Chapter 4
Not long after they left the loch, the great shadow of Castle Campbell came into view, its austere gray stone walls rising high on a hill surrounded by dense woodlands.
Like its Highland counterpart of Inveraray Castle, the Lowland stronghold of the Earl of Argyll served as an imposing reminder of the strength of the clan.
The fortress had once been called Castle Gloom, and from its steep, imposing setting and stark stone walls, it wasn’t hard to see why. But to Lizzie it was home.
After all that she’d been through this day, she should feel relieved to reach the safety of the formidable keep.
To smell the familiar pungent aroma of ramsom that filled the steep ravines; to hear the rush of the Burn of Sorrow and Burn of Care, which flowed below to the west and east of the promontory upon which the castle stood.
But for some reason, she was reluctant for this part of her journey to be over.
She suspected that it had something to do with the man riding beside her.
A man she barely knew, but whom she’d thrown herself at like … like … She blushed. Like a common strumpet.
The poor man was still mourning the loss of his wife and unborn child for pity’s sake!
Was she so desperate for romance that she could fall for the first handsome man who was kind to her? Apparently so.
Despite his gallantry, she was mortified by what she’d done. With that face he was probably used to women falling into his arms, but Lizzie had never done anything so remotely improper. Had never so completely abandoned decorum to seek comfort from the embrace of a stranger.
Yet it had felt incredible. Warm. Safe. Secure.
And so much more. She’d felt a connection.
An awareness that went beyond simple attraction but seemed to take hold of every part of her body.
In his arms she’d felt alive. As if her body had woken from a long sleep and tingled with pleasure at the wakening.
Something had come over her, and she’d felt an intense urge to touch him. To slide her hands over his arms and feel the heavy muscles beneath her fingertips, to trace the hard lines of his chest and back. To absorb his strength.
Her body had flooded with heat. With heaviness. And then for a moment her heart had stopped, thinking he was actually going to kiss her. His mouth had been only inches away. The wide, sensuous lips, the dark stubble along the hard lines of his jaw, the spicy warmth of his breath on her head.
But he hadn’t. Whether she’d only imagined it or he had simply thought better of it, she didn’t know. She had had no business encouraging him in the first place, but she could not deny the twinge of disappointment.
She told herself it was for the best. Now that he’d seen them safely home, he would be leaving, continuing on his journey across the sea to escape the memories of the past. It was ridiculous.
The poor woman was gone, but Lizzie felt a twinge of envy.
His wife had been a fortunate woman indeed to have a man care for her so deeply.
Enough to drive him far from his home when he lost her.
That he’d not yet recovered from the loss was obvious. Though on the surface he was friendly and charming, Lizzie sensed the sadness lingering underneath. And there was a hard bleakness in his gaze that came with pain and suffering.
After all he’d done for her, Lizzie wished there was something she could do to help him.
She’d hoped to have the opportunity for further conversation, but as they neared the castle they were forced to ride single file as they negotiated the treacherous narrow path that wound around the castle from the north, fording the Burn of Care on the east.
All too soon they rode under the shadow of the great Maiden’s Tree—the old plane tree near the entrance that dominated the approach—and under the spiked iron yett of the castle.
She lost sight of him temporarily in the furor that followed their arrival, when the reason for their unexpected return became known.
It seemed all at once the barmkin filled with people as efforts were quickly under way to rescue those they had been forced to leave behind after the attack.
Only after additional men and a cart to bring home the wounded had been dispatched and she’d finished the difficult conversations with the families of the men killed did Lizzie have the opportunity to ensure that Patrick and his men had been taken care of.
She scanned the courtyard, still teeming with people. Though it was dark, torches lined the perimeter, providing just enough light to make out the faces of her clansmen flickering by. But there was no sign of Patrick and his men.
They seemed to have disappeared.
Her pulse started to pick up pace as her chest grew tight with increasing anxiousness. They couldn’t have left already … could they?
She stood on her toes, trying to look over the heads of her clansmen. But when that didn’t work, she stopped one of her guardsmen as he walked past her toward the hall. “Finlay …”
Finlay was one of her cousin’s most trusted guardsmen.
She didn’t know him very well, but she sensed ambition in him.
With Alys’s Donnan—the captain of the guardsmen—injured, Finlay would probably be made interim captain.
He was a rough, coarse man, and his features matched his disposition.
The round dome of his bald head seemed to meld seamlessly into a very thick neck, reminiscent of the seals that roamed the waters of the Western Isles.
His nose was flat and crooked from being pounded too many times by a fist. Though not a tall man, he made up in width what he lacked in height.
He was built like an ox, his chest as wide and round as a cask of ale.
“My lady?” He smiled, a gaping grin of yellow flecked with brown.
Lizzie repressed the distaste that she knew was unwarranted and managed to return his smile. “Have you seen the men we rode in with?”
“The Murray men?”
She nodded, trying not to look too eager.
“The last I saw them, they were in the stables.”
Relieved that they had not yet left, she managed, “Thank you,” before hurrying off.
The door was opened and the earthy, pungent smells hit her as she swept through the doorway, the hay strewn on the floor clinging to the hem of her skirts.
“It’s something to consider,” she heard one of her cousin’s men say. “We could use the extra sword arms.” She didn’t hear the reply because another man, seeing her, cleared his throat and the conversation came to a quick stop. An uncomfortably quick stop.
There was nothing worse than bringing a room to dead silence, unless it was a roomful of men who were then staring at you.
She fought a blush, feeling distinctly out of place.
They were obviously surprised to see her.
The lady of the keep—the role she’d assumed on the death of the countess—did not usually visit the stables to see to the comfort of guardsmen.
But these weren’t ordinary circumstances, she reminded herself.
Knowing that with all eyes upon her like this she would be prone to stammer, she paused and took a deep breath before she spoke. “Food and drink have been set out in the great hall.” She turned to Patrick. “And pallets are being readied for you and your men in the garret.”
“A meal is much appreciated, but we don’t want to put you to any trouble. We should be on our way.”
Lizzie frowned, her eyes narrowing on his handsome face.
Was it her imagination or did he look a little pale?
“It’s no trouble. After all you have done for us, the least I can do is see that your men have a good night’s rest.” She smiled.
“Surely there is no harm in waiting to continue your journey until morning?”
“No, but—”
“It’s the least I can do,” she interrupted, not wanting to give him the opportunity to refuse.
She had that sick feeling in her gut again, just as she had when she’d thought they’d already left.
It was somehow vitally important that he not leave.
Not yet, at least. She looked to the young, dark-haired man at his side for help.
“I’m sure your men would welcome a dry night on a comfortable pallet, wouldn’t you? ”
Her encouraging smile succeeded only in further discomforting the younger man. He was probably just a handful of years younger than her own six and twenty, but compared with the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Patrick, his long, lean build looked practically boyish.
“I …” He looked helplessly to his captain, caught in the impossible position of wanting to please her and not wanting to oppose his leader.
Patrick took pity on him. He bowed in mock surrender; a crooked smile played upon his mouth. “How can I argue with such a pretty request?”
Lizzie gave him an uncharacteristically impish grin. “You can’t.”
“Then it seems we will be happy to accept your hospitality for the night.”
She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful.”
Their eyes met, and she felt it again. That strange current of awareness that started at her head and shimmered all the way down to her toes. It made her feel warm and syrupy and a little bit drowsy.
“Was there something else, my lady?” he asked politely.
“No, I …” She dropped her gaze, her cheeks heating, realizing she’d been staring.
Thankfully, there wasn’t a roomful of men to witness her embarrassment, as most of the others had started to drift away to finish tending to their mounts and then heading to the hall.
She swallowed and started over, slower this time. “You seem anxious to leave.”
He’d taken a brush from the bag tied to his saddle and began to slide long, hard strokes over the shiny black coat of his stallion.
It was impossible not to notice the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles of his arms as he worked.
Very muscular arms. She doubted she could span one with both her hands.