Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(42)

The needs of the flesh had provided as good an excuse as any for why he and his men sought to avail themselves of the village's offerings this night. Maybe a wee tumble was just what he needed.

But the smell of stale ale was not lavender. When her wet kisses on his ear and the press of her br**sts against his arms did nothing to get a rise out of him, he gave her a pat on her round rump and ushered her away with vague promises that he had no intention of keeping.

He had business to take care of, and his reason for being here had just ducked through the front door.

Patrick almost didn't recognize him. Gregor had gone to great lengths to change his appearance from that day in the forest. His tattered breacan feile and leine had been exchanged for a leather jerkin and trews—no doubt obtained the way Patrick had secured his own new clothing.

It was the first time Patrick had seen his brother cleanshaven since Gregor was old enough to grow a beard. He'd trimmed his hair as well, and had it tied back in a short queue at his neck. Though Gregor's hair was lighter brown and his eyes dark blue, the resemblance between the two brothers had never seemed more marked. Patrick hoped to hell no one from the castle was around to take note.

He caught his brother's eye but gave no indication that he knew him. After a few moments, he moved back into one of the private “rooms”—a table and benches separated with a canvas curtain—offered by the alehouse for privacy in the back. Though the village of Dollar was small, it boasted a fine alehouse and lodging. If not as well maintained as a drover's inn, it would do for their meeting.

A short while later, Gregor slid onto a bench opposite him. Robbie and his other men would ensure that they were not interrupted and that no one drew close enough to overhear.

Patrick stared at his brother for a long moment but didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His anger was palpable.

To his credit, Gregor didn't back down or look repentant, trusting that the bonds of brotherhood would once again protect him from the full force of Patrick's wrath.

It would, but barely. Over the past few years, those bonds had frayed, and after the attack last week, they now hung by mere threads.

“I should cut your damn throat for what you did,” Patrick said.

“You look well, brother.”

Patrick gave him a sharp glare of warning, both for his recklessness in calling him brother and for the snide bite underlying his words. He reached across the table and grabbed his brother by the throat, hard enough to cut off his breath. “Don't f**k with me, Gregor. I'm of no mind for your subtle poison. If you've something to say, say it.”

Gregor's eyes darkened and he jerked away, rubbing his throat until his breathing returned to normal. “You've lost none of your manners, Patrick. I was merely observing that you look well. Castle life agrees with you.”

“What agrees with me is that my blood is running in my body and not out of it. For the first time in weeks I'm no longer plagued by an open wound.” His eyes slid over his brother. “You don't appear to be suffering any from your … accident.”

Gregor's face grew red with anger. “The bitch is lucky her blade did no lasting harm. But I'll bear a scar and the memory of the pain to remind me.”

Patrick didn't like what he saw in his brother's eyes. He held his gaze with a look that brooked no argument. “Stay away from her, Gregor. Our fight is not with the lass.”

“It's not? Then who is it with? She's a Campbell—or have you forgotten?”

“Leave it, I said. You've caused enough trouble as it is. You were supposed to wait until we were in position.” He leaned across the table menacingly, daring his brother to ignore the ramifications of what he'd done. Of the men they'd lost. “No one was supposed to die.”

“The men wanted a little fun. All those Campbells …” He shrugged. “It was too good an opportunity to waste.”

“It wasn't your decision to make. I'd expect this from our uncle and from Iain—God knows not even our cousin can keep them in control—but not from you.”

Gregor finally had the good sense to appear shamefaced. Even without land, Patrick was his chieftain. He also knew that Patrick would not allow his authority to be challenged. “I didn't think you'd mind.”

“Not mind that you were trying to abscond with the lass I intend to wed?”

Gregor's face hardened. “It's not as if she means anything to you. The bitch made me angry. The way she looked at me. As if I were no better than a dog.”

Had the situation been reversed, would she have looked at him like that as well? The thought was sobering.

Gregor might have deserved it, but it didn't mean that Patrick did not understand the source of his anger. Anger that he, in fact, shared. The king and his Campbell minions had stripped them of everything. Land. Family. Wealth. Position.

When Patrick looked at his younger brother, he saw himself untempered by responsibility, left to wallow in anger. After so many years as an outlaw, Patrick's sense of duty had been whittled away, but in Gregor it had all but disappeared. All pretense of civility had faded under the brutal existence of an outlaw.

He felt a strange urge to defend her, but he didn't think Gregor would welcome hearing Lizzie's finer points. “Leave the lass to me, and if you ever pull anything like that again …” He looked him straight in the eye. “Mark my words, kin or no, you will not live long enough to regret it.” Gregor flinched, but it was clear that he understood. “Stick to the plan,” Patrick cautioned him.