The Laird Page 22

He drew in a deep breath as he searched for a reply, but she said before he could, “I want to go with you.”

  “No.” He didn’t ask how she knew. It didn’t matter. “It is not safe for you, Judith.”

  “Do you think that matters to me? It was not safe for me to stay behind the last time you left me here. If you do not return, there will be no safety for me anywhere in Scotland.”

  “If I do not return,” he said flatly, “you will be taken to your family in England.”

  Sunlight picked out the flare of shock in her eyes. “You have already made your plans.”

  “Judith—”

  “When was I to know? When I awoke and found you gone, perhaps?” She moved from beside the stone to put a hand on his leg. Her touch was warm, pleading. “Take me with you, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon. Do not leave me to the anguish of uncertainty.”

  “Lady . . .” A helpless sigh escaped him, and he bent to cup her chin in his palm. “I cannot. To have you near would be a fatal distraction.”

  Her eyes closed, dark brown lashes shadowed her cheeks, and her mouth quivered slightly with emotion. After a moment, she opened her eyes and said simply, “Then give me one more memory for my dreams.”

  They made love in a bower of woodbine and feathery ferns, long hours that whiled away the rest of the day, so that dusk shadowed the road when they returned at last to the keep. She rode his mount with him, held in his arms and his plaide wound about them both, her horse trotting behind.

  As the keep came into sight, so did armed troops that waited without the walls. Reining his beast in a half circle as he surveyed them, Rob recognized the standard. It snapped cleanly on a lance, white and red and familiar.

  Judith’s hand curled into his arm, her voice fearful. “Who is it?”

  “Lochawe.”

  Chapter 23

  “I WAS SENT to fetch back the woman,” Angus Campbell said curtly, eyeing his son over the rim of a cup. “She has been ransomed.”

  “That no longer holds. We are handfasted.”

  Silence greeted Glenlyon’s cool reply, and Judith held her breath. She perched on the edge of a bench in the hall, while her future lay in the hands of the two men before her, father and son, sworn enemies now, with divided loyalties.

  Lochawe finally lifted his shoulders in a dismissing shrug. “Och, well, that doesna matter. I have a king’s writ. Ignore it, and ye’ll have a royal army at yer gates.”

  “Scots or English?”

  Lochawe swore foully at that and took a step closer to his son. “’Tis not I who am named traitor! Look to yer own deeds as proof of treachery. We swore to Argyll, and ye have betrayed that oath and dishonored the Campbell name.”

  “My allegiance to Argyll was disavowed, but even were it not, I would not allow her to go with you. Her safety as a hostage was compromised.”

  A sneer curled his mouth as Lochawe shook his head. “She has bewitched ye true, but ’tis not for me to deal with that. I am to take her to Argyll at Innischonnel.”

  Cold dread formed a tight knot in the pit of her belly as Judith recognized the implications.

  “Refuse me,” Lochawe continued, “and ye have refused the king’s official writ. An army will be at yer gate, and every stone of yer keep will be pulled down before it ends.”

  Disaster loomed before her. She sat with the dawning realization that Rob would defend her to his own death, and she could not allow that.

  “I will go,” she said into the gathering silence that was fraught with tension, “and Argyll may have his ransom.” She turned to Rob, who glared at her with a thunderous scowl on his face, and said softly, “It is the only way. I cannot risk your destruction.”

  “You have no say in the matter.” His cool reply was as sharp as a slap, and she recoiled slightly. “’Tis my keep, my life, and you are handfasted to me. By your own vow, you are mine, and I will not allow you to go.”

  Rising to her feet, she stared at him. If he had given words of love, or even loyalty, she would understand. But not this cold reminder of her subjugation.

  “Handfasting is not binding,” she said miserably.

  “A year and a day, lady mine, and that has not passed.”

  “Much good it will do if you are dead!”

  Aware of Lochawe’s narrowed regard and Rob’s intense gaze, she tried to sort through the tangle of emotion and cloudy reason that muddled her mind. If she stayed—and oh Mary and all the saints, she wanted to!—he would earn harsh reprisal. But if she allowed herself to be ransomed, then he would be left free, and she could return at the very first opportunity. If only she could have a moment alone with him, she could tell him. . . .

  “The woman has more sense than ye, it seems,” Lochawe said dryly, and Rob turned back to him.

  “I will give you my decision in the morning.” When his father’s brow rose, he added, “You will find the fields outside my gates most comfortable for your night’s rest.”

  Summarily dismissed, Angus Campbell hesitated only for a moment, then accepted it, as he had little choice. Come the dawn, he would have his answer, like it or no.

  Left alone with her glowering laird, Judith resorted to silence until he could speak to her calmly. Fury was obvious in the narrowed glance he gave her, in the set of his jaw and the muscle in his cheek that ticked a warning.

  Simon MacCallum retreated to the far side of the hall, whether to give them privacy or for his own safety she wasn’t certain. With hands folded in front of her, she stood and waited for Rob’s anger to subside.

  “You spoke foolishly,” he said at last, and there was an edge to his voice she couldn’t identify.

  “Not so foolish, if you consider the alternative. Do you think I want to go?”

  He flicked a smoky glance toward her, shook his head. “No, I do not think that. I think you act out of misguided loyalty.”

  “Misguided? Are you not worth my loyalty?”

  “’Tis not what I mean, for the love of all that’s holy, but you don’t know how treacherous Argyll can be.”

  “If the king—”

  “Christ, the king will not be there, Judith. Argyll is not to be trusted. I know.” His laugh was unpleasant. “I know full well how far he can be trusted.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, the gleaming black strands catching light from the fire. Pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, he finally halted, shot her a dark glance, and said, “I spent three years in an English prison for trusting unwisely. I will not do it again.”

  “Argyll is Scottish—”

  He laughed harshly. “Argyll is not one or the other, to my way of thinking.”

  Sudden clarity illuminated his reasons for mistrusting Argyll, and she began to understand.

  “He betrayed you.”

  “Aye, he betrayed me. And worse.” When she would have asked how it could be worse, he stepped close to her, so that his face was only a handbreadth away. “If you have some foolish notion of throwing yourself on his mercy, take heed; it could be the death of you.”

  “That is unlikely.” She met his angry gaze steadily. “My father is an English earl, powerful and worth much as an ally. As an enemy, he can be formidable. No doubt, Argyll has cultivated his favor with the promise of my return for coin instead of land, a more acceptable exchange to my father, and to King Edward and his needy coffers.”

  “More acceptable to Argyll, whether or not the king is likely to profit.” He frowned down at her. “I will not risk you.”

  “If you do not, it’s quite possible that there will be the king’s troops at the gates. They’ll raze the keep, kill beasts and people much more efficiently than raiders.”

  “I can protect my own.”

  “Can you? With the men you have here?” She swept out a hand to indicate the hall and k
new she’d made a telling point. “What if they come when the MacCallums are gone? It is not beyond ken. Many a keep has fallen to Edward, and if he has Argyll’s help . . .”

  “No,” he said finally, and there was grim determination in the steely eyes, “I cannot risk you.”

  “Not even for the lives of those here?”

  “Not even for my own life.”

  She inhaled sharply. God . . . he would die for her before he would yield. But could she allow that?

  It would be a simple enough thing to allow the ransom, then return to Scotland. There were no marriage lines to honor now, no disputed lands, no war to keep her bound. She would be free, and Rob would be alive.

  She looked around the hall. Simon bent over a table on the far side, perusing his eternal ledgers. Morag was in the kitchens, no doubt, contentedly cleaning and cooking, with the young village lasses at her heels. Beyond the square keep lay the crofters’ huts that looked to Glenlyon for protection, and near the field with the standing stones, new shops had been built on the street by the ancient yew, thriving with the workmen who had come to labor and remained in the area. It prospered here. Vengeance from Argyll or royal troops would hurt so many.

  And she knew what she must do.

  LOCHAWE DIDN’T SEEM surprised to see her. She stood shivering in the bleak light of a new moon, wrapped in hood and plaide. The wind whipped her plaide into a dark billow around her.

  “He doesn’t know ye are here, I wager,” he said and laughed softly.

  “No.” She stared at him, trying to see some of his son in this man, but failed. “He sleeps still.”

  “Aye?” Angus lifted a disbelieving brow, but she had no intention of confessing that she had drugged Rob’s wine. It would likely earn her another accusation of witchcraft.

  “As I could not bring a horse with me, I suggest you find me a mount and hasten from this glen. Unless you wish to meet Glenlyon in battle.”

  “He’ll not thank ye for it,” Lochawe said, “but ye have done him a favor by leaving him.”

  “Understand me,” she said coldly, “I do not leave him for hate but for love. There has been enough bloodshed, and I will not see father set against son.”

  “Ye had nothing to do with that, woman. It was set long before ye bewitched him.”

  There was nothing to say to that, and when she was mounted, Judith cast a last look back. Outlined against a night sky, the square keep rose strong and proud, a symbol of such brief contentment, such brief happiness. Pray God, she would see it again.

  And pray, too, she thought miserably, that Robert Campbell would forgive her.

  ANGUS CAMPBELL WAS no fool, and it was obvious he had no desire to cross swords with his son. He set a hard pace, and she was reminded of the arduous ride from Caddel Castle to Lochawe. Terror had been her companion then, and sweet Mairi. If she had known what she would discover at the journey’s end, perhaps she would not have been so frightened of it.

  Shielings dotted the slopes of Ben Lawers, empty now, with sheep and the shaggy Highland cattle gone from summer pastures. Soaring high above Loch Tay, with serrated ridges and jagged rocks, the slopes disappeared in green folds beneath billowing clouds. Rain threatened in a low rumble of thunder.

  She thought of the last time she had ridden this path, fleeing from the very man she had chosen to ride with now. It was a circle, and she had come full round it. Misery rode every step with her, dulled her senses so that she could hardly think for it. Her head pounded, grief an ache that settled in her chest. So many losses through the years . . . she had thought leaving Mairi behind was the worst . . . until now.

  The press of hot tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away angrily, not wanting to give in to the weakness. It was not—could not be—forever. How could she bear it if it was? No, it was only for a short time, and she would be with him again. He would understand then why she had gone.

  Engulfed in her misery, she did not at first comprehend the ripple of excitement in the men around her, not until she heard one mutter, “The Devil’s Cub,” and her head whipped around to see the cause. Her heart leaped.

  Glenlyon. With him were MacCallums and MacGregors, and she recognized Archie MacCallum riding at Rob’s side. They came fast, horses quickly closing the distance between them, and she heard Angus curse. A faint smile curved her mouth. All for naught—her sacrifice and risk had gained nothing, yet she couldn’t help a sweeping surge of relief that he had come, and then stark fear that he would be harmed.

  She glanced at Lochawe. Fury glittered in his pale eyes and marked his face. Before she could spur her mount away, he reached for her, his arm snaking out to grab her by the back of her tunic and yank her from her horse.

  Dangling at the side of his horse, she felt him shift to put an arm around her waist. She grabbed at him with both her hands and tried to pry free. He held her fast, cutting into her with fierce pressure every time she moved.

  “Aye, I’ve not forgotten the last time I had ye like this,” he muttered, “for I still have the marks of yer teeth in my arm. Be still before ye wear the marks of my fist on yer cheek.”

  She had no doubt he’d do it.

  Helplessly, she watched as Rob and his men rode within twenty feet of them, then came to a sudden halt.

  “Release her,” came the growling demand, and she wanted to weep at the anger in his voice.

  “Nay,” said Angus, an expected reply, and through the tangled veil of her loosened hair, she saw Rob’s mount dance in a half circle. “If ye want her, come for her, lad.”

  Judith gasped as he moved abruptly, and then she felt the cold edge of a dirk pressed against her bared throat. When Rob swore at him, Lochawe laughed harshly.

  “She’ll not be much good to ye with her throat cut, but that will be yer choice.”

  “She’ll not be much good to Argyll with her throat cut, I warrant,” Rob snarled.

  “Argyll is not so particular. Wakefield might be, but he was promised only that his daughter would be returned. Nothing was said about the state of her health.”

  A dark wind sprang up, snapped the edges of her plaide as Judith hung from Angus Campbell’s arm, the world narrowed to the cold steel and her trembling fear.

  “Christ above,” she heard Rob say, “you have become as treacherous as Argyll.”

  “Fine words from a man who forswore his oath!”

  “And have you ever asked the reason for it?” Rob rode nearer; she saw his black horse prance over stone and turf. A rumble of thunder growled, closer now, and loud. The wind caught his hair, blew it back from his face. His drawn sword glinted dully. “Christ, did you never wonder why?”

  The arm Lochawe had around her tightened slightly. “If there had been good reason, ye would have told me.”

  “There was good reason. I spent three years in an English prison for his betrayal.”

  “Aye, so he told me. But ye know he had little choice in the matter; the English were on him so fast and hard he had to retreat.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Rob’s laugh sent a chill down Judith’s spine. “Aye, he would concoct a facile lie.”

  “Do ye deny it?”

  “Yea, I do.” He leveled his sword and pointed it at Judith. “But this is not the time. Release her.”

  She felt a hesitation in Lochawe, in the faint loosening of his taut muscle, but then he tightened his grip again. “I will not.”

  A rumble of thunder rolled down the rocky slope of Ben Lawers, so loud the ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves. A thread of lightning spiked across the sky, and a hot smell filled the wind. Nervous beasts pawed the ground, snorted, and Lochawe tried to hold her and control his horse.

  Turbulence coiled around them like a demon’s breath as a sudden blast of wind and rain tore from the sky. Slashing down, it pounded
against rocks and men in stinging pellets. Chaos erupted, in shouting men and frightened horses, and she heard over the tumult the first clash of swords.

  Clinging desperately to Lochawe’s arm, Judith was only vaguely aware of the clumsy retreat, his swearing commands to those with him, and the sharp-shod hooves of his horse flashing just past her dragging feet. She half hung from his arm now, with his fist tangled in her tunic and towing her along like a sack of grain. There was nothing to hold onto save his arm, and she feared that at any moment she would be trampled beneath the horses.

  And then she was suddenly thrown free, tumbling through the air to come up sharp and short against the white face of a stone thrust up from the ground. Stunned, she lay there in the pounding rain, gasping for air, but sucking in wet hair and icy rain.

  The world tilted awry, spinning away from her as she tried to hold to the ground and her senses. Everything was a blur of rain and motion, a flash of steel and streak of plaides, men shouting. A hand clamped around her arm, and she began to struggle until she heard Rob’s voice against her ear:

  “Be still, Judith—”

  And above that, another voice, harsh and triumphant, “I have ye both now, by hell!”

  Chapter 24

  DEGRADING DEFEAT. The return to Loch Awe was not as he had planned but atop his horse with his feet tied beneath its belly. Angus Campbell had taken no chances that his traitor son might escape.

  Rob leaned his head back against the clammy stone of his cell. Innischonnel. A sturdy keep built upon an island in Loch Awe. There was little hope of escape from here.

  Perhaps this had been inevitable. He had only delayed it. How else to explain the convoluted path that had brought him to this end? And Judith . . . God. She had become entangled in the mire along with him, given over to Argyll by now, or even to her father. It didn’t bear thinking to consider what else her fate might be.

  He thought of her as he’d seen her last, sitting stiff and erect atop a shaggy Highland pony, green eyes awash with tears as he was led away. It was the first time he’d seen her weep or even glimpsed tears in her eyes, save for that stormy day in the solar.