Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(12)
Hell, he was a damn animal. Having been treated like a dog for so long, he was beginning to act like one. But living on the edge did something to a man. It made his base instincts simmer close to the surface. And right now he felt two of them in full force: hunger and lust.
The primitive desire to claim what would belong to him.
For a lass of otherwise unremarkable beauty, she managed to rouse his lust well enough. Too well.
She stopped a few feet away and gazed up at him uncertainly. Her eyes unnerved him—so light and crystal clear, he felt as if she could see right through him.
Ridiculous. By all that was holy, he should despise this girl. Hatred, bitterness, and anger were all emotions he was familiar with. Her fine clothing, her jewels, and her refined, pampered loveliness had been forged from the blood of his clan. He should resent her. Should see the dirty, starving faces of his clansmen reflected in her gaze. Should see her as an instrument of revenge.
But all he could see was the lass, who looked as harmless as a kitten but fought like a tiger and gazed at him as if he were some damn hero.
She would be cured of that notion soon enough.
“I must thank you,” she said softly. She had a slow, musical lilt to her voice that would have made a bard weep with envy. He recalled her stammer but didn't hear any evidence of it now. “I don't know what would have happened had you not arrived when you did.”
Apparently thinking of the possibilities, she stopped, and her face turned an even starker shade of white. He ignored the prick of conscience.
“I wish it had been earlier,” Patrick said truthfully. Wanting to keep the conversation going, he asked, “What happened?”
“We were ambushed.” She pointed to the carriage. “My men believe the trench was intentionally dug to snap the wheel and covered with tree branches so that the driver would not see it. When the guardsmen stopped, the Mac-Gregors attacked.”
“How can you be sure they were MacGregors?”
She tilted her head to the side, gazing up at him thoughtfully. “Who else would they be? And they wore the pine sprig in their bonnets.” Her gaze slid over his bare head and freshly shaven face. Washing away the months of living as an outlaw had felt better than he'd imagined. “I'm sorry, I have not introduced myself.” She held out her hand. “I'm Elizabeth Campbell.”
The courtly gesture disarmed him momentarily. It had been a long time since someone had mistaken him for a gentleman. He stared at the dainty, perfectly formed hand, the delicately shaped fingers, the ivory skin unblemished and as smooth as if she'd never known a day's work, not quite sure what to do. Finally, he enfolded it in his, feeling an unwelcome urge to warm her icy fingers. Instead, he bowed over it awkwardly. “Patrick,” he said. “Patrick Mur ray of Tullibardine.”
It was the truth … mostly. Murray was the surname he'd assumed when the clan was proscribed—even using his own name was punishable by death.
She tilted her head and looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “Have we met before?”
He tensed but covered it quickly with a smile. “I don't think so, my lady. I never forget a beautiful face.”
She looked uncertain, as if the compliment didn't sit well with her. “Are you and your men returning home?”
He shook his head. “Nay, we travel to Glasgow and then across the sea to the continent.”
She looked as though she wanted to ask more, but politeness prevented her from inquiring further.
He'd piqued her curiosity, and that was enough … for now. “And where is your destination, Mistress Campbell?” He said her name, as if to remind himself who she was.
She bit her lip, her tiny white teeth pressing firmly on the lush pink pillow of her bottom lip. A charming, feminine gesture that fascinated him far too much. Desire stirred his already-heated loins. He ignored it, lifting his gaze back to her eyes.
This girl had already caused him enough trouble. Coming to her aid two years ago had been so unlike him, he still didn't understand why he'd done it. Once Alasdair's anger had faded, his cousin had teased him mercilessly, referring to her as “Patrick's Campbell.” Not realizing how pro phetic it would prove to be.
The fate of his clan was tied to this girl, and he'd better damn well remember it.
“We were traveling to Dunoon Castle”—she paused— “in Argyll.” As if it needed explanation. There were few in the Highlands who did not know where the strategically important castle was located—or that the keeper of that castle was the Earl of Argyll. “But we must return to Castle Campbell to get help for the wounded. It's a good thing we have only just begun our journey. The castle is only a half day's ride.”
Patrick motioned toward the man she'd been tending. “Your man. He's badly off?”
She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “But alive for now. I saw him fall and thought he'd …” Her voice fell off. “He's my maidservant's husband and captain of the guardsmen. We need to get him back to Castle Campbell, but he can't ride.”
“What about the carriage?”
She shook her head. “The wheel snapped off the axle. It will need to be repaired before it can be moved.”
“So what will you do?”
“Take a few guardsmen and return to Castle Campbell for help. The remaining men will stay with the injured.”