As Anne’s nimble fingers plucked its strings, soft, lilting notes rose from the clarsach. The resultant melody, however, fell on unheeding ears. Her thoughts were far away, flitting over rain-drenched loch and mountains to a place called Glenstrae. She stared out at the leaden landscape, her somber gaze following the torrents of water relentlessly pelting the earth. Was it raining just as long and hard on MacGregor lands?
Anne sighed and laid down her harp. It had been well over a month now since she had left her home. Relegated to a life among a hostile people, she found that little had happened to change her initial expectations. True, she had found friends, but Iain was gone and the Campbell was dying. And her relationship with Niall Campbell, what little had developed from their mutual debt of each other’s lives, seemed slowly to be deteriorating.
They hardly saw each other of late. The Campbell tanist rarely found time even to make it to the evening meal and, for the past week, had been far from the castle itself. From this very window Anne had, on that mist-shrouded morn seven days ago, watched Niall and his warriors depart in pursuit of a band of reivers who had burned several Campbell crofts and murdered the inhabitants. Seven long, lonely days without even the consolation of knowing that somewhere on the castle grounds was a tall, dark, unsettling man.
A mocking grimace twisted Anne’s lips. Dear Lord, help me, she thought, lifting her heart heavenward. The solitude’s beginning to turn me into some love-besotted fool! Is it possible? Is this the man You’ve finally chosen for me?
She shook her head in disbelief. This couldn’t be love. True, Niall Campbell was brave, strong, and revered by his men, but those weren’t reasons enough for the small, needing ache she felt whenever she thought of him. Why, they hardly knew each other!
Anne paused. Aye, she hardly knew him. Still, the brief glimpses of his deeper side, those times he had revealed a bit of that raw wound of his wife’s loss, filled her with an inexplicable yearning to know more about him. Niall Campbell was a man like any other, and yet he was like no man she had ever met.
With a snort of disgust, she rose from the window seat and grabbed up her heavy cloak. It was boredom—and naught more—driving her to such romantically melancholy thoughts. There was still much about the man she didn’t know. She must stop placing so much value on the little she did know of him. And she must never forget all the damage Niall Campbell had wreaked on the MacGregors in the fearsome guise of the Wolf of Cruachan.
What she needed was a change of scenery. Old Ena would be in her hut, huddled before her fire for comfort from the bone-chilling dampness. There was sure to be a welcome there.
A timid knock halted her. Anne’s glance swung to her bedchamber’s thick oaken door. Who could it be? If it was Agnes, the servant woman wouldn’t sway her from her determination to visit Ena. Squaring her shoulders, she headed toward the door.
Instead of her maidservant, a small lad stood there. It was Davie, one of the Campbell’s personal servants.
“Aye, laddie.” Anne smiled down at him. “What is it?”
He swallowed a nervous laugh. “Th-the Campbell, ma’am. He wishes yer presence.”
Anne tossed her cloak onto a nearby bench. “Then lead on, Davie.”
The boy hesitated, his gaze scanning the room. “Er, m’lord wishes ye to bring yer clarsach. He’s a need for some music to lighten the day.”
“Och, and does he now?” As she walked back to the window for her harp, a soft smile lit Anne’s face. Despite her intentions to the contrary, she and the Campbell had grown close of late. Her initial impression had indeed been accurate. Unlike his enigmatic son, the father was open, warm, and sincerely seemed to enjoy her company.
In the social isolation of the past month, Anne had been surprised to discover how deep ran her need to be of service, to interact with others. She was well aware of her calling to heal, but the strength of that drive, the spiraling ache deep in her gut when she found her natural instincts to be with others so stymied by Niall Campbell’s well-intentioned if misguided constraints, was disconcerting. There were times she feared she might go mad from the pain. A slow death, indeed, and far worse than any fate the Campbell tanist might imagine for her.
With a determined shake of her head, Anne flung the disquieting thoughts aside. Her mind had been made a long while ago; it was only guilt at her deception that pulled her back, time and again, to the same pointless reflections. Pointless, as were her tumultuous feelings for Niall Campbell.
“Come, lad.” Anne paused before Davie. “Yer master awaits.”
The Campbell sat in a huge English chair, his feet propped on a stool, his arms comfortably padded with pillows. His pensive gaze was riveted out the window. At the sound of Anne’s entry, he turned. A smile brightened his pale face.
He motioned to her. “Come, lass. An old man requires a bit of cheer on such a gloomy day.”
Anne smiled as she lowered herself into the chair Davie pulled over for her. “On such a day, what cheers ye cheers me, m’lord.” She positioned the clarsach on her lap. “And what ballad would ye hear? Yer favorite—the Douglas tragedy?”
“Aye, lassie, but wait a bit. I want to talk.” The Campbell’s eyes strayed to where Davie sat on his stool by the door. “Fetch me a bowl of Maudie’s cock-a-leekie soup from the kitchen, laddie. And a goblet of claret.”
He glanced at Anne. “And ye, lass? Have ye eaten yer midday meal?”
Anne shook her head. “Nay, m’lord, but I’ll see to my hunger later. I much prefer visiting with ye.”
He grinned, then waved Davie from the room. His smile faded. “The old woman … Ena’s her name, is it not? Niall told me ye visit her often.”
Uneasiness rippled through Anne. “Aye, that I do, m’lord. She’s harmless enough.”
The Campbell frowned. “She’s thought by some to be a witch. It isn’t wise to be seen associating with her, lassie.”
Anne stared at him for a long moment. “I find no harm in Ena. She’s a good, gentle, God-fearing woman. Are ye ordering me to stay away?”
“Nay, lassie.” He took her hand. “I’ve no wish to deny ye yer friends.” The Campbell eyed her closely. “It isn’t Niall’s desire to make ye unhappy, either. He has spoken to me about his decision to forbid yer healing arts in Kilchurn. As hard as it may seem, his choice is wise. Mayhap someday, when things are more stable, but not now. My clan’s superstitious, and the witch law . . .”
Anne laughed wryly. “Och, well I know about that. Yer son constantly reminds me of the witch panic. But I’m a healer. And I’ve already learned much from Ena that can help all.”
He arched a graying brow. “Have ye, now? Is a cure for the consumption mayhap part of that knowledge?”
“Nay, m’lord.” She smiled sadly. “But if ye ever have the dropsy . . .”
The Campbell chuckled. “Och, lassie, ye brighten my lonely days. My children love me, but I see them so little of late. With Niall forced to take over the chieftainship in all but name—as well he should—and my Caitlin spending most of her time visiting the MacArthurs and the rest of it mooning over the MacArthur heir, well, it seems life itself is slowly stealing them from me.”
He paused to shift to a more comfortable position in his chair. “Aye, they’re both good and faithful children, but life must go on, and a sickroom’s a gloomy place.” Robert squeezed her hand. “But ye, lass, ye come here every day and spend hours with me.”
“I don’t mind, m’lord. I value yer friendship—”
“And ye’ve found few friends in Kilchurn,” he finished for her. Bright blue eyes studied her closely. “What of Niall? Have ye two grown close? I’d hoped for a grandson before I died.”
Anne flushed. “M’lord . . .”
“Och, lassie, I’m sorry.” He engulfed her hand between two of his own. “Forgive an old man’s meddling. It’s naught but an honest concern for yer happiness—and that of my son.”
“I doubt our handfasting brings yer son much happiness, m’lord. It seems all we ever do is fight. And there are even times when I think he must despise me, for he never calls me by my given name.” She shook her head and frowned. “Truly, I don’t understand it.”
“There’s a simple enough explanation, lassie.” The Campbell released her hand to lean back in his chair. “Niall’s first wife was named Anne. Mayhap it’s still too painful for him to speak her name.”
Anne straightened in surprise. “I didn’t know, m’lord.” At every turn, despite her determination to view Niall Campbell as a hard, heartless villain, he instead proved himself a man of deeply felt emotions.
In spite of her resolve to keep her perspective regarding Niall Campbell, Anne couldn’t help wanting to hear more. “He told me little of his wife. If I knew more of her, mayhap it’d ease my understanding.”
A faraway light shone in the old man’s eyes. “She was a Stewart
lass. Niall loved her from the first time he set sight upon her. It was at a ceilidh one winter’s evening. The Stewart chief had come for a meeting and brought his family. To honor him, I’d ordered the traditional gathering of singers and musicians. Och, what a fine evening it was, with the storytelling, rousing music, and dancing.”
He glanced at Anne. “But I ramble in my tale. She was a bonnie lass, Annie Stewart was, her hair of palest gold, her form as sweet and lush as a summer-ripened peach, her nature of the gentlest kind. Niall was devoted to her, and she to him. Yet their love, it seemed, was not sufficient to overcome the cruel fate that dogged Annie’s childbearing. In the eight years they were wed, she miscarried three bairns, finally dying in the bearing of the fourth, a stillborn son. Her death almost destroyed Niall.”
“And I, because my name’s the same, constantly remind him of his beloved wife.” An unexpectedly savage pain slashed through Anne. Niall’s first wife was everything she wasn’t—meek, gentle, delicately feminine—and Niall had loved her madly.
“I didn’t tell this to discourage ye, lassie.”
The Campbell’s deep voice intruded on Anne’s pensive musings. Startled, she turned back to him. “Wh-what did ye say, m’lord?”
“Ye must have patience with him. Someday Niall will allow himself to love again, and that lass will be the most fortunate woman in the world. It could well be ye, Annie.”
“Nay, that’ll never be!” She shook her head vehemently. “We’ve naught in common save the battleground of our opposite opinions. He never even wanted to handfast with me. He only tolerates my presence as a clan necessity.”
“Nonetheless, there’s something growing between ye. Even I can see it.”
Struggling to contain her sudden swell of hope, Anne could only stare at him. “Nay, it’s not true,” she finally managed to say. “Yer affection for me only clouds yer perception of the situation. Ye see what ye want, not what is.”
He wagged a silencing finger, an affectionate smile on his lips. “Wheesht, lassie. I know my son. And, one way or another, time will tell. I only hope to live long enough to see that happy day.” Once again, Robert shifted in his chair. “Now, I’ve a need for a song. Play the one ye spoke of. Play for me, lassie, and have patience.”
For a long moment Anne fought the impulse to deny once more the content of Robert Campbell’s words, as if in the doing she could bury the persistent hope his words had stirred. Her gaze turned toward the narrow slash of window across the room.
The rain had ceased sometime during their talk. A furtive ray of light escaped the clouds to find entry through the window. Like some happy portent after the long days of gloom, it illuminated the chamber, bathing it in golden radiance. Like the promise of happiness at the end of a terrible sorrow, Anne thought in rising joy, if only one could first weather the storm. If only one had the patience, the love, to persevere . . .
She picked up the clarsach and strummed the opening chords, a smile on her lips. “Patience ye say, m’lord? That I have aplenty.”
The Campbell sighed, a look of peace on his face, as Anne began to sing.
Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas, she says
And put on yer armor so bright;
Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
Was married to a lord under night.
Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
And put on yer armor so bright,
And take better care of yer youngest sister,
For yer eldest’s away the last night . . .
Niall strode down the long corridor leading to his father’s room. He had only just now returned from a week’s pursuit of the reivers, and he was wet, cold, and hungry.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the fantasy of sinking into a hot bath and cleansing the filth from his body, of imbibing a glass or two of a fine claret. He could almost taste the dry red wine, imagine how the liquid would course down his throat to spread its sweet, mellow warmth throughout his body. Then he sighed. No matter how pressing his own needs, his first duty was to his father, who’d be awaiting a report of the expedition.
To a man, the reivers had been caught and hanged, but the effort had cost him two good lads, not to mention a varied assortment of wounds on several others. His hand rose to the ragged slash winding its way from his left temple to his jaw line. The outlaw leader, a huge bear of a man, had left his mark just before Niall had run him through with his claymore.
A grim smile twisted his lips. The slight movement tugged painfully at his wound. Niall ignored it. Another scar was small payment for the safety of the clan and far less than the life price he had exacted from his opponent. He’d have to take care, though, or he’d soon be so marred of feature Anne wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of him.
Anne. Unbidden, her silver eyes flashed through his mind, followed swiftly by the vision of her finely sculpted features and slimly rounded form. How many times in the past week had his thoughts turned to her? And how many times had he jerked himself from the recollection only to find his breathing heavy and labored?
The restless yearnings had been with him almost constantly in the past few days. Aye, it had finally come to this. With a force that amazed him still, his need for a woman had returned—and the woman he needed was Anne MacGregor.
A sweet voice, accompanied by a harp, floated down the hall. Niall halted. It was Anne, singing to his father.
The melody flowed over him like a soothing balm. Once again, Niall grew warm with desire. With a low oath, he shook the languid feeling from him. By mountain and sea, the woman could stir him with but the sound of her voice!
A lad rounded the corner. Niall halted in the shadowed hallway. As he watched, Davie knocked on the door to Robert Campbell’s room.
The singing ceased, and a minute later the door swung open. Anne’s flame-dark head peeked through. When she saw the boy, she smiled.
“Aye, laddie? Do ye wish to see yer master?”
Davie shook his head and shyly held up his right hand. “Nay, m’lady. It’s my hand. I spilled hot soup on it. Cook said ye’ve knowledge of healing and asked if ye’d tend it.”
Anne stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. She took Davie’s small hand in hers. The skin on the back was reddened and beginning to blister. A simple poultice of nettle tea would alleviate the pain of the burn, and then . . .
She stopped. Niall had forbidden her to treat anyone in the castle. Up until this moment, she had obeyed him in that at least. Of course, until Davie, no one had asked for her assistance. That didn’t lessen her obligation, however, to obey in thought if not in deed. It was just so hard to turn from someone in need.
“Please, m’lady.” Davie’s voice was taut with pain. “It hurts so. Isn’t there aught ye can do?”
Anne chewed on her lower lip. Why was the act of healing, that she knew to be good and right, suddenly so hard to carry out? Because Niall Campbell had asked her not to? Because she didn’t want to hurt him, or cause him further trouble? Well, it wasn’t reason enough to ignore Davie’s plight.
She released the boy’s hand. “Come to my room in five minute’s time. I’ll see to yer hand as soon as I take my leave of yer master. And, laddie—” Anne stayed Davie as he turned to go—“for yer sake as well as mine, no one’s ever to know. Do I have yer word on it?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“Good.” Anne stepped back into the room and closed the door.
Niall watched until the boy once more rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The long-dreamt-of sight of Anne, bent over Davie’s small hand, her beautiful features glowing with kindness and concern, filled him with a possessive pride. He could almost imagine her in the same role, examining the hand of one of their own children.
He caught himself. It didn’t matter what his dreams were for the future. Reality was too harsh, too potentially dangerous to ignore. Anne had lied when she had said she’d not heal in Kilchurn.
A spiraling rage grew inside him. Despite his requests to the contrary, she stubbornly refused to listen. Still, he hadn’t the heart to deny the wee lad his healing, no matter how long Anne had been disobeying him in this.
Niall ran a hand across his jaw, stirring anew the raw, burning pain of his wound—and the memory of his concern over how its appearance would affect Anne. Fool! he derided himself fiercely. While ye waste precious time mooning over her, she’s been going about her business of scorning yer requests and flaunting them in yer face. Not only does the woman have no feelings for ye, but she actively seeks to undermine all ye’ve tried to build toward peace between Campbell and MacGregor.
As he stood there, impotently fuming, the door opened once more and Anne slipped through. Niall watched her walk away, well aware her destination was her own room, her purpose the healing of little Davie. With the greatest of efforts, he stilled the impulse to go after her. He couldn’t risk his father hearing them. This issue was Anne’s and his alone.
A sudden thought assailed him. Did the Campbell know? Despite the discussion he’d had with his father, had Anne managed to extract permission all the same? The possibility angered Niall, but at the same time it offered him hope that she hadn’t completely disregarded his requests, only chose to obey a higher authority.
But, no, it wasn’t possible. Anne had been far too quick to step outside his father’s chamber when Davie had shown her his hand, closing the door carefully behind her. Those were not the actions of a person with the Campbell’s permission.
All thoughts of a pleasant interlude with Anne after the meeting with his father fled. He was far too angry to face her. If he saw her now, if she even dared give him one of those defiant little smiles, Niall feared he might lose control. And, when it came to a beguiling MacGregor liar, self-control was about all he had left.
“A flagon! Bring me another flagon and be quick about it!” Niall shouted to the servant standing watch nearby.
The man scurried in the direction of the kitchen. Niall turned back to his glass. With an exaggerated flourish, he emptied the last dregs of claret into his goblet, then threw the empty metal flagon aside. He stared at the glass, swirling the ruby liquid so hard it sloshed over the sides to course down his hand.
Blood, Niall thought, his bleary gaze following the sticky rivulets until they mingled with the hairy expanse of his arm. It might as well be his own blood he was spilling, for all that MacGregor wench cared. One way or another, she was slowly tearing him apart.
The servant hurried over with a fresh flagon. With a low growl, Niall snatched it from him. He downed the remainder of claret in his glass, then refilled it from the new vessel. He had been drinking for hours. Why couldn’t he drown the painful memories? It had always worked before.
But now the liquor coursing through his veins only stirred him until he felt aflame with desire. Desire for a woman who flagrantly disobeyed him, who mocked his every attempt at friendship . . . at tenderness.
Niall emptied his goblet in one long swallow, heedless of the wine dribbling from the sides of his mouth to spatter onto his white linen shirt. She doesn’t care. The thought was like a knife twisting in his gut, but instead of blood, rage poured out.
She didn’t care that he had tried every way he knew to be kind, to ease her way with his clan. She didn’t care that she tempted him, set his blood afire. He sat here, drinking himself into oblivion, and she felt nothing.
The fury within him burgeoned to explosive proportions, stirring him from his drunken lethargy. He staggered to his feet. Why should he be the only one who suffered? Let Anne experience some of the gut-wrenching torment of unfulfilled passion. It wouldn’t change anything, but at least it would ease his pain. And she’d never again be safe in her self-absorbed little world.
The servants slunk away as Niall staggered across the hall. He saw nothing, all his powers of concentration centered on the corridor at the head of the stairs. A corridor that led to a bedchamber wherein waited a beauteous, heartless witch.
Anne lifted her gaze from the intricate flowers she was attempting to embroider on the hem of the crimson silk gown. She glanced at Agnes, who was intently working a smaller version of the same pattern at the gown’s neckline. Since her return from the Campbell’s room, how many hours had they been sewing now? Surely it must be close to time for the evening meal.
The evening meal. At the contemplation of seeing Niall this eve, a warm glow suffused her. Agnes had lost no time in informing Anne of his arrival late this afternoon, though he had yet to visit her.
For a fleeting instant Anne wondered why he hadn’t taken even a brief moment to stop by and greet her, but then she banished the thought as unreasonable. Niall was tanist. After a week’s absence, he had many responsibilities demanding his immediate attention.
The evening meal would be time enough to see him.
With a sigh, Anne shrugged her shoulders to ease the stiffness brought on by hunching over the small pattern of flowers, then critically surveyed the results of her work. The satin stitch of the leaves and petals was lumpy, the running line of the stem unevenly spaced, but the flowers’ colors were a bright contrast against the crimson fabric. If one didn’t look closely, the embroidery didn’t appear too badly done. Not bad at all, Anne mused dryly, if one was cross-eyed, half-blind, and besotted with drink.
“It’ll get easier with practice, lassie,” Agnes offered, apparently noting Anne’s disgusted scowl. “And the Lady Caitlin isn’t too handy with the needle, either. I doubt she’ll see past the fine color and fabric of the dress herself.”
Anne laid aside her portion of the gown and rose. With a small yawn, she lifted her arms in a stretch. “I hope so, Agnes. I want this gown to be a token of peace between us. I’m at wit’s end in trying to make friends with Caitlin.” She shook her head in dismay. “Why, I’ve never seen a more stubborn, unfriendly child in all my life!”
“Give her time, lassie. Little Caitlin’s fast growing into a young woman and has her own cares of the heart.” Agnes frowned. “The young lord seems sore beset with cares of late, as well. I haven’t seen him turn so oft to the bottle. Why, no sooner had he returned this afternoon than he was downing one glass of wine after another.”
At the worried look Anne shot her, the old servant nodded solemnly. “Aye, lass. I passed him in the Great Hall only an hour ago, and he was still in his cups, glaring so fiercely none dared approach him.” Agnes chuckled. “Well, no matter. He’ll pay the price for his foolishness on the morrow.”
Agnes cocked an inquiring brow. “If ye’ll forgive an old woman’s curiosity, how do things go with ye and the young lord? I know I overstep myself in asking, but I care for ye both and—”
“We’re barely friends.” A bright flush spread across Anne’s cheeks. Holy saints and martyrs, first Robert Campbell and now Agnes! Why did everyone seem so interested in her and Niall’s relationship today? Were her own thoughts so transparent?
She walked over to gaze out the window. “Ye see better than most how little time he spends with me, the conflict between us. There’s naught worth discussing about Niall Campbell and me.”
“Aye, yer words are true, but even so I see that old fire, that fire he had for his first wife, flaring to life again.” The maidservant came up behind Anne and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And it’s ye, lassie, ye and no other, who’ve stirred that fire anew. Does that please ye?”
“Please me?” Anne caught a glimpse of the first star twinkling in the night’s dark expanse. “What woman wouldn’t find the attention of a man such as Niall Campbell pleasing? For all his blustering male bravado, he can be as kind and gentle as—”
The bedchamber door swung open, slamming with a loud thud against the stone wall. Anne and Agnes jumped then whirled around. There, striding into the room, his face flushed and eyes over-bright, was Niall.
He was dressed in snug-fitting trews, and his wine-stained linen shirt hung loosely open to expose a glimpse of his strong chest and muscled abdomen. His dark mane was disheveled and, when he moved toward them, his gait was just the slightest bit unsteady.
That he was besotted was evident to Anne. When his piercing gaze found her, a small tremor shuddered through her. The light that burned in his eyes was feral and cold.
Niall beckoned her forward. “So, there ye are, my rebellious little MacGregor. Don’t hide so in the shadows. It won’t help yer plight or lessen yer well-deserved punishment. Come here, I say.”
Anne glanced at Agnes, searching for some sign of how to deal with this new aspect of Niall Campbell. Eyes wide in apprehension, Agnes stared blankly back.
“I grow tired of waiting, madam.” His ominous voice cut through the air. “Yer disobedience only adds fuel to my anger. Don’t make me come to ye.”
Strange that the wine didn’t slur his voice, Anne thought for a brief, disjointed moment. He was still completely in command, his tone unyielding and imperative. To prolong the confrontation would be worse than unwise. It would be foolhardy.
Anne gave Agnes’s arm a parting squeeze. “Go now. It isn’t fitting ye be witness to our personal differences.”
Agnes hesitated. “But, lassie . . .”
“Nay, no more of it.” Anne gently pushed her toward the door. “I’ll be all right.”
With one last, uncertain look, the old woman made her way across the room and out the main door.
Anne watched her go, then turned to face Niall. “We’re quite alone now, m’lord.” She met his furious glare with a steady one of her own. “Pray, what’s my crime to warrant such churlish behavior?”
A fierce oath on his lips, Niall reached her side in two swift strides. He grasped Anne by the waist, pulling her to him. A glittering fire lit his eyes to darkest gold, but Anne’s glance barely lingered there.
Her gaze riveted on the wound traversing the left side of his face. Who had dared hurt him so? Her hand moved toward the jagged cut. Niall jerked his head away. He grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back.
“Ye’ve mocked me one time too many,” he snarled, his wine-scented breath engulfing her in a warm, heady cloud. “Yer punishment’s long overdue. But before I lock ye in the tower, I plan first to have my rightful taste of ye.”