Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(61)

But first, he needed to clear his head. He was pulled as taut as a damn bowstring, besieged by conflicting emotions. His plan. Lizzie. Everything was unraveling around him, and he didn't know what the hell to do about it.

After seeing to his horse, he decided that a cool plunge in the loch would help cure what ailed him—in more ways than one. He was leaving the stables on his way to the barracks to fetch soap and a fresh shirt when the last man he wanted to see stepped in front of him.

“I was looking for you,” Robert Campbell said.

“Apparently you found me.” The flash of angry sarcasm was reflexive, if unwarranted. He sighed and then said more evenly, “What do you want?”

Campbell reached in the small pocket of his doublet and pulled out a gold coin. “I didn't get a chance to give this to you earlier.”

Patrick shook his head. “Keep it.”

The other man took umbrage at his refusal. “But you've earned it. I always pay my debts.”

“I'll not take gold won by a play upon words. Consider us even.”

Campbell studied him for a moment. “Are we even?” Patrick didn't have to guess what he meant. “I don't think so,” Campbell said. “What can you give her?”

Patrick didn't want to hear this. He took a threatening step toward the other man and said in a low voice, “It's none of your damned business.”

Campbell didn't move an inch, squaring off to meet his challenge. Patrick had to admire his courage—no matter how ill conceived. He didn't know what Patrick could do, and right now Patrick teetered close enough to the edge to show him.

“I'm making it my business,” Campbell said boldly. “You reach too high. Elizabeth Campbell is cousin to one of the most powerful men in Scotland. What can you possibly think to give her?”

Patrick met the other man's gaze full force. “I can make her happy.”

“Are you so sure of that? Look at this place. You would take her from this castle, to live where? In some small bothan?”

Patrick stared at him stonily. If he only knew … A hut would seem like a palace compared with some of the places he'd stayed.

“Elizabeth has been raised in luxury and wealth her entire life. She was born to be the lady of the keep. You are a guardsman. Do you realize what you'd be doing to her by marrying her? You'll be taking her away from everything she's ever known. Taking her away from this life. Taking her away from her family. Jesu, man, have you looked at her? She's a delicate rose, not sturdy Highland heather.” He pointed to an old serving woman laboring with her buckets by the well. “Would you have her look like that?”

Patrick stared at the woman, feeling his stomach curdle. She wasn't old at all, he realized—probably of age with Lizzie—yet she looked ten years older. Her face was not creamy ivory, but freckled and leathered from the wind and sun. Thick boned and wide hipped, the woman had little trouble carrying the heavy buckets across her shoulders. How would Lizzie manage such a basic task? She was so tiny. So delicate. Her hands so smooth. Her skin so clear and unblemished. She'd never done menial labor in her life.

He swallowed the wave of bitterness that stuck in his throat. He had nothing to give her. He was an outlaw. A man without a home. Without land. Without a damn future.

Even if she could forgive him for the deception and accept his being a MacGregor, life at his side wouldn't be easy. If she suffered only a portion of the pain and hardship he and his clansmen had endured for years, it would still be too much.

A change of clothes and food in his belly did not alter the fact that when he left Castle Campbell he would still be a hunted man. Her family would protect her, but he did not deceive himself that she would be completely insulated from the forces seeking to destroy his clan.

She would suffer.

Lizzie was wholly unprepared for the life he would give her. How would she survive? Too many of their women had died last winter—from starvation and an unusually harsh cold. Women who were much better prepared than Lizzie.

He would never let that happen. He would take care of her. Protect her. He met the other man's stare, feeling like a man grasping for a thread to save a sinking ship. “She will be well cared for.”

Campbell studied him with an intensity that made his instincts flare. “What is it that you really want? You don't look like a man prone to tender feelings. Do you love her?”

He stiffened. That was none of his damn business. He cared for her. As deeply as it was possible for a man like him to care for anyone. But love … that had died in him long ago. What had started with the death of his parents had been completely destroyed by the years of seeing nothing but hatred, death, and sorrow. Patrick squared his jaw, feeling the tic at his neck jump. “Do you?”

Robert Campbell had seen too much. “I can.”

Patrick flinched, unprepared for the force of the blow. Lizzie deserved someone who could love her. Not a man with scars too deep to heal.

He looked into Campbell's eyes, at his solemn, earnest expression, and saw what he'd been trying to avoid. Robert Campbell was a good man—the better man for Lizzie. He could give her everything Patrick could not. A safe home, a loving husband—the knife burning in his chest twisted mercilessly—a houseful of blond-haired, blue-eyed children.

“She deserves to be loved,” Campbell continued. “Not to be married for her tocher and advancement. You'll only bring her down.”