Laird of the Mist (8 page)

“Verra well.” The Cameron held his palm up to stop two of his men when they stepped forward to accompany him. “This way.” He led Callum and his small troop toward a cottage at the farthest edge of the village.

Kate fell in behind the two lairds and found her pace even with Graham’s. All around her, the inhabitants stepped outside their doors, drawn by the presence of the tall, dark laird accompanying their own. Kate regarded none of them, for their stares were hard, fearful, and mistrusting.

She knew both the Campbells and the MacGregors had their enemies, but she wasn’t sure whom these people regarded with more contempt, her or Callum. “What wrongs have been done to them, and how has he avenged them?” she asked Graham softly, though her gaze remained fastened on Callum’s back.

“I fear ye’re about to find out, lass.”

She tilted her face up to look at him just as they reached the cottage. Graham swept his cap off his head and moved to the side of the entrance, after Callum and Roderick disappeared within. His hand reached for Kate when she moved to follow them.

“Mayhap ’twould be best fer ye to wait here with me.” His words were firm, as was his hand on her arm, but the gentle entreaty in his green eyes told her his request was given for her own good.

Kate brushed his hand away and stepped inside. A small fire burned beneath a trivet in the center of the outer room. Firelight mingled with that of the sun’s rays spilling across the rushes from the window.

Callum stood with the Cameron and another man, slightly smaller in stature, his palms resting on the shoulders of a boy with large, doleful eyes and a dirt-streaked face.

“’Tis yer laird, boy,” the man said, looking as wide-eyed as his son. Kate could not tell which of the two chieftains the man referred. “Pay him the homage he deserves.” He pushed the child to a kneeling position in front of Callum, but Callum raised his palm to stop him.

“Tell me aboot the attack.”

The man pushed his son away with a quiet order to leave the cottage. He waited until the boy was gone before he spoke. “’Twas a band of Menzies who did this to m’ Rhona.”

Callum’s jaw twisted around a low curse battering against his teeth.

“We’ve had nae quarrel with the Menzies fer years.” Cameron assured him. “These men acted on their own. No’ under any command of their laird.”

“They marked m’ wife’s face in accordance with the law!” The man stepped closer to Callum, his eyes gleaming with defiance and fury. “They are Argyll’s dogs, fer they spoke of their reward as they burned oot her eye.”

A sharp gasp drew the men’s attention to where Kate stood at the door, her face ashen and her hands trembling as they twisted the woolen folds of her skirts. “What has my uncle to do with this?”

“Yer uncle?” the man asked, sounding as horrified as Kate looked. His expression changed quickly to loathing as he drew a small dagger from a fold in his plaid. “Have ye come to finish what yer kin began, then?”

Before he took a step in her direction, Callum blocked his path and snatched the dagger from his hand.

“I will avenge m’ wife,” the man insisted.

Callum’s rigid gaze stilled the remainder of his protests. “No’ on her.” The thread of warning in his softly spoken words was unmistakable. “Bring me to yer wife. I’ve tarried here long enough.”

The man did as he was commanded without sparing Kate another glance. “M’ Rhona is here,” he said, pulling away the curtain that separated the outer room from the sleeping quarters. “Her sister is changin’ the dressin’ to her wound.”

Kate watched him lead Callum inside. The Cameron did not follow. When they were alone, the older chieftain turned to her, a deep frown drawing his gray brows over his eyes.

“A Campbell,” he whispered.

Kate turned to him, still horrified that her uncle was responsible for branding a woman. “You needn’t worry that I’ll tell my uncle you are friends with Callum.”

He stared at her, looking somewhat perplexed by her casual use of the laird’s name. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dinna care what ye tell him, lass. The MacGregor saved my life.”

Kate smiled, glad to hear it. “He saved mine, as well.”

Now the Cameron stared outright at her, his jaw going slack an instant before his scowl returned full force. “The Devil has never spared a Campbell’s life, let alone saved one. Surely he has ye too frightened to speak the truth.”

Kate’s feet took root in her spot.
The Devil?
Nae. Och, God, nae! Fear and anger warred within her, stopping her from running out the door or charging through the curtain. It was Callum who killed her father! Her grandfather! He had lied to her. He was the Devil MacGregor!
He has never spared a Campbell’s life.
Dear God, was Robert dead, as well? She swayed on her heavy feet, feeling ill, her breath growing tight. She had smiled at the murderer, likened him to a knight of old! Now his cold regard made perfect sense. He had no heart.

The curtain snapped open. Callum stood in the doorway. His expression bore the remnants of horror but hardened with each breath into a mask of barely contained control. His eyes blazed with fury, hatred, revenge. Kate took an involuntary step backward when he stormed across the rushes. It was easy to see now how he had gained such a worthy title.

“Devil,” she whispered as he passed her, heading for the door.

His scorching gaze swung to her, halting her drumming heart. He moved toward her before she could run, and closed his fingers around her arm. Without a word, he dragged her back to the curtained doorway and then left her there gaping at the sight within. She heard his determined footfalls as he left the cottage. His coarse command for his men to await his return two leagues outside the village faded against the gurgled wheeze of a woman’s breath and the mournful sobs of her sister as she applied more ointment to the charred flesh beneath her fingers.

Chapter Nine

K
ATE STARED SILENTLY
into the growing flames, fed by Brodie’s careful attendance. Vaguely, she was aware of Jamie covering her shoulders with a thick plaid of coarse wool. Sitting beside her, his dark eyes flickering against the firelight, Angus held out his pouch of brew to her. When she refused it, he tapped it against her arm.

“Drink. There’s a deep chill in the air this night. The whiskey will keep ye warm.”

Indeed, the cold seeped into her marrow, but the weather was not to blame. Callum was out here, somewhere, alone. Roderick Cameron had told her where Callum had gone. What he intended to do. She was not afraid for Callum’s life, or for the lives of the men who had branded Rhona MacGregor’s beautiful face. Nae, if their judgment was about to come upon them, it was a righteous one. The chill that iced her blood came from the memory of looking into their executioner’s eyes. He was going to hunt them down. He would show them no mercy, for there was none in him to give.

He never left a Campbell alive.
Her grandfather. All the men of Kildun’s garrison.

Her father.

She looked up at Graham when he folded his legs and sat opposite her.

“Is my brother dead?” Her quavering voice shattered the silence around them.

Graham pulled off his cap, tucked it into his plaid, and raked a golden lock of hair out of his eyes. “Nae.” He shook his head when Angus held up his pouch. But for the pop of a thin branch burning in the fire, quiet had once again descended on the campsite.

Please God, Kate wanted to believe him. If the Devil killed Robert, too, she would cut his throat while he slept.

“Is it only Campbells he kills?” she asked coolly.

Jamie shifted closer to the fire. Brodie spat into it and then lay down, closing his eyes for the night. Graham’s gaze, though, never wavered from hers.

“Nae, lass. He kills friends of the Campbells, as well.”

Kate’s blood drained from her face at the indifference in the commander’s voice. Her uncle deserved to be flogged for his part in Rhona MacGregor’s branding, but how could life mean so little to these men? She knew she could never understand, for she cared even for the lives of her cattle. “Why? Why all the killing? I know our clans have been warring for centuries, but what is behind it all? A woman? What offense did my clan commit so long ago that cost my father his life and still brings such scorn to all your faces?”

No one answered her right away. Brodie opened his eyes and cast her a narrowed look before closing them again and shaking his head.

Graham poked a long stick into the embers, his handsome face growing pensive. “Would that this war was about a lass,” he said. “Fer nae matter how fine she was, it would have ended before it ever touched Callum and Maggie.” He caught a small piece of dried meat that Angus tossed him and took a bite. He chewed for a moment, then continued. “This war began three centuries ago. Callum was born with its purpose already flowing in his veins.”

“Aye, I know of the battles,” Kate told him. “But I don’t understand what sort of men would fight them for so long?”

Graham’s eyes glittered at hers across the firelight. “Men who are the sons of kings,” he said, his words weighted with the measure of respect and affection he felt for them of whom he spoke. “Ye want the full tale of it, then?” When she nodded, he pulled in a deep breath and threw the remainder of the meat into the fire, as if the telling of it ruined his appetite. “The MacGregors are a royal race, descended from King MacAlpine. Their territories were once vast and held by the old ways—by right of sword. A fierce and mighty clan, they fought at the side of Robert the Bruce. But they were betrayed, and their land in Glen Orchy was given over to the Campbells, who had gained influence in the royal court.” His voice was soft and deep, compelling even Brodie to sit up again and listen. “The MacGregors found themselves reduced to the position of tenants on the lands that were once theirs.”

“Taken from us by cunnin’ and devious schemes that continued until yer ancestors had gained it all,” Angus added solemnly and produced another pouch from a heavy fold in his plaid.

“The MacGregors fought back, of course,” Graham said. “Naturally, they directed their attacks against those who had wrested their land and their livestock from them. They were brutal and feared by all. They killed and slaughtered many until their oppressors were forced to obtain royal assistance in putting an end to the troublesome tribe. Given noble titles and the right to hunt their enemies with dogs, the Campbells and some others provoked the MacGregors into more acts of violence, and the formidable clan was only too happy to oblige.”

“Driven from Glen Orchy, the MacGregor chiefs lived at Stronmelochan at the foot of Glenstrae,” Brodie added. “While the Campbells expanded eastward into Breadalbane.”

“Aye,” Graham agreed. “’Twas up to the Glenstrae MacGregors to carry on the resistance, but their chiefs were hunted down and murdered, their sons along with them, and their land taken, also. When the Protestant parliament, many of whom are Campbells, declared it illegal to be a Catholic, many Highlanders joined the Gordon clan chieftain in his fight against the realm. But the chieftain was beheaded, and the clans who backed him were pursued with fire and sword.”

“To this day, we are considered papist heretics,” Jamie muttered quietly.

“After a particularly bloody battle at Glen Fruin, a half century ago, the clan was proscribed,” Graham continued. “The name MacGregor, abolished. They are forbidden to bear it.”

Kate nodded, knowing a little about their proscription and what it meant. “All lieges are prohibited from bearing them aid,” she said, repeating the creed she’d heard her uncle say many times.

“Aye,” Graham confirmed and then added, “They have been stripped of every basic human need, including the right to bear arms and the right to gather together in one place. They are hunted, men, women, and children alike, and their heads are used as pardon fer the most vicious of crimes. Care of the aged and the sick is still refused to them. Even the sacraments of baptism, marriage, and burial are denied. And yet the MacGregors remain, despite everything.”

They were to be forgotten.

Jamie tore a hunk of bread away from his loaf and offered it to Kate, breaking her thoughts. She’d known the MacGregors were forbidden to bear their name, but she’d believed they had forfeited that right by defying every decree set forth by the realm. She had no idea their proscription had stripped them of so much more. Did her kin truly have so much to do with the annihilation of an entire clan? It was difficult to believe. Why hadn’t Amish or John ever told her any of this? Mayhap they were afraid of contradicting her uncle. They never judged the MacGregors, even knowing they killed her father. She closed her eyes and inhaled, gathering the strength to ask her next query and the courage to hear the reply.

“Is this why Callum killed my grandfather? What did my father do to deserve his wrath?”

“I do not know anything about yer father, lass,” Graham answered her and untied his belt, settling more comfortably into his plaid. “But Callum did not kill yer grandfather.”

“But everyone knows the Devil—”

“They know only what yer uncle believes to be true. Mayhap yer father and yer grandfather fought. We Highlanders know Colin Campbell did not agree with his father’s tactics against the MacGregors. Mayhap he—”

Kate rose to her feet and held up her palm to stop him. She was not about to listen to such treachery against her father. “Has the Devil convinced you of this?”

“Nae,” he said, never flinching at her challenge. “Callum does not pretend to know what happened. But he did not kill Liam Campbell.”

“How do you know?” Kate demanded.

“I know because I was with Callum in Skye when he learned of yer grandfather’s death. He near went mad again.”

“Again?” Kate asked, barely able to breathe.

“Aye. The revenge was his to take. He earned it.” Graham did not give the full meaning of his words time to seep in before he spoke again. “When Callum was a lad, yer grandfather and his army rode into his village and killed everyone in it, including the laird Dougal MacGregor and his wife. The chieftain, ’twas rumored, had begun a new rebellion and had been known to declare his name openly. Yer grandfather had them all slaughtered, save fer Dougal’s young son and daughter. To them, he delivered a harsher punishment than death. Callum and his sister grew to maturity below the belly of Kildun Castle, where they paid fer their father’s crime.”