The Campbell Trilogy (49 page)

But for how long?

The handle to the door rattled, and she jumped. A menacing
face appeared in the window, and her heart lurched forward, slamming into her chest, and then came to a complete stop.

Alys screamed. Lizzie wanted to, but though her mouth was open, the sound wouldn’t come out. She couldn’t breathe; all she could do was stare at the face in the glass. At the wild man. His hair was long and unkempt, his features hidden beneath the dirt and hair that covered his face. All except for his eyes. They were glaring at her with hatred. It was like looking into the face of a feral animal. A wolf. A beast.

For the first time, it occurred to her what these men might do to them if they were taken. The thought of him touching her … Bile rose at the back of her throat. She would slit her own throat first.

The door started to open. Lizzie grasped the handle from her side and pulled hard, finding an unexpected burst of strength as she engaged in a battle that she was sure to lose. “Help me!” she yelled to Alys.

But before Alys could move to do so, another shot rang out, and the man jerked and froze in a state of momentary suspension. His eyes went wide, then wider, right before his face smacked hard against the glass with a horrible thud. As the dead weight of his body pulled him down, his nose and mouth dragged against the glass, stretching his features into a hideous mask of death.

The muscles she’d been clenching released. Her breathing was hard and quick as air once again tried to get into her lungs. The immediate threat was past, but Lizzie knew it was far from over.

Her heart was still racing, but her mind was oddly clear, focused on one thing: keeping them alive.

That an attacker was able to get so close to them did not bode well for their guardsmen. She looked out the window again, trying not to think about the dead man lying right
below them, and weighed their options. They had only two: Stay put or try to hide.

The carriage that had felt safe a few minutes ago now felt like a coffin waiting to be lowered into the ground. It was worth the risk. She turned to Alys. “We need to go.”

“But where?”

“We’ll hide in the forest until it is over.”

Alys nodded, too shocked to argue. It was clear to both of them that even without deference to rank, Lizzie had taken charge.

“Are you ready?”

The older woman nodded dumbly.

Lizzie could tell that Alys was hanging on by a very thin thread—ready to slip into panic at any moment. “Stay close and follow me.” She paused. “And whatever you do, don’t look.” Tears of understanding swam in Alys’s eyes. “Promise me,” Lizzie said more forcefully, taking her shoulders and giving her a hard shake.

“I promise.”

“Good.” Taking a deep breath, she lowered the handle and pushed open the door. When it was wide enough, she poked her head out to get a look around. The acrid smell hit her first—of gunpowder and the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. It filled her nose and burned the back of her throat. She coughed, covering her mouth and nose with her hand against the urge to retch.

Though she wanted to follow her own advice to Alys, Lizzie knew she had to look.

She braced herself, but it wasn’t enough to prepare her for the shock of what she saw. Dead men littered the forest floor, strewn in awkward positions. Bellies slit open. Holes torn in chests. Unseeing eyes. Blood.
So much blood.

The horror would have paralyzed her if she’d allowed herself to look at their faces, for some were men she knew. Instead, she forced her eyes from the dead to the living. To the men still engaged in battle.

It was as she feared. The Campbells were outnumbered. The surprise attack had worked to immediately lessen her guardsmen’s numbers, giving the MacGregors the advantage. She counted only a handful of Campbells and almost twice that many MacGregors, who were easily identified by their Highland clothing and barbaric appearance. Unlike the leather doublets and breeches worn by her cousin’s men, the MacGregors wore
leines
and dirty, tattered plaids belted at the waist. Their hair and beards were long and unkempt. Only a few wore the added protection of a cotun, and none had armor. They were armed with pikes, swords, and bows, and she even saw an old ax, but they carried no guns. Not that it would help her cousin’s men. Though they were well armed, when the battle drew close their guns had become virtually useless against the great Highland
claidheamhmór.

The clang of steel on steel rang in her ears. She was just about to turn away when she stilled, catching sight of Alys’s Donnan. He was holding off a particularly large MacGregor, but it was clear that he was overmatched. The MacGregor warrior didn’t let up but kept striking and striking, wielding his sword with vicious brute strength, if not finesse.

She knew what was going to happen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. When the MacGregor finally connected with flesh, slicing Donnan across the belly, she choked back a sob in her throat.

Though she knew it was impossible, it was as if the MacGregor heard her. His gaze locked on hers, and everything inside her froze as she stared into blackness. Into the eyes of a man without a soul.

His mouth curved in a menacing smile, and he started moving purposefully toward the carriage.

She dared to breathe only when one of her cousin’s guardsmen stepped in his way.

“What is it?” Alys said from behind her.

“Nothing,” Lizzie said, trying to keep her voice steady, though inside every inch of her was shaking. “We need to go. Now.”

Taking hold of Alys’s hand, Lizzie stepped carefully out of the carriage. Anticipating Alys’s instinct, Lizzie looked back at her and reminded her, “Don’t look.”

The ground was spongy under her feet with dirt and moss still damp from the earlier rain. The thin leather slippers she wore had little traction, so she had to move cautiously. They stepped around the disabled carriage, heading toward the woods.

All of a sudden, Alys cried out as her hand was ripped from Lizzie’s hold.

She spun around, gazing right into the obsidian eyes of the man who’d slain Donnan. Despite the chill in the air, her skin dampened with fear. He was even bigger and more fearsome-looking up close. And dirt seemed to fill every line and crevice of skin that wasn’t covered with hair.

“Going somewhere?” He spoke in the Highland tongue, his voice thick with a heavy brogue.

Alys struggled against the massive circle of his arms, but it only made him squeeze her harder, until the older woman winced in pain.

“Let go of her,” Lizzie demanded, taking a step toward him, finding courage she didn’t know she possessed.

“Or what?” He sneered, lifting the dirk he was holding to Alys’s throat. “I don’t think you are in any position to be issuing orders, Mistress Campbell.”

Lizzie sucked in her breath, never taking her eyes from the blade at Alys’s throat. He knew who she was. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her clansmen still fighting, trying to get to her, but they were overwhelmed. “Let us go. You don’t want to do this. You’ll die if you hurt us.”

“I’ll die anyway,” he said flatly. “But I shall have some fun before the devil bids me welcome.” He took a step toward her, loosening his hold on Alys.

Lizzie saw her opening and didn’t think but simply reacted. In one smooth motion, she grabbed the dirk at her side and threw it as hard as she could. His eyes flew open in surprise. He let out a strangled gasp when the blade sank into his belly with a satisfying thud.

She was out of practice. She’d aimed for his black heart.

He sank to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain. “To hell with it—I’ll kill you for this, you little bitch.” He yelled to one of his men nearby, “Get her!”

She was about to grab Alys’s hand and tell her to run when she heard the sudden thunder of hooves coming toward them.

The MacGregor scourge heard it, too.

Neither of them had time to react before the riders were upon them. Warriors. Perhaps a half dozen strong. But who were they? Friend or foe?

Her pulse raced as she waited to find out, horribly aware that their fate likely hung in the balance.

She could just make out their faces.…

She sucked in her breath, her gaze locked on the man a few lengths in front of the others, tearing through the trees at a breakneck pace toward them. Every nerve ending prickled as she beheld the fearsome warrior. She prayed he was a friend. One look was all it took to know that she would not want him as her enemy. The man had the look of a dark angel—sinfully handsome but dangerous. Very dangerous.

The shiver that swept through her was not from fear but from awareness. Awareness that made her skin tingle just to look at him. Enormous warriors armed to the teeth and clad in heavy steel mail did not usually provoke such a distinctly feminine reaction—except that he wasn’t wearing mail. The hard lines of his formidable physique were all him. She sucked in an admiring breath, noticing the way the black leather of his cotun pulled tight across a broad
chest and snugly around heavily muscled arms, tapering neatly over a flat stomach.

He was built for destruction, his body forged into a steely weapon of war.

But it wasn’t just his physical dominance that set him apart from the others. It was the ruthlessness in his gaze, the hard, uncompromising bent of his square jaw, and the strength of his bearing. He wore a steel knapscall, his jet black hair just long enough to show below the rim. Thick and wavy, it framed his chiseled features to perfection. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a wide, sculpted mouth were set off by deeply tanned skin. Only a nose that had been broken more than once and a few thin, silvery scars gave proof to his profession. He was a Greek god carved not from marble, but from hard Highland granite.

He met her gaze for an instant, and a charge shot through her with all the subtlety of Zeus’s thunderbolt. It rippled through her like a warm current from her head, down her spine, extending to the tips of her fingers and toes, shocking her with its intensity.

Green,
she thought inanely. In the midst of the most terrifying experience of her life, she noticed the striking color of his eyes. Not the obvious skill with which he wielded his sword or the way he ordered his men with the barest gesture into formation or even—God forbid—whether he intended to finish the job that the MacGregors had started, but that his eyes blazed like the rarest emeralds sparkling in the sun.

He held her gaze for another moment before shifting to the man she’d stabbed.

The situation came back to her in a staggered heartbeat and she froze, waiting to see what he intended. One beat. Two. Her heart rose higher in her throat.

Relief washed over her when an arrow shot by one of his men landed in the tree inches from the MacGregor’s head.
A friend. Thank God!

“Help us! Please help us!” she shouted. But her words were unnecessary. The warriors had already drawn their swords and started to attack the outlaws. It didn’t take long to measure their skill and see their superiority. Her cousin’s remaining guardsmen fought with renewed vigor, energized by the additional sword arms.

It was as if the wind had shifted; the attackers had become the attacked.

The dark knight dismounted, his horse an encumbrance in the narrow clearing, and came to the aid of one of her clansmen, swinging his sword down hard to fend off an attacker. The steely clash reverberated through the dense forest, and Lizzie could have sworn the earth shook with the force of the blow. He fought with savage grace, wielding his sword with skill and ease.

Forsooth, this was a swordsman who might give her brother Jamie a challenge.

A small cry drew her attention from the dark knight.
Alys!
Frantically, the other woman was searching the fighting men with her gaze, looking for her husband, and Lizzie knew she had to do something.

“Alys, come.” She grabbed her icy hand. “We must get out of the way.”

“But Donnan …” She turned to Lizzie, her face crumpled with such despair that Lizzie’s heart broke for the pain she would suffer. “I don’t see my husband.”

“The men are spread out, I’m sure he’s fighting up ahead,” Lizzie lied. “We can’t look for him now. It will be over soon and then we’ll find him.”

She started to lead her away, only to find her path blocked. The MacGregor ruffian she’d stabbed had managed to get to his feet and unsheathe his sword. He held it with one arm, as the other was wrapped around his waist to stanch the flow of blood streaming from the wound in his stomach.

The rage in his expression shook her to her toes. He raised his sword above his head …

Everything stopped. Time. Her heart. Her breath. She didn’t feel anything. For a moment, it didn’t seem real. She could have been standing on a balcony watching players on a stage below. The girl was too young to die. She’d barely lived. There were so many things still before her. A family of her own. A man to love. A child to hold in her arms. All that she’d yet to do was reflected in the shimmer of steel poised precipitously over her head.

I don’t want to die.

The urge to live broke through the shock of impending death, and Lizzie started to back away, ready to do whatever it took to protect herself and Alys.

The sword started down …

“Don’t,” a man boomed from across the path. His deep, husky voice held the cool ring of authority. Lizzie knew it was the dark knight even before she looked. When she did, she saw him still a good distance away, but he’d exchanged his sword for a bow and had it aimed right at the MacGregor warrior’s heart. “I won’t miss.” Cold certainty made it a promise and not a threat.

Her heart stilled.

The two men squared off in a silent battle. Tension stretched between them, thick and heavy. Finally, the MacGregor brigand lowered his claymore.

One of his men appeared at his side with a horse. “We must away.”

The MacGregor looked as though he wanted to argue, but with one last glance at Lizzie that promised future retribution, he mounted his horse and let out a fierce cry:
“Ard Choille!”
The Woody Height, Lizzie translated from her childhood memory of the Highland tongue. Probably the clan battle cry, she realized.