The Laird Page 3

  “There may be no need for it,” Fergal said before Rob could reply. He lifted a bony hand to point. “Riders.”

  Rob wheeled around to look, cursing at the sharp pain his sudden motion summoned. Leaning forward, his body tensed with expectation at the blur of motion glimpsed among dense firs. Then he saw them, two horses, one heavily burdened, approaching on a thin track that ran through woods beyond the marsh. There was a brief flash of color beneath whitened bare branches that shifted like dry bones in the wind, then they vanished into a copse. He waited, but no other horses followed. Behind him, he heard Fergal’s sharply inhaled breath.

  “Only two horses,” Fergal muttered heavily.

  “The others will follow.”

  Fergal didn’t reply, but his silence was eloquent. He trailed behind Rob on the tightly winding stone steps that led down to the great hall, a slow progression of two men and an old hound. Musty rushes squelched beneath his boots when Rob reached the hall, and melancholy seemed to hang from the blackened timbers of the high ceiling. The fire was nearly out, only a few sullen coals glowing like red eyes among gray ash.

  Rob paused, his scowl earning the attention of one of the servants who lounged on a long bench. With a guilty expression, he sat up straight and nudged his companion, who turned and saw Rob and did the same. Both men lurched to their feet, mumbled excuses that Rob didn’t bother to acknowledge, and began to tend their tasks with an alacrity that was as unusual as it was unbelievable. Chaff hazed the air as dirty rushes were swept to one side of the hall.

  Fergal glowered fiercely. “I leave for a brief time, and they lie down like sheep. Curse them. They’ll move lively enough now tha’ the laird ha’ come back.”

  The bailey was near empty, mud sucking at Rob’s boots as he limped to the closed gate. Gears creaked, strained, chains rattling and cogged wheels slowly churning, almost drowning out his father’s demand: “A Campbell!”

  Working the thick oak levers, his muscles straining, Rob opened the heavy doors. They swung wide, and almost immediately, the Campbell clattered across wooden planks, tugging a horse behind him. The rider of the second beast was fair-haired, with a Campbell plaide slung around slender shoulders, but it wasn’t Diarmid or Duncan who held the small heiress in tight arms. It was a woman.

  Rob gave her only a cursory glance before turning his attention to his father. Bareheaded, Angus Campbell reined his weary, lathered horse to a halt and dismounted. His shoulders were slumped, his head bent. Tangled red hair clung to the nape of his neck, and his hands shook slightly. Angus didn’t meet Rob’s eyes but turned to Fergal. His jaw was set, his eyes shuttered beneath the shelf of thick brow, his voice gruff when he spoke to his old gillie.

  “Fergal, take the woman and child to the topmost tower. Guard them well.”

  “There be only the two o’ them, hey.”

  It was said heavily, and after a moment, the laird’s head jerked an acknowledgement. “Aye. Only the two of them.”

  Rob lurched forward, unable to hold his tongue a moment longer. “And the others? What of your sons?”

  Without looking at him, Angus replied tersely, “They gave me time to escape with the hostages.”

  “They follow you, then.”

  Silence was the reply. The tightness in his chest clutched more deeply, left him breathless so that he could not utter another sound. His throat ached with the effort. His tongue would not form the questions that his mind screamed, even the hope they were being held for ransom.

  Rob sucked in a sharp breath that tasted of mist and mud and despair. His gaze shifted to the woman who held the little heiress. She stared back at him with something like pity gleaming in soft, green eyes, shattering any hope and effectively loosening his tongue.

  “Curse you for an old fool,” he said softly to his father and saw him stiffen angrily. “You’ve killed them all with your damned pride and greed. Is the life of this bairn worth that of any one of my brothers? Is Argyll’s arrogance worth Diarmid and Duncan? Damn you.”

  “Guard yer tongue,” Angus finally growled. “I did what had to be done—as did yer brothers. If ye were man enough, ye’d have come with us, not stayed behind like a cowardly dog!”

  Fergal’s head lifted, and he started to speak, but Rob put up a swift hand to stop him, bitter grief nearly choking him as he said, “Aye, think what you will. Your judgment is no longer important to me.”

  “It never was.” Angus looked down at his bare hands, studied old calluses on the hills of his palms for a long moment. “Would to God it had been ye who—”

  He stopped, his intent plain, and Rob finished for him, “Died rather than them. Aye, we agree on that one point.”

  “If ye had gone with us, it might not have ended like this!” Angus looked up to say fiercely.

  “Yea, you’re right about that, for I would never have let you sacrifice my brothers just to indulge Argyll like a preening cockerel!”

  Angus lashed out a balled fist, all his weight behind the blow. Rob managed to duck, stumbling to one side so clumsily that a sharp pain nearly sent him to his knees. The momentum of his swing sent Angus sliding in the muck of the bailey, and he was unable to catch himself, crashing heavily to the ground.

  When Fergal offered a hand, Angus knocked it aside. On his knees, he spread his muddy hands on splayed thighs, not looking up at his son. A tremor of shock skittered down Rob’s spine at the sight of his father brought to his knees. Helpless, anguished, he could not bring himself to move.

  Emotion clogged Rob’s throat, anger and misery such a tight knot he didn’t try to speak. It fell quiet in the bailey; the gillies and hostages seemed frozen in place. Even the horses made no sound but stood as still as if carved in stone.

  Rob watched his father’s bowed head bend lower, saw the broad shoulders shake. Horror trammeled his soul. The laird never wept, never betrayed weakness. Not in front of servant and hostage—not like this, Sweet Mary, Mother of God—not like this . . .

  Slowly, Rob sank to his knees in the mud and muck, so close to Angus he could feel the heat of his breath. No words came to him. He had no comfort to offer. Rage, grief, and helpless frustration scoured him, held him captive so that he could do no more than crouch silently.

  Angus looked up. Unshed tears washed his blue eyes, red-rimmed with suppressed grief, and his lips trembled on words that seemed to come without volition, tumbling over one another, a whisper of Gaelic and pain.

  “There was naught I could do to help them, Robbie. God’s heart, there were too many Caddels. We saw them coming around the bend, knew they would be upon us before we could escape. . . . I did what had to be done, but I could hear it behind me, hear it across the loch, the shouts and swords and my dyin’ sons—my sons! Ah Mary, Mother of God, ye’re right when ye say I killed them . . .”

  His whisper trailed into a choking sound like a sob, and Angus put a broad hand over his face. Rob stared at the pale reddish hairs on the back of his father’s hand, the tiny brown freckles dotting strong sinews and bones: a hand he knew so well could wield a lethal sword, discipline an unruly son, lie gently on the head of a wee bairn. He tried to summon forgiveness, to find words of comfort, yet found only a black, vicious ache that held him in a vise.

  The heavy oppression took on ominous form, weighed down on the bailey in a dark cloud that obscured everything from his vision. Rob tried to focus, but his father blurred into a vague outline. Residual weakness from his fever swamped him, and he fought it.

  Soft words barely penetrated the haze that threatened to swallow him, but he slowly became aware of a husky voice that was rich and full, seeping into him and bringing him back from the void. Gaelic words in an unmistakable English accent drifted to him from above, and he looked up.

  “. . . They chose their own path,” the hostage was saying. “If they died, ’twas for their own decisio
n, not one man’s pride.”

  Rob’s gaze sharpened. She was still mounted, sitting erect upon the shaggy Highland pony, holding the red-haired child against her breast. The gaze that met his was direct and honest, wide green eyes that didn’t flinch away.

  Unexpected composure and compassion from a woman who had been brutally torn from her family. . . . He looked at her more closely. Weariness etched around her eyes, and one foot dangling at the side of the pony was bare, stockings torn and dirty. Yet despite disheveled hair clubbed into a loose knot on the nape of her neck and smears of dirt on one cheek, he could see that she was bonny. Her hair was the soft color of corn silk, tumbling over finely arched eyebrows, and her lips were generous beneath a patrician nose. An elegant face.

  He was on his feet without recalling the impulse to stand, staring at her. The little girl in her arms peeped out from a fold of plaide, face muffled by the protective embrace. A mop of red curls cascaded into childish blue eyes that regarded him with terror. It took him back.

  Rarely in his life had a child viewed him as a threat. Not even against the English had he ever been craven enough to harm a child. Yet this wee lass stared at him with round eyes filled with fear and apprehension, and he was suddenly, bitterly, ashamed.

  His gaze shifted to the woman again, but instead of condemnation he saw wary expectation. It was as unnerving as the child’s fear. What did she expect of him? She was a hostage now, as well as the child. There was naught he could do for her, not now. Not ever.

  Abruptly, he turned away from them, from the hostages and his father and the searing knowledge that he had failed to protect those he loved and that he could not protect two helpless females. There was nothing he could do or would do now, for the die had been cast. Argyll had won again.

  With a limping gait, Rob moved across the ruts and muck in a silent retreat to the keep. Only the old brindle hound had the courage to follow.

  SILENCE CLOSED UPON the grim tableau in the bailey when he disappeared within the high gray walls. An air of gloom settled like a shroud over the muck and mud and immobile figures. The wind sighed, a moaning current that tugged at horses’ manes and wool plaides.

  Judith clutched Mairi to her more tightly. The child’s small fists were tangled in the folds of plaide wound about their bodies, and while she made no sound of protest, the whisper of Mairi’s shallow breathing feathered over Judith’s neck like a plea for safety.

  For a moment, she’d had hope they would be safe here, that the laird’s son would offer reassurance. She’d seen in his eyes the pain he felt, heard his bitter condemnation.

  Yet that hope was now banished, and the full import of their situation was upon her, for she knew where they were: the infamous home to the Campbells of Lochawe, that wild, unruly clan fiercely loyal to Argyll.

  The man who’d brought them here must be Sir Angus, the Red Devil by name and reputation, and the man he called Robbie could only be the Robert Campbell of local legend: the Devil’s Cub, he’d been called, laird of Glenlyon and a man knighted on the battlefield. A shiver tracked her spine. They had fallen into the lion’s lair, it seemed, and a more forbidding place she could not imagine.

  It was a dour keep, a fortress built on a promontory thrusting into the very waters of Loch Awe, crouched as if poised to dive beneath the headwaters that scrubbed past the craggy shoulders of Ben Cruachan and the Pass of Brander. A peel tower soared high and stark toward the sky, rising in four levels of solid stone, a formidable spear jabbing at clouds scudding past. Gaunt windows pierced the stone like sullen eyes brooding down on stout barnekin walls. A smaller tower stood to one side, and a massive gate yawned open. The keep stood at the end of a straight dun road sweeping over clear marshland for nearly a mile. Any riders could be seen quickly from crenellated parapets atop the peel tower.

  Numb now with exhaustion, fear, and futility, she watched the laird struggle to his feet and turn to his gillie, a man with a sharp face and deep eyes. A potent look passed between them, but the laird spoke calmly.

  “Fergal, take them to the topmost tower. Send word to Argyll that the task is done . . . at great cost.”

  The last few words were hoarse, almost a whisper like a rusty hinge, grating and empty. Judith closed her eyes against such anguish, let herself feel sympathy for the torment of his loss. She thought of the lad, Diarmid, who had been so full of life, so confident and triumphant, and she offered a prayer for all of their souls.

  Then she offered a prayer for little Mairi, whose fate was in the hands of this man. A shudder traced her spine, and she closed her arms protectively around the child. There must be a way to free both of them before they were taken to Argyll.

  Chapter 4

  A WOOD FIRE burned in the center of the hall. Rob gazed into leaping orange and gold tongues of flame that licked at bleak shadows scouring high walls. The hall was near empty. Tables were against the walls, benches scattered. The stench of old food fouled the rushes, and lamps of fish oil reeked. He barely noticed. A dram of whisky filled one hand, his fifth in as many minutes. It didn’t ease the ache inside him, did nothing to fill the cold emptiness that gnawed his belly.

  Barren days, eroded nights had passed in the week since they had retrieved the bodies . . . a grim task. Women weeping and wailing when they returned with carts laden with the weight of the dead. Ah God . . . grim indeed. Just as grim as the funerals. He closed his eyes against the unbidden vision that he could not banish with whisky or sleep.

  The first cortege, solemn and swelled with widows and children of the slain, then the mournful tolling of the deid bell, the eerie wailing of the pipes in the dead dirge, the bell pennies, the men walking to the graveyard, and the deid dole handed out to beggars to pray for the souls of those slain . . . familiar rituals, haunting and sorrowful.

  He opened his eyes. In the fire, a charred log popped, collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks like tiny glowing stars soaring to the rafters. Rob’s gaze riveted on the fire, yet he saw not flames but strong, laughing young men—now entombed in stone for an eternity, leaving behind those who loved them. But he still saw them in a trick of light among shadows that made him turn to seek Diarmid or Duncan, or heard them in a burst of laughter that lifted his head, expecting to see Kenneth.

  His hand tightened on the whisky. His eyes and throat burned with grief. Death was not uncommon, yet never had he dreamed it would take them all at one time, leaving the keep in a ghostly pall, servants treading softly as if afraid to wake the dead. Or afraid of attracting attention.

  It was not just Lochawe they avoided. Rob had seen glances in his direction, from the corners of their eyes as if expecting him to rage or bellow. He could have told them they were safe; he felt nothing save grief. He was cold, empty inside as if he had died along with his brothers.

  A soft whine snared his attention, and his hand moved to caress soft ears on the old hound, a constant companion at his side. His hunting days were gone, the pace too fast and painful for old bones, but courage and will still burned in Caesar’s heart. Only his body failed him. More time was spent by the warm fire than in the field now, while younger dogs gave chase to fleet-footed deer and ferocious boars.

  If Caesar’s place was by the fire, so was his, of late. A frown settled between Rob’s brows at the thought.

  Turning the cup in his hand, he watched the tawny liquid slosh against the sides, aromatic and potent. A balm to ease his days, obliterate his nights. A temporary remedy. He knew better than anyone that he must face the empty days soon enough. Life went on for those still dwelling inside Lochawe.

  As life went on at Glenlyon, left in the dead of night upon receiving his father’s summons, riding injured over crags and heaths to stop Lochawe from disaster. A futile act that had near killed him as well. And now he must return to Glenlyon with the sorrow of his failure heavy on him.

  Glenlyon: reward won on the b
attlefield at Sutton Bank where the great seal of England had been abandoned by King Edward II, where English knights taken by surprise fled like hares before the greyhounds, leaving the Earl of Richmond and Sir Henry de Sully, grand butler of France, in the hands of the Scots. Sweet triumph, wrested for Bruce by his own Highlanders.

  And Bruce, generous in victory, bestowed upon him the lands of Glenlyon for his service. Laird of Glenlyon—a lengthy vale, but so narrow in places that the mouth of the glen where the river tumbled over a small waterfall was only twenty feet wide. It was home now, his by right of might, though he had spent little time there. Three years in an English prison, hostage to his own foolishness. He knew well the plight of hostages.

  His thoughts drifted to the heiress and the woman. He’d not seen either of them since the day they were brought to the keep. Argyll had sent word to hold them until it pleased him to retrieve them. Curse him. It had been a careless acknowledgement of an abduction that had cost Angus Campbell so much . . . so much, and Argyll had not the decency to remove the cause of all their sorrow.

  The child would be wed to Argyll’s son, sealing the ties to Caddel lands, but she was only five. It would be years before she would marry. For now, she would remain here with her nurse. Ah, the nurse, the widow of Kenneth Lindsay, a baron who died fighting the English.

  The widow, Fergal reported, had fought like ten wolves to keep her charge safe, and so they had brought her with them. It was easier and calmed the child, an argument he was willing to wager his brothers had made, not a point Angus would normally consider. Yet it made sense. This one hostage could be bartered, perhaps, for Clan Caddel concessions. A letter had been composed to begin the negotiations. Soon, the woman would be ransomed by her kin.

  Auld Maggie had sworn she’d seen her walking widdershins in the tower chamber, taking a leftwise path opposite the journey of the sun—a sign of evil. It was the way of those who dealt in black magic, Auld Maggie insisted.