Three
It was nearly nightfall, and Cameron and Alex continued to ride in silence toward Dunvegan Castle, each carrying a woman across his lap. As they exited the thick woods, the outer bailey, which was lit with hundreds of torches, came into view.
“They await our return,” Alex said, his voice grave.
“Aye,” Cameron replied, his own tone heavy with tension. “I supposed they would, once the men gave word of the ambush.”
Cameron glanced at Katherine’s lifeless form. He could no longer see her injuries clearly due to the darkness, but he had stared at them long enough during the journey that they were seared into his memory. The deep crimson that had stained her gown when the arrow had pierced her flesh had spread across the fabric, and the metallic smell of blood still wafted from her. Bile rose in his throat, as it had done when he had first gathered her off the forest floor and into his arms. Death was not foreign to him. He’d been in a few battles and killed men who had intended to kill him, but he had never seen a helpless woman shot down, and never had he held a dead woman in his arms.
The wrongness of it struck him to the core. The pain, which had been piercing at first, then faded to a dull ache as the day had worn into night, became sharp once more, stabbing his belly as if he had swallowed knives. The need to obtain justice for Katherine throbbed within him, and the shame of his failure roiled in his gut.
As they drew closer to the castle, the distinct sound of many voices raised in a song for the injured floated to him. He tensed, knowing the refrain had to be for Rory Mac. His gaze slid to the mysterious lass in Alex’s arms. She slept as if she were dead, yet she lived. He knew it to be so because he had made Alex check repeatedly on the journey.
“The king will be waiting,” Cameron said, solemnly.
“Aye,” Alex agreed.
“He’ll want blood,” Cameron continued. “And it dunnae need to be yers as well as mine.”
Alex opened his mouth as if to argue, but Cameron held up a staying hand. He’d thought about what to say to persuade Alex to break away from him and let him face the king alone, and he believed he knew what words to use. “Please. The king will be unreasonable. We both ken this. Grief and rage may drive him to have the lass in yer arms immediately killed before we even ken if she is our enemy. Will ye help me prevent it?”
“Ye’re too swift of mind for yer own good,” Alex grumbled. “Ye thought of exactly what to say to get me to do yer bidding without argument, did ye nae?”
“I did,” Cameron replied, relief that Alex would aid him gliding over him. But it did not linger under the dark sureness of the dire situation he faced and the knowledge of those gone and injured because of his mistakes. “Since we are agreed, go on and be quick about it. Take the seagate stairs up to the castle and seek out Marion to tend to the lass. If I manage to keep my head, I’ll come to ye as soon as I can.”
“I’ll see ye soon,” Alex replied before turning his horse to leave.
Cameron watched Alex depart until he disappeared into the darkness, then he rode forth toward the growing light and noise. The voices, he realized, as he neared the front of the castle, were coming from within. A call went up, announcing he had been spotted, and the castle doors immediately opened. Out streamed King David, his cloak billowing behind him. On the king’s heels were two of his guards and behind them were Iain, Lachlan, Broch, Ragnar MacLeod—one of their fiercest warriors, and Father Murdock, who was the MacLeod priest. His brother Graham would have been among the group, Cameron well knew, if Graham had still lived at Dunvegan, but he did not. He was at his new home with his new wife, and Cameron was glad of that. It was bad enough to drag Iain and Lachlan into this mess. At least one brother was well away and safe from the king’s anger.
The castle door slammed shut with an ominous thud. Cameron studied the approaching group, very aware that his brothers had surrounded themselves with two of the fiercest MacLeod warriors. Not only that but they all had their weapons. Cameron’s gut twisted with the realization that his brothers meant to defy the king if David ordered his death. Gratitude tightened his throat and shame burned his chest at the show of fealty from his brothers, both in blood and not. He did not deserve it, and he could not allow a war to commence over his mistake. His mind raced with what to say to maintain the peace and keep his life as he pulled his destrier to a halt at the first glowing torches. He carefully dismounted and released the binds that secured Katherine to his horse and drew her limp body into his arms. As her head lolled back, an anguished cry came from the king, who broke away from the men behind him and hurried forward, not stopping until he stood in front of Cameron.
“Give her to me,” King David commanded, his face a twisted mask of pain and his voice gruff and laden with sorrow. He gesticulated rapidly at Cameron as he held out his hands.
Cameron passed Katherine to the king as gently as he could, then stepped back as the rest of the party approached. Immediately, his brothers and the MacLeod warriors came to flank him and face the king and his men.
King David walked away from the group, Father Murdock trailing behind him. As the king reentered the castle and the door closed once again, Iain motioned Cameron, Lachlan, and the other MacLeods away from the king’s men. Once they were standing in a circle with their backs to David’s guards, Iain said, “Dunnae speak when David returns. Let me talk for ye.”
“Nay,” Cameron replied.
Iain’s dark brows drew together, and his eyes narrowed. “Nay? Do ye forget I’m yer laird as well as yer brother?”
A tic started in Cameron’s jaw. “I did nae forget either, but ye will nae shield me this night. Nor ye,” he quickly added, spearing Lachlan with a warning look. “Ye have both kept me safe from harm my whole life. This is my error, and I alone will carry the blame for it.”
“We ken it was nae yer fault, Cameron. The men told us how Katherine disobeyed ye,” Lachlan growled.
Cameron shook his head. “I was the leader, so it is my fault.”
“We dunnae have time to argue fault now,” Iain bit out. He turned his steely blue eyes on Cameron. “Dunnae say a word.”
“I kinnae obey ye in this,” Cameron said.
A murderous look crossed Iain’s face, followed swiftly by what looked to be fear and frustration. He clutched Cameron by the arm. “If ye kinnae keep yer mouth shut, then beg for yer life.”
“Nay!” Cameron shrugged out of Iain’s hold. “Why is it that ye would instruct me to beg when ye ken well ye would nae ever do so?”
“Ye are the youngest,” Iain flung out as he jerked a hand through his hair and motioned between himself and Lachlan. “Ye are in need of our help!”
Cameron flinched, feeling his brother’s words like hard hits to his gut. If they had faith in him, truly, they’d not think he needed help.
“Ye could lose yer life if the king becomes unreasonable,” Lachlan said, staring hard at Cameron. “Ye kinnae ask us to stand by and do nothing.”
“Think of yer wives and bairns,” Cameron replied, knowing he was striking where both men were vulnerable. They loved their wives above all else. Cameron didn’t claim to understand it, as he had never loved a woman in such a way, but he accepted it, and now he used it. “Would ye risk their lives for mine?”
Before either brother could answer, the castle door banged open once more, and David stormed outside. In his hands, he now held a sword that shone in the moonlight and the flames of the torches. “Kneel!” he thundered as he made his way toward them.
Cameron had no doubt the king was talking straight to him. He took a purposeful step away from his brothers and dropped to his knees.
“Seize his weapon,” the king ordered his guards.
Cameron saw both his brothers’ and the MacLeod guards’ hands go to the hilt of their weapons, so he gave a subtle shake of his head, hoping to dissuade any action. The king brought the point of his sword to Cameron’s throat. The tip dug into the flesh, and a stinging pain came directly before warm blood trickled down his neck.
“Tell me,” the king demanded, his voice vibrating with fierce anger, “why should I nae take yer head right now for failing me so grievously?”
Cameron looked up to meet the king’s glare. “I kinnae say ye should nae,” he replied, his voice calm but his pulse racing.
“Cameron!” Iain rebuked, but Cameron ignored his brother.
“I was responsible for Katherine’s life; therefore, her death is my responsibility.”
“Aye,” David agreed in a menacing tone. “It is. Shall we move forward with yer death, then?”
“Ye may choose that, Sire,” he said slowly, considering how he would feel and what he would want to happen if he were the king. Revenge would be utmost in his mind if the woman he loved had been killed. “But I vow to ye, if ye allow me to live, there is nae a man alive who will be as relentless as I in hunting down Lady Mortimer’s killers and exacting revenge. I pledge it to ye.”
The king moved his sword and pointed it toward the ground before leaning close to Cameron. “It is fortunate for ye that I believe ye.” The rage simmering inside him was unmistakable in his brittle tone. “And it’s only because of this belief that I will spare yer life…for now.”
Cameron did not allow himself the exhale of relief he felt. He was glad he didn’t, as he realized the king was carefully watching him.
The king took a long, slow breath and spoke again. “I will have a head for this crime, and if ye dunnae give me one, it will be yers. Ye have until the leaves turn to bring me those who conspired to kill my Katherine.”
Cameron nodded. That gave him the rest of the summer, which was not long but was more time than he could have hoped for. “I’ll find them.”
“Ye best,” the king replied, his voice thrashing in intensity. “But,” he added, drawing the word out, as his eyes flashed bright, “I require something more.”
Cameron gritted his teeth. Of course there was more. King David had not managed to keep his throne for the twelve years he was in prison and then come out such a strong, ruthless leader merely by chance. The man was as calculating as he was clever.
“What more do ye wish, Sire?”
“I want ye to learn the names of every lord conspiring to overthrow me—and bring me proof of their treason—so I may quash them like the bugs they are. I’ve nary a doubt that killing Katherine was a blow by the lords who wish to show me they still have the power to control me.”
God only knew how long it would take to discover each name and gather the proof, but if he wanted to keep his head…
Cameron nodded. “Ye have my pledge.”
“Excellent.” The king bared his teeth in some semblance of a smile. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”
As he had no intention of relaying the tale on his knees, he got to his feet and told the king of the attack and the man with the scar and two different colored eyes. Then he paused as the weight of what—or rather whom—he had yet to mention pressed down upon him.
He flinched with the realization that his first instinct was to keep the lass’s presence a secret. Eolande’s words of betraying the king rang in his ears. The king seemed more reasonable now, so Cameron felt safer revealing her. “There was a lass with the men who attacked, and we have her,” he said.
The king’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ye captured her?”
“Nae exactly,” Cameron admitted. “Alex and I came across her when we were riding to collect Katherine.”
“Where is the lass?” the king bellowed. “Why did ye nae bring her to me immediately?”
“Because she’s nae awake. She was felled from her horse by a branch across the forehead, and though we attempted to awaken her, she still sleeps as if she’s dead.”
“She will be shortly,” the king snarled. “Where is she?”
The instinct to lie to the king and say the lass was not an enemy, even though Cameron had no notion whether that was true or not, was so strong that it astounded him. “I asked Alex to take her to Marion to see if she could awaken her.”
When the king turned away and started for the castle door, Cameron bolted after him, as did the king’s guards. A sense of urgency gripped him as he bypassed David’s guards and fell into step beside the king. “Sire, the lass may well be able to tell us who led the attack. I dunnae believe killing her is the best course of action.”
“I will be the one who decides that,” King David growled before stalking into the castle.
Servants and MacLeods alike scurried away when faced with the sight of their king’s livid face. But Cameron could still hear Iain’s, Lachlan’s, and the other warriors’ heavy steps behind him. He met the king’s rapid pace step for step, and it didn’t take long to reach the healing room. When they arrived, the king didn’t pause to knock on the closed door. Instead, he threw it open, causing Marion and Cameron’s sister, Lena, to gasp.
Alex’s sword was already drawn as he shoved both women behind him. A murderous look flitted across his face, but as his gaze skittered first over the king, then Cameron, and then everyone behind him, Alex’s gaze widened, and he slowly lowered his sword.
“Sire,” he said, waving a hand toward the cot where the lass was lying. As the king brushed past Alex and the women to get to her, Marion darted toward the king. Cameron grasped her arm as she started by him and pulled her back, yet even as he did, Iain was by his side, taking his wife by the arm and giving her a warning look.
Marion was a kindhearted lass, which was miraculous since she was half-English and half-Scottish and had been born and raised in England by a man with no honor or love for his daughter. Yet, somehow she had become a woman who never wavered in risking her life for others. And by the determined look upon her face now, that included the mysterious, sleeping lass.
David looked down at the lass and then back at Marion. “Has she woken?”
“No,” Marion answered in her perfect English accent, which never failed to make the king frown. She gave her husband a pleading look, and Iain reluctantly let go of her. He had been overprotective of her since the very moment he met her, after King David had asked—or rather subtly demanded—Iain marry her almost three years prior.
Still, as Marion moved to the king’s side, Iain and Cameron went with her and Lachlan came up behind her. “She’s taken a terrible injury to the head,” Marion explained. “It could be days before she awakens. If she ever awakens…”
The king turned to face them all, a vicious smile twisting his lips. “Even in sleep I can see she is a rare beauty.”
Disquiet stirred within Cameron. The king had a mind to use people to suit his needs, and it sounded like he had decided upon a use for the lass. Cameron had the pressing need to look at her, but he forced himself to remain still with his gaze locked on the king, who was spearing him with dark, unmerciful eyes.
“If she awakens and proves to be embroiled with those who killed my Katherine, I have just the man to sell the lass to. If she also proves to be unmarried and of worthy stock, of course, he will be the perfect match for her.” The unease within Cameron increased as the king’s smile twisted further. “And she will wish every day that I had ordered her death.”
Cameron could feel himself frowning. He struggled to straighten his features, but the king’s words battered at him. Married? He’d not once considered that the lass could be married, given Eolande’s foretelling, yet the seer had not mentioned it.
Aware that David was staring at him expectantly, Cameron nodded. “As ye wish, Sire.” Even as he gave his promise, unwillingness swirled within him.
The king pointed at him. “Until the leaves turn. Dunnae forget it,” he warned. “And keep me informed.”
“Ye’ve my word, Sire,” he said, doing all he could to infuse his voice with fervor.
“I’ve had that before, and it did nae prove worth having,” David snapped.
Cameron flinched as the king brushed past him. He rested his gaze briefly on his brothers and Alex who had drawn together and were speaking low.
The king paused at the door. “Iain. Alex. I wish a moment in private.”
Both men quickly followed the king out the door. The moment it closed behind Alex, the king, and his guards, Cameron’s gaze swept past his sister Lena, who stood near the cot the lass was on. Lena scowled down at the lass and then at him, but his attention had been drawn from his sister to the lass. He burned to ask questions about her, but first…
“How is Rory Mac faring?” Cameron asked as concern flooded him.
Marion nibbled on her lip. “Fever has set in already, but Alanna and I bathed him, and made him as comfortable as possible in his own bed. I was able to clean his wound satisfactorily, so I have hope that he will bear it and live to be as stubborn as ever.”
Relief moved through Cameron. It seemed that Marion and Rory Mac’s wife had done well; only time would heal him now. Cameron focused on the still unmoving lass. “Have ye ever tended to a body who did nae awaken from such an injury?”
“Aye,” Marion replied. “But only one. The others awoke, some disoriented and some actually not recalling the day or other such memories. One even forgot his name for a bit.”
He disliked the sudden lump of dread that settled in his belly. He wanted to believe the dismay was simply because he needed to question the lass, but as his gaze landed on her delicately sculpted face, then moved lower to her long neck, and lower still to her slender, creamy shoulders, shock stole his next breath. Her gown had been tugged down over the curve of her shoulders to the top of her arms, and there, on her right shoulder, was an unmistakable heart-shaped mark.
There could be no denying Eolande’s words regarding the lass now.
He moved toward her, aware of the door opening, Iain entering the room alone, several pairs of eyes drilling into his back and his sister’s gaze searching his from the front, yet he did not meet her questioning eyes or turn to meet those of his brother’s and Marion. He reached down and traced his fingers over the mark. It was smooth, her skin silky and warm.
“Cameron?” Iain asked.
He heard his brother, but he could not seem to answer or turn from the lass. His breathing and heartbeat became ragged as her eyelids began to flutter. It felt as if she had raised a hand and slipped it around the back of his neck to pull him closer. He leaned toward her until her body heat touched him, her smell surrounded him, the whisper of her breath sent jolts through him.
“She’s waking,” he murmured, unable and unwilling to say more.
“Move back, ye clot-heid,” Lachlan growled. “Ye’ll scare the lass.”
Cameron nodded, yet he stayed where he was. He couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to, for in truth, he had never felt so drawn, so compelled to be close to someone in his life.
Her dark lashes fluttered slightly, and a soft moan came from between her rosy lips. Behind him, his family pressed nearer, too near for his liking. He wanted to be alone with her, yet that was likely dangerous. No matter what, he had to remember Eolande’s words and not allow any connection to the lass to form. With that in mind, he dug within himself to find the determination to pull back and put physical distance between them, just as her eyelashes fluttered once more and her lids opened.
Bright, silvery-gray eyes met his. Unmistakable desire claimed him as her gleaming gaze widened, and she frowned. “Do I—” she croaked and then started to cough.
Immediately, a mug appeared by his right shoulder. “Give her this,” Marion commanded.
He took the mug and offered it to her as coughs racked her throat.
Slowly, she sat up, reached out, and grasped the mug. Her fingers grazed his, and the shock of her touch caused the stirring longing within him to blaze. He pulled back when he was certain she had a grip, and he watched, fascinated, as she took a long drink, cleared her throat, and handed the mug back to him. He accepted it without question while she pressed her fingers to her temple.
“What have ye done to me?” she asked, her voice low and husky, likely from lack of use.
“We’ve nae done a thing to ye,” Lena muttered.
Ignoring his sister who he would try to reason with later, Cameron set the mug on the table beside the bed to gain a moment to compose a response. The real question, he thought as he turned to face the compelling lass before him, was what could she do to him if he was not careful enough?
Her mind spun as she waited for the large warrior—was he a warrior?—in front of her to answer. She didn’t know him, did she? Slowly, she swept her gaze over him, hoping for recognition. Something within her seemed to register a memory of him, but it was muddled and she could not grasp it. She stared, sensing the rudeness of her actions, but she could not make herself look away. And either he could not care less for manners or he was just as confused as she was, because he matched her stare. Grass-green eyes penetrated her, making her shiver.
As she did, he frowned and, bending toward the foot of the bed, grasped what she saw was a blanket. Murmurs and grunts came from behind him as he handed it to her. Doubt about whether to accept the offer or not assailed her, but when she looked into his eyes once again, she saw kindness there. She reached out and took the blanket, as her gaze strayed to the swell of muscles in his arms. Scanning the length of his body, she could see instantly that he was honed for battle.
“Ye could present yerself,” came a man’s half-irritated, half-amused voice from behind the warrior.
She snapped her gaze to the voice’s owner. Guarded blue eyes met hers. She took in the black-haired giant of a man. His expression was intense, yet his stance relaxed. A contradiction that she felt certain was purposeful. Another shiver took her, even as the petite, blond woman beside him smiled. The warmth of the woman’s smile eased the fear a bit, yet tension still built inside her. Pulling the soft blanket around her shoulders, she glanced around the room, passing her gaze over the myriad people gaping at her.
A woman with long, russet hair and wary blue eyes stood by a man who resembled her greatly, with the same color hair that touched his shoulders; however, his green eyes were very similar to the possibly familiar warrior. A thought struck, and she quickly studied the russet-haired man and woman, the golden-haired man in front of her, and the dark-haired man. Their eyes all had the same shape. They had to be related. But the blond woman? No. She looked out of place, yet at ease—a contradiction like the dark-haired man who hovered, obviously protectively, beside her.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her with a sudden need to hide herself, yet she was fully aware she was still very much exposed. Who were they? A quick perusal of the other occupants in the room confirmed that she could not recall any of them. There was only that slight niggling of recognition for the man who had handed her a blanket. Worry twisted in her belly.
“I dunnae ken ye,” she murmured, but before anyone could answer, she added, “Do I?”
She sought the answer in her mind, but it was like a dark, black, soundless room. What was wrong with her?
“There’s something out of sorts with me,” she said, tapping the side of her throbbing head. A hundred thoughts tumbled around in her mind but not one would crystallize. A hot shaft of pain shot through her skull, and she moaned and drew her knees up to press her head against them. By all that was holy, her head felt as if it would burst like a berry that was being squashed underfoot. “What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, hearing the fear in her own voice.
A heavy hand, warm and reassuring, came to her shoulder. “A branch felled ye from yer horse.” The deep voice rumbled from above her.
Slowly, she glanced up to find the muscled warrior kneeling. “I fell?” she asked, raising her hand to her head and gasping when her fingers met a soft cloth bandage.
A crease appeared between his brows, and he glanced back at the blond woman, who gave him a quick nod. He met her gaze once more. A gentleness was there, but a guardedness, as well. “Dunnae ye ken what happened?” he asked.
She started to shake her head, but then she hissed with the pain and stilled. “I dunnae ken anything of how I was hurt.” She searched her muddled thoughts, and fright filled her as she realized she had no memories. None! Not of her fall, nor before it, nor after. “I kinnae remember!” she cried out, instinctively grasped his hand, afraid this moment, this memory she was making and the drifting one of this man, she could not quite form into a picture would disappear.
A startled look came to his face as he glanced at their intertwined hands, then back to her. For one breath, she thought he might attempt to pull away, so she curled her fingers tighter and gripped harder. “Please,” she whispered, embarrassed yet the fear overrode it. “Dunnae leave me. I dunnae ken these people. Ye are the only one who seems at all familiar.”
He flinched at her declaration, making her feel foolish, but she pressed on. “I dunnae ken what happened to me.”
Doubt flickered across his face, and tears blurred her vision. A strong desire not to cry took her, so she blinked repeatedly as he watched her.
“What do ye ken?” the russet-haired woman snapped.
Before there was time to answer, the blond woman said, “Don’t mind her.” She motioned to the woman. “Do you not recall anything?”
She met the woman’s large eyes. The vast emptiness of her memories caused a hopelessness to blossom in her chest. Knots twisted in her stomach, and her scalp tingled. “Nae a thing,” she pushed out, having to blink rapidly now to fight the tears. “Nae a thing,” she repeated, hearing the desperation in her own voice. She didn’t care. She was desperate! “The only thing I ken is this man here,” she whispered in a half sob, lifting the hand that was still intertwined with the blond man’s.
When she turned her eyes to his once more she could see the astonishment on his face. “Who are you?” She asked the question as a plea for knowledge, as well as a demand that he answer and help her. When his lips parted and he simply stared at her, her frustration at not remembering spilled over. She jerked her hand from his and glared at him. “Who are ye?” Her voice pitched higher as her despair mounted. “Who are ye to me?”
She felt all eyes in the room upon them. The Scot’s eyes became veiled, as if a mist had descended to hide his feelings. “I dunnae ken ye, nae really. I met ye once—”
She exhaled on a rush, feeling as if she were reaching out and grasping an invisible rope that would keep her from disappearing into a black void.
“What?” the dark-haired man bellowed from behind them.
Irritation flickered across the blond Scot’s face. “Years ago,” he said, without turning to look at the other man. Instead, he kept his gaze steady on her, but the gaze became seeking. “Ye were dressed as a lad and bested me in a dagger-throwing competition at our annual St. John’s Eve festival.”
She stilled, waiting with hopeful expectation that the revelation would shed light on the darkness clouding her mind, but no light came. Tears pricked her eyes and tightened her throat. She bit hard on her lip to stop herself from crying. “I dunnae remember it,” she said in a shaky voice.
“What is yer name?” demanded the dark-haired warrior as he strode closer to tower over her.
She opened her mouth to answer but simply stared at him, feeling her mouth agape like a dead fish. Panic rioted within her, twisting and turning, and she gripped the light-haired Scot so hard, she felt him jerk. “I dunnae ken,” she blurted, trying to hold back the rampaging terror.
“What’s her name?” the gruff man demanded of the Scot.
The Scot swept his emerald gaze over her. “Ye did nae ever say, and ye ran off before I could find out.”
“Ye must ken something about me?” she cried out. The room seemed to be spinning to her.
“All I ken about ye, lass,” he said slowly, softly, as if he sensed her growing fright, “is that ye were amongst a party of men who attacked my men as we were bringing the king’s mistress back to him.”
She felt the hard stare of all eyes in the room upon her, especially the Scot before her. He looked at her expectantly, as if he wanted her to explain her presence there, which angered her since she could not remember anything. “I dunnae ken why I was with those men since I dunnae remember anything! Where is the king’s mistress?” she gasped, her fear escalating. “Please,” she almost begged. “May I see her?”
“She’d dead,” the russet-haired woman replied flatly, watching her with obvious wariness.
Dear God above! Did they think she was a party to murder? She swept her gaze over the occupants of the room, coming back to the Scot before her. “Ye kinnae think I had something to do with it,” she bit out, but even as the words left her mouth, her lack of memories taunted her. Had she had something to do with it?
“We dunnae truly ken yer part, if any, yet, do we?” the dark-haired man replied.