“I know you are intent on leaving Scotland, but Castle Campbell is a good way from your home.”
“It is.”
“You and your men are looking for employment, and with the MacGregors on the loose and the men we lost today, we are in need of added protection.”
His eyes met hers. “You are suggesting that we stay and work for you?”
“It seems a perfect solution.”
He didn't seem convinced. “I don't know,” he hedged.
“Will you at least think about it? You don't have to give me your answer right away. Stay for a few days, take a look around, meet some of the other men, and then decide.”
He considered her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he nodded. “I'll think about it.”
Lizzie beamed, unable to contain the burst of excitement. Itwasthe perfect solution. She was so glad she'd thought of it.
It was easier than he'd expected, and what he'd intended all along, yet even more perfect because she believed it was her idea.
As Patrick watched Elizabeth Campbell leave the barracks, he knew he should be pleased. Not only had he achieved the first part of his mission by wheedling his way into her household, he also sensed that she was far from indifferent to him. But it wasn't satisfaction that he felt. Instead, it was something akin to guilt—ironic for a man known for his ruthlessness both on and off the battlefield.
Unfeeling. Cold. Remote. He'd heard them all, and usually from the fairer sex. But he never made any promises. On the contrary, he was crudely blunt about his needs. It wasn't his fault if women didn't want to believe the truth.
Distancing himself from emotion had never been a problem, and in this it would be no different. Any attraction he felt for Elizabeth Campbell would never get in the way of what he had to do.
Robbie came to stand beside him. The younger man shook his head. “I have to hand it to you, Captain. You work fast. And not appearing too eager is a stroke of brilliance.”
Patrick heard some loud grumbling coming from another one of his men and gave a look in his direction. “Have you something to say, Hamish?”
The older man glanced around to make sure they could not be overheard. “Not as fast as taking her.” He shook his head with great sadness. “In my da's day, a man saw a lass he wanted and he took her.”
Patrick bit back a smile. “Hard to see what's objectionable in that. Cattle don't mind lifting, why should a lass?”
His sarcasm was completely lost on the old warrior. “Exactly. ’Twas good enough courtin’ for my ma. None of this trifling about with wooing and seducing.”
Robbie put his arm around the other man consolingly and met Patrick's gaze with laughter twinkling in his eyes. It was hard to imagine anyone courting the sour-faced old woman who was Hamish's ma. “Aye, Hamish,” Robbie commiserated. “Those were the days. But the times they are a-changing. Remember what the captain said: A forced marriage brings too many problems, and would be easy to set aside. We want to hold the land, and for that we need the lass willing.”
Patrick could see Hamish's point. There was a certain simplicity in the old ways, whether it be abducting a bride or claiming land by right of sword. But if they were to have any chance of success, the MacGregors could not afford to be impetuous. They had to adapt to the changing world— one where the king's authority could not be denied—and employ a bit of strategy in getting their land back. So rather than kidnap Elizabeth Campbell and force her to marry him, he'd suggested a more subtle method of persuasion.
The older man was not pacified. “Put a babe in her belly and she'll not be so quick to object—kidnapping or no kidnapping.”
Crude, Patrick thought, but true. He'd reached a similar conclusion. A child would help ensure that they stayed wed—and that the land in Elizabeth Campbell's tocher stayed with its rightful owners.
“Our captain will woo the lass and she'll marry him soon enough,” Robbie said confidently.
Hamish shook his head again. “These modern lasses are a demanding lot. I still say my way is easier.”
Patrick chuckled at the old warrior's stubbornness, but he admitted that Hamish might be right. His own plan had seemed much simpler a few weeks ago. Then again, at the time he and two score of his clansmen had been running for their lives following the battle of Glenfruin, holed up deep in MacGregor country on Eilean Molach—one of the tiny islets in Loch Katrine—with Campbells breathing hard down their back, and hadn't exactly had time to analyze every permutation.
It had been a gut decision brought on by their desperate circumstances and the chief's determination that the kinsmen should separate. Gathered together on the tiny tree-lined isle were the remaining chieftains and principals of Glenstrae: Alasdair, their uncle Duncan of the Glen, Pat rick, Gregor, and their younger brother, Iain.
Four hundred MacGregors had fought at Glenfruin against a Colquhoun force of twice that size, and though they'd lost only two men, one of the losses had been par ticularly costly—Black John of the Mailcoat, Alasdair's brother and, as Alasdair's wife had yet to give him a son, histanaiste.A position that now, temporarily, at least, belonged to Patrick. He had no desire to be chief of the band of renegades. The MacGregors—including some of his kinsmen—were a wild, uncontrollable lot.
By separating, Alasdair was trying to protect them, but also the future of the clan. If they were caught together, there would be no one left to lead—no matter how unenviable such a position was.
Word had reached them on the island that the king had called for every man between sixteen and sixty in Lennox to root out the MacGregors in Loch Katrine. Apparently they were undaunted, this time, by the difficult terrain that the MacGregors relied upon to hide in. The shores of Loch Katrine were virtually inaccessible, steep mountains on one side and rocky, forested banks on the other.
The chief and hisluchd-taigheguardsmen had gathered around a fire to decide what was to be done. They were a motley group. Dirty, exhausted, and hungry. Some, like Patrick, still suffering wounds from battle. Even the chief looked tattered and worn down.
