The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  Jamie Campbell knew that as well as she did.

  Sensing Caitrina’s anguished thoughts, Mor folded her gently in her loving arms. Caitrina closed her eyes, taking comfort there and feeling her resolve strengthen as the wind blew over her, the tangy scent of the sea following close behind.

  Slowly, Caitrina pulled away, her gaze once again turning to the churning mass of dark blue waves and the shadow of the Isle of Bute slowly fading in the orange glow of the darkening sky.

  “What will you do?” Mor asked.

  “What I must. What else can I do?” Caitrina replied, her voice as hard as the glistening jagged rocks that lined the seashore like polished ebony.

  She would do her duty, but one day Jamie Campbell would regret forcing her like this. She would give him her body, but she would never belong to him.

  All that was left of her heart was buried deep in the sand with her father’s tattered scrap of plaid.

  Chapter 11

  They were married on Sunday four days later—two days after Alasdair MacGregor and his men, accompanied by Jamie and her uncle, surrendered to the Earl of Argyll at Dunoon.

  As a condition of her acceptance, Caitrina was spared the presence of the earl and Jamie’s brother at their wedding. The Campbell contingent consisted only of the score of guardsmen who accompanied him. The ceremony was held in the small chapel of Toward Castle located opposite the keep beside the new hall. The pews were filled by all that remained of her family—her aunt, uncle, cousins, Mor, and, even though it was unusual for them to be present for such an event, the handful of clansmen who’d accompanied them from Ascog.

  Ignoring the protestations of her aunt, Caitrina refused the elaborate velvets and brocades and chose instead a simple dark blue woolen kirtle and a plain sark. The simple clothing seemed more in keeping with the somber occasion.

  There was no joy in this marriage—only duty.

  Caitrina steeled herself against the unwelcome twinges of awareness that preceded the event, reminding herself that this was a marriage of necessity only.

  Still, when she entered the dark stone chapel and gazed down the narrow aisle to the sight of Jamie standing beside the minister, she felt a hard flutter in her chest.

  It’s only nerves. It was her wedding day, after all, no matter how unwanted.

  But that did not explain the way her heart seemed to stop beating when their eyes met. She felt the intensity of his gaze all the way to her toes. It was as if he’d reached out across the room to claim her with his arms, so thoroughly did he possess her with that one long, penetrating look. For one instant it felt right—as if this were meant to be. Until she remembered how he’d compelled her to this.

  She could not deny, however, that he looked magnificent. His hair was swept over his brow and shone burnished brown in the soft candlelight. The square jaw and hard lines of his handsome face appeared golden in the flickering shadows. Damp tendrils of his silky dark hair curled at his neck.

  He stood tall and proud, towering over the minister and her uncle, who waited beside him. Although he was resplendent in his fine doublet and Venetians, the soft black leather could not tame the harsh masculinity of his wide shoulders, muscular chest, and powerful legs.

  Slowly, she made her way toward him until she stood before him, close enough to smell the hint of soap that lingered on his skin.

  He held out his hand to her. For a moment, the world stilled. In his open palm, she confronted her future. Callused from his sword, his hand was peppered with white lines of battle, giving unmitigated proof of his occupation. He might have the refined manners of a courtier, but there was no doubt that Jamie Campbell lived by the sword. He was a hard, ruthless warrior—Argyll’s Henchman—and if she placed her hand in his, she would be his wife.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Trying not to tremble, she lifted her hand from her side and laid her palm atop his, feeling a shock of warmth that flooded her when he enfolded it in his.

  He must have sensed her unease because he leaned down and whispered, “Breathe.” The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, sending a shiver running through her. “It will be all right.”

  There was something in his voice that touched inside her, that made her want to believe him. Nodding, she let out her breath and turned to face the minister, repeating the vows that would bind her to Jamie Campbell forever—or until death parted them.

  And then, before she could change her mind, his fingers cupped her chin and he placed a chaste kiss on her lips, sealing their vows. The kiss jolted her from the daze that had surrounded her throughout the ceremony.

  It was done, and she was his wife—a Campbell. She’d become her own enemy.

  Jamie sat at the dais beside his new bride, watching the raucous clansmen deteriorate into drunken revelry and bawdiness as the feast, hours long already, progressed into the evening. Any wedding, even an unwanted one, was an excuse for celebration and was expected as a matter of course by the clansmen. Looking around, he found it hard to believe this was anything other than a happy occasion.

  Motioning to a passing serving girl, Jamie indicated for her to pour him another glass of wine. It was utterly unlike him, but there was no question: He was stalling. He turned to his bride on his right. “More wine?”

  Caitrina shook her head no, which was about the sum total of their communication throughout the evening.

  He could feel her growing tension as the night progressed and the time for their wedding night drew closer. Awareness hummed between them, so thick it was nearly palpable. Hell, he didn’t blame her. He’d waited so long for her to be his wife, it felt strange to have it be so in truth. And as the time drew near for him to make her fully his, Jamie felt his anticipation tempered by a burgeoning trepidation. He wanted tonight to be perfect, but he knew his bride would be reluctant … to put it mildly.

  The entire day, he’d felt as if he were leading her to the executioner. He hadn’t quite known what to expect from her, but this stoic lass bravely doing her duty stung.

  He’d hoped that she might feel something for him. That after consideration she might view marriage to him with some contentment, if not pleasure.

  Obviously, he’d hoped for too much. For such a normally pragmatic man, it was an uncharacteristic display of idealism. She was marrying him to see her home restored to her clan, and that was it.

  He was getting what he wanted, but he wondered at what cost. Would she ever forgive him? Was he doing the right thing?

  Earlier when she’d first entered the chapel, he’d felt a twinge of uncertainty, seeing her wide blue eyes and pale, creamy skin. She’d looked so nervous—more fragile than he’d ever seen her. He’d tried to reassure her. Initially it had appeared to help, but it hadn’t lasted. What he really wanted to do was touch her—to hold her in his arms and calm her fears—but he knew any attempt to do so would likely make it worse.

  How could he prove to her that he was not a monster—that he wanted to protect, not harm her? It would take time and patience, he realized. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he would have to woo his bride. It was ironic: He’d never been in the position of having to woo a woman, let alone one who was his wife. He couldn’t understand why he would be willing to go through the effort, except that he was. He could have just walked away, as she’d asked. Maybe he should have.

  No. Whatever it took, he would make her happy.

  He studied her over his goblet. The longer he looked at her, the more moved he was by her beauty. The plain clothing she’d chosen only seemed to emphasize rather than dull her radiance, as she’d probably intended. But there was nothing she could do to obscure her striking coloring—the flawless pale skin, deep red lips, dark blue eyes, and jet black hair.

  Nor was there any denying the perfect symmetry of her features. Even in profile he could see the high curve of her cheek, the lush fullness of her lips, the feathery softness of her lashes, and the gentle slope of her tilted nose. But her true beauty seemed to come from within. It