Strong, hard lips slanted over hers, forcing Anne back against the unyielding grip of Niall’s hand. For a brief moment she fought him, her fingers digging into his broad, linen-covered chest, before finally surrendering to his overwhelming power—and the cruel reality of her fate.
She was a fool to fight him; perhaps she had even been a fool to trust him at his word. Anger filled her. Whether she liked it or not, Niall Campbell owned her now in body and life. To resist would only shame her before the clan. There was nothing left but acceptance, but that acceptance would be as cold and unyielding as she could make it. Anne relaxed in his arms, neither pulling away nor returning his kiss.
The change in her response startled Niall. He drew back to scan her face. Silver eyes, devoid of expression, stared up at him.
So, this is how it’s to be. Disappointment shot through him, then Niall reminded himself of the true purpose of the handfasting. Even if she had been willing—which she wasn’t—he had neither the time nor inclination to woo her. Issues of far greater import demanded his attention . . . like the identity of a certain traitor.
The realization, hovering at the edge of his consciousness, rushed back with disconcerting force. With a low, angry curse, Niall released Anne.
His frowning glance found the MacGregor. “It’s done then, the vows said and sealed.” He nodded to his cousin. “Let’s be gone.”
Iain grinned. “Not so fast, cousin. Custom, not ye, dictates the pace. As clan witness to this handfasting, I’m required to give yer lady a kiss. Would ye have her feeling unwelcome to the family?”
Niall’s gaze narrowed. He gestured toward Anne with an impatient sweep of his hand. “Make it quick, then.”
As she stood there in stunned surprise, Iain took her into his arms. His intense blue gaze, deep and fathomless as the waters of mighty Loch Awe, swept over her. Then his lips touched hers, gently covering her mouth.
It was too much. First the cold ownership of Niall’s kiss, and now Iain’s expert assault. She had never kissed a grown man, aside from her father’s affectionate caresses, and now to have two in one day! Anne groaned in dismay, moving to push Iain away.
“Enough, cousin.”
Stirred by the unexpected surge of possessiveness Anne’s small sound evoked in him, Niall stepped forward to grasp Iain’s arm.
With a reluctant grin, Iain released Anne. “Welcome, lass. Ye’ll make a fine Campbell, and no mistake.”
Anne shook her head. “Nay. That’ll never be. Though I journey far from home and hearth, I’ll always be a MacGregor.”
“And journey ye shall,” Niall’s steel-timbred voice intruded. “Yer belongings are packed; the horses await. Let’s be gone.”
Anne glanced toward her father, unable to hide a look of silent supplication. He paled. Remorse surged through her at the expresion of pain and regret that crossed his face.
With a determined thrust of her shoulders, she faced Niall. It’ll do no good to bemoan yer fate, she told herself firmly. Ye’re handfasted, and that’s that. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.
“Aye.” She returned Niall Campbell’s glittering stare with a resolute one of her own. “Let us be gone. Naught’s served lingering over things that cannot be changed.” She extended her hand to him.
“Better to face bravely what God gives, to forget the past and forge on—for the good of all, MacGregor and Campbell alike.”
The lowering sky, heavy with dark, moisture-laden clouds, precluded overlong farewells. For that, at least, Anne was thankful. If she had lingered a moment longer, she’d have surely burst into tears in front of them all, mortifying both herself and her father, and no doubt adding to Niall Campbell’s rising exasperation. But the thought of several hours’ ride, in what rapidly threatened to turn into a typical Highland downpour, was enough to put a damper on leave-takings between travelers and well-wishers alike.
They mounted quickly. The huge castle doors swung open. For a moment, Anne stared out upon an assemblage of tartan-clad warriors. Then Niall urged his mount forward. As he cleared the fortress’s portals, a cheer rose from the army outside the gate.
“The Wolf! The Wolf of Cruachan lives!” At the outcry Niall rose in his saddle, his right hand lifting in a close-fisted salute.
“Cruachan!” he shouted, the harsh Campbell battle cry echoing across the hills.
Urging his horse onward and followed closely by Anne and Iain, Niall rode to the head of his forces. With a motion of his hand, he signaled the journey to begin.
Anne never looked back. She didn’t dare or the tears would’ve surely flowed. Riveting her gaze on Niall, riding ahead with his cousin, Hugh, and the older man who had been the spokesman for his return, she steeled herself to the sight of the beloved land she was leaving behind.
The road turned south along the River Strae. This time of year, the river’s current was turbulent with melted winter snow, and a fine mist rose from the water-battered stones. Anne inhaled deeply of the scent of rich, damp earth.
The meadows were alive with springtide flowers, gallant little daffodils, delicate snowdrops, and yellow primroses. The milk-white petals of the delicate Star of Bethlehem gleamed among the rank growth of ivy and fern in the nearby woods. Everywhere she looked she saw the heartbreaking beauty of her land. A lump rose in Anne’s throat.
“Don’t fret so, lassie,” Iain Campbell said as he rode up alongside her. “It isn’t as if ye’ll never see yer home again. In time, when the feuding cools, ye can coax Niall into bringing ye back for a wee visit. We’re nearly neighbors, after all.”
She gave him a misty-eyed smile. “My thanks for yer kindness. I don’t think yer tanist will have much time for humoring the likes of me, though.”
Her glance turned to rest again on Niall, who was now deeply immersed in conversation with Hugh and the sandy-haired man. “He seems to find Campbell concerns of far greater import. I wonder what clan he’s planning to raid, now that MacGregors can no longer be his enemies?”
Iain’s mouth quirked. “Och, lassie, don’t be so hard on him. With his father ailing, Niall’s had a heavy burden laid on him these past few years. Give him a chance. He’s not a cruel man, just a wee bit harder since his wife’s death.”
“Aye,” she muttered, “I know how deeply he mourns his wife. Too bad he didn’t mourn her enough to prevent our handfasting.”
“Well, I’ll not speak of what I know naught about.” He turned toward her. “Would ye like to learn a bit about our clan, before we reach Kilchurn Castle? Mayhap it’d ease yer way.”
Anne nodded. It was hard to stay glum with a man as handsome and charming as Iain Campbell at her side. “Aye, that’d be nice.”
She pointed to the older man riding on Niall’s right. “And who might he be? Surely someone of power, for he spoke for yer clan in demanding Niall’s return.”
A bitter smile touched Iain’s lips. “Och, a man of power, and no mistake. He’s Duncan, laird of Balloch Castle on Loch Tay and the Campbell’s younger brother. He’s also my father.”
Anne shot him a sideways glance. He doesn’t get on with his father, she thought, noting the tight expression on Iain’s face. She quickly stilled the impulse to ask him more. It wasn’t her concern. She had problems enough without seeking more.
“And Hugh, the witch hater.” Anne gestured to the brown-haired man riding on Niall’s other side. “Where exactly does he hang on the Campbell family tree?”
“Mad cousin Hugh? His mother’s Lydia Campbell, younger sister to the Campbell and my father.”
“Is he really mad?” Anne asked, recalling the crazed look in Hugh’s eyes the day of the raid.
“In some ways, aye. And yet, there are times when I wonder if there’s not a method to his madness . . .” Iain paused. “At any rate, when he commits himself to a cause, he can be quite fanatical, going on for hours, even days, on the same subject. He bears a heavy grudge that his mother was born female, for it puts him fourth, after Niall, my father, and me, in line for the chieftainship. As ye can imagine, it’s one of his favorite topics. We tend to ignore him when he starts up about it.”
“Poor man.”
“Niall told me Hugh tried to kill ye.” Iain shook his head in wonder. “Yet ye can still say that, after what he almost did to ye?
Och, ye’re a rare one.”
She glanced at him. “Not only am I a Christian, but I’m a healer, Iain. We’re all God’s children. My heart goes out to those in distress, whether of the body or mind.”
“Well, don’t concern yerself with Hugh. He’d not appreciate yer efforts. On the contrary, it’d be verra dangerous for ye. He hates witches above all else.”
“And why’s that?”
Iain shook his head. “I don’t know all the details, lass. Something to do with a lost love who was killed, but I was away at the time, and no one cared to talk about it. At any rate, it makes about as much sense as most things Hugh takes a disliking to, but for yer own sake, stay clear of him.”
“Aye,” Anne muttered uneasily. Movement up ahead distracted them into silence. They watched as Niall, with a wave of his hand, sent a rider galloping off down the road.
Stretching tall in his stirrups, Niall stared after the man until he disappeared from view. Then, with a dark frown, he settled back onto his horse.
A plan. He must have a plan for discovering the traitor. He glanced behind at the ruddy, good-hearted faces of his warriors. To question the motives of even one of them sickened him, but he must. More was at stake than just his personal safety.
His clan was in grave danger. If the traitor had truly stirred the feud all these years, ambition was evidently a higher priority than Campbell welfare. And he, as tanist, seemed to be all that stood in the way of that ambition.
But who’d want him dead? There were several lairds to consider, ones he’d had, as tanist, dealt with severely in the past. And he didn’t dare discount someone holding a secret grudge, one he had no way of knowing about. Yet, as thoroughly as Niall tried to sift through every possible motive, the specter of the chieftainship rose above them all.
His own family. Could one of them possibly covet it enough to eliminate him as rightful heir, to turn traitor? There were several males in direct line for the eagle feathers of clan chief—his uncle and two cousins closest of all. To add their names to the list, much less actually consider them, gouged like a dagger in Niall’s gut. But consider them he did and, gradually, one name rose above the rest.
Iain.
Who else would have better cause than Iain to see him dead? When his father had first turned ill, Niall, thanks to a faction in favor of Iain, had not so easily been chosen tanist, a position which all but guaranteed an eventual succession to the chieftainship. In the end, though, the position—which should’ve, as firstborn son of the current chief, been automatically his—had finally fallen to him. He had thought Iain had accepted it, but now he wondered. Perhaps, even after all these years, Iain was biding his time.
But his boyhood friend, gallant, courageous Iain? Niall flung aside the gnawing suspicions with a violent shake of his head.
Proof. He had no proof, and there were others. He mustn’t forget the others, like Hugh and Uncle Duncan.
But Hugh, though it was well known he coveted the chieftainship, was far too unstable to be accepted by the clan. He was also not blessed with the cleverness of wits to mastermind anything. And Duncan, though his father’s brother, a strong advisor and, after him, technically next in line for the chieftainship, might be considered too old to bring much long-term stability. But Iain … Iain was young, strong, and very capable.
Suddenly, proof or not, Niall couldn’t stand the thought of Iain near anything that was his, and that included Anne MacGregor. He growled a brief word of explanation to Duncan, then wheeled his mount around and rode back to join the pair.
He pulled up alongside Anne. Niall’s keen glance scanned both of them before finally settling on his cousin. “Yer father wishes to speak with ye. Ride ahead.”
Iain laughed. “Have a need to be with yer lady, have ye? Och, cousin, why not just come out and say it? Ye’ve never couched words so gently before.”
“Ride ahead, and no more of it!”
“M’lady.” Iain nodded to Anne then urged his mount forward.
When her blond companion was out of earshot, she turned to Niall. “Was it necessary to be so rude? He only tried to keep me company, to distract me from my sorrow.”
Niall gave a disdainful snort. “And did he now? I think, instead, he sniffs a wee too closely at what’s not his.”
Indignation surged through Anne. “Why, ye crude, churlish knave! We may be handfasted, but I’m not some piece of chattel. And I won’t abide ye telling me who I may and may not take as friend. There’ll be few of those at Kilchurn as it is.”
“Fear not, sweet lass.” Niall chuckled grimly. “I’ve already taken steps to remedy that wee shortcoming. The rider I sent ahead will notify the castle of our arrival. And I’ve ordered a feast this eve to welcome ye to the clan. So ye see, ye’ll soon have more friends than ye’ll know what to do with.”
“A . . . a feast?” Anne swallowed hard. He thinks to unsettle me. She shook her head firmly. “Pray, don’t go to such trouble for my sake. There’s no need to make pretenses ye don’t feel. It’ll fool no one, at any rate.”
Niall scowled over at her. “And I say ye mistake yerself, madam. All pretense aside, the only way ye’ll ever gain acceptance is if I first accept ye. The feast is but my way of showing that. So don’t turn up that haughty little nose of yers. It won’t endear ye at Kilchurn.”
“I don’t care—”
“And I say, don’t let fly what ye can’t call back. For better or worse, Kilchurn’s yer home, the Campbells yer people, for the next year at least. Besides,” he continued in a gentler tone, “I don’t wish ye ill. Ye saved my life, after all, and at great expense to yerself.”
“And I don’t need yer pity,” she snapped back. “It was but a point of honor that saved yer life and naught else.”
“Then attend the feast as a point of honor, for to hide in yer room would only confirm what my clan already thinks of MacGregors.”
Anne’s hands tightened about her horse’s reins. “And what might that be?”
Niall’s glance moved casually to scan the countryside. “Och, naught really. Just that MacGregors are all cowards.”
“Why, ye big, arrogant—”
“Calm yerself, lassie.” Her dark companion laughed. “Those weren’t my thoughts. I’ve certainly never doubted yer courage. I was thinking of what others might say, if ye failed to show yer face this eve.”
“I’ll be there,” Anne muttered, at last admitting defeat. “And are there any other surprises ye’ve planned tonight? If so, tell me now.”
Niall returned her glare. “Nay, no others. I’d imagine ye’ve already envisioned far worse than I could ever surprise ye with. Now, if ye’ll permit me, I’ll remove what must surely be my unpleasant presence. Will ye mind riding alone, or shall I send back one of my men?”
Anne shot Niall a contemptuous look. “Don’t concern yerself about me. Considering the choice of company, riding alone is far more to my liking.”
He grinned then signaled his mount forward. Anne watched him ride away, relief flooding her at being free of Niall Campbell’s loathsome presence. She knew she shouldn’t have spoken so harshly to him, that it was neither kind nor loving, but there was just something about him that set her teeth on edge. Something that both stirred as well as angered her . . .
To distract herself from her increasingly unsettling thoughts, Anne sought out the form of his golden-haired cousin riding up ahead. Och, she silently mourned, if only Iain had been my father’s choice. He, she could’ve come to care for. He, she could even imagine wedding at the end of this odious term of handfasting. But not so with the likes of Niall Campbell. All she could envision with him was pain and heartache. What else, indeed, could any woman expect at the hands of the legendary Wolf of Cruachan?
The rain that had held off all day began to fall. Anne pulled her cloak tightly around her to ward off the encroaching dampness, shivering even as she did. Up ahead, through the mist rising from the land, she could make out the white-capped, twin peaks of Ben Cruachan. Soon, they’d clear the last of the hills. Soon, the deep waters of Loch Awe would come into view.
Loch Awe and Castle Kilchurn, that great stone fortress of Clan Campbell. Soon it would imprison her as mercilessly as it held others out. And soon, all too soon, she must, on a daily basis, face Niall Campbell and his clan. A year suddenly seemed like an eternity.
“Here, lassie,” Old Agnes murmured soothingly as she stepped away from the tub of steaming water and bustled over to Anne, “let’s get those wet clothes off and ye into this nice warm bath. Ye don’t want to catch the ague, do ye?”
The ague, Anne thought humorlessly. Folk sometimes died if its fever and lung sickness couldn’t be controlled. It would be the answer to all her problems. She’d escape this unfriendly place and not be forced to face Niall Campbell or endure his most unwelcome presence. Aye, for once the ague seemed a welcome fate.
Numbly, Anne felt hands touch her as the old maidservant worked free the fastenings of her gown. The air of the bedchamber, though warm from a roaring hearth fire, still made her tremble when the sodden clothes finally fell away.
Agnes wrapped an arm around Anne’s shoulders, firmly guiding her to the large wooden tub. “That’s my lass,” she crooned. “Just step into this nice warm water and ye’ll soon feel better. We’ve enough time before the feast even to soap yer hair then dry it before the fire. Ye’ll look glorious when I’m through with ye, and no mistake.”
Anne obediently climbed in and sank beneath the water. As the heat gradually replaced the shuddering spasms, her eyes closed and she sighed.
A gnarled hand stroked her head. “See, lassie? Didn’t I tell ye? It’ll be all right soon enough. Now, let me wash yer hair with some of this fine soap. Doesn’t it smell heavenly?”
Anne inhaled deeply of the sweet lavender scent. The gentle, kneading motion of the maid’s fingers lulled her into a deeper and deeper state of relaxation. She sank lower into the water. It was so blissful, so comforting, Anne thought dreamily, after the tense, uncomfortable journey and arrival at Kilchurn.
The rain had continued for hours, and their party had arrived miserably soaked to the skin. Though Niall immediately hustled her upstairs to her room, insisting she get out of her clothes before she took a chill, Anne couldn’t help but notice the sullen stares and raised brows that followed them through the keep. News travels fast, she thought grimly, and bad news fastest of all.
Hostility pervaded the Great Hall as they walked across it, hounding her down the cool stone corridors, tailing her to the very door of her chamber. Only now, safely inside, the cold finally seeping from her in the gently lapping water, did Anne at last allow herself to relax. If only she didn’t ever have to leave this room . . .
All too soon, it seemed, Agnes was urging Anne from the rapidly cooling water. “Come along, lassie.” The old woman wrapped a bath sheet about Anne’s water-slick body. “Come, sit before the fire and I’ll comb out yer hair. It’ll be so lovely when it’s dried, as thick and wavy as it is. How would ye like me to dress it for the feasting?”
Anne lowered herself to the cushioned stool before the fire. She shrugged. “It’s of no import. Do with it what ye will.”
Agnes frowned. “Now, lassie, don’t talk like that. Of course it matters. Ye want to be looking as pretty as ye can for the young lord, don’t ye? It’s past time he found happiness again, and no—”
A cool gust of air halted the maidservant’s good-hearted ramblings. Both turned to the door now standing ajar. In its opening stood the tall, slim figure of a girl of about fourteen, her long, black hair wafting gently about her shoulders in the back draft of the hallway. Even from across the room, Anne could see the flashing brilliance of her turquoise eyes.
“Lady Caitlin,” Old Agnes gasped in surprise. “What brings ye here so near the feasting? Why haven’t ye dressed . . .”
The old servant’s words died as Caitlin strode across the room. She eyed Anne then sniffed disdainfully. “So, this is the wench Niall brought back from MacGregor lands. Ye’re comely enough, I’ll warrant, at least for warming my brother’s bed, but I can’t understand why he’d willingly bind himself to a MacGregor.”
As the maidservant gave a horrified “M’lady Caitlin!” Anne went rigid. Clasping the sheet to her, she rose and moved the few feet to stand before Niall’s sister. Though the girl was taller by half a head, Anne stared steadfastly up at her, returning the hostile glare with a calm one of her own.
So it begins, and I must be the one to swallow my pride and offer my hand in peace. Well, it’s no more than the Lord expects of me. Besides, she’s little more than a child.
“Aye,” Anne admitted quietly, “I’m MacGregor, and no mistake. I’ll thank ye to remember that. Otherwise, we can never be friends.”
Caitlin’s lips curled in ill-disguised contempt. “Friends? Ha!”
“Aye, friends. It’s past time for the feuding to end. Can’t it begin with us? It would set an example for all to heed.”
Surprise widened the girl’s striking blue-green eyes. For a moment, Anne thought she saw hesitation flicker there. Then something passed across them, a memory perhaps. Caitlin’s lips tightened with renewed resolve.
“Nay, it can never be. Though ye saved my brother’s life, too much has been ruined by this handfasting.” The ebony-haired girl vehemently shook her head. “Nay, I cannot be yer friend. It’s impossible!”
In a flurry of skirts and whirling tresses, Caitlin hurried from the chamber. Silence hung heavy for a time, until a fire-eaten log fell to the hearth in an explosion of wood and glowing sparks. With a deep sigh, Agnes went to shut the door, then moved to the curtained bed. She returned with a blue velvet dressing gown.
“Here, lassie,” she said as she held it open for Anne to put on, “cover yerself before ye take a chill. It’s cold enough in this castle without ye enduring the stone damp on top of it all.”
Aye, Anne mused, wrapping the dressing gown about her, the castle’s dwellers are a chill lot indeed. And each, for his own reasons, resents my presence here. Expelling a deep breath, Anne turned back to the fire’s warmth, fearing it was the last comfort she’d find in the night ahead.
A firm knock at the door interrupted Agnes. Quickly brushing the long mass of dark red curls to cascade down her mistress’s back, the old servant finished fastening the clasp of the heavy pendant necklace around Anne’s neck. Then she hurried to the door.
Anne continued to stare into the hand mirror, her pensive gaze riveted on the twinkling blue stone surrounded by its ornate silver setting. It had once been her mother’s, but that gentle lady was now dead five years past. Anne wished she was here with her now, to offer comfort and advice. Ah, how she needed both, if she was to survive this next year, and especially this most arrogant and frustrating of men!
The creak of iron hinges intruded on her musings, and Anne laid down the mirror.
“M’lord. Yer lady’s ready just this moment.”
Anne’s gaze jerked around. Tall and broad-shouldered, Niall Campbell’s powerful form filled the doorway. He now wore doublet, skintight trews that, save where the bandage bulged, molded to his hard-muscled legs, and a plaid draped across his body and over his left shoulder. A high-collared white shirt peeked from beneath the close-fitting, long-sleeved jacket. Stockings and soft heelless brogues covered his feet.
Niall moved toward her, his leg wound barely seeming to hamper him, his stride one of a lithe, confident Highland warrior. Anne swallowed hard, a strange, languid warmth flowing through her.
His eyes, though still bruised and swollen from his beating at MacGregor hands, glittered in the firelight. A curious half-smile lifted the corners of his mouth. At his bold perusal, heat flushed Anne’s cheeks. It angered her, this continued, uncharacteristic response to him.
“Are ye quite done staring at me, m’lord? If I haven’t dressed to yer satisfaction, there’s yet time to change.”
A chuckle rumbled deep within Niall’s chest. “For such a wee wisp of a lass, ye’re certainly always looking for a fight. But ye won’t get one from me.” He glanced admiringly down the length of her body. “That particular shade of pale blue does special things to yer eyes. Ye’ve dressed to my satisfaction and more.”
Warily, Anne eyed his proffered arm. “What are ye about? It isn’t time for the meal.”
“My father wishes to meet ye. 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 Campbell—the man, in the end, responsible for the long, bitter feud. The man who 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 clan’s welfare . . . its verra survival . . . now in yer hands.”
No matter her true feelings for the despicable Campbell leader, Anne knew she must mask them with courtesy and goodwill. She accepted Niall’s arm. What did one more compromise in a day beset with compromises matter?
“As ye wish, m’lord.”
The journey down the long stone corridors, their dank walls decorated with tapestries and weaponry, passed all too quickly. Before Anne knew it, 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 ye, laddie? Come closer and bring the lass with ye.”
Faded 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, 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 yer lady.”
Once Anne was settled, the older man leaned over to take her hand. “My son told me how ye saved his life, lassie. I’m forever in yer debt.”
“It was naught,” 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 of honor.”
With a small smile, she turned to the Campbell. “It’s kind of ye to say that, but it was the least I could do. After all, yer 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 ye a witch. He’s a troubled lad, my nephew. I hope ye can find it in yer heart to forgive and forget.”
“I’ll do my best, m’lord.”
He cocked his head. “And aren’t ye the sweet one? My son did well in handfasting ye. Beauty and goodness, all rolled into one delightful bundle. But then, he always was lucky with the lassies. Weren’t ye, laddie?”
“Aye, Father,” was Niall’s dispassionate reply.
The Campbell’s gaze returned to Anne. “I’m glad the feud has ended with yer joining. It went on far too long, no matter who was first to blame. It was a wise idea, yer father’s. I only wish I’d thought of it.” He paused, a troubled look darkening his features. “It’ll solve a lot of things.”
For a long moment the Campbell was silent, then, as if a sudden thought had assailed him, he grinned. He looked up at his son. “It’ll solve yer problems, too, laddie. It’s past time ye put off yer mourning and gave me a grandson. Aye, a wee bairn is 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? 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 had been forced to delegate more and more responsibility to his son, finally naming him tanist 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, and in small sips,” she instructed, struggling to contain the rage that shook her voice. “That’s the best way to soothe the catarrh.”
He swallowed half the cup’s contents before falling wearily back onto the bed. “Thank ye, lassie.”
Anne plumped the pillows behind his head and pulled up the comforter. “I’ve done naught. Tomorrow, if ye’ll allow me, I’ll brew ye a tea of lavender flowers. It’s wonderful for the catarrh.”
He smiled weakly up at her. “Och, and won’t that be a pleasant change from my physician? He gives me no relief with his endless purgatives . . . and bloodlettings. I get so verra . . . verra . . . 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. It’s time we were leaving.”
Carefully, 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?”
“It was kind of ye to treat my father so gently. Especially since I know ye must hate him as much as ye hate me.”
Anne stared up at him, aware he had yet to make his point.
“My father’s dying.”
The brutal truth of his words startled her. “Aye, that’s apparent.”
“He spits up blood most times now. There’s naught ye 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 that he died of her ministrations.
He shook his head. “Nay, ye can’t, lass. I want ye to stay away from my father with yer potions.” His grip tightened painfully on her arm. “Do ye hear me? Do ye 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 hands clenched into tight little fists. Well, what did she expect?
She glared up at Niall with burning, reproachful eyes. “Have it yer way, m’lord. Yer unfair suspicions will only make yer father suffer and hasten his death, but then, mayhap ye cannot wait to claim yer chieftainship. And what should it matter to me? One Campbell is as bad as another!”
With a flounce of her hair, Anne turned to go. Before she had taken her first step, however, Niall’s ice-rimed voice halted her in her tracks.
“Don’t walk away from me, madam,” he growled. “I haven’t finished with ye yet.”