She looked over at her brother’s still form, blood streaming down his face from the gash on his head. As if he knew her thoughts, the leader crossed the room and stepped between her and Brian, preventing her from going to him. “Who?” she croaked, her voice raw. “Who is it that you seek?”
“Alasdair MacGregor.”
She gasped. My God, this was all some horrible mistake. She shook her head. “You have come to the wrong place. Alasdair MacGregor is not at Ascog.”
The man’s expression turned hard and unforgiving. For a moment, he reminded her of Jamie, but this man had a cruel edge that Jamie did not possess. “It is you who are wrong. MacGregor was seen in the area with your father yesterday, and he’s likely been hiding here for weeks.”
That was impossible. Her father wouldn’t be so bold—or foolish—in defiance of the king. Harboring MacGregors could get you … killed. But then she remembered the bond between the clans. Her chest squeezed with pain. “You lie.”
His mouth tightened. “And you test my patience. Tell me where he is and I may be persuaded to let you go.” His eyes slid down the length of her. “Before or after I let my men have some fun with you. It’s your choice.”
She refused to show him her fear, though it wrapped around her like an icy noose. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
He gave her a long look and shrugged. “Then you are of no use to me.” He turned to one of the men. “Get rid of the lad.”
“Brian!” She tried to go to him but was restrained by the man who’d struck her earlier. Instead, she watched helplessly as Brian was dragged unconscious from the room.
The leader’s eyes were on the trunk at the foot of her bed where she’d carefully folded the plaid that Jamie had lent her the day he’d rescued her from the tree—which she’d neglected to return to him. He gave her a calculated stare and seemed about to say something, but then an odd look came over his face. “Find out what she knows,” he said instead to the man holding her, “but be quick about it. The place is already on fire. If MacGregor is in the castle, we’ll smoke him out.”
Her father. Her brothers. Her home. This man had taken everything from her for nothing. Something inside her snapped. With her hand balled into a tight fist, she took aim at his face and hit him with all the hatred and anger burgeoning inside. She’d never hit anyone before, but her punch landed squarely on his nose and she heard the satisfying crunch of bone. His head jerked back with the blow. When he looked back at her, blood gushed from his nose. There was a moment of stunned disbelief, before retaliation came hard and swift. His hand met her temple. A burst of pain, and then everything went black.
Caitrina couldn’t breathe. She was dreaming of a man on top of her, the heavy weight of mail crushing her chest. The stench of sweat and blood filled her nose, and bile rose in the back of her throat. She groaned and struggled against the weight crushing her. Rough hands gripped the tender skin of her thighs, trying to pry open her legs.
It wasn’t a dream. Her eyes fluttered open. A man was on top of her, one arm flat across her chest to hold her down, the other lifting up her skirts. She opened her mouth to scream, but she wasn’t sure whether anything sounded before she felt another burst of pain across her cheek and her eyes closed again.
Darkness beckoned like the sweet song of a siren. She wanted to stay asleep, to escape to the safety of her dreams. But something wouldn’t let her. She had to wake up. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to fight.
She opened her eyes. The man’s face swam before her gaze. Everything was fuzzy.
Suddenly, the weight crushing her chest was gone. She took a deep breath, wanting to fill her lungs with air, but inhaled choking smoke instead. Her body racked with coughs.
She thought she heard a man curse, but it was so difficult to hear with the ringing in her ears. She was lifted from the bed and cradled against a warm, hard chest. For a moment, she was confused; she felt safe. But then she remembered. The man started to carry her away. She flailed against him, but he held her firm, soothing her with gentle words. The voice was familiar but hovered just beyond the edges of her consciousness.
It was so hot. She opened her eyes, but they burned and filled with tears. She couldn’t see through the thick smoke. She wanted to know who held her, but his features blurred.
He looked like Jamie Campbell. Her eyes fluttered again. Jamie. It was Jamie. He’s here.
She relaxed against him, feeling a moment of elation before the sliver of a memory filtered through her consciousness: Campbells had attacked Ascog. And Jamie was a Campbell. No. She didn’t want to believe it, but why else would he be here?
You will regret your refusal of my offer.
“You—” she choked; her throat felt stripped bare. “You did this,” she cried, feeling as though her lungs were being shredded apart. “Campbells.” She couldn’t get the words out, she felt so horribly weak and tired. “Why?” The pain moved from her lungs to her chest, precariously close to her heart. She didn’t hear his reply. The fight had left her, and she gave over to the pull of darkness.
Chapter 9
Toward Castle, Cowal Peninsula, Three Months Later
A sharp wind blew across the moors, sending long strands of Caitrina’s hair flying across her face as she made her way down the steep path from the castle toward the small beach. Even the sturdy heather that blanketed the countryside with its soft purple flowers was not immune and leaned with each gust. Gathering her tangled curls in her hand, she adjusted the wool plaid scarf farther over her head to better ward off the wind and cold. An autumn chill was definitely in the air. With Michaelmas behind them and winter approaching, the days—like the heather—would soon darken, turning shorter and colder.
She sighed. The changing of the seasons left her with a strange melancholy. Time passed whether she wanted it to or not. Part of her wanted to hold on to the past, afraid to sever the connection with all that she had lost. Another part, the part that remembered the loss of her mother, knew that time would lessen the sting, if not the ache.
She didn’t think anything could be worse than losing her mother—how wrong she’d been.
Father, Malcolm, Niall—her heart squeezed—even her beloved Brian … gone. Along with so many others. She blinked back the sudden swell of tears, the pain still raw, though over three months had passed since that horrible day the Campbells had wreaked their particularly virulent brand of destruction on her clan.
In the space of one afternoon, her clan had been decimated. First in battle and then in the fire that followed. Over forty Lamont warriors had lost their lives defending Ascog. Those who’d survived had fled into the countryside to evade the bloodthirsty Campbells. All that remained of her home was a burned-out stone shell. The life, the love, and the happiness she had known there was a fading memory.
All because her father had been suspected of harboring MacGregors.
The injustice was difficult to fathom. Most of what happened that day was lost to her, locked away in a dark place that she dared not try to open. But sometimes, as now, the memories would flash before her eyes in snippets. Her father’s murder. The Campbell soldier’s face hovering above her. The flames.
Her brothers were said to have perished in the fire. All she had to remember them by was her father’s chieftain’s badge and a scrap of plaid she wore bound around her wrist.
As for the other … Caitrina didn’t think the Campbell scourge had raped her, but she couldn’t be sure. Her virginity seemed laughably unimportant after everything that had happened.
But there was something, or rather someone, she remembered clearly. A bone-deep chill cut through her as it always did when she thought of Jamie Campbell.
You will regret your refusal of my offer. One day, Caitrina, the brutal reality of our world will find you.
Words that were cruelly prophetic or possibly something more?
When she’d first realized that Campbells were attacking Ascog, she’d wondered if Jamie were
involved. It had been a relief to discover he wasn’t. She hadn’t wanted to believe he could be so cruel or that she could have given herself so intimately to a monster. Was she a fool for not wanting to believe she could be so wrong?
But it turned out that she was wrong. He had been there. But why? Could he really have wrought such destruction on her clan? Had her harsh refusal of him had anything to do with the attack? If she had heeded her father’s warning—done her duty to her clan—and accepted Jamie Campbell’s offer, would her family still be alive? More than anything, these were the questions that haunted her.
But even if she couldn’t be sure of Jamie’s role in the attack on her family, it was clear his clan was responsible. If she’d hated the Campbells before, it was nothing compared with what she felt for them now. Her hatred had festered like an open wound, leaving it burning and inflamed. She vowed that they would pay for the murder of her family. It was this fierce determination to see justice done that had wrenched her from the bog of her own grief.
If it took her last breath, she would see Ascog returned to her kin. The remaining members of her clan were all she had left, and she vowed the Campbells would not profit from the blood of her family.
At last she reached the beach and picked her way across the rocky shoreline, the pebbles poking her feet through the thin leather soles of her shoes. Ignoring the cold, she stood at the edge of the water, the waves lapping at her toes, inhaling the salty tang of the sea air. She lifted her face to the icy spray, letting it wash over her as she’d done many times before. The sea drew her, as if she could find absolution in its frothy blue depths. But its cleansing power was illusory and all too fleeting. She loved the desolate and remote feeling of standing on the very tip of Cowal, looking across the blue sea to the Isle of Bute—to home.
Hearing a sound behind her, she jumped. Frayed nerves were another lasting reminder of the attack. It was only Bessie, an old washerwoman and one of the handful of servants who’d come with Caitrina from Ascog. She rushed over to her. “Here, let me help you with that, Bessie,” she said, taking the basket of clothing from her. “ ’Tis too heavy for you.”
The old woman spread her lips into a wide grin devoid of a few teeth. “Bless you, mistress. Though Mor will have my hide if she sees you helping me again.”
Mor couldn’t understand why Caitrina chose to spend her days with the servants outside rather than with her aunt and cousins in the keep. But Caitrina didn’t feel comfortable with her Toward kin. Her clansmen from Ascog were all the family she had left and her one connection to the past.
Caitrina gave Bessie a conspiratorial smile. “Well then, it shall have to be our secret.”
The old woman chortled. “Ah, it’s good to see a smile on your bonny face, mistress.”
Caitrina nodded, acknowledging her kind sentiment, if not the underlying reference to her change in temperament. In the long dark days following the attack at Ascog, Caitrina hadn’t been sure she would ever laugh again. Everything she once knew—her happy, carefree life as the beloved sister and daughter—was gone. Dead.
Toiling alongside Bessie for the better part of two hours, she scraped and rubbed the linen until her hands were raw from the lye in the soap. But she hardly noticed the discomfort, finding solace in the hard work. Work. The concept had been foreign to her a few short months ago, and now it was her saving grace.
When they’d finished with the washing, they bundled the sodden clothing in the basket and Caitrina helped Bessie carry it back up the path to the keep, where it would hang to dry.
Mor must have been watching because as soon as Caitrina entered the courtyard, her former nursemaid was there with a pack of serving girls to relieve them of their burden. Ever since the attack, Caitrina hadn’t been able to blink without Mor knowing about it. Before, Caitrina would have found her hovering stifling, but now she found it oddly comforting.
She owed her so much.
It was Mor and the handful of servants left from Ascog who’d secreted the injured Caitrina into the caves while the Campbell soldiers were still scouring the hills for her father’s remaining clansmen and the MacGregors. In addition to the smoke that had filled her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe, the blows to her head had done some damage. She’d flitted in and out of consciousness for days. When she’d recovered enough to travel the short distance across the Firth of Clyde, they’d taken refuge at Toward Castle with her uncle, Sir John Lamont of Inveryne, who’d welcomed her dispossessed clansmen into his family without question.
Mor waited for the others to leave before clasping Caitrina’s hands and turning them over to reveal her red palms and ragged fingertips. Her gray brows wrinkled. “Look what you’ve done to your beautiful hands! This must stop, Caiti Rose—”
Caitrina froze, the flash of pain nearly unbearable. Caiti Rose. It was what her father had called her.
Not realizing the unintentional hurt she’d inflicted, Mor continued, “It’s not right, you working alongside the servants all day. I hardly recognize you.” Mor’s gaze traveled down the length of her. “Though you won’t see fit to wear any of the gowns your aunt has generously provided, you are still the daughter of a chief. What would your father think to see you like this? A year ago, you would have used that gown as a rag.”
Caitrina ignored the reference to her father and sighed; they’d had this conversation before. She glanced down at the worn plaid she wore over her plain sark and kirtle, knowing that Mor was right: She was barely recognizable from the pampered girl who’d delighted in beautiful gowns and shoes. A few times she’d caught herself looking longingly at the pretty velvets and brocades offered by her aunt, but Caitrina just couldn’t bring herself to don fancy clothes and pretend nothing had happened. Such finery was a painful reminder of a charmed life that no longer existed.
“A year ago, many things were different.”
Mor gave her a sad look. “I know, lass. I would give anything to be able to ease your suffering. But it might help if you talked about it.”
Caitrina stiffened. No, it wouldn’t. Keeping a tight rein on her emotions was all that kept her on her feet. “There is nothing to talk about,” she said firmly. “Nothing will bring them back. I just do not want to be a burden on my aunt and uncle.” What wealth she had left was in their lands—lands that were now in the hands of Argyll. As if he hadn’t taken everything from her already. But that would change.
“They don’t see you as such.”
“Which only makes it worse. I’ll not take advantage of their kindness, they’ve done so much for us already.”
Mor paused and gave her a long look. “You’ll not be able to hide here forever, Caiti. Eventually, someone must know that you survived.”
Her pulse quickened with a flash of fear. She knew her uncle couldn’t keep her hidden forever. He’d questioned her more than once about why it was so important that he not let it be known where she was. But how could she explain that she feared the man who’d been responsible for her clan’s destruction might not be done? Though it had been difficult communicating with any other survivors of the attack, it was said Jamie Campbell had been like a man possessed after the attack, searching for her.
She looked up at Toward Castle, the thick stone walls of the rectangular keep so reminiscent of Ascog, and felt the grip of panic—as if the walls were closing in. She couldn’t breathe. Spinning around, she headed back to the sea.
“Where are you going?” Mor asked, her voice laden with worry.
To the only place she felt safe. “I’ll be back before the midday meal,” Caitrina said. “I’ve something I must do.”
He’d waited long enough.
Jamie Campbell approached Toward Castle, knowing that months of effort and restraint would finally be rewarded. He did not deceive himself as to what Caitrina’s reaction would be; he’d seen the horror on her face when he’d carried her from that fiery hell and knew what she thought. He’d had nothing to do with the attack on her family—tho
ugh the same could not be said of his clan. Damn his quick-tempered brother to hell. But she’d disappeared before he’d had a chance to explain.
It turned out he’d been right in his suspicions after all. Two days after Jamie had left for Castle Campbell to check on Lizzie, one of his guardsmen stationed on Bute had arrived at Dunoon with the proof they’d been waiting for: Alasdair MacGregor and his men had been spotted in the forest near Ascog. Jamie’s men had followed but had lost them in the hills.
Colin had seen his opportunity to further himself in the eyes of their cousin and decided not to send for Jamie but to take matters into his own hands and lead the mission himself. If only Jamie had found the MacGregors initially, this all could have been avoided.
Thankfully, Jamie’s loyal guardsman had decided to track him down at Castle Campbell near Stirling. Lizzie had indeed been attacked on her way to Dunoon but had been rescued by some Murrays. Jamie had just finished ensuring Lizzie’s protection by ordering the hiring of extra guardsmen for Castle Campbell, where she would be safe until the MacGregors were controlled, when his man arrived. Immediately guessing what might happen with his hotheaded brother eager to impress their cousin, Jamie rode at breakneck speed for Ascog. Alas, by the time he’d arrived, the battle was well under way.
He’d carried Caitrina from the burning keep and ensured her safety before he’d gone to help bring the battle and fire under control, in an attempt to salvage what he could of the black day. But by the time he returned, she was gone—spirited away by her loyal clansmen, leaving him no opportunity to explain.
Aye, there would be difficulties ahead, not least of which was his brother’s role in the death of her family, but he was determined to see this through.
Still, he was anxious. He’d been searching for her for a long time. He’d scoured the hills around Ascog for weeks after the attack, to no avail. It was as if she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. But he’d known that she’d survived and had refused to give up.