Page 37

1: YE WILL DO YER DUTY

Kilchurn Castle

Argyll, Scotland

July, 1453

THE LAIRD AND his daughter often argued—yet this evening, their squabbling was different.

Tonight, blood was about to be spilled.

Seated at the long table upon the dais, Lennox swirled his goblet of wine gently as he listened to Colin and Davina Campbell snarl at each other from opposite sides of the table.

“Ewan Stewart is a worthy match, lass,” Campbell ground out.

“Ye will not refuse him like ye have done the others.”

“I will,” Davina shot back, her grey-blue eyes hardening.

“I’ve told ye a thousand times. I’ve no interest in taking a husband. Not anymore. I just wish to be left alone.”

Campbell slammed his goblet down on the table, sloshing dark wine over the rim.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he bellowed, his temper snapping.

His face was the color of liver now.

“Ye will do yer duty!”

Lennox’s gaze narrowed.

In the five months he’d served Campbell, he’d never seen him so worked up.

Aye, he’d tried to marry his errant daughter off a few times, yet when she refused, he’d let the matter drop.

But not tonight.

Of course, Lennox knew why.

Ewan Stewart was a powerful laird and close relative to King James.

It was the alliance Campbell craved, yet his daughter was proving frustratingly obstinate.

“I will not!” Davina drew herself up in outrage.

High spots of color marked her wan cheeks, and her gaze burned.

Her slender frame trembled with rage.

“Ye will have to drag me to the chapel in chains, for I will never go willingly!”

“Don’t test me, Davina.” Colin Campbell launched himself to his feet then, spittle flying as he planted his large hands on the table between them and loomed over his daughter.

“Look at ye. I used to be proud of my daughter … yet I barely recognize the lass before me now.” Davina flinched, her throat bobbing.

But her father hadn’t finished.

“Ye have turned into a mewling scold. I tire of seeing ye drifting about this tower house like a tragic wraith. With yer mother gone, ye are chatelaine of Kilchurn, yet ye barely leave yer solar. Ye are little use to me as it is, but yer refusal to wed has turned ye into a millstone around my neck.”

Tilting up her elfin face, Davina held her father’s gaze, a muscle feathering in her jaw.

“Then send me away,” she whispered.

“All I do is cause trouble here.”

“This is my fault,” he growled back.

“Yer mother warned me once that I indulged ye overly … that I gave ye too much freedom. Perhaps if I’d been stricter, ye wouldn’t have disgraced yerself with Cameron.”

Lennox lifted his goblet to his lips and took a sip.

The laird wasn’t holding himself back this eve.

Nonetheless, there wasn’t a soul in this keep who didn’t know about the scandal that had befallen his daughter.

It had happened well over six months before Lennox’s arrival at Kilchurn, yet many of the servants still whispered about the fateful day.

He swallowed his mouthful of wine.

It tasted vinegary this eve, although perhaps it was the atmosphere in the hall that soured it.

Curse Campbell and his willful daughter.

After a grueling day training recruits—for, with the growing unrest between the Stewarts and the Douglases, the laird wanted Kilchurn’s defenses strengthened—Lennox had been looking forward to a hearty supper and good wine.

His role was draining, and there were times when he wished he could take his meals, alone, in his bedchamber.

Just to get some peace.

Some of Campbell’s men-at-arms sat at the long trestle tables below.

Like Lennox, they’d been tucking into their blood sausage and coarse oaten bread before the argument erupted.

Now all eyes were on the laird and his daughter.

“Ye didn’t have to kill him,” Davina replied between gritted teeth.

Her slender frame trembled now, even as her gaze burned.

“Cameron overstepped,” Campbell choked out.

“He was far beneath ye. Ye are the daughter of the Lord of Glenorchy … ye must make a worthy match.”

“No!” she cried, her voice cracking as emotion overwhelmed her.

Tears spilled over then, trickling down her cheeks.

“Just leave me be!”

Lennox tensed, setting his goblet down on the table next to his unfinished supper.

He hadn’t seen the laird’s daughter weep before.

Often, a woman’s tears left him unmoved.

In his experience, they were used to manipulate their menfolk.

But not in this case.

Davina’s unhappiness, her desperation, rippled across the table—as did her fury.

Nonetheless, irritation bubbled up within him.

God’s teeth. Couldn’t the troublesome woman give her father what he wanted so everyone else could have some peace?

“Send me to Iona as I’ve asked, and let us be done with this,” she continued, her voice cracking, “for ye shall never bend me to yer will.”

“Insolent chit!” Campbell’s hand lashed out, his palm colliding with Davina’s cheek.

“Ye will obey me!”

Crying out, she reeled back, tumbling off the low bench where she sat.

In an instant, Lennox was on his feet and at her side, helping her up.

Lord, she was frail.

It was like picking up a bird—one with alabaster skin and a mane of ebony hair that was presently in disarray.

But, despite the red welt that had now flamed upon her cheek, the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

Extricating herself from his grip, she cast him a baleful look.

Of course, he was Campbell’s man.

She didn’t trust him.

Stepping away from Lennox, she faced her father once more.

Yet when Lennox’s gaze traveled to the laird, he saw a change had come over the man.

Colin Campbell now sat slumped at the table.

His bearded face had sagged, and his blue-grey eyes—the same hue as his daughter’s—glittered with tears.

The man wasn’t in the habit of hitting his daughter, and his own loss of control had shocked him.

“Why are ye determined to turn me into a beast, lass?” he rasped.

“I’m not,” Davina replied roughly.

“Ye have done that entirely without my assistance.”

Their stare drew out, and pain flickered across Campbell’s face.

Lennox observed the duel.

The man could be a boor at times, yet Lennox usually got on well with him.

All the same, the laird had made a right mess of things with his daughter.

It was a situation that would never likely be resolved—and as the moments passed, realization dawned in Campbell’s eyes.

“Very well,” the laird replied after a long pause.

“Take the veil. I cannot have a disobedient daughter living in my keep.” His mouth twisted then.

“I pity the nuns at Iona though … for ye are difficult and lack piety.” Davina’s eyes snapped wide, and her lips parted as she started to respond.

However, he hadn’t yet finished.

“But know this, Davina. If ye ride away from Kilchurn, there will be no returning. If ye choose to become a nun instead of wedding Ewan Stewart, ye will be dead to me.”

Lennox stilled.

That was harsh.

Even in defeat, Campbell wouldn’t be defied.

Davina stared back at him, her slight frame quivering.

“I understand,” she replied huskily.

“Very well.” Her father glanced away.

“Go on … return to yer bower, and pack yer things. Ye leave at first light.”

Wordlessly, Davina stepped down from the dais and left the hall, her slippered feet whispering on the oak floorboards.

Silence settled over the cavernous space in the aftermath.

Those gathered inside the hall hadn’t resumed eating their suppers after witnessing the scene.

Indeed, it appeared to have robbed them all of appetite.

Likewise, Lennox didn’t feel like finishing his meal.

Instead, he returned to his seat and picked up his goblet of wine, draining its contents in one draft before refilling it from a ewer in front of him.

A few feet away, Campbell sat staring down at his hands.

His expression was shuttered, yet his gaze glittered.

He’d refused to back down, and in doing so had lost his daughter.

And despite that Lennox was inclined to think the man was a stubborn mule, pity for the laird tugged at him as well.

It seemed Campbell loved his daughter, even in her disgrace, yet he had just turned his back on her.

All the same, Lennox was grateful to finally have some peace—even if the nasty scene had spoiled his appetite.

A pity too, as he’d been enjoying the blood sausage.

Feeling the weight of his captain’s stare, the laird’s gaze shifted right, spearing Lennox.

“Ye had better ready yerself and yer men, Mackay,” he ordered, his voice flat now.

“For ye shall be escorting my daughter to Iona.”