“No,” he said roughly, his arms flexed rigidly at his side. Every instinct clamored to take her into his embrace and force her to understand, force her to deny what crackled like wildfire between them. Even with the waves crashing and the wind snapping all around them, he was aware of nothing but her. “My mission was to find proof that the MacGregors were at Ascog, but what happened between us had nothing to do with Alasdair MacGregor.”
Her eyes scanned his face. “Why should I believe you? Why would I believe anything you say?”
He held her gaze. “Because it’s the truth.” He studied her face, wondering how much she remembered of what had happened. He tensed, thinking of the soldier. He’d never forget the feeling when he’d seen her unconscious, her face bruised, blood running down her pale temple, and one of his brother’s men trying to force himself between her legs. If he’d been a few minutes later . . . The primal explosion of rage had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He’d wrapped his arm around the bastard’s neck and broken it with one satisfying snap. Jamie didn’t regret the loss of life, only how quickly the scourge had found it. If she did not remember, he would not be the one to remind her. “You were in and out of consciousness. Do you remember nothing of what happened?”
Confusion clouded her gaze. “A little.”
He probed carefully, not wanting to cause more pain by dredging up memories of the soldier. “I carried you from the tower. It was burning. There was smoke everywhere.” She started—as if she’d suddenly remembered.
“I wasn’t there to hurt you, Caitrina.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—something significant and for a moment heart-stopping.
She believed him.
But it wasn’t enough.
“Even if what you say is true, it was your clan who attacked my home and murdered my family.”
Jamie dragged his fingers through his hair. He dared not point out that it was worse than that—that the man who’d led the attack was his brother.
He dreaded this conversation, but it must be had. “Your father refused to comply with repeated requests to give over the MacGregor.”
“How could he when he didn’t know where the MacGregor was?”
Jamie drew a long breath. “Aye, lass, he did.”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “You lie! The soldiers tried to say the same. How dare you spread falsehoods about my father to justify the actions of a bloodthirsty tyrant!”
Jamie clenched his jaw, not about to defend his cousin’s actions to her—not when she was of no mind to listen. Jamie did not blind himself to his cousin’s faults. Argyll could be ruthless in doing what needed to be done—then again, much the same could be said about Jamie. But his cousin was the best hope for the Highlands against a king who sought to marginalize his “barbarian” subjects.
The king wanted the lawlessness in the Highlands curtailed, and Argyll was one of the few Highlanders with the power to see it done. If Argyll didn’t, it would be Lowlanders who did. The old ways of the clan chief’s authority were fading. Troublesome clans like the MacGregors only succeeded in making the rest of the Highlanders look like barbarians and made the king’s policies harsher. One day, Jamie hoped he could make her see that.
“We found proof that your father had been protecting outlaws by giving them food and shelter.”
The blood drained from her face. “No. My father wouldn’t do that. He would have told me.”
“Would he?” Jamie watched her as she grappled with the implications. “Did he take you so much in his confidences, then?” She flinched, and Jamie knew he’d hit upon a tender spot. “Surely you know the bond between the MacGregors and the Lamonts—the old tale of hospitality.” Her eyes shot to his.She did.“You noticed nothing amiss in the weeks before the games?”
She shook her head furiously, but then uncertainty eroded her adamancy. He had shaken her with his pronouncements, but her pride was fierce. She didn’t want to see gray where there was black and white. “I don’t believe you. You’ll say anything to defend your clan.”
He hated having to hurt her, but he could not let this stand between them. His brother had been overzealous, but Campbells would not shoulder all the blame for what had happened. “I regret their deaths, and might have been able to prevent them had I been there,” he said. “But your father was not without blame. He chose to fight rather than produce the rebels. This is the Highlands, lass, he knew the consequences of his defiance. He knew that blood would be shed.”
At that moment, she hated him. Caitrina wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears so she wouldn’t have to listen to his Campbell lies.
But deep in her gut, she knew he spoke the truth about the MacGregors. She thought back to that week before the gathering, thought of her father’s odd behavior, and it made horrible sense. She knew her father—he was honorable to the core. He would not refuse to give them shelter. He couldn’t. But, dear God, to take such risk when everyone knew the lengths Argyll would go to see the MacGregors destroyed.
But no matter. She straightened her spine. It did not justify what had happened. “So my father’s death and those of my brothers and clansmen were justified? Merely a minor inconvenience in Argyll’s witch hunt for Alasdair MacGregor?”
“It was a noble sacrifice that I hoped—and tried—to avoid. I sympathize with his quandary, but your father broke the law, Caitrina, and he well knew what would happen if he was caught. I warned him myself.”
“And that makes it right? You think the deaths of over forty men is fair punishment for harboring a few outlaws?”
Tiny white lines appeared around his mouth, the first outward sign that she’d gotten to him. “The most wanted outlaws in the land.”
“The MacGregors are our allies and not all thieves and murderers as you say.”
“It depends on your perspective. Many of my clansmen and the Colquhouns would vehemently disagree.”
