Page 4

The battle was over, but the hot pounding of blood surging through his body had yet to slow. Patrick was too damn furious.

He lowered his sword, wincing as a sharp pain bit his side. Blood wasn't just rushing through his body, but also out of it. He could feel the unmistakable warm dampness soaking the linen of the shirt that he wore under his leather cotun. It wasn't a new wound, but an old one, suffered weeks—nay, months—ago at the battle of Glenfruin. And now reopened.

Thanks to his damn brother.

Patrick tugged off his steel helmet and raked his fingers through newly shorn hair, surveying the senseless destruction before him. His gaze slid over the battlefield, over the dead bodies, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. He had been reared on a battlefield. With all the death he'd seen, he was surprised that it still had the power to affect him. Perhaps it was because this time the loss of life was so unnecessary.

No one was supposed to get hurt.

At least that had been the plan, before Gregor had taken it upon himself to decide otherwise. His damned hotheaded brother had gone too far. Gregor had all the boldness of their cousin without the charm and fortune—and added a dangerous streak of recklessness.

Patrick swore with even greater fury when his gaze fell on the mutilated body of one of his clansmen. Bitterness soured his mouth. Conner had been a bonny lad who smiled more than not—a rarity among the outlawed men— though you wouldn't know it by looking at him. A musket shot had hit him in the cheek, blowing half his face off. Patrick's fists clenched. Not yet eight and ten and look at him.

The senseless waste of a young life made him want to lash out. If Gregor were here right now, he'd feel the weight of Patrick's anger.

It was little comfort that his brother was paying for his sins—if the wound in his belly felt anything like Patrick's side right now. What the hell could Gregor have been thinking to attack the lass like that? He hoped that the lass's dirk hadn't done lasting harm, but Gregor had much to account for.

By his count, four MacGregors and twice as many Campbells had died today.

He did not mourn the lives of his enemy, but neither had he intended their deaths.

Today wasn't supposed to be about killing Campbells.

He'd thought Gregor had understood that the risk was too great.

With the king and his Campbell minions hunting them down, there were too few of them left as it was.

Even one lost MacGregor was too many.

Depriving them of their land wasn't enough: the king wouldn't be happy until every last MacGregor was rooted out of the Highlands.

They'd been hunted before, but nothing like this.

The battle of Glenfruin might prove to be their undoing.

Though the MacGregors had won the battle against the Colquhouns, it had mobilized the king and the Earl of Argyll—the king's authority in the Highlands—against them with ruthless intent.

Of course, the Colquhoun theatrics hadn't helped—who could have foreseen the widows riding on white palfreys while parading the blood-soaked sarks of their dead husbands on spears before the notoriously squeamish king?

False rumors of MacGregor atrocities had only added to the furor against them, and the broken men were being pursued with a vengeance never before encountered.

It had become harder and harder to hide.

Though there were plenty in the Highlands who were sympathetic to the MacGregors, the penalty for harboring the clan was death—something not many were willing to risk.

And those unsympathetic to the clan were only too eager to collect the bounty hanging over their heads—or perhaps he should say on their heads, as the Privy Council was offering the bounty to anyone who could produce a severed MacGregor head.

And he was the barbarian?

Patrick pushed aside his anger at his brother—he would deal with Gregor later. Right now he had a job to do. One that promised retribution and would help even the score.

For years, the Campbells had systematically been trying to destroy them. They'd stripped them of their land, turned them into a broken clan, and now pursued them with fire and sword as outlaws. But their enemy hadn't counted on the tough, tenacious spirit of the warrior clan. Like the mythical hydra, every time the MacGregors lost a head, one grew back stronger in its place.

Patrick and his clansmen were determined to do whatever it took to reclaim their land. Land was their lifeblood, and without it they would die—as so many of them already had.

He clenched his jaw in a hard line and turned his thoughts from the dead to the living. To the lass.

Elizabeth Campbell was kneeling over one of her injured guardsmen beside the other woman. As if sensing his scrutiny, Elizabeth turned and lifted her gaze to his.

He flinched.

He'd thought it a fluke the first time, but there it was again.

That strange jolt he'd felt before when their eyes had met across the battlefield.

Though it didn't concern him, he didn't like it. Particularly in light of his uncharacteristically rash behavior the first time they'd met.

On first glance, she looked exactly as he remembered her: pretty and fresh as a spring flower.

But on closer inspection, he could see the strain of the battle etched on her face.

He recognized her shock in the pallor of her skin and the glassiness of her eyes.

Still, it hadn't prevented her from seeing to the comfort of her men and tending to the wounded.

Most women would have fainted by now or at the very least dissolved into a fit of tears, but clearly Elizabeth Campbell was not most women.

She had strength hidden beneath the lithe exterior.

Her bravery impressed him.

As did her skill with a knife. The expert toss of the blade had shocked the hell out of him—and his brother.

Perhaps there was more of her brothers and cousin in Elizabeth Campbell than he'd anticipated.

The thought was enough to wipe away any twinge of conscience.

With a quick word of reassurance to the injured man, she got to her feet, only a slight sway betraying her weariness, and started to walk toward him.

There was grace not just in her bearing, but also in the rhythmic sway of her hips as she walked.

And now, without the elaborate court clothing she'd been wearing last time, he could actually see the soft curve of her slim hips.

She wore a plain woolen kir-tle and jacket of brown wool. The simple clothing suited her dainty figure.

But it was her hair that took his breath away.

It had come loose, and tumbled down her shoulders in a mag nificent cloud of spun gold.

He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so soft and silky.

His body hardened as she neared—a remnant of the battle surging through him, he supposed.

She was smaller than he recalled.

Not short, but slim.

Delicate. With a bone structure so finely carved, it could have been wrought from porcelain.

Too small for him.

He would crush her.

Not that it would stop him from imagining all that softness underneath him, his hands twisted in the mass of flaxen curls, as he buried himself deep inside her.

Heat and heaviness pulled over him so hard, he almost groaned.

Hell, he was a damn animal.

Having been treated like a dog for so long, he was beginning to act like one.

But living on the edge did something to a man.

It made his base instincts simmer close to the surface. And right now he felt two of them in full force: hunger and lust.

The primitive desire to claim what would belong to him.

For a lass of otherwise unremarkable beauty, she managed to rouse his lust well enough. Too well.

She stopped a few feet away and gazed up at him uncertainly. Her eyes unnerved him—so light and crystal clear, he felt as if she could see right through him.

Ridiculous. By all that was holy, he should despise this girl. Hatred, bitterness, and anger were all emotions he was familiar with. Her fine clothing, her jewels, and her refined, pampered loveliness had been forged from the blood of his clan. He should resent her. Should see the dirty, starving faces of his clansmen reflected in her gaze. Should see her as an instrument of revenge.

But all he could see was the lass, who looked as harmless as a kitten but fought like a tiger and gazed at him as if he were some damn hero.

She would be cured of that notion soon enough.

“I must thank you,”

she said softly. She had a slow, musical lilt to her voice that would have made a bard weep with envy. He recalled her stammer but didn't hear any evidence of it now. “I don't know what would have happened had you not arrived when you did.”

Apparently thinking of the possibilities, she stopped, and her face turned an even starker shade of white. He ignored the prick of conscience.

“I wish it had been earlier,”

Patrick said truthfully. Wanting to keep the conversation going, he asked, “What happened?”

“We were ambushed.”

She pointed to the carriage. “My men believe the trench was intentionally dug to snap the wheel and covered with tree branches so that the driver would not see it. When the guardsmen stopped, the Mac-Gregors attacked.”

“How can you be sure they were MacGregors?”

She tilted her head to the side, gazing up at him thoughtfully. “Who else would they be? And they wore the pine sprig in their bonnets.”

Her gaze slid over his bare head and freshly shaven face. Washing away the months of living as an outlaw had felt better than he'd imagined. “I'm sorry, I have not introduced myself.”

She held out her hand. “I'm Elizabeth Campbell.”

The courtly gesture disarmed him momentarily. It had been a long time since someone had mistaken him for a gentleman. He stared at the dainty, perfectly formed hand, the delicately shaped fingers, the ivory skin unblemished and as smooth as if she'd never known a day's work, not quite sure what to do. Finally, he enfolded it in his, feeling an unwelcome urge to warm her icy fingers. Instead, he bowed over it awkwardly. “Patrick,”

he said. “Patrick Mur ray of Tullibardine.”

It was the truth … mostly. Murray was the surname he'd assumed when the clan was proscribed—even using his own name was punishable by death.

She tilted her head and looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “Have we met before?”

He tensed but covered it quickly with a smile. “I don't think so, my lady. I never forget a beautiful face.”

She looked uncertain, as if the compliment didn't sit well with her. “Are you and your men returning home?”

He shook his head. “Nay, we travel to Glasgow and then across the sea to the continent.”

She looked as though she wanted to ask more, but politeness prevented her from inquiring further.

He'd piqued her curiosity, and that was enough … for now. “And where is your destination, Mistress Campbell?”

He said her name, as if to remind himself who she was.

She bit her lip, her tiny white teeth pressing firmly on the lush pink pillow of her bottom lip. A charming, feminine gesture that fascinated him far too much. Desire stirred his already-heated loins. He ignored it, lifting his gaze back to her eyes.

This girl had already caused him enough trouble. Coming to her aid two years ago had been so unlike him, he still didn't understand why he'd done it. Once Alasdair's anger had faded, his cousin had teased him mercilessly, referring to her as “Patrick's Campbell.”

Not realizing how pro phetic it would prove to be.

The fate of his clan was tied to this girl, and he'd better damn well remember it.

“We were traveling to Dunoon Castle”—she paused— “in Argyll.”

As if it needed explanation. There were few in the Highlands who did not know where the strategically important castle was located—or that the keeper of that castle was the Earl of Argyll. “But we must return to Castle Campbell to get help for the wounded. It's a good thing we have only just begun our journey. The castle is only a half day's ride.”

Patrick motioned toward the man she'd been tending. “Your man. He's badly off?”

She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “But alive for now. I saw him fall and thought he'd …”

Her voice fell off. “He's my maidservant's husband and captain of the guardsmen. We need to get him back to Castle Campbell, but he can't ride.”

“What about the carriage?”

She shook her head. “The wheel snapped off the axle. It will need to be repaired before it can be moved.”

“So what will you do?”

“Take a few guardsmen and return to Castle Campbell for help. The remaining men will stay with the injured.”

“And your maidservant?”

She smiled wanly. “I'm afraid I couldn't pry her from her husband's side. Alys won't hear of leaving her Donnan.”

He frowned, counting the remaining guardsmen. “That will leave you with only a few men as escort.”

“There's no help for it. We'll manage. It's not that far.”

He lifted his gaze to the sky meaningfully. “It will be dark in a few hours.”

Her eyes shot to his as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Do you think … ?”

“They won't be coming back.”

Instinctively, he moved to calm her fear and took a step toward her. Close enough to inhale her sweet perfume. To reach out and slide his hand over the milky soft curve of her cheek. But he didn't. He kept his damn hands to himself.

Unaware of his thoughts, she asked, “How can you be sure?”

“From the looks of their leader, he will have other matters to attend to. Namely fixing the hole in his belly.”

A strange look crossed her face, part embarrassment and part uncertainty. “I know it's silly, but I've never had to hurt anyone before.”

She bit her lip again, a habit he was becoming too fond of. “He meant to abduct us.”

Patrick cursed his blasted brother once again. “You defended yourself well. Very well. Where did you learn to throw a blade like that?”

“My brothers. I was about twelve or thirteen when they taught me. They said one day I might have need of it.”

He saw the small shudder that racked her. “I guess they were right.”

He stanched the reflexive spark of anger at the reminder of his enemies and instead focused on the lass. On his mission. “You were very brave.”

The observation surprised her. She tilted her head and studied his face as if she weren't quite sure whether he was jesting. “Do you really think so?”

Her voice dropped. “I've never been so scared in my life.”

“That's precisely why you were brave.”

“I don't understand.”

He tried to think of a way to explain. “A lad will train for years to become a warrior, learning to use his weapons, training, becoming stronger. But it isn't until he goes into battle for the first time that you can know what kind of warrior he will be. Bravery and courage are easy to find on the training field, it's not until you are tested in battle that your true character emerges. It's not that you were scared that matters, but how you reacted to that fear.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I'd say you have the heart of a warrior.”

Her smile started out slow and tentative, then spread to her cheeks and eyes with brilliant intensity. It took his breath away. It felt as if the sun had just broken through the clouds and shone a ray of sunlight on a place inside him that had been buried in darkness for a very long time.

“I think that is the nicest praise that anyone has ever given me.”

The way she was looking at him was dangerous. A man could get used to being looked at like that. He shifted uncomfortably, turning his gaze back to the guardsmen readying the horses. “My men and I will escort you back to Castle Campbell and see that you are safe.”

She shook her head. “No, you've done so much already. I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't, I offered.”

“But what about your journey to Glasgow?”

A shadow fell over him at the reminder of the deception. “It can wait.”

He wasn't Elizabeth Campbell's hero and would do best to remember it.

Lizzie peeked out from under her lashes at the man riding beside her, more relieved than she wanted to admit that he'd agreed to accompany her and her guardsmen back to Castle Campbell. Night was falling, and the realization of what had nearly happened had only just begun to hit her. She didn't think she'd ever forget the MacGregor scourge's face. His cold, bleak eyes devoid of humanity. She'd seen more compassion in a snake. But Patrick Murray's presence helped. He made her feel safe. She couldn't explain it, but he did.

More than once she'd found herself studying him, not knowing quite what to make of the formidable warrior. Undoubtedly, he was one of the most handsome men she'd ever seen. The kind of handsome that made your belly flutter and your knees weak. The kind of handsome that inspired allusions to Greek gods and dark angels.

Her first impressions had only improved on closer study. On the battlefield, she'd noticed the thick black hair cut short to frame perfectly chiseled features, but it was only up close that the full magic of the combination was revealed. And his eyes … surely the most brilliant green eyes she'd ever seen. A dark, mossy green that made her think of pine trees in the afternoon. Of glens rich with grass. Of the Highlands.

Physically, he was impressive as well. Broad in the chest and shoulders, with powerfully wrought legs and the thick-muscled arms of a man who lived with a sword in his hands. She was used to tall, muscular men—her brothers certainly qualified. But never had she been so deeply aware of a man's strength. His raw masculinity made her feel her own femininity in a way that she never had before.

He surely must have his pick of beautiful women falling at his feet. But Lizzie could have sworn she detected something beyond politeness in his gaze—something hot and intense. Something that made her pulse race and her skin feel too tight.

It was probably just her imagination. She was hardly the type of woman whose countenance inspired anything beyond a polite smile. It didn't bother her. What she lacked in beauty she made up for in other ways—she'd had the bene fit most women didn't of an education, and had made good use of it. She was admired, but that admiration usually came with time and acquaintance, not with first glances.

She ventured another peek. There was something about him that she just couldn't put her finger on. An air of danger and mystery. It was as if he were a puzzle she could not quite figure out. But it intrigued her … he intrigued her.

He seemed so hard and remote, every inch the fearsome warrior. A Highlander to the core. Not at all like the smooth, polished men she was used to speaking with at court. Yet their brief conversation had touched her unexpectedly. His simple praise was more meaningful than the hundreds of practiced compliments she'd heard before. One minute he was terrifying in his intensity, the next more gallant than a practiced courtier.

Who was this man?

From the serviceable but plain leather cotun and trews he wore, she could tell he wasn't a man of wealth. But his sword was fine and his horse exceptional. He was outfitted as a typical man-at-arms, but he fought like a champion. He appeared to be the leader of the half dozen men he'd arrived with, but he had not identified himself as a laird or a chieftain. Yet there was no disguising the pride and authority of his manner.

Though she'd been around guardsmen—the warriors charged with defending her cousin—she had surprisingly little interaction with them. Truth be told, she'd always found them a bit rough and a lot intimidating. Patrick Murray certainly qualified on all counts, but she'd never realized how attractive such raw physicality could be.

He'd saved her life; it was only natural that she was fascinated by him.

His voice gave her a start. The easy, husky lilt was so unexpectedly sensual and at odds with his hard-edged appearance. “Are you feeling all right? There is a place up ahead where we will stop and water the horses if you need to rest.”

Had he noticed her watching him? A hot blush crawled up her cheeks, and she was grateful for the semidarkness. “I'm fine,”

she assured him quickly. Eager to change the subject, she said, “It's been some time since I've seen Sir John and Lady Catherine.”

He gave her a hard look. “Do you know the Laird of Tullibardine and his lady well?”

She frowned. His question was odd given her frequent visits over the years. Then again, she wasn't all that memorable. “Fairly well, though I haven't seen them in some time. The earl, countess, and I were guests at Balvaird Castle about three years ago.”

She tilted her head. “Were you not there?”

“I must have been away at the time.”

She smiled. “How old is young John now? I don't think I've ever seen the arrival of a child so celebrated.”

Her smile fell. Except for her cousin's son last year, but that was marred by death.

Lizzie felt the tears gather behind her eyes; she still missed the woman who hadn't been much older but had become almost a mother to her. The earl, too, had taken the countess's death hard.

His face darkened. “Five, I believe.”

Lizzie counted back. “That sounds about right, although I thought he was a year younger.”

“He'll be sent to be fostered soon.”

She nodded matter-of-factly. “I imagine it will be hard on his mother.”

“I should think it would be difficult for both of his parents.”

She eyed him a bit more intently. Once again, he'd surprised her. Most men wouldn't think twice about sending their child away to be fostered. It was the way of things. Patrick Murray might be hard on the outside, but there was unexpected depth to him. “Are you traveling to Glasgow on business for your laird?”

“No.”

The abruptness of his response took her aback. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”

They rode in silence for a while, so long that she didn't think he was going to speak to her again. Eventually he said quietly, “I'm leaving the Highlands for a while.”

Her heart did a funny tumble. “Leaving … ? But why?”

she blurted before she could take it back.

He paused. “A change of scenery.”

She clamped her mouth closed so as not to ask the question on the tip of her tongue and dropped her gaze, focusing on the gentle sway of her hands holding the reins. Despite the quick wash in the burn, dirt and blood still smudged her fingertips.

“The place is too filled with memories.”

She looked back at him, meeting his gaze, silently encouraging him to continue.

“I lost my wife a few weeks ago. She died giving birth to our first child.”

She gasped. Her heart immediately went out to him, thinking of the pain he must have suffered. It certainly explained the dark look on his face when she'd mentioned Sir John's child. “How horrible. I'm sorry for your loss. You must have cared for her deeply.”

He nodded once and then turned his eyes back to the road, avoiding her gaze. Except for the grim set of his mouth, his expression gave no hint of his emotions, but Lizzie could feel the darkness simmering under the surface.

“What will you do?”

she asked softly.

He shrugged. “I don't know. Fight, I suppose. It's what I know. There is always a position for a man with a sword.”

A mercenary. Like her brother Duncan. She didn't know why it bothered her. A man could make his fortune—and his name—in such a manner … Duncan certainly had. But it just seemed wrong.

They fell into a comfortable silence until a few minutes later, when the group veered off the road and followed a much narrower path that wound through the forest to the edge of a small loch.

Lizzie sucked in her breath at the beauty of the natural splendor laid out before her. The loch was almost perfectly round and encircled with towering trees, their branches heavy with leaves, hanging over the water like a lush protective canopy. It was only twilight, yet the full moon could already be seen reflected like a disk of alabaster on polished onyx.

He must have noticed her reaction. “It pleases you?”

He'd dismounted and stood beside her, his hand raised to help her down. She accepted the offer and slid her hand into his. Even with the protective shield of gloves between them, she felt the strange crackle. The spark that slipped into simmering awareness.

Their eyes met. Her heart started to flutter like a bird with its wing caught in a trap. Dear Lord, he was gorgeous. A face to make a woman forget herself.

No! Never again.

She shifted her gaze and dismounted quickly, sliding her hand from his while trying to control the blush heating her cheeks. He must think her a complete ninny allowing such a commonplace occurrence as help down from a horse to send her into a feminine tizzy.

The state was so unlike her, she didn't know what to do. Lizzie knew her strengths, and usually acted with ease around men, but for some reason she found herself wanting to impress Patrick Murray, and her natural confidence appeared to have deserted her.

He was looking at her oddly, and Lizzie realized he'd asked her a question. She swallowed hard, trying to recall. … Ah, yes, the loch. “It's charming. How is it that Castle Campbell is but a few miles away and I've never been here before? And yet you, who are not from these parts, know of it?”

“There are few acres of forestland in these parts with which I am not familiar.”

There seemed to be something behind his words, but before she could question him further about his meaning, he added in a clipped voice, “See to your needs, but do not wander too far. It will be dark soon enough and difficult to see where you step.”

He turned abruptly and moved off toward the trees, leaving Lizzie staring at his back and the hard set of his broad, muscular shoulders. Her breath caught. The man was a rock.

Wondering what she'd said to anger him, she wanted to call him back, but she let him go, cognizant that others were watching her. He was a stranger. A mere guardsman. Not someone she should be interested in, no matter what the circumstances. But …

No. She shook herself free from the dangerous path of her thoughts. Lizzie knew her duty. She sighed, watching as the handsome warrior slipped out of view. But it didn't hurt to dream.

Time was running out, and it was all Patrick could do to keep himself upright on his sodding horse.

Rather than felling Elizabeth Campbell with charm, he was losing blood, and needed to see to the wound before he was the one who ended up flat on his back.

He doubted that fainting would impress her into hiring him as a guardsman.

He didn't know what had possessed him to think that he could be charming.

Perhaps he had more charm than most of his clansmen, but that wasn't saying much.

The MacGregors were a brutal lot—hardened and toughened by years of relentless persecution.

But it was more than acting that failed him.

Something about Elizabeth Campbell disarmed him.

There was such an easy, unaffected way about her that he found himself wanting to talk to her.

Really talk to her.

When she gazed up at him with those wide blue eyes in that pale, serious little face, she looked so damn vulnerable that it made him feel like a brute for deceiving her.

She was a woman to protect and cherish.

A fragile piece of fine porcelain in the hands of a ruffian.

He'd slipped into the trees out of sight, but not before he glimpsed her talking to his men and passing out food.

As he'd noticed before on the battlefield, she saw to others’ needs before attending to her own.

She did her duty well.

A true lady of the castle born.

Knowing he had to act quickly before someone spied him, he shifted his thoughts from the lass and moved to the loch.

After divesting himself of his weapons and leather cotun, he started to peel away the sopping linen that had worked its way into the crevice of blood and mangled skin.

It was as he'd thought.

The sutures of animal intestines they'd used to stitch the wound closed had torn apart, revealing a wide gap of raw, bloody flesh.

If he had the time to build a fire, he'd take a hot blade to the wound just to stop the bleeding—even if he trapped the poison inside.

The pain was considerable, but it did not impede his motions.

He'd endured worse.

The memories made him grimace.

Far worse.

Discomfort was what he knew—constant cold, damp, hunger, pain … it was only the level that differed.

The simple comforts of a hearth and home had been denied him for too long.

But that would soon change.

He moved swiftly and deliberately, tending to the wound as best he could. After rinsing it with clean water, he tore a piece of his newly purloined linen shirt—the cost of which would have fed his men for a week—and bound it tightly around his waist. The waste almost hurt more than the wound. He'd traded in his leine and breacan feile for the clothing favored by Lowlanders to further mask his identity.

He knew it was a risk to leave the wound as it was, but there was little he could do about it now. He dared not risk questions about how he'd received it.

When blood did not immediately stain the linen bandage, he considered his efforts a success. At least he wouldn't fall off his horse from loss of blood. After replacing his cotun and weapons, he rejoined his men, who had already seen to the horses.

He looked around, keeping well apprised of the location of their enemies. The handful of Campbell guardsmen who had accompanied them were sitting near the edge of the loch, still eating the bits of beef and oatcake that he'd seen Elizabeth pass out. He didn't think he'd crossed paths with any of the men before, but he knew he had to be careful. There was one man in particular—Finlay was his name— whom Patrick didn't like the look of.

Robbie, who was one of the youngest of his warriors at nine and ten but had been with Patrick since he'd fought with Alex MacLeod on Lewis almost three years ago, gave him a hard look as he approached. “Has it opened again?”

“It's nothing.”

Robbie swore. “You could have both legs cut off and be dragging your insides behind you and still claim, ‘It's nothing.’ Your sister will string me up by my bollocks if I let you die from a fever.”

“I didn't realize Annie had sent love-struck lads to spy on me.”

Robbie fought to stave off the color that rose high on his cheeks. The young warrior's infatuation with Patrick's younger sister was well-known. But equally well-known was that the hardheaded Annie had given her heart away long ago to Niall Lamont. Patrick liked Niall well enough, but the Lamont of Ascog's second son was an ambitious man intent on making his name as a warrior. When he married, it would be to further his clan's alliances. An outlawed MacGregor wife would not be his choice. Poor Annie was doomed to heartbreak and disappointment, but the chit wouldn't listen to reason.

“Since it was Annie who stitched you up in the first place, she simply didn't want to see all of her hard work go to waste,”

Robbie pointed out.

“My stubborn sister should mind her own blasted business.”

Robbie snorted. “Runs in the family,”

he added under his breath.

Patrick eyed him, brow raised. “What's that?”

“Nothing.”

He looked around and lowered his voice. “At least your plan seems to be working.”

“So far.”

“No problems?”

“One,”

he admitted. He should have realized that she would know Tullibardine and his lady. It was lucky that Patrick's memory of the child's age had proved close enough. He'd met the laird only once, and that was some time ago. “It was nothing I could not handle.”

As he'd intended, the invention of a dead wife and bairn had played upon her sympathies, deflecting further questions. But the deception didn't sit well with him, even if it was necessary.

Robbie nodded and looked around. “Where did she go?”

He glanced through the trees and frowned, seeing no sign of Lizzie. “I don't know. Ready the horses. I'll fetch the lass.”

He started walking in the direction he'd seen her leave. She'd been gone for no more than ten minutes, but even allowing for the inordinate time women took to tend to personal matters, she should have been back by now. Although he was loath to disturb her privacy, a private conversation in the secluded forest might help further his cause.

He took a few steps in the direction in which she'd disappeared and called her name. The sound that came back to him sent ice storming through his veins. Drawing his dirk from the scabbard at his side, he plunged into the darkness.