Samantha James (10 page)

And no one more so than Cameron MacKay.

She felt him leap lightly to the ground. Boldly as you please, he set his hands on her waist and swung her down. She’d done no more than raise her head than another figure stepped into her line of vision.

“Out of the way, girl…move aside, lad!”

It was Egan. Several paces behind was the other man who had accompanied Cameron to Connyridge—Finn.

“Cameron!” hailed the scar-faced man. He grabbed his chieftain and gave him a fierce and unabashed hug, then drew back.

“Blood of Christ, man, I feared the worst. I sent men out to search, but they dinna find ye! Finn here was gone nearly a sennight.”

“Aye,” said Finn. “We feared the Munros had come after ye and captured ye.”

Cameron raised a brow. “Why should they come after me? By now the Red Angus has surely received
word that his daughter is dead. They have no idea she is even alive.”

“I suppose ’tis true enough,” Finn admitted gruffly.

Meredith deeply resented all of them for talking about her as if she were not even present.

Egan scowled at Finn. “I told ye that, man! He’s like his da, too smart for the Munros. But I would surely like to know where the devil ye’ve been!”

Cameron smiled grimly. “That’s a tale for later, my friends. Let it be enough that I’m whole and hearty and safe at home.”

As he spoke, his gaze dwelled briefly on her profile. She maintained what she hoped was a cool aplomb, for she’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d defeated her.

For in truth, that was all that sustained her…all that allowed her to hold her head proudly erect.

His smile withered. Tilting his head, he said something in a low voice to Finn. Then he reached out and caught her by the arm. Steely fingers curled into the softness of her flesh. “Go with Finn,” he instructed.

And may you go to the devil
, she longed to cry. Instead she kept silent, pressing her lips together. Wrenching herself away, she followed Finn, who appeared none too pleased to be her escort.

He led her into the keep, through the great hall and a door on the far right. There they made their way up a steep, twisting stairway to the very top of the tower; Meredith was dizzy and breathless by the time he gestured her through another door.

“You are to wait,” he growled.

She stepped within. Behind her, the door closed with a resounding thud. To Meredith, it was like the
closing of her own tomb. From without, a bolt scraped home.

She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. The chamber she was in was small, the furnishings spartan. There was naught but a narrow bed across from the stone fireplace, and a tiny table and chair beneath the window, set high in the wall. Indeed, it was little better than her cell at Connyridge…yet far grander than the dank hole in the earth where she would be, had she been relegated to the pit prison.

There was a knock upon the door. Meredith had no chance to respond before the bolt was thrown and it opened. A stout woman stepped within; in her arms was a small round wooden tub.

“His Lordship ordered a bath for ye,” was all she said.

Meredith quickly extended a hand to assist with her burden. “Here, let me help—”

“Nay!” The woman jerked away as if she’d been burned.

She refused even to look at Meredith as she marched across the chamber and placed the tub before the fire. Meredith’s arms fell to her side. The woman’s dislike was like a slap across the face. She stood awkwardly while the woman lit a fire in the hearth. Two young boys followed, toting buckets of hot water. Their manner was as stiff as their mistress’s, their faces unsmiling.

Meredith took a deep breath. They might be convinced she was the devil’s daughter, but she would not act as such. “Thank you,” she said clearly when they’d finished the task.

Not one of the three made any acknowledgment.

Plumes of steam rose from the bath, a temptation
Meredith could not ignore. Putting aside her hurt, she stripped. She was sodden to the skin, and she gasped as she lowered herself into the steaming waters. She soaped her limbs vigorously, then washed her hair. The tub was small, and her knees were jammed against her chest, yet the hot water felt heavenly. She soaked until the water was cold, then dried herself with the length of linen cloth the woman had left, wrapping it around herself as she lingered before the fire.

Distastefully she eyed her tattered gown. A puddle leaked across the stone floor where she’d dropped it. She sighed, resigning herself to the fact that she had no choice but to don it anew—

Another knock. This time it was a woman who was sweet-faced and slender, not so much older than she, Meredith guessed. Chestnut hair waved down her back, swept back from her face with a narrow strip of plaid. Her eyes were wide and thickly lashed, almost the same golden brown as her hair.

“This is for you.” Her voice was quiet but cool. With her head bowed low, she slid a tray of food onto the table, then crossed to the bed.

Meredith watched as she deposited several items there. “A clean gown, and a comb—oh, but you cannot know how welcome they are!” The confession emerged unconsciously. The woman was much the same size as she. “Do they belong to you?”

For an instant it appeared she would refuse to answer. “Aye,” she said at last.

“Then I must thank you doubly. I promise I shall take good care of them.” She hesitated. “Do you…have a name?”

The woman’s head came up sharply. There was a
flash in those golden brown eyes before she raised her chin. “I am Glenda.”

Glenda
. Meredith’s mind groped fuzzily and then she reeled. Oh, God, it was her. Cameron’s brother Niall, the eldest son—this was his widow, the one who’d lost her babe after seeing the heads of her husband and father-in-law!

Meredith could not help it. Her eyes veered to the woman’s belly, now flat as her own.

So this was Glenda, no longer heavy with child. Now she understood the silent accusation that glimmered in the depths of the MacKay woman’s eyes. Shame such as she had never known rushed through her, shame that singed the very center of her being. Her clansmen—her own clansmen—had robbed this woman of a husband and son.

For the first time the pain of Cameron’s loss seemed real, and the knowledge was agonizing.

Glenda had begun to retrace her steps to the door. Meredith realized she was about to leave.

“I pray you, wait!”

Words failed her, for indeed, what could she say that would change Glenda’s feelings? Comfort from a Munro? An apology from a Munro? Glenda would neither want it nor accept it.

“I…I thank you for your kind generosity,” she finished lamely.

“There is no need to offer thanks. I did as I was bidden.” Her posture wooden, her manner stiff, Glenda swept from the chamber.

Once again Meredith was alone.

Indeed, she thought bitterly, she might have been a favored guest. A bath, clothing, and food had been provided.

Sighing, she crossed to the bed. Reaching out, she
fingered the soft wool of the gowns—there were three of them, a smock, and even a soft linen bed gown. A wistful smile touched her lips for a fleeting instant. There had been no such luxuries at Connyridge. The habit she wore there had been rough and heavy. Her skin had been red and chafed for many a day until she’d grown used to it.

She slipped the bed gown over her head. The tray of food was left untouched, for she had no appetite. Picking up the comb, she moved to sit before the fire, availing herself of its warmth to dry her hair. It took forever to work out the tangles; her hair had nearly dried by the time she’d finished. Staring into the crackling flames, she wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them to her chest, dropping her head down.

Oddly, there were no tears. There was no fear. She felt nothing…nothing but a vast hollowness inside.

The great hall was filled with gaiety and song. There were jongleurs and minstrels who sang a rambling song of the lord’s belated return. But Cameron had long since vacated his place at the high table. It was too empty. Too lonely. Instead he sat at a trestle table directly below the gallery. Though he was ready with a smile and a greeting for those who passed by or stopped to sit, he felt curiously detached from all the revelry.

“’Tis good to be home, eh?” With a grin, Egan planted two tankards of ale atop the rough planking and pushed one toward his chieftain.

Cameron glanced up as his friend seated himself on the bench opposite him. He reached for the ale, his expression softening slightly. “Aye,” he murmured, for indeed, his heart’s realm was the chill and misty Highlands. “’Tis good to be home.” He paused. “And yet, it seems so…so different. As if…”—though the hall was filled with the sounds of merriment, it was that very thought that echoed in his brain over and over—“as if something is missing.”

Egan grew abruptly sober. “Something is,” he said quietly.

They both fell silent, lost in the blur of happier
memories, of a time when the brothers MacKay had filled this hall with shouts and laughter—a time when one recounted a tale well told, boasts of manly strength and other attributes, a good-natured challenge quickly taken up by another.

It was Egan who broke the silence. “I noticed you found a way to tame the lass.” He tapped his temple meaningfully. “Och, but I canna blame ye. Aye, the wench looks the meek and trembling maid, but the blood of the Munros flows in her veins—”

“I did not strike her,” Cameron stated flatly. “There is no honor in striking a woman.” He would not keep the truth from Egan—yet neither would he reveal that Meredith had dared to hold a dagger to his breast, for his pride still rankled that he’d been so careless. His thoughts hardened.

“Then who did?”

“We met with foul play.” Grimly he told his friend how they’d been surprised by the rogues Monty and Davis. “She took the blade intended for me.”

Egan paused, his tankard halfway to his mouth. He stared, dumbfounded. Slowly he lowered the brew to the table. “What, man? Why should she do such a foolish thing as that? Why should a Munro give her life for a MacKay? That cannot be—”

“I was there, Egan. My eyes did not deceive me.”

“Mayhap ’twas a death wish! She saw it as a chance to escape. Aye, that must be it.”

Cameron was not so convinced. Yet the idea troubled him—troubled him mightily, though it should not have—and that, too, he found rather vexing! Would she have gone to such lengths to be free of him? Nay, he thought. Nay!

It was just as he’d said. She’d taken the blow for him. It still both amazed and confounded him. Egan
would have taken the blow for him—but Egan was his greatest friend; indeed, Cameron would have done the same for Egan.

But Meredith had no reason to do so. Especially after what he’d done to her…

He was compelled to defend her.

“She would never take her own life. Remember that night at the priory? The note I bade her write to the sisters? She was appalled, for she was convinced that’s what I would have her do. ‘’Tis mortal sin,’ she said.”

“But it would not have been by her own hand,” Egan argued. “’Twould have been by the hand of another.”

“Remember she is a woman, and one who was soon to take her vows. The thought is as much a sin as the deed. She took the blade to save my life.” Cameron’s shrug was deliberately nonchalant. “Though I was never in such danger as she believed.” Or so he’d told himself—and her! Ah, but it was masculine vanity that provoked the claim. In truth, he did not know if he would be here now, were it not for her.

He owed her a debt, a debt he must somehow repay. Yet despite the guilt that nagged at him, he could not give up all that he sought…he would not!

Thoughtfully Egan fingered his bristly chin. “What will you do with her now?”

Cameron parried the question with one of his own. “You would have killed her, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye.” Egan’s reply was swift and unrepentant. “She is a Munro. These lands would be a better place were there one less. But you chose not to, and so I respect your decision.”

Cameron nodded, but his mind had drifted. He re
called his fury this morn. It galled him still that she had dared to suggest he let her escape—that she dared to suggest that he should put aside the death of his father and brothers and forget. Indeed, he could scarcely remember a time when he’d been so furious. A scarlet haze of rage had fired his vision. God’s wounds, but the wench bedeviled him as no other—in truth his temper was seldom provoked. A rash anger was rarely wise. His father had taught him that, him and all Cameron’s brothers. Nay, ’twas better to contemplate with calm deliberation, to anticipate the actions that might come…He should not have lashed out at her as he had. Such gruesome details were not for the tender ears of a woman…

Even this one.

His anger had abated. But not the desire. Nay, not the desire…

“Will you make a slave of her?” It was Egan again.

Cameron smiled, a smile that was grimly self-derisive. In this, he’d failed his father, for in truth, beyond the driving need for revenge that had consumed his every pore, this was the one thing he’d not considered.

He shook his head. “I’ve not yet decided,” he admitted. His smile withered.’ “I want her watched at all times, Egan—you and Finn see to it. I’ll not take the chance that she’ll escape. If she were to run to her father, all would be for naught. The Red Angus is convinced she is dead,” he stated flatly. “So I would have him believe, and so it will be.”

Despite Egan’s animosity toward Meredith, his loyalty was unquestionable. Cameron had no doubt that his command would be obeyed. He trusted Egan implicitly, as surely as he’d trusted his own brothers.

They talked for a while after that, then Egan finally left with several others. Cameron remained where he was.

“I brought ye more ale.”

Another full tankard was set before him. Cameron glanced up at the lovely dark-haired woman who had just taken the seat Egan had so recently vacated. It was Moire, the eldest daughter of Moreland, his father’s steward…nay,
his
steward.

“Moire:” He raised the tankard high in silent thanks, then drank deeply.

“’Tis good that you have returned, Cameron.”

“’Tis glad I am to
be
back,” he returned. And all in one piece, he thought, reminded of his dagger-wielding prisoner.

“I trust your journey went well.” Large, snapping-brown eyes met his boldly.

“It did indeed.” A faint smile of satisfaction curled his lips. Meredith was locked in the tower, right where he wanted her. She wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

Cherry-red lips curved slyly. “Will you sentence the Munro wench on the morrow, Cameron?”

Meredith
, he wanted to snap.
Her name is Meredith
. Instead he said curtly, “I’ve no intention of sentencing her. She’s committed no crime.”

Moire’s eyes widened. “But surely you mean to hang her!”

“Hang her?” Cameron was astounded. “Is that what everyone believes?”

“Nay,” Moire said quickly. “Not everyone. Just…”

“Just you?” Heavy brows arose. He didn’t bother to hide his admonishment.

Moire had the grace to look sheepish. “What will you do with her, then?”

Cameron was abruptly irritated. First Egan, now Moire. The score was his to settle—no one else’s. Why was everyone so damnably concerned about his plans for her?

“I will hold her for however long it pleases me.”

Moire paid no heed to the sudden coolness of his manner. “’Tis said she has the look of her father, the Red Angus.”

“Aye.” His mouth was no longer smiling.

“I cannot imagine why she sought out a nunnery!” Moire made a face. “Mayhap no one would marry her. Aye, that must be it…but such drudgery! Working, praying, working…and more praying! ’Tis said they eat but one meal a day there. I can well believe it, for she’s a pale, scrawny piece.”

Cameron took in Moire’s buxom figure. Obviously, he observed dryly, Moire did not subsist on just one meal a day.

Well aware—and aye, well pleased!—Moire reached across the table and plucked an apple from the platter of fruit there. In so doing, her bodice drooped low and Cameron was afforded an uninhibited view of ripe, white-fleshed breasts clear to large, dark brown nipples.

Little wonder that Moreland, her father, was eager to marry off the lass. Indeed, Cameron’s own name had been bandied about in tandem with the lady’s. But as he’d told his father in private not so very long ago, he would never even consider Moire as his future wife. Though he hadn’t confided it to his father, Cameron was well aware that several of his brothers had already plucked from the fruit of the lady’s vine. He did not condemn her, for if a man was entitled to lusty endeavors, why should a woman not be as well? Nay, when he married—and he had no doubt that someday
he would—it would be to a woman who gave her favors to him alone.

Moire possessed a dark, alluring beauty—that, Cameron did not deny. Though he was not averse to admiring, he experienced a curious distaste for her boldness. Odd, for in truth he was far more tempted by the Munro lass than by this one who so blatantly revealed her bounteous enticements to any and all who cared to look.

Moire studied the apple, then bit into the tender, juicy fruit. With the tip of her tongue she dabbed a trail of juice from the corner of sleek ruby lips. She smiled across at Cameron. “Do ye think ye might take me riding tomorrow?”

The smile he offered was regretful but firm. “I fear I’ll be far too busy.”

Her smile wavered. Red lips pouted prettily, but it did no good. She departed moments later, the sway in her hips earning more than a few hungry glances. Cameron decided wryly that she would probably not spend the day alone—or this night, either.

He sat there long after the last chord had been played, the last note sung. The hall had grown quiet but for the noisy snores of those merry souls who’d imbibed too much and sought their bed on the nearest bench.

Thoughts of Meredith never strayed far from his mind.

Egan had asked what he would do with her. Moire, too. Ah, he thought with a twist of his lips. What to do with her…

A brooding shadow slipped over him. This hall had once brimmed with laughter and life. Indeed, the laughter had been there tonight…but the life, the
soul of this place he had always called home, was no more.

It was just as he’d told Egan. It had been different. So very, very empty…

The bleakness inside him yawned wider.

The way of the clans was the way of the Highlands. Without a chieftain to protect him, a man might lose his lands—his home. There would be no sheep, no crops, no way to feed his family. In times of need, clansmen banded together. To hold one’s lands, to ensure the safety of kin, a man might look to his family to help. In this way, the clans were perpetuated. It was, Cameron realized, an awesome duty—one he had never thought to covet, one he’d never dreamed might be his. Though Cameron had never liked to think of his father’s death, he’d always assumed that Niall world be the next chieftain. But now that the duty was his, he would not shirk it. He would not fail his father. For many a generation, the Clan MacKay had ruled these hills and glens of the Highlands. So it had been…

So it would continue.

Even as the vow hammered through mind and heart, a burning hatred simmered in his breast. He thought of the Munros. His fists clenched hard as he remembered how they had robbed his family of their lives. How
he
had been robbed…That was why he had done…what he had done. Why he’d stolen Meredith from Connyridge. He had sought to take from the Red Angus what had been stolen from him—and in so doing, impart the hurtful knowledge that the Red Angus was the last of his blood.

His mouth twisted. What to do with her, indeed…

Though he had pretended uncertainty with Egan, he knew he would not make a slave of her. Not unless
she was his slave alone, he thought blackly, for he was too possessive of her…

Something sparked within him.

What was it Egan had demanded?
Why should a Munro give her life for a MacKay
? The words pounded through his brain, over and over.

She was a woman. And she
could
give life.

He, Cameron, was the last of his father’s seed…as she was the last of hers.

The spark inside him flamed higher.

No, he thought. The idea that burned through his mind and throughout his body…it wasn’t possible.

It is, insisted a voice deep his soul. And you want her. You know you do. You can have your revenge…
and her
.

The idea took root. With every beat of his heart, it grew stronger.

He was on his feet before he knew it, taking the steps to the north tower two at a time.

With one smooth move he threw the bolt and stepped within her chamber.

She was there before the fire, her legs drawn tight against her chest, her head resting upon upraised knees, clad in a thin linen bed gown, her toes peeping out from beneath the hem. It struck him that she looked very young, almost vulnerable.

It took a moment before she discerned his presence. Slowly she raised her head and gazed at him. Her expression was wholly unguarded, her pose oddly defenseless.

For an instant Cameron did not move. For the space of a heartbeat, it was as if he could see clear inside her. His only thought was that she possessed a purity that was disconcerting. She looked so fair. So innocent and humble. Gazing at her thusly, he could al
most forget that the blood of the Munros flowed in her veins.

Ruthlessly he pushed the thought aside, scathingly angry with himself. What was this he was about? He could afford no softness. No pity.

He came to stand directly above her. He stared at the vulnerable length of her throat, arched to meet his unremitting regard.

Her beauty struck him like a blow low to the belly. God, that such loveliness belonged to a Munro…His mind screamed in outrage. The burning in his veins was no less intense, but now a fire of another kind had kindled in his gut. Her eyes were the color of a sun-washed sky—never had he seen such clarity of color. The curve of her cheek gleamed pale and silken; her lips were slightly parted. He found himself possessed of the sudden urge to press his lips there, against the hollow of her throat, to taste that tempting valley and feel her pulse surge beneath his lips.