Child of the Mist (3 page)

Once more, anger flared in Anne. The villain, the rogue! How dare he look at her like she was some piece of vermin, because he was Campbell and she MacGregor! She opened her mouth to berate him, then thought better of it.

"My orders haven't changed," he was calmly saying. "No MacGregor will suffer unless they raise a hand against us. We came for their livestockand nothing more."

"And you're a fool if you let this witch live!" Hugh spat, drawing near so none but the three of them could hear. "You know the law demands her death. Will you go against it?"

"Hold your tongue, man!" His leader's voice slashed through the air. "You cut close in calling me a fool. Cousin or no, if you utter one word more . . ."

At the ominous tone, the color drained from Hugh's face. "II meant no offense." He began to back away. "Do what you want with the witch. 'Tis on your soul, not mine."

The dark-haired leader watched him go, then turned to where Anne was still kneeling on the ground. He pulled her to her feet.

For a long moment they faced each other. His cool gaze missed nothing, from her tousled hair and defiant silver eyes, to the torn and dirty dress. A strange, indefinable light momentarily flickered in the brown depths of his eyes, then died.

His hand moved to her breasts. For the space of a sharply inhaled breath, Anne thought he meant to ravish herright there before his men. Then he withdrew her bodice knife.

"Turn. Give me your hands."

The order was brusque, emotionless. Anne obeyed. It wasn't the time to argue or curse him for being a Campbell. She'd barely escaped death and the look in his eyes warned that his patience had worn thin. Cold metal touched her as he cut through her bonds. Then she was free.

Anne glanced down to rub her hands. "I'll not be thanking the likes o' you, for 'twill never make up for what you've done here." Her eyes rose to meet his. "Nonetheless, I owe you a debt."

His mouth quirked. "A debt? Between Campbell and MacGregor? I think not, lassie. There can never be anything between us but the deepest enmity."

He flipped the knife in his hand and offered it back to her, handle first. Wordlessly, she accepted it, then watched him turn and walk away. His long, muscular legs, bare beneath his kilt, swiftly carried him to the black stallion waiting nearby. In one agile leap he mounted, then reined his horse about to look at her.

"You're an impertinent, foolish wench to taunt my men. Though I admire your spirit, mark me well. I didn't spare you because I feared you, for I don't believe in witches. But if our paths ever cross again, think twice before opening your mouth. We Campbells don't take kindly to disrespectespecially from MacGregors."

With a wave of his hand, he signaled his men forward. Out of the village they rode, driving the stolen MacGregor stock before them.

Anne watched them go, filled with a helpless, Roiling rage.
Curse you foul Campbells! Curse your thieving, heartless ways!
she silently screamed after their retreating backs, her knife still clasped in her hand.
And, most of all, curse the dark, arrogant man who leads you!

Alastair MacGregor reread the missive one last time, then crushed it in his large fist and threw it onto the fire. Recalling the scribbled words, a fierce emotion flared in his breast. Was it possible? Dare he hope for a way to end the feud before MacGregor pride was irretrievably broken, ground into dust beneath the Campbell heel?

And yet as dearly yearned for as peace was, dared he believe, dared he trust the man whom he awaited even nowa hated Campbell, assured, just this once, safe passage through Castle Gregor? How could anyone trust a clan that so blithely instigated a vicious feud during the happy occasion of a marriage feast, refusing to see any side but their own?

Alastair shook his head despairingly. Nay, it wasn't likely any good would come of this night's meeting, yet what else. . . .

A fist rapped at the door. Alastair wheeled about, paused to stare at the portal then, squaring his shoulders, strode resolutely toward it. A man, shrouded in a rain-soaked MacGregor tartan, was shown in.

Alastair shut the door and bolted it behind him. He walked to a small table that held a whiskey decanter and several cups. The MacGregor glanced over his shoulder. "Do you fancy a dram o' the potents to chase the chill from your bones?"

"Aye, that I do."

Alastair poured a liberal dose into two cups, then, as an afterthought, sweetened his with a splash more. Tonight of all nights, he'd need every bit of courage he could muster.

The two men sipped their drinks silently, allowing Alastair a moment more to assess his visitor. The MacGregor tartan had been his idea, for he wanted none to suspect what was afoot. The Campbell guest's face was difficult to make out. Despite the fire's warmth, he seemed reluctant to remove the plaid from his head and shoulders.

He doesn't want his identity known,
Alastair thought. The realization sent an inexplicable chill down his spine. He was a cool one, and no mistake, whatever he was up to, the man didn't care to be implicated. Suddenly, the MacGregor wanted this night's meeting done with as quickly as possible.

Alastair cleared his throat. "Er, your letter spoke o' an offer. About a plan to end the feuding. What exactly might that be?"

"The Campbell is ailing and won't last the summer. With a new chief comes new policiesand an end to the feud."

"And I'm not fool enough to think Niall Campbell will end a feud his father began. If you've come to offer me hope the Wolf will go against his sire, you can leave the way you came, and be making it quick!"

"And who was saying Niall Campbell will be the next chief?"

Alastair's brow wrinkled. He tilted his head to study the man before him speculatively. "He's clan tanist, the Campbell's chosen successor. Short o'an untimely death . . ."

White teeth gleamed in the mantle's shadow. "Aye, an untimely death. Niall leads many raids on your lands. If you were to know in advance when and where he'd strike, you could set your own men there. Niall's band is always small for he claims his success lies in swift, unexpected attacks. Outnumber them and you could kill them allNiall included. Then the Campbell would be forced to chose a new chief."

"And who might that be?"

"Someone sure to see my way o' things."

There was a finality in the man's voice that brooked no further discussion. Alastair decided not to pursue it. It didn't matter anyway. Any choice but the Wolf of Cruachan was bound to be an improvement. But what if the offer led MacGregors into a trap?

"And why should I trust you?" The MacGregor strode back to the whiskey table and poured them both another dram. "What assurance do I have you'll not betray me and mine in the end?"

He returned and handed the visitor his cup.

The man shrugged. "My word. The word o' a Campbell, to be sure, but then, what is there to lose? If I fail you, are you any worse than you were before? 'Tis a gamble, but are not the stakes well worth it? Take it or leave it."

Alastair emptied his cup. The fiery liquid seared a hot trail down his throat, spreading rippling fingers of warmth throughout his chest, It calmed him a bit, allowing him the opportunity to sort through his jumbled thoughts.

Take it or leave it
. Had it come to this then, when a MacGregor was forced to accept whatever leavings a Campbell threw his way? Lord, what a bitter draught to swallow! Yet swallow it he must if his clan were to survive. One thing for certain, Alastair vowed with a fierce determination, Niall Campbell would rue his birthing day before he was done with him.

"Tell me when the Wolf plans his next raid." The MacGregor sighed. " 'Tis as you said. Any chief would be better than he. Help me capture him and your troubles will be over."

"I want him dead, MacGregor."

Alastair's bitter laugh cut through the air. "Och, he'll die, and no mistake. Just how and when I leave to my own pleasure."

Aye,
the man across from MacGregor thought as he once more drained his cup.
And your pleasure will be short indeed, I'll make certain my clan learns of the Wolf's death. Before he's cold in his grave we'll be back in full force, to exact a savage revenge. Then I'll finally have it allthe Campbell chieftainship and control of all MacGregor lands
. . . .

Through a red haze of pain, Niall Campbell gazed out upon the castle's outer bailey. The early-morning sun stained the sky with lavender. Save for the MacGregor sentries guarding the parapets, no one was about. He clenched and unclenched his fingers to ease the numbness in his hands, the only movement allowed by the tight ropes binding his limbs in a spread-eagled position to the wooden cross posts.

Had it been but two days now since his capture? It seemed an eternity. He licked his dry, cracked lips, the thirst raging through him like wildfire. His battle wounds ached fiercely, but none were severe enough to kill him before the lack of water did. But then, wasn't that the MacGregor's plana slow, agonizing death?

With a weary sigh, Niall leaned his head against the stone wall supporting the cross posts. If only he'd fallen with his men, brave lads one and all. But that fate had never been meant for him.

It had been a trap from the start; that was more than evident. He and his small band had no sooner ridden into the narrow draw leading to one of the MacGregor villages then the attack began. Surrounded on all sides, the MacGregor crossbows quickly thinned the Campbell ranks. Then the hand-to-hand combat began.

Though they'd fought with all the courage and ferocity of Highlanders, one by one his men fell. Eventually, the MacGregors managed to separate him from his remaining warriors and a heavy net dropped on him from the cliff above. Pinned to the ground, his sword useless in the stout rope snare, he'd turned to his dirk with desperate effect.

At the memory, a grim smile touched Niall's lips. Before they'd finally beaten him senseless, he'd hamstrung more than a few MacGregors.

Yet, in the end, it had all been for naught. To a man, his lads were dead and he was now a MacGregor prisoner. Not for long, though. Niall didn't delude himself as to his eventual fate. After all these years, the animosity between the clans ran deep and bitter. And he of all Campbells, clan tanist and leader of the debilitating raids in recent months, was hated most of all.

Nay, his death was a foregone conclusion. Niall could accept that with a certain equanimity. What he couldn't accept was the galling realization he'd been betrayedand by one of his own.

A foul, black-hearted traitor in their midst! But who and why? The question had tormented him all the long hours of his capture, nibbling away at his strength as inexorably as had the lack of sleep and water. A traitor, and naught he could do, neither discover who he was nor warn his clan. Naught left to do but die, with the terrible knowledge unspoken, unshared.

Once again a frustrated rage grew within him.

Damn the man to hell, whoever he was! Niall twisted futilely in his bonds, accomplishing little more than abrading the bloody sores of his wrists and ankles further. The pain only fueled his anger and he fought the harder. Finally, his rapidly draining strength exhausted, Niall Campbell fell back, his wounds and tormenting thirst beckoning him toward a blessed oblivion.