The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  Thanks to Tracy Anne Warren and Allison Brennan—two authors who’ve “been there” and helped me navigate the maze of writing two back-to-back trilogies.

  Finally, to my kids, Reid and Maxine. You might not be old enough to read these books yet, but I hope someday you’ll appreciate that by choking down all those leftovers (especially the beloved “mommy’s pasta”) you helped mommy do something she loves.

  Highland Outlaw is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2009 by Monica McCarty

  Excerpt from Highland Scoundrel copyright © 2009 by Monica McCarty.

  All rights reserved.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-51287-1

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.0_r1

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Highland Outlaw

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  HIGHLAND OUTLAW

  The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,

  And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;

  Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach!

  Gather, gather, gather, &c.

  Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,

  Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!

  Then haloo, Gregalach! haloo, Gregalach!

  Haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach &c.

  Glen Orchy’s proud mountains, Coalchuirn

  and her towers,

  Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours:

  We’re landless, landless, landless, Gregalach!

  Landless, landless, landless, &c.

  But doom’d and devoted by vassal and lord,

  MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!

  Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalach,

  Courage, courage, courage, &c.

  If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,

  Give their roofs to the flame, and the flesh

  to the eagles!

  Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalach!

  Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.

  While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,

  MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish forever!

  Come then, Gregalach, come then, Gregalach,

  Come then, come then, come then, &c.

  Through the depths of Loch Katrine

  the steed shall career,

  O’er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer.

  And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt,

  Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!

  Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach!

  Gather, gather, gather, & c.

  “MacGregor’s Gathering”

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  Prologue

  God can not be appeasit … unless that unhappie and destable race be extirpat and ruttit out, and never sufferit to have rest or remaning within this cuntrey heirefter … they salbe prosequte, huntit, followit, and persewit with fyre and sword.…

  —Edict for Extermination of Clan Gregor Commission given to the Earl of Argyll by the Privy Council February 24, 1603

  Inveraray Castle, June 1606

  One of these days his cousin was going to get them killed. Patrick MacGregor could only hope that day wasn’t today. But Alasdair never could resist a challenge, even one that took them deep into the devil’s lair—in this case Inveraray Castle, the Highland stronghold of clan Campbell. The thick stone walls of the austere keep jutted high above the trees to disappear into the gray sky, a forbidding reminder of the dominance of their enemy for more than a hundred and fifty years.

  Today, however, the gates of the impenetrable fortress had been raised in welcome, and the glen that stretched from the castle to the line of thatched cottages nestled along the shore of Loch Fyne teemed with hundreds of clansmen who’d descended on Argyll from all across the Highlands. A whiff of excitement hung in the drizzly morning air. The games were about to begin.

  As they left the sheltering shadows of the forest and approached the field of play, Patrick’s senses flared, heightened by years of evading capture. Wariness and distrust were ingrained in every fiber of his being, and right now every instinct screamed caution.

  His gaze darted through the crowd, keeping him well apprised of the situation. But no one had taken undue notice of the three newcomers … yet.

  The MacGregors were once again at the horn—thanks to the Campbells, being outlawed was an all-too-common occurrence in the last seventy-odd years. Nonetheless, his cousin Alasdair Roy MacGregor, Chief of the MacGregors of Glenstrae, had insisted on attending the gathering this year to enter the archery competition. Known as “the Ar row of Glenlyon,” Alasdair was a bowman of repute. But he wasn’t the best. That title belonged to Rory MacLeod. It was the opportunity to face MacLeod and best him that had forced them out of hiding. The fact that the gathering was being held this year at Inveraray—home to their fiercest enemies—only heightened the danger.

  The three men had reached the edge of the muddy field. His cousin turned to him. “You know what to do?”

  “Aye,” Patrick replied. He’d better, since it was his plan. “But are you sure you want to do this?” Despite the steel knapscall that covered his cousin’s distinctive red hair—a trait the MacGregors shared with their Campbell enemies—and the hood he wore against the rain that shadowed his features, if anyone recognized him before their plan was set in motion, the chief was a dead man.

  His cousin’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Absolutely.” He looked to Patrick’s brother Gregor for support. “ ’Tis time Rory MacLeod faced a wee bit of competition, and the opportunity to do so right under Argyll’s pointed nose …” His mouth slid into the familiar roguish grin that had endeared him to the heart of their clan. “ ’Tis a temptation too great to ignore.”

  “We’ll be gone before they realize what happened,” Gregor added.

  “Not too soon,” the chief said, “I want everyone to know who won.”

  Patrick leveled his steely gaze on his bold cousin. “So you can claim the golden arrow from Maid Marian?”

  Alasdair chuckled and clapped him hard on the back, well aware of his Robin Hood reputation. Nor had he missed the allusion to the archery contest held to trap the famous outlaw. “Behind that black façade is a wry wit, cousin. I’ve no intention of meeting any Campbells today, but you can be assured that I’ll leave them with something to talk about.”

  Patrick didn’t doubt it. His cousin had a streak of daring in him that at times bordered on foolhardy. The head of clan Campbell—Archibald the Grim, the Earl of Argyll—was not a man to prod: He had a crushing bite. But knowing Alasdair would not be dissuaded, Patrick nodded. “Good luck, then, cousin. And take care. If anything goes wrong, be ready.”

  “With my two fiercest warriors at my back, what could go wrong?”

  Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

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