One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You. I knew I couldn't tell you the truth, but I hated deceiving you. I told myself I would make it up to you, but it all changed when Robert Campbell arrived.”
Lizzie sucked in her breath, realizing how horrible that must have been for him, seeing the son of the man who'd taken everything from him wooing her. All of a sudden, her eyes shot to his face. “You wanted me to marry him.”
He tensed, his expression once again unreadable. “I knew he would make you happy and give you the life you deserved. With me you would have been …” He let his voice trail off as if he'd said too much and then straightened. “Until the king decides otherwise, I'm an outlaw.”
My God, he'd cared about her enough to sacrifice everything he'd been fighting for since he was a boy—to the son of the man who'd killed his parents.
She didn't know what to say. What to do. Too stunned by all that he'd told her and suffered at the hands of her clan. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He met her gaze and nodded, looking a little embarrassed. Shifting his gaze, he lifted his eyes to the sky. “There isn't enough time to reach Balquhidder before it gets too dark. Come, I think I know a safe place we can stay for the night.”
He led her along the shore of the loch. There were a few small cottages along the way, but she was surprised to see that the castle appeared to be virtually deserted.
“The castle,” she said.
“Edinample,” he supplied.
“Why is it so deserted?”
“It's cursed.”
At first, Lizzie thought he was joking. “You're serious.”
“The villagers believe so. Glenorchy is said to have tossed the architect off the roof when he found out that the parapet he'd requested had not been built. The ghost is said to walk the roof at night, cursing the laird.”
Lizzie grimaced. From what she knew of Glenorchy, it was entirely believable. “How horrible.”
Patrick nodded. “The black devil is said to have used gravestones of MacGregors to build it—to save him money and the trouble of bringing in more stone.”
Lizzie shivered. If the place wasn't cursed, it deserved to be. They walked a little farther, and Patrick left her for a moment while he went to speak with an old man, his leathery face battered by years of sun and wind, who was pulling a small skiff out of the loch.
Patrick returned after a moment, a smile on his face. “We are in luck. Not only shall we have a warm place to sleep for the night, but you might even get a bath and a meal as well.”
Lizzie sighed dreamily, unable to mask her excitement. It was amazing how what had seemed basic only a few days ago now felt like the most wonderful treat. “Where are we going?”
“There,” he said, pointing into the loch. “It's an old crannog—an island built by our Highland ancestors hundreds of years ago—there is a small stone dwelling on the other side. Basic provisions are kept there in case it needs to be used as a refuge in an attack, though it hasn't been used for such in years. There used to be a wooden walkway to the island, but it sank long ago.”
It didn't look to be more than a tree-covered rock, but Lizzie took his word for it.
Patrick helped her into the small skiff, and the old man rowed them out to the crannog. It was bigger than she'd thought—perhaps fifty feet in diameter. As promised, a small building stood—shakily, by the looks of it—on the far side.
Patrick thanked the fisherman, gave him a coin from his sporran, and secured a promise to return for them at dawn. As he left, the old man murmured something to Patrick and then snickered.
When the old man was out of earshot, Lizzie asked, “Why, what did he say?”
“Nothing fit for your ears.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you tell him about us?”
Patrick looked mildly uncomfortable. “That we've just been married and are fleeing from your father, who doesn't approve.”
She lifted her brow skeptically. “And he's a romantic?”
Patrick laughed. “Not quite. He's a MacLaren, and I mentioned that your father is a Buchanan.”
“And let me guess, they are feuding?”
Patrick grinned devilishly. “For years.”
