Chapter 2
The battle was over, but the hot pounding of blood surging through his body had yet to slow. Patrick was too damn furious.
He lowered his sword, wincing as a sharp pain bit his side. Blood wasn't just rushing through his body, but also out of it. He could feel the unmistakable warm dampness soaking the linen of the shirt that he wore under his leather cotun. It wasn't a new wound, but an old one, suffered weeks—nay, months—ago at the battle of Glenfruin. And now reopened.
Thanks to his damn brother.
Patrick tugged off his steel helmet and raked his fingers through newly shorn hair, surveying the senseless destruction before him. His gaze slid over the battlefield, over the dead bodies, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. He had been reared on a battlefield. With all the death he'd seen, he was surprised that it still had the power to affect him. Perhaps it was because this time the loss of life was so unnecessary.
No one was supposed to get hurt.
At least that had been the plan, before Gregor had taken it upon himself to decide otherwise. His damned hotheaded brother had gone too far. Gregor had all the boldness of their cousin without the charm and fortune—and added a dangerous streak of recklessness.
Patrick swore with even greater fury when his gaze fell on the mutilated body of one of his clansmen. Bitterness soured his mouth. Conner had been a bonny lad who smiled more than not—a rarity among the outlawed men— though you wouldn't know it by looking at him. A musket shot had hit him in the cheek, blowing half his face off. Patrick's fists clenched. Not yet eight and ten and look at him.
The senseless waste of a young life made him want to lash out. If Gregor were here right now, he'd feel the weight of Patrick's anger.
It was little comfort that his brother was paying for his sins—if the wound in his belly felt anything like Patrick's side right now. What the hell could Gregor have been thinking to attack the lass like that? He hoped that the lass's dirk hadn't done lasting harm, but Gregor had much to account for.
By his count, four MacGregors and twice as many Campbells had died today. He did not mourn the lives of his enemy, but neither had he intended their deaths. Today wasn't supposed to be about killing Campbells. He'd thought Gregor had understood that the risk was too great. With the king and his Campbell minions hunting them down, there were too few of them left as it was. Even one lost MacGregor was too many. Depriving them of their land wasn't enough: the king wouldn't be happy until every last MacGregor was rooted out of the Highlands.
They'd been hunted before, but nothing like this. The battle of Glenfruin might prove to be their undoing. Though the MacGregors had won the battle against the Colquhouns, it had mobilized the king and the Earl of Argyll—the king's authority in the Highlands—against them with ruthless intent. Of course, the Colquhoun theatrics hadn't helped—who could have foreseen the widows riding on white palfreys while parading the blood-soaked sarks of their dead husbands on spears before the notoriously squeamish king? False rumors of MacGregor atrocities had only added to the furor against them, and the broken men were being pursued with a vengeance never before encountered.
It had become harder and harder to hide. Though there were plenty in the Highlands who were sympathetic to the MacGregors, the penalty for harboring the clan was death—something not many were willing to risk. And those unsympathetic to the clan were only too eager to collect the bounty hanging over their heads—or perhaps he should sayontheir heads, as the Privy Council was offering the bounty to anyone who could produce a severed MacGregor head.
And he was the barbarian?
Patrick pushed aside his anger at his brother—he would deal with Gregor later. Right now he had a job to do. One that promised retribution and would help even the score.
For years, the Campbells had systematically been trying to destroy them. They'd stripped them of their land, turned them into a broken clan, and now pursued them with fire and sword as outlaws. But their enemy hadn't counted on the tough, tenacious spirit of the warrior clan. Like the mythical hydra, every time the MacGregors lost a head, one grew back stronger in its place.
Patrick and his clansmen were determined to do whatever it took to reclaim their land. Land was their lifeblood, and without it they would die—as so many of them already had.
He clenched his jaw in a hard line and turned his thoughts from the dead to the living. To the lass.
Elizabeth Campbell was kneeling over one of her injured guardsmen beside the other woman. As if sensing his scrutiny, Elizabeth turned and lifted her gaze to his.
He flinched. He'd thought it a fluke the first time, but there it was again. That strange jolt he'd felt before when their eyes had met across the battlefield. Though it didn't concern him, he didn't like it. Particularly in light of his uncharacteristically rash behavior the first time they'd met.
On first glance, she looked exactly as he remembered her: pretty and fresh as a spring flower. But on closer inspection, he could see the strain of the battle etched on her face. He recognized her shock in the pallor of her skin and the glassiness of her eyes. Still, it hadn't prevented her from seeing to the comfort of her men and tending to the wounded.
Most women would have fainted by now or at the very least dissolved into a fit of tears, but clearly Elizabeth Campbell was not most women. She had strength hidden beneath the lithe exterior. Her bravery impressed him. As did her skill with a knife. The expert toss of the blade had shocked the hell out of him—and his brother.
Perhaps there was more of her brothers and cousin in Elizabeth Campbell than he'd anticipated. The thought was enough to wipe away any twinge of conscience.
With a quick word of reassurance to the injured man, she got to her feet, only a slight sway betraying her weariness, and started to walk toward him. There was grace not just in her bearing, but also in the rhythmic sway of her hips as she walked. And now, without the elaborate court clothing she'd been wearing last time, he could actually see the soft curve of her slim hips. She wore a plain woolen kir-tle and jacket of brown wool. The simple clothing suited her dainty figure.
But it was her hair that took his breath away. It had come loose, and tumbled down her shoulders in a mag nificent cloud of spun gold. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so soft and silky.
His body hardened as she neared—a remnant of the battle surging through him, he supposed. She was smaller than he recalled. Not short, but slim. Delicate. With a bone structure so finely carved, it could have been wrought from porcelain.
Too small for him. He would crush her. Not that it would stop him from imagining all that softness underneath him, his hands twisted in the mass of flaxen curls, as he buried himself deep inside her. Heat and heaviness pulled over him so hard, he almost groaned.
Hell, he was a damn animal. Having been treated like a dog for so long, he was beginning to act like one. But living on the edge did something to a man. It made his base instincts simmer close to the surface. And right now he felt two of them in full force: hunger and lust.
The primitive desire to claim what would belong to him.
For a lass of otherwise unremarkable beauty, she managed to rouse his lust well enough. Too well.
