The Laird Page 24

  “We are handfasted,” she said stiffly, but heat seared her cheeks at the contempt in his voice.

  Argyll flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “It gives you rights for a year and a day, ’tis all. Hardly as binding as a priest. But I’m certain Glenlyon didn’t tell you that.”

  “I am aware of it.”

  “And still you rise to his defense. How virtuous. I suppose you think yourself in love.”

  When she didn’t answer, he laughed again, a nasty sound that made her heart sink. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms to keep from saying or doing anything that would cause Argyll to go back on his word. He had sworn to release Rob if she would sign the letter to her father, and she had done so at once. She would have done almost anything to ease the last memory she had of him, of the finality in his eyes and voice.

  If only she could have seen him again before leaving.

  It was nearly dark when the galley finally entered the mouth of the River Clyde and slipped under the towering basalt rock of Dumbarton. Atop the clefted crevice where Scottish thistles grew rampantly, the castle sprawled, in Scottish hands once more after years of being English held.

  She was weary; it had been a long journey, and the incessant motion of the galley had made her nauseous. She wanted to lie down in a shadowed room, not fence with the earl as they had done the entire time. He taxed her, and she had still her father or her brothers—or all—to deal with very soon.

  What would they say when she told them she intended to stay in Scotland?

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she discovered that only her brother had come for her. He waited in one of the anterooms, and when she entered, he came toward her easily.

  “Payton . . .”

  “Sweet sister.” He grasped her outstretched hands and held them a moment, smiling.

  Oh, he was so much older; seven years had passed since last she’d seen him, of course, and he had been but a youth then. Now he was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with fair hair like her own, though his was streaked with brown. He wore a beard and mustache, close-trimmed and darker than the hair on his head, but flecked with touches of gold.

  “You . . . you’ve grown,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “Yea, so I have. And you have grown more lovely than I remembered you.”

  “We have our mother’s eyes.”

  He nodded. “Our father says we favor her greatly.”

  “And is he well?”

  “Well, but worried. We all are. Matthew and I have wanted to bring you back to England for some time, but it was not possible until now.” He pressed her hands again lightly, then released them. “Argyll has been cooperative, much more so than those at Caddel Castle.”

  “Yes, so he has told me.” She paused, realized she must tread delicately where Argyll was concerned. Nothing could go awry until Glenlyon was safe!

  As if conjured by the mention of his name, the earl and the Dumbarton castellan joined them. Vexed, Judith saw that Payton would have preferred privacy for their discussion as well.

  Argyll gestured to a table and some benches as if he were castellan. “Sir Walter has sent for wine and cakes. We have much to discuss.”

  Payton frowned. “The terms are fairly straightforward, my lord. You have two thousand pounds, and my sister is free to go home to England.”

  Judith smothered a small gasp. Two thousand pounds? It was exorbitant! She thought of Simon and what he could do with that much coin. It was a princely sum, indeed.

  A smile spread over Argyll’s face. He flicked a glance toward Judith and shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It would seem fairly simple, yes. I am afraid it is more complicated, however.”

  “Is it.” Payton sounded unconvinced and impatient. “If you will forgive me, Lord Argyll, I traveled here at great speed. My men are weary, as am I, and certainly the lady must be so after her long journey. There is time tomorrow for a discussion.”

  “Surely you do not begrudge me? Alas, I must leave early in the morn, as I have pressing business awaiting my attention.” There was no mistaking the swift, malicious glance he sent her, and Judith shuddered. “I merely wish to assure you of my distress in not being able to save the lady from the depredations of my vassal.”

  “It was my understanding that you sent men to abduct the Caddel heiress,” Payton said with a lift of his brow, and Argyll’s mouth tightened.

  “Yea, that is true, but my orders were not to abuse the hostages in any way.”

  Judith, who had taken a seat when Sir Walter very courteously pulled out the bench for her, surged to her feet. “It is apparent what the earl intends, so I shall save him the embarrassment of saying it. While I wasn’t abused, it is my full intention to remain in Scotland. Forgive me, Payton, but I know of no other way to say it.”

  He stared at her, green eyes turning to ice, and she wondered if hers did the same when she was angry.

  “That is impossible. The ransom is paid, and you will return to England with me on the morrow.”

  “I have acted in good faith,” Argyll said, “and abided by the terms of our agreement. The money should not be forfeit.”

  “The money will not be forfeit,” Payton said tightly, “because the lady will be leaving in my custody. Our father is expecting her home, and that is where she will be.”

  “I will not.” She did not raise her voice, but her determination was clear. “I am remaining at Glenlyon.”

  Soft laughter slipped from the earl. “She is a defiant lady, it seems.”

  “The lady,” said Payton, “will be under guard until we are once more in England.”

  There was a finality to his words that she recognized. He would do it. If only they were alone, she could appeal to him, tell him of Argyll’s treachery as well as Glenlyon’s plight . . . impossible, and made so much worse by Argyll. What could she do to convince him?

  WAITING WAS INTOLERABLE. Rob had never been a patient man with such things, and now it seemed a cruel torment. Not as cruel as the torments Argyll would prefer, but vicious in his current state of mind.

  New hope shattered the dull sense of acceptance that had clouded his mind, but it made the waiting worse. Resignation to his fate had been kinder, if fatal.

  He paced the small cell, six steps one way, four the other, kicked at clumps of fetid straw, peered out the bars of the wicket time after time. Monotony stretched tautly, and he thought again, as he had a thousand times a day, of Judith standing in the wind-whipped brightness of the courtyard with her heart in her eyes and salvation on her lips.

  A miracle . . . the lady true through all, faithful in love and deed. She’d saved him. And he meant to live long enough to wed her, long enough to see his bairn.

  Six days passed, marked by the changing of the guard, his mood fretful and angry by turns. Would Lochawe hand over the incriminating paper to Argyll? Christ, he’d time enough to walk to the crypt, then back to Innischonnel on the east side of Loch Awe. More than time enough to ride.

  It was early on the morn of the seventh day when the summons finally came, a guard escorting him once again to the hall where Argyll waited. Every fiber of his body was taut and strained, tension riding him hard.

  Lochawe waited with the earl, his familiar red-and-gray-streaked head turned away from the door as Rob was brought in. Alarm thumped deep in his belly. Argyll beckoned for him impatiently.

  “Come ahead, man, come ahead. I would have this matter over and done with no more delays.” His opaque eyes shifted to Lochawe. “He is here as you requested. Now I will have the paper.”

  Rob watched with black dread coiling inside him as his father took out a leather pouch. He recognized it as his own. He had lost, then. He had gambled on Lochawe’s honor to see him saved from Argyll, and he had lost. Trad
ition won, the long-held tradition of a Campbell’s fierce loyalty to an overlord, no matter how treacherous. Bitterness settled in the depths of him, sinking into the black void where hope had so briefly gleamed.

  Lochawe tossed the leather pouch onto the table between them and Argyll, his voice heavy. “A forgery, ye said.”

  “Aye. Cleverly done. The seal very like my own.” His hands closed on the pouch, dragged it to him, satisfaction a smug smile on his face.

  “Ye sent me for the proof of my son’s dishonor, yet I found a lie,” Lochawe said, and this time there was an odd tremble in his words.

  “Aye, as you were told.” Argyll was impatient now, one hand tugging at the cords that closed the pouch. “’Tis all a lie—it’s not here.” His head jerked up, eyes narrowed. “The pouch is empty.”

  “Aye, so it is.”

  “Where is it, you old fool? I would have that paper now, or your son’s head will be on a pike before the hour is out!”

  “A lie,” Angus repeated, shaking his head. “Yer whole life has been a lie. I’ve looked the other way time and again. Campbells of Lochawe have always been loyal. I gave seven sons for yer cause, and not once have ye acknowledged the heavy price.”

  “Christ above, man, I gave you a hefty purse! You were paid well for your sacrifice—”

  “Seven sons!” Lochawe bellowed, slamming his hands down on the table between them, leaning forward to fix Argyll with a fierce gaze. “And ye not worth so much as a hair on any of their heads. Nay, nor worth the steel it would take to sever yer head should Robert Bruce read what I found hidden.”

  Argyll paled. His hands shook. “I played you fair—”

  “Ye have played me false, by hell, from the first.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Lochawe took a step back from the table. He raked a hand through his hair so that it stood up in a wild fringe atop his head, giving the appearance of spiky flames.

  “Glenlyon was right,” he said softly then, “and I did not listen. Nay, do not protest to me, George Campbell of Argyll, for I know now who ye really are. Ye’re not worthy of the Campbell name, not fit to lick the boots of yer own father, God rest his soul.” He held up a hand in warning when Argyll surged to his feet. “It would behoove ye to lend an ear to what I say next, for it could well mean yer life.”

  It was no idle threat. Robert Bruce had little mercy for traitors. Rob stood silent, fierce hope a blaze now in his chest.

  Impotent rage flared in Argyll’s pale eyes, but he held his tongue, though his hands were clenched into fists around the empty pouch. Lochawe nodded.

  “The letter ye wrote, signed, and sealed is where I put it, where it will be delivered to Robert Bruce if I am dead by foul means, if me, my son, or any of my kin are harmed by yer hand or desire. Heed me well; I am not called the Red Devil for naught. That paper is all that stands between ye and death, and well ye know it. ’Tis yer safeguard and mine. Deal fairly, and the paper stays hidden. Deal treacherously, and ye will rue it.”

  Silence spun when Lochawe finished. It settled heavily over them, while Rob waited for Argyll’s decision. He could well refuse, seize them both, and cast them into the cells below and never free them. It was a great risk.

  Finally, Argyll snarled, “Glenlyon resisted the king’s writ and must be tried by law.”

  “Another forgery. Robert Bruce is busy in England, too busy to meddle in the quarrel over a hostage.” Angus leaned forward. “The English have sued for peace. Bruce will soon return to Scotland and will have time enough then to deal with traitors on his own soil. What say ye, Argyll? My son’s freedom for yer own?”

  “Done, by Christ, and be damned to you both!”

  “I’ll have a paper signed on that, a bill of innocence from the charges against him.”

  “Will you!” Argyll looked a little wild, and Rob shifted from one foot to the other.

  “The lady,” he said, the first words he’d spoken since coming into the hall, “what of the lady?”

  Argyll shot him a bitter glance. “Ransomed, as agreed.”

  “By hell! When?”

  “Four days past. Nearly across the border into England now, I warrant, well out of your reach.” A nasty smile bent his mouth. “Sir Payton seemed most eager to leave Scotland.”

  Gone, and once in Wakefield’s hands, he was unlikely to get her back again. Disaster loomed, hope unraveled. So close, and now he was undone.

  LOCHAWE CAUGHT UP with him on the mainland and curbed his restive mount with a firm hand. “’Tis a long walk to Lochawe from here.”

  “Long enough,” Rob agreed, never breaking stride, his legs covering distance over rutted track and grass.

  His father matched his mount’s pace to Rob’s, silent for several yards before he said, “Ye go after the witch.”

  Rob jerked to a halt, pivoted to face him, looking up. “I go after my wife.”

  A muscle twitched in Lochawe’s jaw, then he nodded. “Aye, so ye do.”

  Wind blew off the loch, cold and damp, promising the arrival of winter. It must be October now, so long had he been held in the reeking hole below Innischonnel.

  Turning, he walked on, and after a moment, he heard Angus nudge his horse to follow. The clop of hooves was soft.

  “Ye could do with a good dunking in the loch, lad. The stink is strong, even from here.”

  “Then ride on.”

  After a moment, he heard his father blow out a heavy sigh. “I never thought Argyll would try to hang ye, lad. I thought at worst, it would mean some time in a cell.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “Aye. About more than that.”

  “Yea, about more than that,” Rob agreed. The wind felt good against his skin and in his hair, clean and fresh coming across the loch. There was the smell of pine in the air, and he thought instead of heather. White heather, and the lady who had given him a sprig for luck.

  Angus rode alongside him, half in front, turning his horse to bar his path so that he had to stop. He held out a hand, palm up, fingers loose and uncurled.

  “Come up, ye great stubborn ass, and I’ll get ye to Lochawe much faster.”

  Rob looked at his father’s hand, then up at his face, unmoving. The months, years, of strife between them had left marks on both. Never had he thought Angus Campbell would extend the hand of peace to him, when he had been soul sick from the wanting of it, the lack of it.

  And yet . . . and yet there was an honesty in his father that had not betrayed him, nor his own sense of honor. Angus Campbell had remained true. It was, Rob realized, tradition.

  He moved at last, took his father’s hand, and swung up behind him on the horse.

  “Christ above,” Angus said with a snort, “ye smell like a hog byre.”

  “Then ride fast so the stench will be behind us both.”

  Laughing softly, Angus did just that.

  A league from Lochawe, a stream of riders poured down a grassy hill, and Rob recognized them. “Hold,” he said, and Angus halted their burdened mount to wait.

  As they drew abreast, the riders slowed, then came to a halt. Archie MacCallum glanced doubtfully from Rob to Angus, obviously waiting for a signal. Behind him ranged MacGregors and MacNeishes, united in purpose, their feuds momentarily—and no doubt warily—put aside.

  “Are there any left to guard Glenlyon?” Rob asked, and Archie nodded.

  “Aye, MacCallums all, sae ye ha’ no worries.”

  One of the MacNeishes snorted disdain and was tactfully ignored.

  Archie cleared his throat. “We came tae rescue ye from the clutches o’ the hangman.”

  “As you see, I am rescued. But there is work afoot, if you are game, men.”

  A hearty “Yea!” went up, echoing across the loch.

  “For Lochawe, then,�
� Angus said, and spurred the mount forward.

  Chapter 26

  A WET WIND SENT a spiral of fallen leaves curling across the road in front of her horse, with a keening sound like a kelpie’s call. The steed danced sideways, snorting, and Judith calmed it with a pat on the neck, flicking her glance to the road ahead.

  They would reach England soon, and she had not been left freedom enough to flee. Her brother must have guessed her intention, for he’d set a relentless guard to her that was impervious to pleading or even bribery.

  But she was as determined as he, and she waited still and watched, certain the opportunity would come. If it took longer than she liked, it would still be welcome when the chance presented itself.

  A cold rain fell. She huddled beneath the wool hood of the brèid she still wore, blinking rain from her lashes as she looked down a sloping hill and across a boggy moor that stretched beside the narrow track of road. A few miles ahead lay the twisting ribbon of ancient wall that marked the line between England and Scotland in places, but much more than stones separated the two countries.

  She thought again of Rob, as she had every passing hour since leaving Innischonnel. And she thought of Argyll, his arrogant certainty that he would succeed in ridding himself of Glenlyon. Worry was a constant thrumming ache. A sense of urgency filled her, and her thread of patience wore taut and thin.

  A horse came alongside her, and she knew it was not her guards. They’d tasted her temper and found it best to trail behind by half a length.

  “Still grieving for your Highlander?” Payton asked. Rain dripped from his metal helmet in thin rivulets.

  “His name is Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.” She slid her gaze to the road ahead, unwilling to even look at him.

  Fairness bade her admit that it wasn’t all his fault they had quarreled. He’d not expected her to refuse to go with him, and it had given Argyll great amusement for them to argue over her intention to remain in Scotland.

  “Aye,” Payton muttered now, wiping rain from his eyes with a bare hand, “I know his name quite well.”