Child of the Mist (4 page)

Anne hurried across the outer bailey toward the keep. The thought of her own bed, covered with its plump down comforter, had never seemed so attractive. But then, never had she felt so exhausted!

It was early morn and she'd been up all night nursing a feverish servant, not to mention all the clansmen who still needed tending after the skirmish with the Campbells two days past. Though the victory had ultimately been MacGregors', the outnumbered raiders had sold their lives dearly.

Aye, the victory had been dearly won, but perhaps it would bring an end to the raids. After all, didn't they now hold prisoner the Wolf of Cruachan himself? His death, her father had assured her, would make the Campbells think twice about venturing onto MacGregor lands.

Though it was a cruel necessity to tie the man in the castle's outer courtyard, and doom him to a slow, thirst-maddened death, it still did not sit well with Anne. Enemy though he was, even the thought of watching him succumb, inch by agonizing inch, made her stomach churn.

Her steps quickened in her eagerness to cross the courtyard's broad expanse as swiftly as possible. Perhaps all the years of trying to save life made it so hard to bear to look at him, but in the two days since he'd been tied in the bailey, she'd not once glanced in the prisoner's direction, nor ventured past him unless absolutely necessary. In some way, not seeing him seemed to spare her the harsh reminder of his presence.

A low groan floated across the bailey. In spite of herself, Anne's eyes lifted toward the prisoner. His head was down, his full weight hanging from his hands as if he were unconscious. Mayhap the sound was her imagination, she thought, but, as she turned away, he moved. Anne halted, then took a hesitant step toward him. There was something familiar. . . .

He stirred again, attempting to lift his head, but couldn't seem to muster the strength. The slight movement, however, sent a premonitory shiver through her. She had seen him before, but where?

She inched her way over. As Anne studied the bent head, dread insinuated its oppressive tendrils about her heart. His form was powerful, awesome in size and inherent strength, even half-dead and trussed like some criminal awaiting execution. The mane of unruly black hair hid his features, and the Campbell plaid and torn, bloodied shirt gave no hint as to why she should recognize him. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, she felt compelled to know more.

Laying aside her leather herb bag, Anne raised trembling hands to cup his face. It would take but an instant, she assured herself, and he'd never know. Slowly, ever so carefully, she lifted his head and brushed aside the dark hair.

At the sight of the finely hewn features, Anne gasped. Her fingers tightened into his flesh. His eyes flickered open, tawny-brown and pain-glazed, then slid shut.

Bruised and bloodied though his face was, his cheeks darkly shaded by a heavy growth of beard, Anne could no longer deny recognition. It was the Campbell leader who'd rescued her from his crazed cousin! The Campbell leader . . . Niall Campbell . . . the Wolf of Cruachan!

With a shudder, Anne released his head and stumbled backward. Gathering up her bag, she hurried away. Holy Mary! Not him,
anyone
but him!

Anne scrambled up the steps of the keep and into its dark, stone coolness. Up the winding staircase she went, never pausing until she was safely in her own little room, the door bolted behind her. Flinging herself onto the bed, Anne buried her face in her hands.

Long minutes passed as she struggled to still her pounding heart. It was he, the hated, the greatly feared and despised Wolf of Cruachanthe MacGregors' fiercest enemyand the man who'd saved her life. Never had she dreamt the day would arrive when he'd be in need, and it would be in her power to save him. Yet, in but a few weeks' time, the day had indeed come.

Now, the debt was hers to repay. But at what cost? To spare his life now, to set him free, would most certainly lead to dire retribution.

Yet, Anne reluctantly admitted, she owed him a debt, a life for a life. To turn from him now would be a dishonorable act. But if she didn't, she might well jeopardize her people's welfare.

Och, what to do, what to do?
she inwardly cried. Still, as the hours passed in agonizing indecision, the choice was always the same. At long last, when day had faded to early eve, Anne rose from her bed and went to seek her father.

''You did what? You owe him what?"

Anne cringed at the explosive force of her father's rage. Never, in all her years, had he so much as raised his voice to her. Now to see the pain, the anger on his face, and know she was the cause . . . She stifled the uncharacteristic urge to flee and faced the man standing across the room.

" 'Tis as I said." She swallowed hard, then con-

tinued, "The Wolf spared my, life. Now, I owe him a debt of honor. You can't kill him, Father."

"Can't? Can't kill him, you say?"

Alastair MacGregor covered the distance between him and his eldest daughter in a few quick strides. Grasping her by the arms, he jerked her to him. "Do you know what you're saying, lass? If I let the Wolf go, do you think hell not try to avenge his men? Until now his raids have lost us our cattle, a few horses from time to time, but no lives. But nownow Campbell blood has been shed. Do you think hell stop until MacGregor blood flows as freely? Most likely even more freely," he muttered, "knowing that black-hearted fiend."

Anne hung her head. "II'm sorry, Father. I didn't want to go against your orders, but I'd promised "

"Promised? Promised?" The MacGregor's face turned a mottled red. "I ordered you to stay within the castle for your own safety and still you wouldn't listen! And now you've done it, for well you know your honor is MacGregor honor. To deny a debt such as this shames not only you, but the entire clan. Och, lass. You've gone and muddled things now!"

He began to drag her toward the door. Anne dug in her heels, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the Wolf," her father growled. "I'll hear the truth from his own lips."

Through the keep he led her, and Anne died a little death at each pair of questioning eyes and raised brows encountered along the way. Out into the early-evening sunshine they went, toward the lone, shadowed form tied in the outer bailey.

He must have heard them, for he lifted his head at their approach. "Time for another . . . gloating visit, is it?" Niall croaked, his voice raw and rasping. "Sorry to disappoint you . . . MacGregor. I'm still . . . very much . . . alive."

Alastair shoved Anne in front of him, pushing her almost into Niall's face. "Do you know her, Campbell? Tell me true!"

Reddened eyes, one purpled and nearly swollen shut, quietly studied her. Anne saw the recognition flare, then purposely flicker out. For an instant, she thought he might deny he knew her. But why? Did he think her in danger if he spoke true? Did he hope to protect her by lying? Fleetingly, she almost wished he'd mistake the situation, even if it meant his death. It would solve everything.

"The truth," she forced herself to whisper. " 'Tis your life that hangs in the balance. Tell him the truth. No harm will come to me."

His suffering eyes knifed into hers, probing deeply until Anne felt an unwilling compassion flow through her. Then his dense black lashes lowered. He sighed, the sound one of utter weariness.

"Aye, I know the lass. What's it to you, MacGregor?"

"What's it to me?" Alastair nearly choked in frustrated rage. "Rather, ask what's it to you? She's my daughter, man! You saved her life. Her debt to you is
my
debt. I cannot kill you now, as much as I yearn for it, no matter what happens. MacGregors have little else left, thanks to you and yours, but we still have our honor.
That
will never die, until you wipe the last o'us from the Highlands."

"Then . . . you'll let me go?"

The MacGregor shook his head. I haven't decided. Content yourself with the fact you'll live. Debt or not, you're no guest here. You're merely trading the cross posts for the dungeon."

He turned to Anne. "And you, lass. I haven't decided what to do with you yet, either. In the meantime, I task you with tending our prisoner. Your need to nurse every beggar who crosses your path led to this. See how you enjoy nursing him!"

Her father shot Niall one final, contemptuous look, then stalked off, shouting orders at two guards to take the Campbell prisoner to the dungeon and clasp him in chains. Tears stung Anne's eyes as she watched him stomp away. She'd heard the pain, the deep concern in his voice beneath his anger as he'd spoken to Niall Campbell. She'd backed him into a corner in revealing her debt, that she well knew. And, indeed, what choices
were
left? He seemed damned if he freed the Wolf, and just as damned if he didn't.

"I wouldn't cause you trouble, lassie."

At the sound of the deep voice Anne turned to him. "And why should one MacGregor more or less matter to the likes o' you? Don't waste your pity on me, Campbell! My debt is paid, 'Tis my only comfort, and little will it be in the coming days o' caring for you!"

Anne strode away. Soon Niall Campbell would take his rest in the damp, fetid depths of MacGregor dungeons. He'd need food, water, and his wounds tended, and he was now her responsibility.

Even the thought of touching him sickened her, vile, vicious beast that he was. But touch him she would, nurse him in the best way she knew how. Until her father decided the proper course of action, Niall Campbell's welfare was now of utmost concern. For her people's sake, Anne would care for the devil himself.

"More," Niall gasped, thinking he'd never get enough to slake his thirst. "Give me more."

Anne pulled back with the cup and water pitcher before he could reach it with his chained hands. She firmly shook her head. "Nay, 'tis enough for now. Youll only make yourself sick if you drink too much so soon. Give your belly time."

Niall wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. "Och, and aren't you the heartless wench? Is this but another MacGregor torture? Tormenting me with a sip or two, not enough to slake my thirst but only tease it?"

"Call it what you will." Anne set the pitcher and cup aside and took up her herb bag and a box filled with bandages and bowls. "One way or another, you'll get no more to drink until I deem fit."

She paused to eye him closely, her glance moving down his body with a coolly detached air. "Your leg looks the worst. I'll tend it first. Raise your kilt."

Dark eyebrows arched in weary amusement, for Niall's thigh wound was long, extending nearly to his groin. "Are you certain you want me exposing myself? You're a maid, aren't you?"

She expelled an exasperated breath. "And sure, don't you suppose I've seen a man's body or two in my years o' healing? 'Tisn't your privates I'm wanting to tend, only your leg. Do you want your wounds seen to or not?"

Niall shrugged and lifted his kilt to expose the full length of his leg. "I only thought to spare your sensibilities." He gestured toward the jagged cut. "Have at it, lass."

Silence hung heavily over the dank chamber as Anne worked in the flickering torchlight. She could feel his eyes upon her, sense them slide over her body as she carefully labored on his leg. It angered her, though she knew it for the normal masculine act it was. That realization disturbed her most of all.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her attention back to the task at hand. The wound was shallow. Apart from some redness at the edges, it appeared it would heal well enough.

Her gaze moved outward from the cut, noting the powerful, iron-thewed thigh. He was in superb physical condition, the muscles and sinews bulging under tautly stretched, hair-roughened skin.
A terri
-

ble, lethal enemy in battle,
Anne mused,
the murderer of many a fine MacGregor lad
. The thought once more stirred her anger. Her touch, as she applied her herbal healing salve, was brisk.

"Why are you so angry at me, lass?"

The unexpected query startled Anne. Her head jerked up. Her eyes careened into his. Calm brown eyes, flecked surprisingly with gold, stared back at her. For a moment, no words would come.

"A-angry?" she repeated in disbelief. Was he daft? What did he expect, Campbell that he was? Anne shook her head, perversely refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

The faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. "You nearly bit my head off earlier when I told you I was sorry to cause trouble between you and your father. And now you're tending me with less than a gentle hand. I haven't said a word since you began, so how have I suddenly angered you?"

Anne opened her mouth to reply, then clamped it shut. She didn't owe him an explanation and he'd not get one. Inhaling a calming breath, she turned back to the bandaging of his leg.

"I'm not here to be your companion, only to see to your wounds and nourishment. 'Tisn't necessary to make nice talk with me."

"Mayhap not," he agreed quietly, "but I'd like to nonetheless."

The chains that bound him to the wall clanked as his hand moved to raise her chin gently. Silver eyes flashed at him, but Niall persisted. "'Tisn't your fault, lass, no matter what your father's told you. My death would've set far worse on MacGregors than my living ever will. Your father will see that, once his anger cools."

"Och, will he now?" She wrenched her chin from his grasp. "And will your living end the feuding? Tell me that, Niall Campbell!"

Aye,
he thought,
if I can discover who the traitor is, if your father willingly reveals his name
.

A sudden, horrible thought assailed him. The traitor. How long had he been behind this? Since the very start of the feud? It was too terrible even to think such a thing, for the feud between Campbell and MacGregor had burned hot and bloody for over eight years.

Niall shrugged. " 'Tis possible, lass. It depends on your father."

"Hah! Lay it all on my father's back, will you? 'Tis so like a Campbell to stoke the pot, then claim he was nowhere about when it boils over!"

Anne stepped back, her hands settling on her hips. "And why should you even want the feuding to end? The sanctity o' a wedding wasn't enough to keep you from starting the feud. And'tis well known how you like the raiding, the bloodshed. You're slowly wearing us down with your greater numbers. Why should you want to stop until you've stolen all we possessincluding the land itself?"