Chapter Seven
As usual, Hugh didn’t join the others when they gathered for the meal but instead sat some distance from the fire pit, with Symon.
But it was hard to keep his gaze from straying to Roisin.
It wounded him deep inside to see her mending clothes for Clan MacGregor men, when she was noble born and should spend her time on her exquisite embroidery or illuminated manuscripts.
He had to get her away from this life and back to her own as soon as possible.
After he had left her in his tent, he’d joined the men who’d taken the horses to the other side of the camp where they were examining them and discussing which ones to keep and which ones to sell.
It was decided that the following day they’d take a couple of horses to a town some distance from the camp which, although they’d surveyed it when they first arrived five weeks ago, they’d yet to visit.
He planned on accompanying them. It was the best opportunity he’d have to find a messenger.
It was always a risky undertaking whenever he sent dispatches to the earl, but he never took chances, and he wasn’t going to start now.
For should a MacGregor discover the truth about him, it would put Roisin in danger.
Since he had no intention of leaving her unprotected in the camp while he was gone, he planned on speaking with Darragh in the morning about taking Roisin and her maid—not to mention her wee dog—with him.
He’d already worked out his strategy and was confident the chieftain would see the benefits of having two young women accompanying him and Symon.
He had half finished his meal when Roisin stood, her plate in her hand and dog at her heels and made her way around the fire pit towards him.
His heart jackknifed and he forgot how to eat, but before he made a complete arse of himself, he realized she wasn’t coming over to him at all.
She avoided even glancing his way before crouching by the pile of carcasses and gingerly poking through them with her knife.
Something akin to horror assailed him that Lady Roisin was scavenging among discarded bones and without a thought as to what Symon might make of it, he shuffled closer to her.
“What are ye doing?” He kept his voice low, although nobody would hear above the murmur of conversation from the MacGregors.
She still didn’t look at him. “Ecne needs to eat.”
His gaze strayed to the plate she’d placed on the ground, the plate she’d been given just moments ago, and which now had only a few bones picked clean of whatever small amount of meat had once clung to them.
His furtive glances her way, as he’d shoveled his own food into his mouth, gave him proof enough she’d scarcely eaten a morsel before coming over to pick at the few bones that hadn’t been used, and a wave of anger burned through his chest.
He wasn’t a MacGregor, and he wasn’t on their side, but he’d never slacked when it came to ensuring the clan had enough to eat.
It was, after all, the main reason why Darragh tolerated his presence.
He knew damn well that until he and Symon had arrived, the clan had often gone without meat, relying on lichens to stave off hunger.
And it wasn’t conjecture on his part. He’d heard the whispered remarks between the women and, again, his ability to hunt was why the women welcomed him as readily as they did.
Aye, there had been unexpected extra mouths to feed, but the meal could have been stretched so as not to starve two young women, and he’d be damned if he’d let Roisin go hungry.
Before he could stop himself, he flung an unwary glare in the direction of the clan, before scraping the remains of his meal onto Roisin’s plate.
She gasped and glanced at her plate as though he’d just filled it with worms.
“I don’t want yer food.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, and she sounded mortified. That made two of them, although likely for different reasons, since he was mortified he’d dragged her into this mess in the first place. But what choice did he have?
“I’m full,” he lied. “Share it with Grear and yer wee dog. I cannot have ye fainting from hunger, can I?”
His attempt at a jest fell flat as she didn’t so much as give a glimmer of a smile, unlike when they’d been in Eigg, and her smile had lit up her whole face whenever he’d made a lighthearted comment. But then, in Eigg she hadn’t been attacked or spirited away to an enemy campsite.
“I won’t faint.” There was a trace of affront in her voice, and she gripped her knife as though it were a weapon rather than an implement to eat with. “I’m not that fragile.”
But she was fragile. From the first moment he’d caught sight of her after arriving on the Isle of Eigg last winter, her elusive air of ethereality had captivated him in ways he didn’t even recognize.
She wasn’t fearless like her eldest sister, Lady Isolde, or straight-talking with whoever crossed her path like Lady Freyja.
He found Roisin’s gentle manner enchanting and when she had shared her art with him, her talent had stolen his breath.
As they had stood in a shadowed corner of Sgur Castle, on the morning of her sister and William’s wedding, she had shyly offered him her beautifully embroidered handkerchief as a keepsake. And he had known, deep in his bones, that if she were ever in danger, he would protect her with his very life.
It was a noble thought, and it had kept him warm inside, like a glowing ember, on the journey back to Balfour Castle.
An insubstantial pledge to himself that had little prospect of ever being discharged since Roisin wasn’t in danger nor was she likely to be, on the isle where her foremothers had ruled for untold generations.
Yet here they were, in Argyll, the land of his birth, and the only way he could protect her was by ensuring he remained alive. Which meant not drawing any more unwanted attention to himself and Roisin, in case Darragh decided to look more deeply into her background.
He gazed into her emerald-green eyes that no longer glowed with warmth, the way they had on Eigg and in his countless dreams of her.
The safest thing to do was to back away and return to Symon, but he couldn’t do it.
Not until he’d assured her that she would never again be overlooked when it came to dishing out the food he’d provided the clan.
“This oversight won’t happen again, ye have my word. But ye must keep yer strength up, my lady. I vowed to look after ye, and I will, if it’s the last thing I do.”
She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I don’t know who ye made this vow to, Hugh Campbell, but if ye meant a word of it, ye would’ve taken me to my sister’s instead of dragging me here, and well ye know it.”
“’Tis not that simple.” He thought she understood that from the last time they’d spoken of this, but how could he expect her to understand when he couldn’t tell her the truth?
He released a frustrated sigh and wished he could take her hands and reassure her all would be well.
But although they were currently being ignored, he was certain if he crossed that boundary with Roisin, the entire clan would notice. “And I make the vow to ye, Roisin.”
Her name slipped out, unguarded, but she didn’t reprimand him for the lack of respect. By the way she was glaring at him, he suspected she hadn’t even noticed.
“I don’t need yer vow to look after me. Why would I?” She glared at her plate and pressed her lips together. It was obvious she was torn between rejecting the food he’d given her and putting her pride aside so her maid and dog, at least, wouldn’t go hungry.
After a fraught silence, she gripped the plate and stood and he watched her walk back to her place on the far side of the fire pit, where she shared the food between Grear and her dog.
The light was fading, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to see if she’d kept any for herself.
Surely she had. She wasn’t that stubborn, was she?
On Eigg, he hadn’t considered she possessed a stubborn bone in her body.
With a disgruntled snort he returned to his original spot opposite Symon and finished the last gulp of his ale. Christ, what wouldn’t he do for a good flagon of wine. He could scarcely recall the last time he’d drunk anything but bad ale.
“Careful, Sergeant.” Symon regarded him over his own tankard of ale. “A man might think ye’re sweet on her.”
He flung the other man an irritated glance. “We’re not barbarians, Symon.” At least, Campbells weren’t. And truth be told, neither were MacGregors, even if the earl had declared them Clan Campbell’s sworn enemies. “The lady isn’t our prisoner and shouldn’t be treated as such.”
Symon shrugged. “I’m not disagreeing. But ye look at her as though ye cannot bear to see her suffer. Does she remind ye of the bonny lass waiting for ye back home?”
Would his moment of madness when he’d confided in Symon forever come back to haunt him?
He decided to ignore the other man’s remark. “I’ll have a word with Elspeth on the morrow.”
Symon grunted. Hugh couldn’t fathom whether it was a grunt of warning or disbelief.
He acknowledged it could likely be both.
Elspeth was a formidable woman in her own right, without having the added benefit of being Darragh’s sister.
But if he wanted Roisin to be treated fairly, then he needed to speak to the older woman.
“I wouldn’t advise it.” Symon swallowed the last of his ale. “Elspeth doesn’t take kindly to interference.”
“I can be tactful.” God knew, he learned that art years ago, when he’d mitigated disruptions caused by his brother’s drunken ways.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.”
He knew he was glowering but couldn’t seem to stop himself as he chanced another glance Roisin’s way.
At least she appeared to be eating, which was a relief.
It was only when Symon kicked his boot and he dragged his besotted gaze from her that he realized several of the women, and one or two of their menfolk, were casting interested glances between him and Roisin.
Goddamn it. So much for not drawing any unwanted attention.
When a couple of the women stood and began gathering the plates he had to forcibly stop himself from leaping to his feet when Roisin and her maid joined them.
He hadn’t expected her to do that, especially considering how they’d disrespected her when it came to sharing the food.
On the other hand, he had to admit that her gracious response was more diplomatic than his own feral reaction.
One of the women took his and Symon’s plates and the knowing grin she leveled his way told him everything he needed to know.
He had failed to keep his interest in Roisin to himself. He could only hope no one guessed the true situation between them.
With difficulty, he relaxed his fists and took a deep breath. He had to mask his feelings. He’d spent the last year concealing his true thoughts. Why was it so hard when it concerned Roisin?
“Where are ye planning on sleeping tonight?”
Symon’s question pulled him back to the present and he cast the other man a dark glare. He hadn’t thought that far ahead but there was only one answer. “Outside my tent.”
“Oh, aye.” There was a mocking note in Symon’s voice. “To protect the lady from roaming wolves, no doubt.”
It wasn’t wolves he’d been thinking of, but he wasn’t about to contradict the other man. “That’s right.”
“I doubt she’ll appreciate yer concern for her well-being.”
He doubted it too, but he wasn’t doing it to gain her favor. “I brought her here. I’m responsible for her.”
“Maybe ye should ransom her. Her family will likely be grateful ye saved her from ruin.”
No doubt Lady Helga and Roisin’s sisters would be relieved he’d crossed her path before the bandits had dragged her to God knew where. But it reminded him of the possibility the attack hadn’t been random. Who the hell would have targeted Lady Roisin?
The fact her sister was now wed to Alasdair Campbell, favored half-brother of the earl, certainly threw a new light on the likelihood it was one of the earl’s enemies behind the attack.
Lady Freyja was, after all, the earl’s sister through marriage, and he would certainly take such an affront to his close kin’s honor personally.
Considering Clan MacGregor had been on the receiving end of the earl’s wrath for the last five years and their lands confiscated, it was certainly possible they might undertake such a risky venture as kidnapping a noblewoman for gain.
The question was whether the earl would have paid whatever was demanded without dispute or instead hunted the perpetrators down and slaughtered them without mercy.
He was inclined to believe the latter. The earl didn’t take kindly to threats. Although surely, had the bandits succeeded in their plan, he would have attempted to rescue Roisin first?
It was all conjecture at this point. At least he could be certain it wasn’t Darragh MacGregor who had ordered the attack, and maybe the bandits had nothing to do with the MacGregors at all.
He had no way of knowing the truth. But one thing was certain.
Roisin’s continuing safety was entirely in his hands.