Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(52)

I could take her right now. She would be mine. No other man would ever touch her again.

The temptation to take what he wanted was overwhelming, warring with the tattered shreds of his honor.

Do it.

Hell, he was already an outlaw. He would only be fulfilling the destiny the Campbells had created for him. After everything they'd stolen from him, didn't he deserve a little happiness?

He'd stolen before. Food, clothing, whatever it took to survive.

But this was different. This wasn't about survival. He would possess her … but at what cost?

Not since his parents had died had someone looked at him as Lizzie did. In her eyes, he felt like the man he might have been had circumstances been different. If he took her, he would be no better than the lawless brigand they'd tried to turn him into. She would look at him the way he deserved to be looked at: as a thief, an outlaw, a man without honor.

Could he bear to see the derision in her gaze and know that it was warranted?

Nay, not that. Never that.

As much as he wanted to claim that this was all about the land, he could not. He was not indifferent—if he ever had been. He wanted her to choose him.

He wouldn't hand her over to Robert Campbell without a fight.

But not tonight. Tonight his anger was like lightning— wild and ready to strike at any moment in any direction.

Without another glance, he returned to the keep, intent on taming the beast writhing inside him with plenty of the Campbells’ best claret.

Lizzie had lingered as long as she could to no effect; the answer to her dilemma still eluded her.

Who would have thought a few months ago that she would be faced with the problem of having two men pursuing her?

Her nose wrinkled. Though exactly what Patrick Murray wanted from her she did not know. He desired her, but he'd never made his intentions clear. In truth, he said very little at all. She was hardly an expert at decoding masculine motives. She'd thought John had wanted her, too. He had, but for the wrong reasons. And with the way Patrick was looking at her tonight, she was no longer sure of anything.

Had she done something wrong?

Her chest squeezed. Or maybe he'd reconsidered. Was that it?

She had to know. She needed to see what was behind that enigmatic shell of his. Why was he so secretive? What dark secret hung over him like a thundercloud ready to unfurl its destruction in its stormy path?

If she was going to make the right decision, she needed to know everything. It was well past time to clear the air between them.

She hurried up the path and across the barmkin on her way back to the keep, wondering when she'd developed this sudden streak of boldness. Something had changed in recent weeks, and she suspected that she had Patrick Murray to thank for it. He was right: She'd locked herself away— in more ways than one. Her quiet, serious nature had been exacerbated by stammering and fear of ridicule. After the disaster with John, she'd removed herself even further, hiding behind the wall of her duty. If her family had taken advantage of it, it was as much her fault as theirs.

The lilting sound of the pipes greeted her arrival back to the hall. Smoke from the peat fires swirled around the rafters and wound through the room crowded with throngs of dancing clansmen whirling by. She noticed more than one serving girl perched on the lap of a guardsman and felt a sudden pang for the simplicity of a life uncomplicated by duty. With privilege and position came responsibility, and she'd never felt more aware of that than right now. What she wouldn't give for the ability to choose freely.

She caught Robert's eye from across the room and smiled. He was locked in conversation with her brother and the Laird of Dun, one of their neighbors who'd come to enjoy the festivities.

Patrick, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. His men were still gathered around the table drinking, but he'd disappeared. She contemplated asking after him but couldn't come up with a good reason for doing so. Frustrated that he seemed to be avoiding her once again, she was about to rejoin her brother and Robert when she saw Robbie duck out of the laird's solar, the small room located off the far side of the hall.

As inconspicuously as possible, Lizzie worked her way across the crowded room and slipped through the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Patrick sat sprawled out in a chair before the fireplace, his long, powerful legs kicked out before him, holding a large flagon of wine in one hand. By all appearances he was relaxed, but even with his back to her she could feel the tension radiating from him.

“God's blood, Robbie, I told you to leave me alone.”

“What are you doing in here?”

He flinched at the sound of her voice, taking a long drag from the flagon before turning to face her. His eyes glinted dangerously, his expression dark and forbidding and tainted with drink. Every muscle taut, he seemed like a surging lion restrained by a silken thread.

“Trying to find some peace,” he replied, then added, “without much success.”

His rudeness took her aback. As did his anger. It seemed coiled in him like a snake, ready to strike.

He took another long drink. “So unless you'd care to bring me more wine, you'll leave me be.”

Determined not to be intimidated, she forced herself to take a few steps into the lion's den. “I think you've had enough.”

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound bereft of humor. “There isn't enough.”