Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(2)



The tent formed the basis of their plan. They'd been scouting the area for a few days from the safety of the forested hill of Duniquoich overlooking the castle and village to come up with a way to create a distraction. When the tent went up, Patrick knew he'd found it.

After Alasdair won the contest, he would give the signal by removing his hood to reveal his bonnet trimmed with a sprig of pine, Giuthas nam mòr-shliabh, the badge of the MacGregors. Then Patrick and Gregor would knock down the poles erected to hold up the canvas tent. Normally, it would take more than one man to knock over each of the substantial wood posts, but he and Gregor had unusual— or, as his cousin like to jest, inhuman—strength.

As soon as the tent was down, a handful of MacGregor guardsmen waiting in the forest would send a barrage of arrows toward the castle, raising the cry of an attack. Disturbing the peace of the games was a great offense and a serious breach of Highland custom and tradition, but Patrick figured that since it wasn't a real attack, their clan honor— what was left of it, anyway—was intact.

With the crowd rushing to get to the safety of the keep through the barmkin gate, the stables and horses would be cut off. Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos, the three of them would make for the forest, where a handful of their men were waiting with horses to enable their speedy escape. Certainly they would be followed, but once they were in the trees and hills, the MacGregors had the advantage.

They were used to being hunted.

From his position, Patrick had a clear vantage point of the line of archers readying to take their first shots at the butts— the targets fixed to the mounds of earth. All that was left to do was wait and watch. With each round the risk would grow, as the crowd's curiosity grew about the skilled stranger. Once his cousin pushed back his hood, there wouldn't be much time.

Until then, it was important that he do nothing to draw attention to himself. One false move …

He glanced over at the small rise a short distance from the castle, a wooden structure just peeking through the gray mist. The infamous executioner's hill. All three of them could be hanging from the Campbells’ well-used gallows by sundown.

As the competition got under way, the boisterousness of the crowd increased with the flow of ale. One group of men in particular was difficult to ignore. Patrick recognized the man with the loudest voice as John Montgomery, brother to the Earl of Eglinton. The earl was rumored to be seeking an alliance with Argyll to garner influence in his deadly feud with the Cunninghams.

Apparently there was truth to the rumor. From what he could tell, Montgomery had recently become betrothed to Elizabeth Campbell, Argyll's cousin and sister to both Campbell of Auchinbreck and Argyll's Henchman, Jamie Campbell. And from the unflattering remarks offered by her betrothed, if the lass weren't a Campbell, Patrick would almost feel sorry for her. She must have a stammer because they referred to her pejoratively as Elizabeth Monntach, Stammering Elizabeth.

“But I thought you intended to wed the fair Bianca?” one of the men said. “The Campbell mouse will surely pale in comparison.”

“She's pretty enough. For an alliance with the Earl of Argyll I'd wed a horse missing half its teeth,” Montgomery replied defensively.

A hearty round of laughter ensued.

“But what about conversation?” another man asked. “A-a-ren't y-o-o-u w-w-worried that it will take all day to get past ‘Good morrow’?”

Patrick could tell from Montgomery's reaction that the other man's jest embarrassed him, but Montgomery masked his discomfort with crudeness. “I'll just have to keep her mouth busy with other things.”

The ribald humor found an appreciative audience as the other men snickered.

Asses. Doing his best to ignore them, Patrick glanced down at the field, noting that the number of competitors had lessened to only a handful, including, among others, Alasdair, Rory MacLeod, and the Campbell Henchman. He hoped to hell his cousin was being careful. Jamie Campbell was a formidable enemy—more dangerous than even his cousin the earl. Thankfully, Alasdair was on the opposite side and had yet to attract the Henchman's notice. But as the field of play narrowed …

Patrick caught Gregor's eye from across the way and nodded at him to be ready.

Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the field, he caught sight of a young woman making her way through the south barmkin gate toward the tent. He didn't know what it was about her that drew his eye—perhaps the lightness of her step or the tentative smile on her face that he could just make out beneath the hood of her cloak. She seemed so young and carefree, practically bubbling with excitement. But there was an uncertainty to her expression—as if she were not accustomed to the feeling— that made his gaze linger.

He glanced back to the competition, saw that his cousin had moved on to the next round, and then inexplicably his gaze turned back to the lass. From the richness of her clothing, he knew she must be of considerable fortune. He could see glimpses of a court gown beneath a fine, dark blue velvet cloak—the edges of which were embroidered with jewels. But she was a tiny thing and seemed to drown in the wide skirts and layers of heavy fabric.

She was heading right for him, and as she drew closer, he had a better look at the face beneath the hood.

Big blue eyes dominated an elfin countenance that was older than he'd first assumed—at least a few years past twenty. But it was her eyes that startled him, so light and crystal clear as to almost seem unreal. She was fair, with pale skin, slight features, and a delicate pink mouth. He couldn't see the color of her hair tucked up in the hood, but he would guess it was light. She wasn't beautiful precisely, or even striking, but pretty in a quiet, understated way that he found strangely arresting. It was the type of face that grew more beautiful on study. The tilt of her head, the view of a profile, could bring an entirely new perspective and appreciation.

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