Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(22)
Patrick could see Hamish's point. There was a certain simplicity in the old ways, whether it be abducting a bride or claiming land by right of sword. But if they were to have any chance of success, the MacGregors could not afford to be impetuous. They had to adapt to the changing world— one where the king's authority could not be denied—and employ a bit of strategy in getting their land back. So rather than kidnap Elizabeth Campbell and force her to marry him, he'd suggested a more subtle method of persuasion.
The older man was not pacified. “Put a babe in her belly and she'll not be so quick to object—kidnapping or no kidnapping.”
Crude, Patrick thought, but true. He'd reached a similar conclusion. A child would help ensure that they stayed wed—and that the land in Elizabeth Campbell's tocher stayed with its rightful owners.
“Our captain will woo the lass and she'll marry him soon enough,” Robbie said confidently.
Hamish shook his head again. “These modern lasses are a demanding lot. I still say my way is easier.”
Patrick chuckled at the old warrior's stubbornness, but he admitted that Hamish might be right. His own plan had seemed much simpler a few weeks ago. Then again, at the time he and two score of his clansmen had been running for their lives following the battle of Glenfruin, holed up deep in MacGregor country on Eilean Molach—one of the tiny islets in Loch Katrine—with Campbells breathing hard down their back, and hadn't exactly had time to analyze every permutation.
It had been a gut decision brought on by their desperate circumstances and the chief's determination that the kinsmen should separate. Gathered together on the tiny tree-lined isle were the remaining chieftains and principals of Glenstrae: Alasdair, their uncle Duncan of the Glen, Pat rick, Gregor, and their younger brother, Iain.
Four hundred MacGregors had fought at Glenfruin against a Colquhoun force of twice that size, and though they'd lost only two men, one of the losses had been par ticularly costly—Black John of the Mailcoat, Alasdair's brother and, as Alasdair's wife had yet to give him a son, his tanaiste. A position that now, temporarily, at least, belonged to Patrick. He had no desire to be chief of the band of renegades. The MacGregors—including some of his kinsmen—were a wild, uncontrollable lot.
By separating, Alasdair was trying to protect them, but also the future of the clan. If they were caught together, there would be no one left to lead—no matter how unenviable such a position was.
Word had reached them on the island that the king had called for every man between sixteen and sixty in Lennox to root out the MacGregors in Loch Katrine. Apparently they were undaunted, this time, by the difficult terrain that the MacGregors relied upon to hide in. The shores of Loch Katrine were virtually inaccessible, steep mountains on one side and rocky, forested banks on the other.
The chief and his luchd-taighe guardsmen had gathered around a fire to decide what was to be done. They were a motley group. Dirty, exhausted, and hungry. Some, like Patrick, still suffering wounds from battle. Even the chief looked tattered and worn down.
They were discussing where to go. The options were few, to say the least. Not many would be willing to take on the wrath of the king, who'd made harboring MacGregors punishable by death. Worse, Argyll had put his Henchman, Jamie Campbell, in charge of hunting them down. Patrick had crossed paths with the Henchman enough times to know that he was relentless and would not rest until they were found.
He regretted the missed opportunity of ridding his clan of their bane two years ago at the games.
Patrick bided his time as names were bandied about and quickly discarded. Even MacAulay and Murray, who'd sheltered them before, would be unlikely to risk doing so at this time.
Finally, he spoke what had been on his mind from the first. What was always on his mind. “My brothers and I will go to Balquhidder.”
Alasdair gave him a long look, guessing at Patrick's motives. “Glenorchy is no friend of ours. And at least for now, he holds those lands. Though not for long, I warrant.”
Patrick went completely still. “Explain yourself, cousin.”
“Argyll and Glenorchy are squabbling again.”
The two branches of clan Campbell were often at odds— a state that suited the MacGregors just fine. As long as Argyll and Glenorchy were fighting, they would not unite against them. “What does their squabbling have to do with my land?”
Alasdair hesitated. He knew Patrick's determination to reclaim his father's lands. Knew how even mentioning the subject would send him into a black mood for days. “Argyll is claiming the land for his cousin's tocher.”
Patrick's fists clenched at his side. Claiming MacGregor land. Land that had belonged to his clan for hundreds of years. Land that had been stolen from them twice—first by Argyll, who'd turned them into tenants on their own land, and then by Glenorchy, who'd purchased the superiority from Argyll and refused to recognize them even as tenants and burned them out.
The haunting images assaulted him, but he forced them aside, leaving only the familiar hatred and bitterness coiling inside. The Campbells had paid for their injustice, but it would never be enough. Some things could never be replaced.
But taking back his land would help.
All of a sudden, Patrick stilled. His gaze shot to his chief. “You said cousin. Which cousin?”
Alasdair and their uncle Duncan exchanged looks, as if realizing the reaction his pronouncement would effect. “Elizabeth.”