The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  Her face was a mask of alabaster, devoid of expression and as fragile as glass. One tap and he feared she would crack. “Not so grateful that I will m-m-mar-r …” Her voice fell off as the word stuck in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round in horror. One of the men smothered a laugh, and Patrick could have killed him. Cheeks aflame, she spun on her heel and started to run up the path toward the barmkin gate. But she’d taken only a few steps before disaster struck.

  One foot skidded out from under her in the slippery mud and she lost her balance, falling backward on her rump and landing with an emphatic splash in a soupy brown puddle.

  One of the men muttered, “It seems her feet are as tangled as her tongue.”

  There were a few nervous chuckles, and Patrick prayed that she hadn’t heard but knew from the way her shoulders slumped that she had.

  It was the final straw. He’d had enough. The role of champion was unfamiliar to him, but he could stand aside no longer. He knew what he risked, but something compelled his feet forward. No lass—even a Campbell one—deserved such cruelty. And Patrick, perhaps more than anyone, understood being beaten down and left to flounder in the mud. He understood injustice.

  He closed the gap between them with a few long strides. Her hood had shifted with the fall to reveal a single heavy curl of flaxen hair, shimmering with light even in the gray mist. The simple beauty of it struck him. Though he couldn’t see her face, he could tell from the soft shake of her shoulders that she was crying. He felt a tight burning in his chest and something that he’d no longer thought himself capable of twisting deep in the bowels of his blackened soul: compassion and an inexplicable urge to protect.

  He’d gladly strangle those men with his bare hands for hurting her. Perhaps he would. “Here, lass,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “Take my hand.”

  At first, he didn’t think she’d heard him. But then she turned her head slightly so that he could see the sparkle of a single tear sliding down her pale cheek. The tiny bead ate like acid through the steel forged around his chest. Slowly, she raised her hand and slid it into his. It was so small and soft, he almost pulled back in shock—and then embarrassment when he thought of his hard, callused palms caked with dirt.

  But she didn’t seem to notice.

  Gently, he pulled her to her feet. She was such a wisp of a thing, he could have lifted her with a finger. He held her hand, feeling an odd reluctance to let her go, until she tugged it gently from his.

  She kept her gaze down, too embarrassed even to look at him. “Thank you,” she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear her.

  “They’re fools, you are well to be rid—” he started, but she was already hurrying away. From waist to hem, the back of her fine cloak was soggy and dripping with mud.

  He took a step after her, then stopped, setting his feet solidly in the mud. He let her walk away. Even if it were possible, comforting a lass wasn’t anything he knew how to do. The idea of a MacGregor outlaw consoling a Campbell heiress was so improbable, he would have laughed if the ability to do so hadn’t died in him long ago.

  He turned his gaze away from the solitary figure disappearing through the gates of the castle.

  Just in time to see Jamie Campbell, Argyll’s Henchman and the most dangerous man in the Highlands, headed right for him. The Henchman must have seen his sister stumble and had decided to investigate. And by helping her and drawing attention to himself, Patrick had made himself the center of that investigation.

  He cursed, and his gaze shot to Gregor. His brother was looking at him as if he were half-crazed, and in truth, Patrick had begun to wonder the same thing himself.

  What could he have been thinking?

  He knew they had to act fast. Campbell was closing the distance between them, recognition flaring in his eyes.

  Anticipation surged through his veins with the promise of a battle long overdue. There wasn’t a MacGregor alive who didn’t want to see Jamie Campbell dead, and Patrick would like nothing more than to have the honor of sending the Henchman straight home to the bloody devil.

  His hand flexed around the hilt of his dirk. One throw …

  God, he was tempted. More than tempted—eager, even. But reason interceded. It would be a death knell; three men against a hundred were odds he wasn’t inclined to test.

  His gaze shifted quickly to his cousin. Three contestants remained on the archery field, but there was only one thing he could do. The chief would have to wait to best the MacLeod, just as Patrick would have to wait to face Jamie Campbell.

  Revenge would hold for another day; the sands of ven geance never ran dry.

  Mouthing “Now” to his brother, he pushed hard on the pole. It wobbled and started to fall, slowly at first, swaying like a pendulum, then coming down hard with a mighty crash.

  The distraction worked as pandemonium exploded throughout the crowd. Patrick ran toward the forest, joining his brother and cousin, but something made him look back to the tower keep of Inveraray Castle.

  Regret, perhaps, for something that could never be his. For the life that had been stolen from him. A life where a MacGregor warrior and a Campbell lass were not separated by fortune and hatred.

  With one last glance at the mighty fortress, Patrick slipped into the trees and disappeared into the mist.

  Chapter 1

  O Castle Gloom! thy dark defile

  Throngs not with Scottish story;

  On other towers, O proud Argyle

  Sits crowned thine ancient glory.

  But little have we of the past,

  As up the dell we ramble,

  To figure, floating on the blast,

  Thy banners, Castle Campbell!

  “Castle Campbell,” by WILLIAM GIBSON

  Near Castle Campbell, Clackmannanshire, June 1608

  Elizabeth Campbell lowered the creased piece of parchment into her lap and looked out the small window, watching the hulking shadow of Castle Campbell fade into the distance with a heavy heart. No matter how many times she read the letter, it did not change the words. Her time, it seemed, was up.

  The carriage bounced along the uneven road, moving at a painstakingly slow pace. Recent rain had made the already rough road to the Highlands treacherous, but if they continued like this, it would take a week to reach Dunoon Castle.

  Lizzie glanced across the carriage and caught the furtive gaze of her maidservant, Alys, but the other woman quickly shifted her eyes back to her embroidery, feigning a concentration belied by the ill-formed stitches.

  Alys was worried about her, though trying not to show it. Hoping to divert her questions, Lizzie said, “I don’t know how you can sew with all this bumping—”

  But her words were cut off when, as if to make her point, her bottom rose off the seat for a long beat and then came down with a hard slam that rattled her teeth, as her shoulder careened into the wood-paneled wall of the carriage.

  “Ouch,” she moaned, rubbing her arm once she was able to right herself. She glanced at Alys, who’d suffered a similar fate. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, my lady,” Alys replied, adjusting herself back on the velvet cushion. “Well enough. But if the roads do not improve, we’ll be a heap of broken bones and bruises before we arrive.”

  Lizzie smiled. “I suspect it will get much worse. Taking the carriage at all was probably a mistake.” They would have to switch to horses when they passed Stirlingshire, crossed into the Highland divide, and the roads narrowed—or, she should say, became more narrow, as they were barely wide enough for a carriage even in this part of the Lowlands.

  “At least we’re dry,” Alys pointed out, always one to see the positive side of a situation. Perhaps that was why Lizzie enjoyed her company so much. They were much alike in that regard. Alys reached down and picked up the letter that had fallen to the ground with the tumult. “You dropped your missive.”

  Resisting the urge to snatch it back, Lizzie took it casually and tucked it safely in h