The Laird Read online

  “Little choice. She won’t leave the bairn, and Lochawe will never let the bairn leave.”

  “Then bide a while yet, hey.”

  Unspoken was what he really meant, that Angus Campbell had not yet resolved the deaths of his sons, that resentment of Lady Lindsay may be dangerous to her. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill her, but left to his own, Angus may well do her harm.

  Bitter resignation settled in Rob’s soul. He would have to deal with his demons on his own, and he wasn’t certain that he was not more dangerous to the lady than was the Red Devil. It was hardly a situation that he could admit, though Fergal was more canny than he pretended.

  “Aye,” he growled, “for a time. But only until the lady is ransomed or Lochawe allows her to go free.”

  “Work toward tha’ end, laddie. ’Tis no’ her fault she is here, but she’s a thorn in Lochawe’s side an’ he willna let it rest until she is gone.”

  No point in telling him that the lady unsettled him far more than she did his father, but for a much different reason.

  BELTANE FIRES FOR May Day celebrations were to be lit on the slopes beyond the marshlands. Shepherds had already cut a circular trench and gathered sacred wood to build the fires. A thin skin of water still covered the road from the keep to the mainland, shallow enough to easily traverse, deep enough to wet ankles and fetlocks of men and beasts, a minor inconvenience for the day’s festivities.

  Angus came down to oversee the cleansing of the kine and sheep. His eyes were clear again, his half-grown beard shaved away, and his garments clean. There was purpose in his stride, though the marks of grief still lay deep upon his craggy features.

  From a distance, Rob watched Angus, admiration for his resilience tainted with resentment for his actions.

  The laird had once more banished the lady to the tower room, no doubt one of his subtle cruelties that reeked of vengeance. For what, Rob had yet to discover. It could be anything, but most likely, it was just because she existed. The laird of Lochawe was not without his petty faults, his capricious retaliations.

  It was well he’d stayed, Rob knew, for he had abundant experience with the Red Devil’s justice. A harsh man, an able laird, a vicious warrior when needed, Angus Campbell had earned his epithet honestly. Men like him were the very backbone of Scotland, fighting alongside the Bruce for long years of struggle, suffering deprivation and losses and yet never yielding.

  Tribute for Angus Campbell was always earned, but there were those who would see him fall. Petty squabbles never ceased between clans, raids on keeps and villages a constant possibility. Not even the war with England had ended those feuds, just given them rest for a time.

  Relative peace saw the resumption of old feuds.

  “Few men are left to guard the flock this year,” Fergal said, a reminder of their loss. “Widows and bairns make poor warriors ag’in reivers.”

  A cool wind blew over the marsh and barnekin walls and dispersed the cloud of midges that harried Rob relentlessly. He leaned on the parapet stones to observe the festivities.

  “War still threatens. The raids may abate.”

  “Aye.” Fergal’s tone conveyed his doubts. “Ye ha’ Simon set to guard yer beasties, hey.”

  “What kine I have are few. The king granted me lands and position, not the means with which to support them.” His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “If I am to increase my herds, I’ll take to reiving with the MacGregors.”

  A soft laugh curled in the air between them, and the old gillie eyed him with a lifted brow. “Yer mam wa’ all MacGregor betimes, from the day the laird brought her here. A handfast, it wa’, a year an’ a day o’ total war, wi’ the lady winning out.”

  It was hard to imagine the mother he vaguely remembered as besting the laird, and Rob smiled. “He took her to stop the feud, and it near started a war.”

  “Aye, tha’ it did.” Fergal scratched his chest idly, gnarled fingers work-worn and twisted, still competent for all that they pained him at times. “MacGregors dinna let insults pass by unavenged.”

  Another complex memory, the early days of flights and feuds, the nights when men rode against the keep, still half-built then, roofs constructed of wood that burned far too easily—a sign to Angus Campbell that stone tiles would best suit. It had been an education for Campbell sons, that bitter enmity, a training ground for warriors that had seen them all well-seasoned before tall enough to be called men.

  Rob eased into a relaxed position against the wall. “Do you seek to remind me of old loyalties?”

  “If ye find a lesson in th’ past, ’tis always wise tae heed it, hey.”

  “True enough.” He straightened, stretched, glanced over the barnekin wall again. Fires had been lit, smoke rising in thin curls at first, then spreading out. Cattle and sheep were coaxed into leaps over the trench, passing through the smoke, an ancient ritual to cleanse them. Later, the flocks would be taken to the shielings for the summer, guarded by the men left, and held against raiders if they were fortunate.

  Familiar rites to confirm that the world went on as it always had, despite the actions of men, despite losses. It should have been comforting. Instead, it was disturbing that nothing seemed to have changed.

  “Godalmighty,” Fergal said, slapping at returning midges, “curst creatures! Och, a bane they be. D’ye join the Beltane festivities?” He jerked his head toward the greening slopes and milling beasts and tenants. “Argyll ha’ sent a fat purse wi’ his regards, an’ the laird means tae disperse it between the widows and bairns.”

  “No.” He bent a narrow stare on the old gillie. “Are you set to guard me, Fergal? Is that why you dog my heels of late, to keep me from speaking my mind before tenants and laird?”

  A light shrug was answer enough. Bitter amusement rose, and Rob shook his head.

  “You waste your time. I’ve said all I intend. Lochawe will do as he pleases. Just as I will when the time comes for me to act.”

  Taut silence fell. Fergal shifted, looked away, seemed about to speak, then shook his head.

  “Do as ye will, Glenlyon.”

  It was a concession and a denial in the same breath, the words saying one thing, his use of Rob’s title saying another.

  “What is it, Fergal?” he asked softly. “I know you have much on your mind of late.”

  Fergal’s jaw set; his mouth worked for a moment, as if the words fought to be set free. He blew out a heavy breath and shook his head again.

  Unconvinced, Rob stared hard at the old man. Turmoil was too obvious in his grizzled face, fret in the jerky motions of his hands as he hitched up his belt, stomped a foot free of mud, turned his eyes toward the Beltane fires.

  “Whatever it is,” Rob said, “you can tell me when ’tis time.”

  Fergal’s dark gaze snapped back, studied him for a long moment. “Charms ha’ strong powers on the Beltane night. ’Tis said the milk ha’ been bewitched of late. A deliberate curse tha’ needs be released.”

  Impatient, Rob waved a hand to indicate that he wasn’t interested in the usual tales of witchery and curses. He’d seen enough of life to consider the possibility that curses were usually man-made and not of witches or demons, save those that lived in men’s souls. It was an unpopular opinion to have, and he knew that well enough, but to give credence to faith in witches was to give them power. He’d seen abuse of power in too many forms, was not ready to believe in the power of the unseen.

  Stepping close, Fergal put a hand on Rob’s arm, his grip conveying a sense of urgency.

  “Since I was born I ha’ been th’ laird’s sworn man, at his side in all, an’ I willna betray him. Yet I say tae ye tha’ there are forces at work in Lochawe tha’ may well see him destroyed.” His grip tightened. “An accusation ha’ been made. Suspect witches must suffer pain to recant spells.”

  Comprehension bo
re down on him then in swift horror. “Lady Lindsay has been accused,” he said, and Fergal dipped his head in agreement.

  Rob’s gaze whipped to Angus Campbell. As if expecting it, the laird looked up to the wall where they stood. Light glittered in his eyes, a determined reflection, and Rob knew what his father planned.

  “May the devil take him,” he swore softly and pushed away from the wall, descending the stone steps three at a time, anger and disbelief spurring him sharply. He ignored Fergal’s shout, ignored everything but the drumming rage that flared higher and hotter, blotting out caution.

  His horse had been brought and Angus was mounted; his heels drummed hard against the sleek sides to urge the beast forward. Rob caught up with him at the gates, grabbed the bridle to halt his progress.

  “Do you flee my anger or your own reckless actions?” he demanded when Angus swore at him. “You blame innocence for your own guilt.”

  “Release my horse,” Angus snarled. “’Twas not my doing that the witch cursed the dairy.”

  “You know that’s not true.” Rob held tight to the reins while the horse danced and sidled nervously, eyes rolling and nostrils wide with fret. He put a hand on the muzzle to quiet the beast. “You accuse her unjustly.”

  “The woman will be allowed to prove her innocence.”

  “By sewing her into a sack and tossing her in the loch to see if she drowns? That’s not a test, that’s murder.”

  Angus glared at him. “D’ye refute the law? Witches must be tested.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice, a growling sound like low thunder as he said, “The hot iron is to be used first. If she holds it without crying out, she is not a witch and may go free.”

  Another diabolical test. Rob swallowed the sudden bile that rose to his throat.

  “I will not let you do this to the lady.”

  “No? Ye have no say here, Robert of Glenlyon. Ye have made plain yer choice; ye are free to leave Lochawe.”

  “Aye, and so I shall. Christ above, you are not the man I thought you. Is the sacrifice of your sons worth nothing to you? What if the child dies, too? Is it all for naught?”

  The Campbell’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “She canna die, not as long as a red-haired lassie can be found on either side of Loch Awe. Now move, or I’ll run ye down!”

  There was no hope of changing his mind. Rob recognized that fact and released his father’s horse. He stepped back, and Angus spurred the beast forward, through the open gates and splashing through the water.

  Fergal reached Rob’s side, panting from the swift pace he’d set in pursuit, his voice anxious. “Wha’ will ye do? He has the devil in him now and willna listen. I fear Argyll’s rage when he learns the hostage has been killed.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Ye willna be allowed to see her, ye must know. A guard ha’ been set to watch her.”

  “Is she in the tower or the pit?” He rounded on Fergal when there was no reply, eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”

  THIS CHAMBER WAS smaller even than the first. Judith sat upon a narrow cot, staring out the window that looked over the loch. Water nibbled at the sloping banks that fell away from the keep, stretched as far as she could see, hills rising up on each side, thick with trees. A small island floated in the midst of the loch like a becalmed ship. In the hazy distance lay the Pass of Brander, a narrow and perilous track slashed to only a few yards in width by the sheer flank of Ben Cruachan on the right and a dizzying drop into the cold gray waters of Loch Awe on the left.

  Prisoner again, rudely thrust into this small, cold cell and locked away, this time without Mairi for comfort. Misery gnawed at her composure; she felt like weeping. But of what good would that be? Little enough, she knew. And she was not a woman prone to tears, for she’d learned early how futile an act it was to yield to such emotions.

  There had been no tears when she’d left Wakefield, alone and apprehensive about her future, no tears when she had wed a man who made it plain he disliked her, no tears when he had died and her hopes to return home were dashed, and none when she was so brutally wrenched away from even that home.

  And yet, on a stormy morn with Glenlyon, unaccountable tears had sprung into her eyes. Shame, she had thought then, for her thoughtless surrender. Only later, alone in her bed in the dark of night, had she pondered the true cause.

  It had not been shame for yielding to the magic of his hands and mouth; it had been bitter regret for years lost, for the absence of love in her life—of love for her sake, not for lands or heirs or passing lust. Was there no one in this world who craved her presence for the mere sake of idle conversation, of lazy hours on a riverbank, or sharing tales before the fire of a night? Did she not have more to offer than manor houses or her body?

  Even here, in this rough keep so ill-tended by laird and gillies, she was unwanted. The old woman resented and feared her; the laird blamed her for the results of his own deeds.

  And now she was accused of witchcraft.

  Her own fault—she should never have baited Auld Maggie as she had. It only made it worse, had only lent credence to the old woman’s accusations.

  Did Glenlyon know of her fate? Had he heard what had befallen her?

  Would it concern him?

  Resting her chin on the backs of her folded hands, she watched sunlight chip on the surface of the loch. Robert Campbell had defied his father for her once, but that was before she had lain in his arms and then pushed him away. He was less likely to help her now, when she had refused him.

  In the hall later, he had stared at her as if he wished her across the breadth of Scotland instead of in Lochawe. It had left her breathless, that intense stare, and she had known the moment he’d walked into the hall. She’d not needed to even glance toward him for she’d felt his presence, a tingle down her spine, as if she stood in a storm and the air was crackling with lightning; it had left her unsettled and awkward.

  God. She had ruined all with her willful recklessness. If she had remained remote . . . but she had not.

  Poor Mairi would suffer most, alone in the keep now, save for Catriona and Tam. During the past days, they had found one another pleasant company, a surprise to Judith, and a bit disturbing that Mairi’s main companions were a stable lad and a kitchen wench. Now she was grateful for it, for Mairi would not feel so alone.

  A soft wind blew in the unshuttered window, smelling of the loch and faintly of smoke. The Beltane fires . . .

  There would be celebrations, wine and ale and oatcakes, and a caudle of eggs, butter, oatmeal, and milk to spill upon the ground to ensure the safety of the flock. She had helped to gather the eggs for it just that morning—before disaster struck in the form of sour milk and Auld Maggie’s shrieks of doom.

  The misfortune of the laird within hearing had sealed her fate. He had seized upon the accusation at once, and in a trice, she was hustled up the steep stairs to this chamber that had once held a loom. Remnants still lay scattered upon the floor, bits of wool, a cracked distaff that was beyond repair—a terrible waste, as it looked to have once been a fine tool. Had the former lady of Lochawe used it, she wondered, or was it left there by a careless servant?

  A muffled noise caught her attention, and she turned from the window. Four inches of solid oak separated her from the corridor, but she recognized the angry male voice: Glenlyon.

  She was standing when the door swung open, though she could not recall the conscious decision to do so, her hands knotted into the folds of linen tunic as if to still their trembling. Beyond Glenlyon, she glimpsed the outraged face of her guard, and her eyes widened.

  “Are you unharmed, Lady Lindsay?”

  His curt question summoned a nod from her, but still no words came to her lips. She could only gaze at him, blood rushing to her face, her heart a pounding drum in her chest.

  “You have a bruise.
” He moved forward, leaving the door ajar, to touch her lightly on the cheek. His hand was warm, and she suppressed the insane urge to grasp it and hold it to her face, to draw strength from him.

  He obviously expected her to explain, and she groped for the memory of how she had received the blow. It came to her suddenly, and she lifted her eyes to look into his face.

  “It . . . is nothing. An accident.”

  “Did he strike you? Christ above, answer me—”

  “As you pointed out, I have a hasty tongue. I speak unwisely at times, and when I was accused of witchery, of cursing the milk, I said only a fool would believe that.”

  Something dangerous flared in his eyes, and his mouth thinned. “He will not strike you again, lady. I give you my oath on it.”

  She believed him. She looked into his eyes and believed he meant his oath. It was a novel thing, this trust in a man who had given her no reason to trust him.

  Lifting her hand, she curled her fingers around his wrist and nodded. “Yea, I believe you, Robert of Glenlyon.”

  Chapter 12

  IT WAS QUIET in the hall; a low fire burned, warming those who slept near it, curled in blankets and on straw pallets. Candles had guttered, and only a single torch gave off light.

  Rob moved quietly, and only the old hound lifted a head to track his progress. He had anticipated Caesar’s interest and brought a strip of meat to distract him. The dog snapped it eagerly from his hand, noisily chomping, hardly noticing the farewell stroke of his soft ears.

  Lamps in the wall niches burned fitfully if at all as he climbed the stairs. Stones were damp as he ran his hand over the walls, moving by memory more than sight. He meant to take the lady from the tower before his father could do what he intended.

  It was vengeance against the lady, an innocent pawn, but even more vengeance against his own son for challenging him as he had. He’d not see the lady harmed for his sins, Rob thought grimly. He would return her to her family once his father came to his senses, but until then, he’d see her safe and away from Lochawe.