The Laird Read online

  And then the muscled sheen of a horse cut her off as she turned and twisted, and a brawny arm swung out, snatched at Mairi, the man cursing when Judith held tightly to the child, her fists tangled in the folds of Mairi’s gown.

  “Give up the lass,” a hoarse voice snarled in Gaelic, “or ye’ll rue it, by God’s teeth!”

  A meaty fist knotted in the wool of Mairi’s gown; red-gold hair curled over the bare arm, and without hesitation, Judith sank her teeth into the muscled flesh. A pained howl rose above the chaos, something slammed against the side of her head, and still she clung to him fiercely, like a dog with a bone, as the taste of sweat and blood filled her mouth and desperate terror filled her world.

  And above howls of pain, she heard snorts of laughter and a note of urgency in one voice that said, “Bring them both, or we’re like to be trapped! They come!”

  Caught in the midst of jostling horses and determined men, Judith heard muffled shouts. Without seeing them, she knew that Caddel servants were coming to their aid; if only she could hold on a little longer, delay these marauders until help arrived.

  Mairi clung still to her neck, a strangling hold as Judith kept her tenacious grip on the man’s arm. It was hard to breathe, impossible to see more than the shifting horse and a man’s bare leg . . . then the bloodied arm jerked free. She gulped in a breath of hot, dusty air that tasted rusty and thick. With her last bit of strength, she wrapped her arms around Mairi’s frantically squirming body. Then another blow rocked her, lights exploded in front of her eyes, a whirling darkness spun her round and round until the world tilted and shifted beneath her feet. A keening cry enveloped her, and she recognized it as her own as Mairi was torn from her arms. Then all went black.

  Chapter 2

  “YE SHOULD HAVE killed the bloody bitch.”

  Harsh Gaelic penetrated the fog surrounding Judith, and she squinted against the dull, thudding ache in her head as she opened her eyes. It was dark, but she saw shadowy forms outlined against misty shafts of brittle moonlight.

  The man who had spoken grunted in pain as the contents of a small flask splashed over his torn flesh. He sat upon a tree stump, and the pale-haired man who knelt beside him chuckled.

  “She was too pretty to kill,” was the reply, and when he glanced up, Judith could see in the sharp light that he was much younger than she’d thought. He was grinning, teeth a white flash. “And she fought too bravely, you must admit.”

  “What kind of son are ye, to laugh at a father’s pain.” It was not a question but a sour comment that earned more laughter from those around him.

  The night smelled damp. It must have rained, for her wool gown was sodden and cold. Judith shivered. Her breath was a frost cloud. She remained still and quiet, aware of young Mairi next to her; the child’s breathing was rasping and soft, an exhausted slumber. Beyond the wooded clearing, velvety blackness swallowed the forest and tethered towering trees to the earth. It was late. She had been unconscious for a long time. How far had they come? Too far for pursuers to find them? The beat of her heart was loud in her ears, blood pulsing through her veins as fear coursed through her body. She breathed more deeply in an effort to remain calm. It wouldn’t help now to panic.

  Muted voices penetrated the last shreds of fog that clouded her brain. They argued, discussed whether or not to discard her or keep her with them. Her value seemed to barely outweigh the inconvenience.

  “She calms the child,” the younger man said, and he indicated Judith with a jerk of his thumb over one shoulder. “And ’tis one more hostage to use against Clan Caddel if need be.”

  The older man, with bushy red hair sprinkled with gray, scowled as he nursed his chewed arm. “Mark me, she’ll be trouble.”

  “Not as much trouble as a screaming bairn would be,” another of the men said practically. “I’ve no stomach for gagging a wee lass. She might strangle on it. It’s best we take the woman. Christ’s blood, we brought her this far. A bit farther willna hurt. And God must be on our side. Why else would they have been outside the keep, almost waiting for us? Good fortune rides with the right, ’tis said.”

  Silence fell, then the leader gave a jerk of his head. “Aye, we’ll keep the woman with us then, but if she gives me any more trouble, I’ll slit her throat myself.”

  No one offered an argument, and a chill shivered down Judith’s spine. Her fingers clenched convulsively into the green wool folds of her gown. She was cold, the damp wind knifing through the wet wool. Someone had covered Mairi with her own plaide; the child still slept, and she was grateful.

  There was more talk, most of it a laughing reliving of the successful raid on Caddel Castle. What manner of men were they, she wondered, that dared ride so boldly into the very heart of enemy land to abduct a hostage? Two hostages?

  And why?

  She tensed when one of them, the young, fair-haired lad who had dared laugh at his father, stood up and came toward her. She had a vague impression of height and bare legs covered only in leather boots and a short tunic before he knelt, and his touch was insistent but gentle as he shook her.

  “Wake, mistress,” he said softly, “and gather the wee lass. We maun ride.”

  Judith forced herself to meet his gaze, the pale blue glint of his eyes moon-silvered and shadowed. Oddly, she felt no animosity in him, but even a kind of sympathy. With an effort, she swallowed the taste of fear that clung to her tongue and nodded.

  “Where do you take us? The child is exhausted and could die in this cold night air.”

  She had spoken English, she realized, reverting to her natural tongue, and she saw his brow lower in confusion.

  “D’ye have the Gaelic?” he asked before she could rephrase her question, and she nodded.

  “Yea. I asked where you take us. Mairi could die if not protected.”

  His youthful mouth pursed, but his reply was firm. “We shall not let her die, mistress. Nor you, if ye dinna fight us. ’Tis a long way to Lochaweside.”

  Her eyes widened. Lochaweside—Holy Mother, it was near two hundred miles away on the west side of Scotland!

  Judith sat up, shivering, and the youth noticed. He rose to his feet and stepped away, then returned with a dark length of plaide. It was frayed and smelled of woodsmoke and things she’d rather not think about but was warm as he pulled it around her shoulders.

  His kindness gave her the courage to ask, “What do you intend to do with us?”

  “Ye’ll not be harmed,” he said and held out his hand. “Come, mistress. We cannot tarry longer.”

  There was a gentleness to him that was reassuring, and Judith allowed him to lift her atop a mount and hand Mairi up to her. Drowsily, the child snuggled close as the youth tucked the end of Mairi’s red plaide around her sturdy legs.

  As the day wore on, they rode at a furious pace that gave Judith hope they were being pursued. Loch Ness was behind them now, the misty waters no longer visible. It was wild country here, climbing higher, with harsh crags still white with snow and the air breath-stealing, chilling hands and lungs with brisk efficiency. The sky was so blue and bright her eyes stung. The horse was a steady rhythmic pounding beneath her, and the world was a blur of trees and sky and steep green slopes broken by humps of gray rock as they rode relentlessly onward.

  Mairi clung to Judith, a warm weight against her body. They rode from sunlight into the misty shadows of a forest in the valley, where little light penetrated the dense needles of pine and fir. Hooves were muffled on eons of deadfall cushioning the narrow track that wound through towering trees, budding oaks vying with the spicy-scented evergreens, wind soughing through shifting branches.

  Judith shivered. It was so quiet, only the sound of birds and horses broke ancient silence as they traveled at a pace made slower by the twisting path. No one spoke until they were out of the forest and into the sunlight again, where warmth w
rapped around them like a welcome wool cloak.

  When they paused at the crest of a hill, her young guard turned in his saddle to look over his shoulder at her, flashing a grin. “Rob prophesied doom. He’ll be surprised we’ve had no trouble.”

  Judith lifted a brow in response. It was disconcerting that no one had pursued them. Surely, Mairi’s uncles cared about their young heiress enough to go after the men who’d abducted her. Yet as the day wore on, there was still no sign of pursuit. Curse them. Were they too cowardly even to rescue their own? If only her abductors would lower their guard, she would take Mairi and steal away into the night.

  Yet no opportunity arose, for the youth—whose name she learned was Diarmid—kept sharp eyes on her, and especially Mairi. Snatches of conversation revealed that the older man was father to all seven of her captors, and that the earl of Argyll was responsible for Mairi’s abduction.

  Argyll was a brash man, she’d heard, who held a firm grip on his lands and the lairds who gave him their loyalty. Her heart sank. There was scant hope of escape.

  The country was too wild, her guards too many and too wary.

  Late in the afternoon, when purple and rose shadows filled valleys and shrouded the hills, one of the men cursed loudly. Judith glanced up, her heart thumping madly as she turned to see the cause of his concern.

  Riders! Mairi’s uncles following them? Oh, pray God it is true, she thought fiercely.

  The leader shouted encouragement, and horses were put to the spur. Judith clung to Mairi and the saddle, careening with them in a hectic race as her horse was pulled along. Trees flashed by in a blur, and cold air lashed her face.

  Then they came to an abrupt halt. Just ahead lay an abandoned croft with no roof or walls, only the bare bones of its foundation left. It squatted amid a tangle of bracken in a clearing surrounded by thick woods. The laird snapped out an order for everyone to dismount, turning to Judith to point a thick finger at her and Mairi.

  “Ye’ll stay where ye are,” he growled. “Hold her horse, Diarmid. I’ve a plan to outfox Clan Caddel.”

  “We can outrun them,” one of the men argued. “There are too many to fight against here. We’ve not enough shelter for an ambush, not enough men for a victory.”

  “I will not risk capture now,” the laird shot back. “Do what I say, and we may yet win the day.”

  Judith hugged Mairi tightly to her chest, watching numbly when an old cooking pot was dragged from beside the ruined hut. It was a huge cauldron, large enough to boil an entire hog. The men struggled with it, inverting it so the iron feet stuck into the air like a felled dragon. It lay in the middle of the clearing, a rusting dome.

  After a swift discussion with his sons, the laird took up his mount’s reins and glared at Judith.

  “We ride, and I’ll have no trouble from ye,” he growled, “or ’twill be just me and the bairn that rides on.” Then he turned to Diarmid hovering close by and put a hand on the youth’s shoulder, his tone gruff as he said, “God be with ye, lad, and give ye victory.”

  His voice trembling ever so slightly, Diarmid asked his father’s blessing. “If we’re granted victory, I’ll see you again in Lochawe.”

  “Aye. The Argyll has asked much of me. I pray ’tis not too much. Kenneth . . . lads, guard yer backs.”

  The youth gave him the reins to Judith’s horse. Despite his bravado, it was easy to see he was frightened.

  “Do not stay,” Judith blurted, startling the boy and drawing a fierce glare from his father. “There’s no need to risk your life!”

  “God’s mercy, my lady, for your kindness, but I’ll not flee from a fight. Take care of the lass and bide your tongue, for Lochawe doesna gladly tolerate willful females.”

  “Heed yer tongue, woman,” the laird snarled when she started to speak again and gave a harsh tug on the reins so that her mount lurched forward.

  Judith glanced back at the clearing as they rode away. Seven men circled the cauldron as if guarding something precious, and she saw with a start of surprise that the tail of Mairi’s red plaide stuck out from beneath the pot. Then she understood; it was a clever ruse to lure the Caddels to fight over an empty cooking pot that hid nothing but dirt, twigs, and an empty plaide.

  A ruse to gain time. A ruse that would slaughter the men left behind. The sheer calculated sacrifice took away her breath. She must be mistaken. No man would sacrifice his own sons for two hostages, not even for his overlord. Yet the old man did not waver in his path. They skirted the ragged banks of a deep loch, moving swiftly now, climbing into the foothills with the loch a shimmering jewel below.

  A cold chill shivered down her spine when she heard the unmistakable sounds of battle joined; across the water came the harsh clang of sword meeting sword, the shouts and screams of men and horses. The clear waters of the deep loch carried sound as if it was a yard instead of a mile away, and Judith glanced toward the laird.

  He rode a horse’s length ahead of her, his back stiff and straight. But she heard him mutter what sounded very much like a prayer.

  Chapter 3

  HURTING LIKE THE very devil, Rob climbed the circular steps to the tower again. It had been over a week since his father and brothers had gone, and this was the first day he’d been lucid enough to leave his bed.

  A fever, Fergal had said, that should have killed him quickly. Yet it had not. It had merely left him tossing and turning in fevered delirium for near a sennight.

  He reached the top of the stairs and limped to the parapet. With hands clenched atop harsh stone, he watched the horizon beyond the undulating green of firs and marsh below. A brisk wind rife with peat smoke and desolation snapped the edges of wool plaide slung carelessly around his shoulders. Nothing moved but birds wheeling beneath dreary clouds. There was no sign of approaching riders.

  He swore softly under his breath. Damned fools . . . his father especially. Argyll wasn’t worth risking life and liberty for, not in this manner. He knew that well enough, by God. Aye, and a damn fool he had been for ever thinking a man’s honor was armor enough against treachery.

  One hand curled into a fist, the edge of his palm resting against stone as cold and gray as his mood. He should have stopped them. Or been with them. Curse his father for feckless pride, and curse Argyll for demanding honor when he had none of his own. Crafty devil. He knew his man well, knew the Campbell of Lochawe would not refuse him.

  Just as Rob knew well enough that it was not only honor that made Angus Campbell heed the earl’s demands. It was tradition. Campbell chiefs had always sworn fierce loyalty to their overlords. His father was not the man to spit in the eye of tradition. He was laird, and he would do as the lairds of Lochawe before him had done.

  It was tradition.

  Rob swore softly. The wind was keener now, wailing like a demon around towers, pushing black hair from his eyes only to capriciously whip it back into his face. He raked an impatient hand through his hair, narrowed his eyes on the spires of pine and fir in the distance, as if by sheer will alone he could summon his family home.

  Once they were safely back, he would go to Kenneth and speak his mind. As the eldest, Kenneth had been reared to accept the responsibility and honor due the leader of this Campbell clan. It was his due. It was Kenneth who would continue the tradition. Or have the courage to break custom and do what was right instead of what was expected. Kenneth was no fool. And more, he knew Argyll for what he was.

  This site had been held by Campbells for longer than anyone could recall, save perhaps the bards of long ago. Tales were told round the fires at night of the first Campbells to come to Lochawe, following the first Argyll, though he’d not been known by that name in those ancient times. These lands had been wrested from the MacGregors at great cost in lives. Feuds still simmered beneath a thin veneer of cooperation against the English. Raids on sheep and cattle were common, deaths
more so.

  Rob had cut his milk teeth on those old tales, heard time and again of how the firstborn Campbell was always given the hilt of a sword to suckle, as were all males born to the clan. But it had been Kenneth who was given the laird’s sword hilt to pacify his infant cries. It was an honor and a burden that Rob did not envy him. He preferred his own path, and he had done well enough, despite Lochawe’s prophecy of doom.

  “Monkish,” his father had once called Rob, an intended slur that hadn’t gone unnoticed for all that he’d ignored it at the time. Eight sons, and Rob was the only one to pursue studies Lochawe considered an unnecessary waste of time, his schooling cut short through no fault of his own. A dream, to study at a Glasgow university, a dream rendered impossible by the war between England and Scotland. He’d stayed home to fight.

  And spent three years in an English prison for it. Hard years, when he’d thought each day would be his last, that he would follow so many who had gone before him to the scaffold or block. If not for James Douglas, he might be there still.

  Betrayed by Argyll, redeemed by the Black Douglas.

  Home now, and his father still unaware of the reason his son had spent years in an English prison. That was a private matter, to be settled with Argyll himself when the time came. And the time would come.

  Restless, angry, and uneasy by turns, Rob glanced again over the walls. He paced the narrow space in a halting gait. Too much time had passed. If all had gone as Angus planned, they had more than enough time to return. This delay boded ill, an omen he misliked.

  “Will ye be going after them, lad?”

  The question snared Rob’s attention, and he paused, turned toward the stairwell.

  Fergal stood on the top step; his gaunt face was sharp as an ax blade, his cheekbones stark, black eyes deep-set and penetrating. Wind whipped at his tattered blue and green wool plaide, ruffled his gray beard. He stepped forward to lean against the weather-gnawed stone and squint into the verdant distance. The familiar shade of a half-blind old hound trailed behind, nose snuffling a wet path to find Rob.