me?”
she choked, gazing up at him as if there could possibly be an answer that would make a difference, when they both knew there wasn't.
Patrick had never imagined that it would be like this. He hated hurting her. Hated making her cry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss away her tears, but he forced himself not to move. She didn't want his comfort right now, she wanted an explanation. The truth. He owed her that, at least.
He met her gaze. “The Campbells stole my family's land. I sought to get it back.”
“Land?”
she said dazedly. “What land?”
“Near Loch Earn. Argyll has recently made it part of your dowry.”
The blood drained from her face. She gazed at him in horror, all her emotions, all her heartbreak, revealed clearly in her eyes. She looked so fragile and vulnerable— like a kitten who'd just been kicked. By him.
He reached for her, but she twisted away. The rejection burned in his chest.
“So you used me for my land? For some petty revenge on my cousin and brothers?”
His anger sparked to hear her so casually dismiss the desperate situation of his clan. “I assure you, there is nothing petty in the enmity between our clans.”
He had plenty of cause for revenge. But not on Lizzie. “Initially I sought you out for your land, but that is not the only reason I wanted to marry you.”
He stepped toward her, the burning in his leg excruciating, halting when she retreated from him as if afraid. Of me. The burning in his leg crept up to his chest. “I care for you, lass,” he said softly.
“You deceived me,”
she shot back at him, anger breaking through the sheen of tears. Her eyes glittered like sapphires. Perhaps there was more wildcat in her than kitten. “Why would I believe anything you say?”
“Because it's the truth.”
“Truth? What about you is true? Not your name, not your purpose …”
Her voice fell off and she looked at him with renewed horror. “Dear God … your wife and child?”
He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I have never been married.”
She gasped and covered her mouth with her fingertips. “How could you lie about something like that? Was rescuing me from fake brigands not enough—did you have to invent a dead wife and child to earn my sympathy?”
He didn't shy from the scorn that he knew was deserved. “I needed a reason to explain our presence on the road. One that you would not question.”
“Congratulations,”
she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It was a brilliant plan. And successful, too. I fell right into your trap. Were you chosen for your handsome face or for your skills at seduction?”
“Damn it, Lizzie, it wasn't like that.”
But a small part of him cringed. He never wanted her to learn of their prior meeting or that he'd thought her an easy mark—susceptible to seduction. Now that he knew her, he understood how much it would hurt her.
“It wasn't? I'm surprised you even bothered with seduction at all. Why not just abduct me and force me to marry you? It seems more in keeping with the methods of your crude, bloodthirsty clansmen.”
He bit back the flare of anger at her derisiveness—some of which he knew was deserved. “ ’Tis not my way. I'd not want an unwilling wife. A forced marriage would be easily set aside.”
“And you wanted the land.”
He could hear the uneven-ness of her breathing as she grappled with the implications. “You wanted me to fall in love with you.”
The hollowness in her voice cut him to the quick. “God, I'm such a fool.”
He knew what he had done was unforgivable. He knew how she'd been hurt by Montgomery and thought he'd done the same thing. But what had happened between them was different.
“I wanted you to want the marriage. I make no excuse for what I did, Elizabeth. I hated deceiving you, but I had good reason for what I did. What happened between us was real. Can you honestly believe that I don't care for you? Everything I've done is because I care for you. I've fought my own men, my own brother, to protect you.”
“All that proves is that you didn't want to see me killed before you could claim your spoils.”
“Damn it, Lizzie, that's not true. If I cared nothing for you, why did I urge you to accept Robert Campbell's proposal? I knew I could not deny you a chance at happiness. I tried to walk away that night you came to the barracks.”
“But I wouldn't let you,”
she said, her voice teeming with self-disgust. “Your conscience can be absolved, then—if you even have one. But thank God my mistake isn't irreparable. Thank God I didn't marry you. I'll be happy when I never have to set eyes on you again.”
Her words stung more than he wanted to admit. How much of it was hurt speaking and how much was his being a MacGregor? “You will get your wish soon enough,”
he said harshly. He wished that it didn't need to be this way. Wished that he were begging her to understand instead of trying to make it easier for them to part. Wished that they didn't need to part.
Hell, he knew better than to wish.
His eyes met hers. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparked with fire. “I hate you.”
Her words unleashed something primitive inside him, the flare of emotion hot and quick. Anger. Frustration. And fear that it might be true. He didn't think, just reacted, pulling her into his arms. His heart pounded wildly, dangerously, with the primal need to prove her wrong.
She doesn't hate me. I won't let her.
He hardened against her, his body responding to the familiar feel of her pressed against him. Never had he felt so out of control. He wanted to ravage her senseless.
Kiss her.
Take her.
She gasped and tried to wrench out of his arms, but he held her firm.
He could feel the frantic beat of her heart, see her mouth tremble, her eyes wide and damp with tears. They stared at each other for a long moment, her soft mouth parted just below his. He could almost taste her sweetness on his tongue, calling to him.
His body hammered, the urge uncontrollable … almost violent.
The realization stopped him cold, and he released her as suddenly as he'd taken hold of her. What the hell was he doing?
What was between them could not be denied. But proving it would do nothing but salve his own male pride.
He dragged a hand through his hair, turning away from her and allowing his blood to cool. She eyed him warily.
Finally, he spoke. “You can hate me later. But right now, I'm all that stands between you and survival.”
He could just imagine her out here alone. A pampered girl brought up at court in the Highland wilderness. She wouldn't last a day. What the hell had he been thinking? “I don't think you have any idea of the precariousness of our situation, but if we are to have any chance, I need to get this ball out of my leg.”
His body still teeming with violent emotion, he sat before the fire, pulled his blade from the scabbard at his waist, and went to work.
Lizzie watched Patrick wipe the flat of the blade of his dirk back and forth over his breeches—cleaning it, though the leather was caked with dirt and dust—her heart still pounding from the ferocity of his attack. No matter that for a moment she'd wanted his lips on hers.
I hate him. Never had she felt this kind of anger— irrational in its intensity. If he weren't already shot, she would have done it herself. She would rather be anywhere than here with him.
He was a MacGregor. Brother to the man who'd attacked her. He'd wanted her not for herself, but for her dowry. He'd used her like a pawn on a chessboard, deceiving her, making her fall in love with him, all for the sake of a few merks of land.
It was all a lie.
I'm such a fool. Actually believing that he cared for her. Of course she did, that's what he'd wanted. It was all part of his cruel plan. She crossed her arms around her waist as if warding off the attack, struggling to keep herself from falling apart. She'd thought she'd found happiness, but all she'd found was betrayal. How could she have been so mistaken? Again.
God, it hurt. The burning in her chest. The feeling that her heart had just been ripped out and stomped on.
I should be used to this. But it wasn't just disappointment. Her feelings for Patrick had gone so much deeper than anything she'd ever felt for John Montgomery.
Tears burned behind her eyes, anger and heartbreak converging in a powerful storm. Her mouth started to tremble. Her breath hitched.
Be strong.
She wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry, but she would never let him see how much he'd hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced back the emotions, knowing this was not the time.
He was right. When this was all over she would never have to see him again, but right now she needed him. She hated it, but it was the truth.
She tried not to look at him. She shouldn't care about what he was doing.
She heard a tearing sound and knew that he was making the opening in his breeches bigger.
Dear God, he was actually going to do it. She felt a cold chill settle in her stomach.
Telling herself that it was only because she needed him to survive, she asked, “Do you need any help?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I've tended enough battlefield wounds to know what to do. It's not too deep—I can see the ball. If he'd waited a few more feet before firing we would not be having this conversation.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “You might not want to watch.”
She pursed her lips. She wasn't some squeamish girl. But she found herself clenching the wool of the plaid between her fingers nonetheless.
After taking a long drink from one of the skins—which she suspected held something stronger than water—Patrick put the hilt of his eating knife in his mouth and used his dirk to dig into the soupy, bloody mess. The reason for the knife in his mouth became clear a moment later. His entire body tensed at the invasion—his teeth clamped down hard against the hilt, the muscles in his neck and arms went taut, and a guttural sound emitted from deep inside him. The pain must have been unbearable, but his hand showed no hesitation. In one smooth, determined stroke, he plunged the tip of the dirk deep into the hole.
He made another grunting sound as he appeared to maneuver the tip under the ball. The hand that held the knife pressed down, levering the ball up; then, using two fingers from his other hand, he dug it out.
Blood gushed from his leg—so much blood that she feared something must be wrong. Unwittingly, her heart fluttered wildly.
He used the cloth that she had given him bunched up in a square to press against the wound and took another long drink from the skin before he started to heat the blade of his dirk in the fire.
She might despise him, but she could not sit aside any longer. Without a word, Lizzie got up, walked over, and knelt beside him, taking over the stanching of blood with the cloth. The metallic scent mingled with the smell of whisky.
Their eyes met, and she read his thanks in his gaze.
He held the blade in the flames, turning it until it glowed. After removing the steel from the fire, he lifted her hand and the cloth from his leg. Gesturing for her to get back, without hesitation, he placed the flat of the blade against the open wound.
His entire body clenched. The scent of burning flesh nearly made her gag, but she forced herself not to turn away. She put her knuckle in her mouth to keep from crying out. God, how could he do such a thing?
Having someone else do to him what he'd just done was bad enough, but doing it by yourself … took some kind of strength. Toughness that she couldn't even begin to comprehend.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few seconds, he removed the blade from his leg and the hilt of the knife from his mouth.
Lizzie tossed up her skirts again and ripped a fresh piece of muslin from her underskirt, which now came down only to her knees. She handed it to him, and he used it to bind the seared wound.
They exchanged a long look. The lingering pain in his eyes made her heart twist, and she had to fight the urge to comfort him. He was so pale, with deep lines of pain and weariness etched around his mouth.
He seemed to understand her quandary.
“Go, get some rest, Lizzie,”
he said gently. “We only have a few hours. It's too dangerous to travel into these hills at night; we'll need to leave at first light.”
She wanted to say something, but what was left that hadn't already been said? Instead she nodded and returned to her place on the plaid. Alone. She lay down and purposefully turned away from him, lest she be tempted to watch over him. He didn't need her; why had she ever thought he did? Closing her eyes, she let the pull of exhaustion take her under.
The crunching sound of someone walking quietly over rocks sounded in her ear where it pressed against the ground, startling her awake. Her eyes fluttered open in the semidarkness, and she was relieved to see that it was only Patrick. For a moment, her heart leapt with joy—forgetting where they were and what had happened—then the truth brought her crashing back to reality. Reality in the form of a dark, rocky cave, musty with animal scents, with more crevices than she cared to explore.
The fire had gone out, but surprisingly, she wasn't cold. She looked down to see the plaid wrapped around her.
“You can tend to your needs down by the loch,”
he said, raking his fingers through his still-damp hair. “I've left you some dried beef and a bit of oatcake. It's not much, but we need to ration just in case.”
He motioned to a rock near the saddlebags. “I'm going to climb up the hill to get a better vantage of the area before we go.”
Lizzie felt an unwelcome pang in her chest. He looked horrible. Though if she didn't know him so well, she might not notice the lines of strain etched around his mouth, the flatness of his eyes, and the slight pallor of his skin. The signs of a long night spent in pain that no dunking in the loch could wash away. Her foolish heart went out to him. She'd be surprised if he had slept at all.
“Your leg …,”
she started. “Does it hurt very badly?”
He shrugged. “I've had worse.”
“But …”
She bit her lip, unable to hide her apprehension.
“I'm not going to die, Lizzie,”
he said gently. “Not yet, at least. But my brother and yours, when they discover what has happened, will be doing their best to see otherwise. I'm going to need you to be strong if we are to have a chance. I won't lie to you, lass. The next few days are going to be difficult. Can you manage?”
“Of course,”
she retorted, annoyed that he thought her so weak.
Later, she would come to question that confidence.