Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(85)

“Sit here,” he said, spreading out the plaid he'd removed from the horse on the rocky floor of the cave. The thick wool provided little cushion to the hard floor beneath, but in her state of exhaustion it felt like a bed of feathers. “We won't be able to stay here long, but I need to get the ball out of my leg.”

His matter-of-fact tone took her aback. “How do you intend to do that?”

“With my dirk.”

My God, he was going to dig it out himself. “Isn't that dangerous?”

“I've done it before.”

Not an answer, although she supposed in a way it was. He handed her a skin of water and a bit of dried oatcake, which she chewed slowly as he moved about the cave. She was hungry, and the oatcake barely made a dent; she hadn't eaten since they'd left early this morning. A lifetime ago.

Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, and her body began to feel the effects of the cold, damp night air, making her all the more grateful for the fire that Patrick had started to build.

He'd arranged some rocks near the back of the cave in a circle and laid the branches on top. After gathering some moss in a ball, he started to peel the outer layer of bark off a piece of birch with his dirk, then proceeded to crush it.

“What are you doing?”

“The wood and moss are too damp to catch a spark from my flint, but there is oil in this bark that ignites readily.”

And after a few strikes of the flint, she heard the distinct snap and popping of oil as the bark caught flame in the pile of moss. He blew on it until a flame appeared, and then carefully moved it to the pile of wood. Minutes later, a fire crackled to life.

She studied his handsome face in the flickering light—the hard angles of his cheekbones, the square of his jaw, the straight line of his nose.

Her heart clenched as his face merged with another. She couldn't ignore it any longer.

“You're one of them,” she choked. “You're a …” She could barely get out the words, the name fell so distastefully from her tongue. “MacGregor.” An outlaw, a scourge, an enemy to her clan.

She could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that he didn't like her tone. He turned slowly to face her, his expression a mask of angry pride. “If you'll remember, I'm no longer allowed to use that name.” His gaze pierced her. “But, aye, I was born Patrick MacGregor, eldest son to Ewin the Tutor.”

She gave a strangled cry. The crushing weight in her chest was unbearable. Having the truth confirmed was a brutal shock, her suspicions notwithstanding.

A MacGregor. He was a MacGregor. He'd tricked and deceived her. But why?

Her heart pounded. She didn't know whether she could withstand the truth, but she had to hear it all—every ugly, hateful bit of it.

Her eyes didn't leave his face, looking for some sign of emotion in that steely façade. Tell me it's not what I think. “And the man who attacked me? The man who wants to kill me?”

His mouth was pulled into a grim line and the pulse at his neck began to tic, but he did not flinch from her gaze. She braced herself for the worst. It came.

“My brother.”

A choking sob tore from the depths of her shattered heart with wrenching pain that dwarfed any that had come before. That vile, brutish man was his brother. She could only stare at him mutely as the ramifications tossed around wildly in her head. Of the first time she'd seen the MacGre-gor scourge. Of the first time she'd seen Patrick.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, with the burgeoning realization that she'd been used. “Your appearing on the road that day was not a coincidence.”

A flicker of regret passed over his face. She'd penetrated the implacable façade, but it was too late. “Nay, it wasn't a coincidence, though no one was supposed to be hurt.”

Her chin quivered uncontrollably. “I'm to believe that? MacGregors are hardly known for their compassion and gentlemanly manner.”

He ignored the barb, although his eyes flared. “As you no doubt realized by what you saw today, my brother and I are not exactly seeing eye-to-eye on things.”

If she didn't feel as though she were dying inside, she would have laughed at the understatement. “You mean he wants to kill me and you don't?”

He grimaced. “Something like that. But I never thought he would take it this far. Gregor is hot-tempered and can be difficult to rein in, but he's always been loyal.”

She stared at him, seeing him for the first time. Seeing things she'd never seen before. The strength and toughness had always been there, but now she saw the hard-edged ruthlessness. “God, I don't even know you.”

He strode over and pulled her to her feet, forcing her to look at him. “I'm the same man I was before. The same man you said you loved.”

How dare he throw that back in her face! Force her to see what a complete fool she'd been. “I loved Patrick Murray, not a ruthless outlaw. I loved a man who doesn't exist.”

His jaw clenched. “I'm the same man. You know everything about me that is important.”

“What? That you are an outlaw and a thief? A murderer—”

“Don't,” he growled, his face taut with anger. “I'm no saint, but I've never taken the life of another not in battle.”

“So what happened at Glenfruin, the murder of forty innocent boys, was acceptable because it happened during a battle?”