Child of the Mist (10 page)

Warily, Anne eyed his proffered arm. "What are you about? 'Tisn't time for the meal."

"My father wishes to meet you. He's confined to his bed and won't join us for the feast. We'll visit him in his chambers."

Anne's heart gave a small flutter of trepidation. The Campbell. She was going to see the Campbellthe man, in the end, responsible for the long, bitter feud. The man who'd cold-bloodedly sent his son out to wreak terror and havoc upon MacGregor lands.

With a rush of renewed anger, Anne realized she despised the Campbell chief even more than she did his son. It was at his command that the feud had been allowed to continue. Niall CampbelL, as ruthlessly competent as he was, was only obeying orders.

Her father's words came back to her. " . . . the welfare o' our clan . . . its very survival . . . now in your hands."

No matter her true feelings for the despicable Campbell leader, Anne knew she must mask them with courtesy and good will. She accepted. Niall's arm. What did one more compromise in a day beset with them matter?

"As you wish, m'lord." Anne sighed, her glance resigned but resolute.

The journey down the long stone corridors, their dank walls decorated with tapestries and weaponry, passed all too quickly for Anne's tastes. Before she had a chance to compose herself, Niall pushed open the door of a brightly lit room. The chamber was graced with a large hearth, filled with briskly burning logs, and a red brocade-curtained bed piled high with fluffy pillows and a comforter. The frail form of a man seemed lost among the bedclothes.

He waved them over. "Niall? Is that you, laddie? Come closer and bring the lass with you."

Bright blue-green eyes peered up at her as Anne neared the bed. Blond hair, heavily streaked with gray, graced a weather-beaten, deeply furrowed face. Yet though the hair coloring and eyes were different, the features older, Anne noted the strong resemblance between father and son. She managed a tentative smile.

"Come closer, lassie," the Campbell urged kindly. He glanced at his son. "Niall, don't stand there. Pull up a chair for your lady."

Once Anne was settled, the older man leaned over to take her hand. "My son told me how you saved his life, lassie. I'm forever in your debt."

"'Twas nothing," Anne began stiffly before a sound from Niall stopped her.

She glanced back at him. He was standing behind her chair, a warning light gleaming in his eyes. Anne knew he half expected her to brush aside his father's gratitude as "a point o' honor."

With a small smile, she turned to the Campbell. "'Tis kind o' you to say that, but 'twas the least I could do. After all, your son first saved my life."

The Campbell lay back on his pillows, a wry grimace on his lips. "Aye, Niall told me how Hugh thought you a witch. He's a troubled man, my nephew. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive and forget."

"I'll do my best, m'lord."

He cocked his head at her. "And aren't you the sweet one? My son did well in handfasting you. Beauty and goodness, all rolled into one delicate bundle. But then, he always was lucky with the lassies. Weren't you, laddie?"

"Aye, Father," was Niall's dispassionate reply.

The Campbell's gaze returned to Anne. "I'm glad the feud has ended with your joining. It went on far too long, no matter who was first to blame. Twas a wise idea, your father's. I only wish I'd thought o' it." He paused, a troubled look darkening his features. "'Twill solve a lot o' things."

For a long moment the Campbell was silent, then he grinned, as if a sudden thought had assailed him. He looked up at his son. "'Twill solve your problems, too, laddie. 'Tis past time you put off your mourning and gave me a grandson. Aye, a wee bairn. 'Tis just what this castle" A hard, wracking cough cut short his words. He gestured to a nearby table. "W-water!"

Before Niall could react, Anne was at the table pouring out a cup. Her emotions churned. How could a man so bent on another clan's destruction be so kind and warm? He hardly seemed the sort.

Her hand clenched the cup of water. The Campbell, it was rumored, had been ill for several years now. He'd been forced to delegate more and more responsibility to his son, finally naming him tanist just a year ago. Had Niall Campbell taken it upon himself to step up the raids, in the hope of finally ending the feud?

Anger filled Anne. The bloody knave! Of course, that would explain everything. And the Campbell probably didn't even know . . . poor, old man.

She returned to the bed and gently lifted his head. "Drink, but slowly, in small sips," she instructed, struggling to contain the rage that shook her voice. "'Tis the best way to soothe the catarrh."

He swallowed half the cup's contents before falling wearily back onto the bed. "Th-thank you, lassie."

Anne plumped the pillows behind his head and pulled up the comforter. "I've done naught. Tomorrow, if you'll allow me, I'll brew you a tea o' lavender flowers. 'Tis wonderful for the catarrh."

"Och" he weakly smiled up at her"and won't that be a pleasant change from my physician? He gives me no relief with his endless purgatives . . . and bloodletting. I get so very . . . very . . . tired . . ."

The Campbell's eyes slid shut. Soon the deep, even breathing of slumber filled the room.

Niall's hand settled on Anne's shoulder. "Come, lass. 'Tis time we were leaving."

Gently, so as not to disturb him, Anne disengaged her fingers from the old man's clasp. They left the room. Before she could turn to walk down the hallway, Niall gripped her arm.

Anne halted. "Aye?"

'' 'Twas kind o' you to treat my father so gently. I know you must hate him as much as you hate me."

Anne stared up at him, aware he'd yet to make his point.

"My father's dying."

The brutal truth of his words startled her. "Aye, tis evident."

"He spits up blood most times now. There's naught you can do."

"I can ease his sufferings, make his last days less painful."

Niall inhaled a shuddering breath. How could he make her see the danger of using her healing skills in Kilchurn? His father would die no matter what she did, but none would remember that. In the end, all that would be recalled is he died of her ministrations.

He shook his head. "Nay, you can't, lass. I want you to stay away from my father with your potions." His grip tightened painfully on her arm. "Do you hear me? Do you understand?"

Anne wrenched free, both hurt and angered by his words. Did he think she'd harm his father? That because of the years of bitter feuding she'd stoop to using her skills for revenge? Her fists clenched into tight little fists. Well, what did she expect?

She glared up at Niall with burning, reproachful eyes. "Have it your way,
m'lord
. Your unfair suspicions will only make your father suffer and hasten his death, but then, mayhap you cannot wait to claim your chieftainship. And what should it matter to me? One Campbell is as bad as another!"

With a mutinous flounce of her hair, Anne turned to go. Before she'd taken her first step, his ice- rimmed voice halted her in her tracks. "Madam, don't walk away from me," Niall growled. "I haven't finished with you yet."

Anne turned, every muscle tensed for battle. Her silver eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed with fury.

"Not finished with me?"
she slowly ground out the words. "Surely you jest, m'lord. You've all but named me a despicable murderer, completely unworthy o' your trust. What more is there to say?"

Niall's own anger rose to meet Anne's. His dark eyes slammed into hers. Damn, he'd neither the time nor patience for this! He'd more pressing problems. Why couldn't she see beyond. . . .

He paused. There, flickering behind the thin veneer of rage, Niall found her pain.
Unfeeling bastard!
he mentally cursed himself. Once again he'd hurt her, viciously clawing away the few consolations she had left like some Highland wildcat, without warning, without mercy. All his good intentions to the contrary, he seemed to wound her at every turn.

Niall ran a hand through his thick, black hair, the gesture ragged, exasperated. "I don't despise you, lass, not think you a murderer. But as far as trust goes, I don't give that easily to any man, friend or foe."

His reply nonplussed Anne. What was she to do with his abrupt changes in mood? One moment he was the cruel, ruthless enemy she expected him to be and the next. . . .

Anne's face clouded in confusion. "Then why did you forbid me to help your father? I have a calling to heal. 'Tis sacred to me. I'd never turn from anyone in need, nor cause harm, no matter"

"Och, so there you are, nephew."

Duncan Campbell's voice intruded from the shadowed hallway. He strode into view and halted before them. "The folk are gathered, the tables laden with food and drink. We await only you and your lady for the feast to begin."

"Aye." A small frown darkened Niall's brow. "We were just now on our way."

Frustration and relief warred within him. He hadn't expected the matter of forbidding Anne's healing in Kilchurn to come up quite so soon. He'd hoped for time to ease her into life here, then break the news. If it hadn't been for his uncle's timely intrusion. . . .

Niall cast aside his confusing clash of emotions. The confrontation wasn't over, just delayed. He offered Anne his arm. After a moment's hesitation, she accepted it.

Duncan eyed them. "Er, I've never had the pleasure o' an introduction . . ."

The tension of the past few moments drained from Niall. He chuckled. "Lass, this is my uncle, Duncan Campbell." He nodded toward the older man. "Duncan, Lady Anne MacGregor."

Duncan bowed. "Welcome, lady. You are long overdue in my nephew's life. 'Tis my pleasure at last to make your acquaintance."

As she extended her hand to him, Anne studied Niall's uncle covertly. He was tall, as were all the Campbell nobility and, though not as powerfully built as his nephew, an imposing, substantial man nonetheless. His sandy-colored hair was pale with a generous scattering of gray. His full beard was even paler, nearly white-gold. He possessed the same strong, ruggedly handsome features as his son, Iain. If not for his eyes, Anne would have found Duncan Campbell a most attractive man.

But dark as the depths of an angry, storm-tossed loch, they were cold, their expression flat and unreadable. And the smile that touched his lips as he bent to kiss her hand, though correct in every way, never passed his mouth.

A small tremor coursed through Anne. So,
yet another Campbell unhappy with my presence. Is there no end to the enemies I'll discover in Kilchurn?

Niall noted the shiver and mistook it for the chill of the corridor. "Come, lass. 'Tis warmer in the Great Hall. Time enough to talk further once we are there."

This time Anne was in a more receptive frame of mind to examine the Great Hall. It was a large, impressive room, in size as well as luxury. The walls were wainscot-paneled of carved fir, the upper portion of bare stone lavishly hung with intricately woven tapestries to brighten the room and absorb its chill.

Rushes covered the floor. The fragrant scent of the sweet woodruff scattered among them mingled with the tangy wood smoke wafting from the great hearth on the far wall. In front of the blazing fire were gathered several men and women, some standing, others seated on padded benches, laughing and talking in happy animation.