Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(3)
She stopped not five feet from him, and her soft feminine scent wrapped around him. She smelled like spring, as fresh as dew upon a rose. It had been a long time since he'd smelled anything so sweet and unspoiled.
Her gaze was fixed on the men he'd overheard earlier. It was only because he was watching her so closely that he saw her smile falter as she listened to their conversation.
“But how did you convince Elizabeth Monntach to agree to your suit?”
She flinched as if struck. Her face drained of color, taking with it all the tentative excitement he'd noticed only moments earlier.
Montgomery laughed, puffing up like a peacock. “With her stammer, it's not as if suitors are storming the castle gates. It's amazing how easy it is to lie with a tocher of twenty-six thousand merks and land to look forward to.”
Patrick would have choked if he'd had a mouthful of ale. Twenty-six thousand merks! A fortune. And land? Though not unheard of, it was unusual for a woman to possess land in her own right.
“All it took was a few compliments and whispered endearments,” Montgomery boasted. “The lass lapped them right up like a grateful pup.”
The woman made a strangled sound in her throat. Her eyes were wide and horrified. From the stricken look on her face, it wasn't hard to figure out who she was: It had to be Elizabeth Campbell.
Damn. Given his avowed hatred of anything Campbell, the twinge of sympathy was unexpected.
Her betrothed had heard the sound as well, and his head jerked around to meet her gaze. Patrick saw Montgomery's shock and then dismay as he realized he'd been caught in a trap of his own making. It was the look of a man who knew he'd lost a prize and perhaps earned himself some dangerous enemies at the same time.
The humiliation and raw hurt on her face were almost too hard to watch as the group of men standing with Montgomery quieted, realizing what had happened. She looked heartbroken, as if a world of illusions had just been ripped away from her. It was a feeling he knew only too well. Her chin trembled, and Patrick feared she was close to tears.
He took a step toward her but faltered, wondering what the hell he thought he could do. It wasn't his problem. The lass was Argyll's cousin and the Henchman's sister, for heaven's sake.
The silence was thick and uncomfortable. The men with Montgomery began to shuffle.
Elizabeth Campbell stood stone still, her gaze still pinned to Montgomery. Patrick experienced an unfamiliar tug in his chest at the raw vulnerability she was fighting so hard to mask. He found himself silently rooting for her as she mustered her pride, straightening her back and lifting her quivering chin. She might be a wisp of a thing, but there was strength in those delicate bones.
Her face was a mask of alabaster, devoid of expression and as fragile as glass. One tap and he feared she would crack. “Not so grateful that I will m-m-mar-r …” Her voice fell off as the word stuck in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round in horror. One of the men smothered a laugh, and Patrick could have killed him. Cheeks aflame, she spun on her heel and started to run up the path toward the barmkin gate. But she'd taken only a few steps before disaster struck.
One foot skidded out from under her in the slippery mud and she lost her balance, falling backward on her rump and landing with an emphatic splash in a soupy brown puddle.
One of the men muttered, “It seems her feet are as tangled as her tongue.”
There were a few nervous chuckles, and Patrick prayed that she hadn't heard but knew from the way her shoulders slumped that she had.
It was the final straw. He'd had enough. The role of champion was unfamiliar to him, but he could stand aside no longer. He knew what he risked, but something compelled his feet forward. No lass—even a Campbell one— deserved such cruelty. And Patrick, perhaps more than anyone, understood being beaten down and left to flounder in the mud. He understood injustice.
He closed the gap between them with a few long strides. Her hood had shifted with the fall to reveal a single heavy curl of flaxen hair, shimmering with light even in the gray mist. The simple beauty of it struck him. Though he couldn't see her face, he could tell from the soft shake of her shoulders that she was crying. He felt a tight burning in his chest and something that he'd no longer thought himself capable of twisting deep in the bowels of his blackened soul: compassion and an inexplicable urge to protect.
He'd gladly strangle those men with his bare hands for hurting her. Perhaps he would. “Here, lass,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “Take my hand.”
At first, he didn't think she'd heard him. But then she turned her head slightly so that he could see the sparkle of a single tear sliding down her pale cheek. The tiny bead ate like acid through the steel forged around his chest. Slowly, she raised her hand and slid it into his. It was so small and soft, he almost pulled back in shock—and then embarrassment when he thought of his hard, callused palms caked with dirt.
But she didn't seem to notice.
Gently, he pulled her to her feet. She was such a wisp of a thing, he could have lifted her with a finger. He held her hand, feeling an odd reluctance to let her go, until she tugged it gently from his.
She kept her gaze down, too embarrassed even to look at him. “Thank you,” she said so softly that he almost didn't hear her.
“They're fools, you are well to be rid—” he started, but she was already hurrying away. From waist to hem, the back of her fine cloak was soggy and dripping with mud.