“Ah. Here you are, m’ laird,” the old housekeeper called. “I was afraid ye were going to absent yerself, as well, and there would be no one to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“My brother is not here, then?” His smile faltered.
“Nay, m’laird.”
“Has there been any message?”
Hearing the urgency in his voice, the old woman studied a spot on her apron. “None.”
Shaw took a seat at table and sipped some ale, then picked at his food. At a nearby table, Father Anselm was regaling several of the men with stories about his time spent in a distant monastery, where the monks made some of the finest spirits in the land. At some other time, Shaw would have found the tale of interest. Tonight, he paid scant attention.
“Pheasant, my laird?” asked a young servant.
He shook his head and drained his goblet.
A second servant hovered nearby. “Tarts, my laird?”
“Nay. I have had sufficient. Give my thanks to Mistress MacCallum.” He pushed away from the table and took his leave.
With a little frown of concern etched between her brows, the housekeeper watched him go. She knew her young lairds well enough to sense when they were troubled. And though she doubted that anything could ever harm the virile young Sutton, she shared Shaw’ s concern at his prolonged absence.
Alone in his sleeping chambers, Shaw leaned a hip against the edge of the balcony and studied the darkened land below. He struggled not to give in to the worry that had tugged at the edges of his mind all day. But the thought persisted. If Sutton had engaged the enemy and won, he would have wanted to share the victory with his brother. It was their way. The two shared everything. And though Sutton may have indulged his fondness for a warm bed and a willing wench, he would never remain away from Kinloch House for so long a time.
Unless he had no choice.
Taking leave of his own room, Shaw stormed across the sitting room he shared with his brother and entered Suttons sleeping chamber.
As they had each night since Sutton had left, servants had prepared a fire to chase away the chill, in anticipation of their laird’s return. In the glow of firelight, Shaw restlessly prowled the room, pausing to touch a hand to a quiver of arrows, or trace his finger around the rim of the basin of water. Except for the precious store of religious writings that stood beside his bed, a gift from Father Anselm, his room was identical to this.
He sank down on the edge of the pallet, awash in loneliness. No one else could understand how profoundly he was affected by Sutton’s absence. They were not just brothers. Their hearts, their minds, their very souls were joined in some strange, mystical way. Though others were puzzled or perplexed by their bond, they never questioned it. It was enough to know that when one was at peace, the other could rest. When one was hurt, the other shared the pain.
Shaw lay down, pulling the edge of his brother’s blanket around him. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to his own room. Tonight he would sleep in Sutton’s bed, in the hope that it would bring him some measure of comfort.
Shaw drew a heavy traveling cloak around his shoulders and stepped onto the balcony. Though the world still lay in darkness, the first faint ribbons of light were already touching the horizon.
During the night his sleep had been disturbed with dark, violent images. Once he had sat bolt upright at the sound of Sutton’s voice calling his name. Another time he’d awakened, damp with sweat, still trembling from the vague memory of a white-hot pain that had seared his flesh.
Carrying aloft a candle, Shaw made his way to Dillon’s chambers and paused in front of the massive stone fireplace. Hanging above it was their father’s sword. It was said that Modric, beloved leader of the Clan Campbell, had been the fiercest warrior of any who had ever done battle in the rugged Highlands. His courage in the face of overwhelming odds was still spoken of with reverence. This sword had preserved many a Highlander’s freedom. At the cost of countless lives.
Setting aside the taper, Shaw lifted down the sword, testing its weight in his hands. He touched a finger to the blade, honed to a keen edge. The precious jewels embedded in the hilt glinted in the flickering light of the candle.
He stood for long moments, head bowed, overcome with emotion.
“So. Does this mean you have come to a decision?”
Shaw turned to see Father Anselm standing in the door
“Aye. I must find Sutton.”
“And what if you find him dead?”
Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “He is not dead. I would feel it here.” He touched a hand to his heart.
“Do you realize what it is you do?”
When Shaw said nothing, the old priest walked closer. “As your confessor, I know you nearly as well as I know myself. Since your decision to serve God as a priest, you have forsaken the ways of other men. You live a chaste life. Each of your days begins and ends with prayer. And I know for a fact that you have not lifted a hand in anger or violence against any man.”
Shaw remained silent.
“Yet, by taking up your father’s sword, you must know that you invite hostile action that might require you to respond in kind.”
“Aye.” Shaw’s voice trembled with emotion. “But I feel I no longer have a choice.”
“A man always has choices. Think, Shaw. After all that you have sacrificed for your faith, do you wish to be a man of this world or a man above it, a man of God?” The old priest lifted both hands, as if in supplication. “Do you want another man’s blood on your hands?”
Shaw stared down at the sword in his hand for long moments, seeing in his mind’s eye his father, his brothers, as they prepared for battle. He studied it, weighing not just the weapon but its effect on his life. There could be no going back. If he took a life, such a deed could not be undone.
With a deep sigh, he slipped the sword into the scabbard at his waist. Balancing several knives in his palm, he selected one and tucked it into his waistband, then secured a second in his boot. Straightening, he turned to the priest.
His voice no longer wavered, but was firm and commanding. “This, then, is my choice. I will wait no longer. I leave now for Inverene.”
“Alone? ‘Twould be madness. At least take a column of warriors along.”
“And leave our fortress and people unprotected? I cannot choose a less honorable path than Sutton chose. I go alone. God willing, I shall meet my brother returning along the way. If not, I shall confront Upton Lamont and demand an explanation. And know this, Father Anselm. My father’s sword is as sacred to me as are the Church vows I hope soon to take. I will not use this weapon unwisely. I will try every other means before I will resort to the sword. But before God, I swear that I will do whatever necessary to bring my brother safely home.”
With a trace of sadness the old monk nodded and lifted his hand in a blessing. “Go with God, my son.”
Shaw lay flattened on a ridge, studying the scene before him. The loch was so still its surface was a mirror, reflecting the fortress steeped in shadow and the forested cliffs behind it still touched with lavender.
All along his journey Shaw had anticipated the moment when he would come upon his brother, returning in triumph. Now, having reached the end of his journey, he felt a wave of bitter disappointment. What had gone wrong? What would he find in the home of his enemy?
He pushed aside the feeling of dread and latched onto something to fill his thoughts. As he had all his life, he carefully thought out each step of his attack. On the far side of the fortress, the forest offered protection. The cliffs, though steep, could be scaled. That would be the logical means of entering Inverene. On the other hand, anyone attempting to cross the loch would be seen from the watchtower, unless a man waited until darkness to cover him. But as all Scots knew, there were creatures in the lochs. Strange, massive creatures known to devour not only men and animals but entire boats, as well. Often the only things that remained after an attack by these monsters were bits of debris. Thus, no s
ensible Scot would attempt to use the loch at night, even to invade his enemy’s stronghold. Which was why, Shaw decided, as soon as it was dark, he would defy the monsters and swim the loch.
That done, he would make his way to the dungeons, overpower the guards and free his brother. He would leave it to Sutton to decide whether they would slip away under cover of darkness to the safety of their home, or remain and subdue these damnable Lamonts.
He backed down the hillside and sat hunched deep in his cloak. Tearing off a hunk of bread, he satisfied his hunger and waited as darkness slowly covered the land. Then, bundling his cloak behind the saddle, he caught up his horse’s reins and led him to the water’s edge.
“How does he fare?”
Sabina looked up as her sister entered the sleeping chamber. “No better.” With her dirk she cut away the bloodied dressing. The wound was raw, the flesh around it red and puckered. “Help me with this poultice.”
Merritt knelt and struggled to lift one muscular shoulder. then the other, as her sister applied fresh linen soaked with herbs and aromatic spices, then wrapped Sutton’s entire torso in fresh dressings.
“You labor for naught,” Merritt muttered. “I fear he has lost too much blood to recover from these wounds.”
“Aye. He grows weaker each day. But I must try.”
“Why? The lout challenged you with his sword. Does he not deserve to pay?”
“He has already paid, Merritt,” her sister said softly. “Would you have him forfeit his life, as well?”
Her younger sister shrugged in her characteristic way. “I have more important things to do than worry about this stranger.” She stood and drew on a coarse cloak.
At once Sabina got to her feet, clutching Merritt’s arm. “I worry about you, alone in the night. So many things could go wrong...”
Her sister’s smile was quick. “Have no fear. You know I can handle any knave who challenges me.”
“Aye. But the attacks have become more frequent. And much more violent. I should be with you, in case they come in greater numbers.”
“Someone must tend this wounded giant.” Merritt grasped the hilt of the dagger at her waist. “Besides, the lad wasn’t born who can best me.” She gave her sister a quick kiss on the cheek. “See to him. I’ll see to the rest.”
Sabina watched with a little frown of concern as her sister strode from the chamber. Merritt had always been the impulsive one. Quick to lash out in anger, quick to tease like an imp, and quick to lavish love on her family. But she had spoken truthfully. There were few who could best her in a fair fight. Sabina’ s frown grew as another thought intruded. When a man was fighting for his life, he rarely fought in a fair manner. Rather, he would do whatever necessary to survive.
A low moan issued from the stranger, and instantly Sabina dropped to her knees. For the moment, her worries for her sister were forgotten. Her patient had grown more feverish. A sure sign that the wound was not clean. And the potions she had given him so far had not worked their magic.
The loch was cold, and as dark as midnight. There was no moon, but ribbons of starlight danced on the ripples created by the man and animal moving silently across the dark expanse.
On the far shore they scrambled up the embankment. Shivering, Shaw donned his dry cloak, pulling the hood over his head for warmth. He left his stallion at the bank of the loch, thankful that its jet black hide would blend into the darkness. Slipping from tree to tree, he made his way to the stables. He pulled his knife from his waistband and moved stealthily through the shelter, expecting at any moment to confront the stable master. It was necessary to silence him before he could sound an alarm to the sleeping household.
He was puzzled to note that, except for the horses, the stables were empty. Still, he checked each stall, pushing aside the hay in his search for a sleeping groom. When he had examined the last stall, he heard a footfall behind him. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he whirled. And found himself face-to-face with a cloaked figure holding a small, deadly sword.
Chapter Three
“You grow too bold, knave.” The cloaked figure advanced, brandishing the sword. The voice was a strange, breathless whisper. “Now you even attempt to steal our horses.”
Shaw’ s temper rose a notch at the brashness of this stable boy. “I was not stealing them, lad.”
“Aye. You do not steal.” There was a snort of disgust, and the blade of the sword glinted in the starlight as the figure began to circle. “Just as you do not steal our cattle, our sheep.”
“You speak in riddles.” Shaw watched warily, waiting for an opening. Though he could easily take the lad by sheer force because of his size, Shaw had to respect the weapon in the lad’s hand. Besides, he did not wish to inflict any more pain than necessary. “I am no thief.”
“You are more. You are a liar and a cheat.”
“I am a Campbell—”
“God in heaven. Even worse than I’d imagined. A lying, thieving Campbell.” The blade slashed out, neatly slicing into Shaw’s arm.
With a hiss of pain Shaw drew back, only to have the small figure advance again. He felt a wave of fury. Was he going to allow this puny lad to back him into a corner?
“I have no wish to harm you,” he said as he thrusted his knife, causing the figure to hurriedly sidestep. “But I will do whatever I must to defend myself.”
“If you were interested in merely defending yourself, you would not have invaded Lamont land.” The blade flashed again, managing to cut away Shaw’s sleeve along with a small portion of flesh.
The pain was sudden, intense, and Shaw felt his carefully controlled temper rising.
“Fool,” he shouted as his hand went to the sword at his waist. “Lower your weapon or prepare to die.”
“Ha! You are the one who will die, knave.”
The temptation to draw his sword was great, but Shaw resisted. He could not have this stranger’s death on his conscience. Instead, he lifted his knife, determined to disarm his attacker.
Shaw soon found his opponent making up in quickness what was lost in size and skill.
With grunts and sighs they thrust and parried, each managing to draw blood, yet neither willing to give an inch.
“You show a fair amount of skill, lad,” Shaw taunted. “But you do not stand a chance against a Campbell.”
“The Lamont was not born who could not defend his property against a lying, thieving Campbell.”
As they danced forward yet again, Shaw used his superior strength to force the weapon from his opponent’s hand. It fell to the straw and he pressed his advantage, driving the cloaked figure back against the stall. Pressing the point of his knife against his opponent’s throat, he called, “Concede.”
“I concede nothing.”
“Arrogant fool.” He pressed the tip of his blade until he drew blood.
On a gasp of pain, two small hands lifted in a gesture of defeat. Satisfied, Shaw lowered his knife. But as he slipped it into his waistband, he realized his miscalculation. A wink of starlight flashed on the blade of a small, deadly knife as the figure leapt at him.
“Nay.” With a cry of fury he wrestled his attacker to the hay, where the two struggled for control of the knife. And although his opponent managed to inflict yet another wound, it only served to deepen his anger.
“You leave me no choice,” he shouted as he knocked the knife away and pinned his attacker beneath him.
“May you be damned in hell forever,” came the furious whisper. “And may your father and mother—”
“Enough.” Clasping the two small hands in one of his, he dragged them over his opponent’s head, then closed his other hand over the mouth that was about to emit further obscenities. “Now you will listen to me,” he said through clenched teeth. His breath was coming in short bursts, and his temper was still dangerously out of control. “I did not come here to be cursed. Nor did I come to steal. I desire only an audience with Upton Lamont. You will take me to him. At once.”
In sullen silence, green eyes stared defiantly at him.
He drew in several long drafts of air, then, as his breathing returned to normal, he got to his feet and bent slightly, offering his hand. One small hand reached up, as if to accept his help. And then, before he could gauge what was about to happen, he was pulled forward into the hay and the cloaked figure ducked around him and raced from the stable.
“By heaven...”
He regained his footing and began to run. The figure darted across the open space that separated the stable from the house. Tossing aside his own cloak, which was impeding his progress, Shaw began to pick up speed, until he was directly behind his opponent. With a leap, he pounced, taking the other into the dirt with him.
Though his opponent put up a brave fight, Shaw was easily able to subdue the smaller, slighter figure. As they rolled around the hard-packed earth, his big hand came into contact with a roundness, a softness beneath the cloak that could only be a—woman’s breast.
His movements seemed to freeze. He knew he ought to pull his hand away. And yet, for the space of several heartbeats, he could do nothing more than feel that soft, perfectly formed mound of flesh against his palm. Despite the cold, he began to sweat. His blood ran hot. His mouth went dry. And all the while, his mind seemed to have deserted him.
“Unhand me, you lout.”
He blinked. Awkwardly he pulled his hand away. At once, his opponent began to scramble free. As a last resort Shaw dragged the figure back and straddled her, effectively pinning her, until she stopped struggling and became, if not subdued, at least less defiant.
“Now,” he said, when he realized she had momentarily given up the fight. “What sort of game are you playing with me? Why did you not tell me you were female?”
“I... find it wise to conceal that fact from my opponents.”