“I know not.” He looked at his sister in long silence, then said somberly, “Don't fret, girl. The Campbell may have robbed our lands, but I will take from him more than th at. I'll exact the heart and the spirit of all Campbells, if the cost is my own cold body.”
Jean shrank, looking horrified, and MacColla laughed. “My apologies, sister.” He leaned over to chuck her chin. “All you need concern yourself with is visions of j oining our family in Kintyre. That's home enough for now, aye?”
He took a stick from the dirt and stoked the fire. “For the nonce, we find Royalist allies at Fincharn. And bowls full of good, hot stew, God willing.”
He inhaled deeply, as if getting a lungful of air might quell his gnawing hunger. He needed to fill his belly with cooked meat for a change.
MacColla let his attention drift once more to the lass. He registered the faint tsking of his sister as she gave up attempts at conversation, choosing instead to stab testily at the sputtering flames.
Despite her deep sleep, the woman lay stiffly, her arms wrapped about her torso as if she could cradle the pain in her hands.
No woman had ever stood up to him as she had. Few men either, and even fewer who lived to tell about it. But rather than make him angry, her verve had excited him, kindled some long-snuffed spark back to life.
He realized he didn't even know her full name. He'd somehow neglected asking about her father's name, her clan, her origins.
But watching her sleep, he'd given it much thought. He found it curious that, as they'd fled the castle, Campbell's men had attacked her ruthlessly. And so it was unlikely she was a family member. Or, if she was, she'd somehow crossed the clan in some way.
And yet Jean claimed to have been the only prisoner held at the castle.
The woman was a puzzle. Who could she be, and more importantly, on whose side?
Her questions about James Graham alarmed him. Only a very few knew of the ruse that had spared Jame s from the gallows. Painstaking subterfuge and smoke screens on the part of only his closest friends kept his survival a secret. That a stranger had struck at the truth was deeply troubling.
Could she be a spy for Campbell? If so, why would his men try to kill her? Was the attack on her merely a charade, some sort of trap to trick MacColla into taking her into his care?
That she was strong and determined he had no doubt. He studied her, asleep but far from peaceful. Furrows were etched on her otherwise smooth complexion, around her mouth, at her brow, her pain written on her skin. But the experience contained on her face couldn't rob her of her beauty. It perhaps even contributed to it.
Her features weren't delicate. Taken separately, they were sturdy, like her body. A square face, wide nose, full lips. Proud, unapologetic features that asserted themselves.
But, put together, those features underwent some mysterious alchemy, transformed by her luminous skin and black hair and unsettling gray eyes into som e exquisitely feminine creature.
The corners of MacColla's eves creased as he considered her.
Fierce. Robust. Yet unmistakably lovely.
In the way a lioness is all the more magnificent for her size and the power she wields.
He'd do well to fear this woman. As any wise man would such a creature.
Chapter Seven
Campbell eyed the man at his left. Major Nicholas Purdon had spent time fighting on the side of the Parliamentarians and Protestants in Ireland. Average height, average build, and flat hair the color of dishwater rendered him nondescript among men, and an unimaginative nature made him a tractable one too.
Two of the traits Campbell valued most.
He nodded at Purdon to swing the bucket, and cold water doused the blood and stupor from his clansman' s face. Shuffling tight past each other, they traded places.
Campbell looked down, intent on the sleeves of his ivory shirt, and creased a careful fold along each cuff. Finally ready, he looked back up and stared with disgust. The clansman's head lolled, and the only thing keeping him upright was the rope that tied him to his seat.
“You'll not die on me yet,” he snarled and slapped the man. The wet smack made a sharp sound that reverberated off the cellar walls. “Tell me who took her.”
“I-I told you… ”
Another loud crack of skin on skin.
“Then tell it.” Campbell bit out his words, fighting to keep his patience. “Again.”
He'd returned to Inveraray only to discover that his prisoner had been rescued by MacColla with the aid of, of all things, a woman. “Tell me how it is you fools let MacColla in. Let him best you.”