Laird of the Mist (11 page)

Hard, tight muscles caressed her back. The weight of his shoulders slowly relaxed over hers, enfolding her. Thighs nestled and caressed her now instead of feeling like stones against her hips.

Callum sighed when Kate let out a wee snore under his chin. He had always considered himself hard, not pillow soft or cushioned with clouds. But hell, he was fast becoming this woman’s bed! She was a Campbell. And a nuisance. He tightened his arm around her and stroked her belly with the pad of his thumb. Acts of both protection and possession, he realized, praying for God to grant him strength to keep his wits about him. Protecting her was one thing, but possessing her would be deadly. Deadly for them both. Still, when the wind blew her curls against his face, he closed his eyes and inhaled. He had always thought nothing in the world could ever smell better than the Highlands. He was wrong.

He accepted a wedge of cheese from Brodie, who rode up beside him. They chewed in silence for a few moments before Callum turned toward him. “Brodie, stop starin’ at me and speak yer mind.”

Brodie shrugged his shoulders and tossed back the strands of dark hair that fell over his eyes. “I was just thinkin’ how even-tempered ye have become since takin’ the lass.” He let his eyes rove over her form. “’Tis plain to see that she pleases ye,” he continued, even though Callum glared at him. “I was wantin’ to know if ye are thinkin’ o’ claimin’ her.”

“I’ll claim nae Campbell,” Callum answered him, tight-lipped.

“She fancies ye, laird,” Brodie went on. “Listen how she purrs like a kitten all wrapped up in yer arms.” The way Callum tightened his hold on her did not go unnoticed by Brodie. “Have ye no’ considered a way to torture the Earl of Argyll before killin’ him?”

“Nae, but I’m sure ye have thought of naught else,” Callum replied. Brodie was a most ruthless warrior, loyal in battle, but a bit overly bloodthirsty.

“The lass.” Brodie smiled, pointing his chin at her.

“What aboot her?”

“Bed her, and bed her thoroughly. What could be worse fer The Campbell than to have a MacGregor growin’ in his niece’s belly?”

Callum went still on his mount. He hadn’t thought of anything but bedding her for the past se’nnight. ’Twas true, ’twould be satisfying to tell Argyll that MacGregor seed grew in his niece, before Callum killed him. And if he took her to his bed, there would be no marriage between her and the English lord of Newbury. Aye, that thought pleased him well enough. But there was something more to consider.

“And what would become of her when she’s returned to her brother carryin’ my bairn? Ye saw what was done to Rhona MacGregor just fer bearin’ our name.”

“Aye, there is nae mercy fer sympathizers,” Brodie agreed quietly, then eyed Kate pressed so intimately against his laird. “Mayhap, then, ’tis best ye dinna give her back. Fer I fear it may be too late.”

Since she had slept most of the day, Kate was wide awake when Callum and his men settled into their plaids that night. Lying down was fruitless. She blamed the stars for keeping her eyes open, the sound of the leaves rustling for keeping her ears alert. But it was the man sleeping across the campfire who made her heart feel restless. No matter how she tried, she could not stop thinking about his kiss. Lord, but he was dangerous. She hadn’t been able to move in his iron embrace while he touched her so intimately, as if he owned her. And then she didn’t want him to let her go. He’d ravished her, all right, but she couldn’t seem to muster even the slightest bit of anger over it. His mouth took her with ruthless mastery. His hot tongue sliding over hers made her so weak and willing, it frightened her thinking how far she would have let him go had he not stopped on his own.

God’s mercy, he had warned her twice to remember who he was, and she needed to do just that. It was one thing to liken Callum to a champion of his people—for saving her from death—but caring for any MacGregor was considered treason. And the Devil was the most forbidden of them all. She sat up, cursing her wakefulness under her breath, and turned toward the sleeping laird.

Callum was not sleeping but sat propped against a tree, his legs outstretched before him and crossed at the ankles, his eyes on her.

She cast him a diffident smile. “Sleep eludes me.”

He did not move, but his expression appeared to soften beyond the glimmering firelight.

He was a stranger to her, and yet the chill of midnight tempted Kate to move closer to the familiar warmth of his body. She drew in an uneven breath instead. “I fear I will never sleep at night again if I keep sleeping in the day.”

“A burden, to be sure,” he agreed, his voice light and teasing. “But if the restive sparkle in yer eyes tells the tale true, ’tis one less troublesome than the one I will be sufferin’ again on the morrow.”

Kate’s eyes flashed at him, and a hint of a smile etched her lips to match his. “Suffering indeed. If you had to endure the tedium of traveling with an insolent ogre day after day, you, too, would bless unconsciousness when it came to claim you.”

His eyebrows rose with surprise, but instead of scowling at her as she expected, he grinned and set her heart to pounding. “Have ye always been so braw, Kate Campbell?”

“Nae,” she assured him. She tucked her legs beneath her and turned her gaze to the flames. “When I was a child I was very much afraid of thunder. The ground rumbled much the same way when the Highlanders raided. But Robert always promised to protect me. He was quite gallant, even as a boy.” She smiled, remembering. “My father often mused that my mother should have named her son Galahad.”

“One of King Arthur’s knights who fought against the Picts.”

Kate slanted her gaze at him. “You know of them?”

Callum nodded, “Graham once spoke of them. Men whose armor shone with the radiance of righteousness.”

“Aye.” Kate met his steady gaze. “They believed in what they fought for. Robert used to tell me it is not the victory but why a man fights the battle which makes him a hero.”

Callum regarded her in silence. A play of the light across her eyes it was not: he saw himself, and who he might have been, in their shimmering reflection. He cast his glance downward. “I have naught in common with such men. ’Tis late.” He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “One of us needs to sleep, else we’ll ride my horse into a tree.”

Kate lay back down and stared up at the treetops. A moment of silence passed before she broke it again. “Robert used to tell me tales when I could not sleep.”

“I am no’ yer brother.”

She sighed and turned to her side to find a more comfortable position, then . . .

“My faither was a hero. He led the
Griogaraich
against his enemies with Hamish Grant at his side fer many years before he was killed. When we were lads, Graham and I once . . .”

Kate closed her eyes and let the sound of his rich, lilting voice carry her away to her dreams.

Chapter Thirteen

W
HEN THEY STOPPED
at an inn two nights later, Kate was so deliriously happy at the thought of sleeping in a bed, she didn’t notice the possessive way Callum kept his fingers clenched around her wrist after they dismounted.

Callum had agreed to stop here because they were at the edge of MacDonnell country, and though none were permitted to aid the MacGregors, most Highlanders did. His men could use a hot meal, and mayhap if Kate slept in a bed this night, she would cease falling asleep in his arms. Every time she pressed her cheek against his chest, as if she belonged there—or when she looked into his eyes like he was her champion—she tempted him to forget all he lost in her grandfather’s dungeon and imagine that something new and wonderful was still possible in his life. Hell, he was going daft, and the dulcet sound of her breath, the achingly sweet comfort she found in his embrace were to blame. He had to find a horse for her to ride and get her out of his arms. And fast.

But this night he kept her close to him because even though the innkeeper, Ferguson MacDonnell, was his friend, the price on a MacGregor head was too high for some to resist. And since Kate traveled with him, she was considered his. Her life, forfeit.

He could have entered the inn with caution, but if there were enemies inside, their fear of him would keep Kate alive. So, feeding what they knew of The Devil, he brandished his sword and kicked open the door. He stood beneath the entryway like a wraith freed upon the swirling mist. The inn grew silent while he raked his powerful gaze over every face, warning death swift yet painful should any come against him.

Angus let out a loud belch, stepped around his laird, and entered the inn first. He sauntered over to a large trestle table where a group of ruffians sat, their cups paused in midair at their lips. He hovered over them with dark, bloodshot eyes. “What ails ye, ye bunch o’ sorry knaves? Have ye never seen a MacGregor before?”

“Aye, we have,” said the leader of the group. “But none as ugly as you, Angus MacGregor.”

“Archie MacPherson, I thought ye were dead.” Angus laughed and grabbed hold of the man’s forearm to haul him out of his seat and into his arms. “’Tis good to see ye, old friend.”

Flanked on all sides by Callum and the rest of his men, Kate watched, relieved that the men were not enemies, for one would have to be a fool to cross the mighty brutes surrounding her. She was also surprised to find more friends of the MacGregors. It pleased and comforted her to know they were not hunted everywhere.

Now that the threat of bloodshed was over, she relaxed and took in the sights around her. The inn was more like a tavern, with rooms above stairs to accommodate patrons and the wenches who served them with coy giggles on their lips. The scent of ale and sweet wine flooded Kate’s lungs and made her gag at first, but then, oddly enough, the place began to smell cozy.

“M’laird, welcome,” a small man with a bulbous nose and thick, unruly red hair greeted when he reached them. He turned his pale green eyes on Kate, giving her a hungry looking over that made her shift closer to Callum.

His response was to toss his arm around her and drag her to him. “MacDonnell.” Callum’s voice was an octave above a growl. “If ye dinna quit starin’ at her, I’ll be forced to stop ye myself.”

The innkeeper’s eyes darted back to Callum. “My apologies,” he said, offering a swift, repentant smile. “I didna mean . . . I’ll have me Robena prepare a room fer ye right away.”

“That will be two rooms, innkeeper,” Kate corrected him as he turned to find his wife.

“My apologies again,” MacDonnell offered her, then glanced back at Callum. “I thought she was yers.”

“Nae,” Callum said then tugged her back to him when she tried to pull away. “But we’ll be needin’ only one room.”

“I am not staying in the . . .” Kate’s vehement refusal faded from her lips when Callum set his cool cobalt gaze on her. She felt like she’d been hit with a large stone. She cursed herself and squared her shoulders. It astounded her that she could battle a whole legion of sword-swinging McColls but one look from this man could set her heart to racing.

“Is she under yer protection, then?” MacDonnell asked, unsure of what to do.

Callum nodded. “Aye, she is.”

To be used as bait,
Kate corrected him silently. His ransom until he had her uncle. She said nothing in front of the innkeeper, but she planned on setting Callum MacGregor straight the moment they were alone.

Which was about to be any moment. Kate swallowed audibly when Callum clutched her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.

“Make certain you request extra bedding from your friend the innkeeper,” she demanded on the way up. “I wish him to know that you will be sleeping on the floor and not in the same bed with me. I am not a trollop.”

Callum ignored her. When he reached the room, he flung the door open and stepped inside, leaving her to follow.

Kate glowered at his lack of chivalry and stepped past him to survey the small room. As she had suspected, there was only one bed. Callum knew his way around the inn, that much was obvious. She eyed the old fur blanket on the bed and wondered how many times he had tumbled a maid upon it. The thought of it brought heat rushing to her face and a sharp prick of anger to her heart.

“I’ll have Ferguson’s wife bring ye somethin’ to eat.”

“And where will you be?” Kate asked, turning to him.

“Below stairs, sharin’ a drink with my men.”

Her brow rose sharply. Of course, he didn’t want her around while he guzzled his brew and dragged any number of willing wenches to his lap. Well, she certainly was not about to spoil his eve. Let him bed them all, what did she care?

“I dinna want ye—”

“Och, I know perfectly well what you want,” she accused him. “Just do not bring your women back here with you. The door will be barred.”

His only answer was a slow smile that dared her to do it. “Dinna leave this room,” he warned as he left, shutting the door behind him.

Kate stared at the door, and then snapped her mouth shut. Did he truly believe he could order her about because she was his captive? He was a fool if he did. And an even bigger fool to believe she would obey him.

An hour later, seated at a long table with his men, Callum lifted a tankard of ale to his lips. Many of the inn’s patrons had retired above stairs, but the tavern was still crowded enough for Callum to almost miss Kate’s entrance. Graham sat beside him, telling him about a wench he planned on meeting later that night, but Callum did not hear a word, so arrested was he by the sight of Kate standing in the doorway. A snood of dyed ruby ribbon was fastened beneath her hair and tied in a bow on top. Long, lustrous blue-black curls fell down her back, almost to her waist. She wore a kirtle of indigo wool, given to her, no doubt, by Ferguson’s wife. A shawl of deep ruby draped her shoulders. It was not the sight of her drawing her full lower lip between her teeth when she could not find her captors, or even her wide, searching eyes, that made his heart pause, but the stubborn tilt of her chin when her gaze finally found his. She knew he would be angry that she had defied him, but she was not afraid. Damn him, but her fearlessness pleased him.