In two long strides, Patrick had his brother by the throat, holding him a few inches off the ground, eye to eye. “Have care how you talk about the woman who will be my wife,” he said in a deadly tone, looking right into his eyes so there could be no mistake. But the hard blue gaze teemed with such hatred, there was little left of the brother he remembered.
Disgusted, he released his hold, pushing Gregor away from him.
“She'll never be your wife,” his brother sputtered, clasping his throat.
Patrick ignored Gregor's taunts. “Where have you been? You should have returned weeks ago. I've news of our cousin.”
Gregor stilled, and the look in his eyes cut Patrick to the quick. He felt a premonition….
“Our cousin is dead,” Gregor spat. “Murdered by the Campbells, along with our brother Iain, our uncle, and every other man tricked into surrender under the false terms of Argyll's promise.”
Ice froze in Patrick's veins. It took a moment to absorb the shock of his brother's words. A trick? Dead? A quick glance at the other men's faces told him every word of it was true.
He felt as if the blood had been drained out of him, his body sapped of life. He wanted to sink to his knees in an agony of despair and horror. Not since his parents had been murdered had he felt such a blow. It was almost impossible to conceive such a loss. “Dear God,” he whispered.
“God?” Gregor roared. “He had nothing to do with this. It was the devil Argyll.” His voice shook with rage and resentment. “Twenty-five MacGregors have hanged at Mer-cat Cross in Edinburgh this past week alone courtesy of the Campbells. Right now, our chief's head sits on a stake at the gates of Dumbarton beside our brother's.” Something changed in Gregor's eyes, a flash of pain so acute that Patrick braced himself for what was to come. “And while you have been playing the fine gentleman with your lady, mooning after her like some lovesick pup, our sister was being raped by her brother's men.”
“No!” The sound he made wasn't human. Raw pain tore through his chest like a ragged claw, splicing him apart. Not his sister. Not sweet, stubborn, beautiful Annie. He grabbed Gregor by the shirt and shook him as if he could clear away his words. “What the hell happened? I told you to hide them.” His throat was tight and his voice raw. “You were supposed to keep them safe.”
“I tried, damn it.” Gregor wrenched away. “I had them hidden in the braes of Balquhidder, but they were betrayed for gold, and Auchinbreck exacted his retribution on Annie.”
Auchinbreck was a dead man.
“Retribution?” Patrick growled. “For what?”
“When news reached us of Argyll's treachery—of the deaths of our chief and kin—there were risings from the braes of Balquhidder to Rannoch Moor. We burned a path of vengeance a mile wide.”
“And you didn't think to let me know.” All of a sudden, the ramifications of Alasdair's death hit him. He pinned his brother with his gaze. “I am chief.”
Gregor's eyes flashed as if he wanted to argue, but instead he shrugged. “There wasn't time.”
It was a damned insufficient excuse, and they both knew it. Did Gregor intend to challenge his leadership? Being chief was not a position Patrick had ever wanted, but he damn well intended to be a good one—certainly better than his brother. If the MacGregors had any chance of survival, it wouldn't be with the mercurial Gregor at the helm. He didn't want to think his brother could be so disloyal, but Gregor had changed. He'd always been able to placate him before. “And the resurgence of fighting is why Auchin-breck sought retribution?”
Patrick caught the flicker in Gregor's gaze. “The men were enraged, out of control. Thirsting for revenge.” He shrugged. “A Campbell lass got in the way.”
Patrick swore, guessing what had happened. “And our clansmen decided to take some of their rage out on a woman?” He looked away in disgust. Poor Annie had been caught in the crossfire.
I should have protected her.Could he have done something different? If he'd taken that shot at Jamie Campbell, would his cousin and brother still be alive?
It sickened him to think that less than two weeks ago, he'd sat across the room from the man who was responsible for the rape of his sister. His stomach clenched. He couldn't think about it. “I have to go to her,” Patrick said. “Where is she?”
Gregor shook his head. “She won't see you. She won't see anyone. Not even Niall Lamont. I knew how Annie felt about him, so I fetched him from Bute. That's what delayed my coming here. But she sent him away.”
“Where is she?”
“Molach, the islet in Loch Katrine, with some of the other women and children. She's safe for now.”
Safe? Annie would never feel safe again.
Black. That was all Patrick could see, all he could feel. Cold. Empty. Dead. Any feeling left inside him had been destroyed by the news of the deaths of his kinsmen and his sister's rape. All that was left was a simmering rage. Rage that lashed inside him with nowhere to go.
He clenched his fists, his mouth pressed into a tight line. By all that was holy, Achinbreck and the Campbells would pay for what they had done.
Only moments ago he'd had hope for the future, and now everything had changed. His cousin and brother were dead, his sister raped; he was chief of a broken clan….
And marrying Lizzie had become impossible.
The return of his family's land was secondary to saving his clan from destruction and his duty as chief. Any hope of a peaceable solution had vanished with Argyll's treachery.
