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  Walking into the inn, they met two people with opposite expressions. The innkeeper was all smiles, welcoming Campbell and Isabelle’s breasts, for he never once looked at her face. The woman next to him, whom Isabelle guessed must be his wife, wrung her hands on her apron and regarded Isabelle with narrow eyes.

  “She can stay in the stable wi’ the other animals,” said the woman, pointing a red, pudgy finger at Isabelle.

  “Wheesht!” hushed her husband. “Any friend of Campbell’s is welcome here.” He gave Campbell a licentious wink.

  Campbell sighed and rubbed his forehead, the worry lines appearing deeper than ever. “I require a hearty repast and a fresh horse. This young miss has become lost and separated from her escort. She requires safe passage back to England.”

  “She be English?” the woman innkeeper shrieked. Even her husband raised an eyebrow before hustling his wife back to the kitchens. Isabelle swallowed hard, and her stomach took an unhappy roll. She followed Campbell blindly to a table in the corner, keeping her eyes down so as not to see the looks of the other patrons.

  The innkeeper returned, spoke quietly to Campbell and provided food and drink to the table. Isabelle ate, but the food was tasteless in her mouth. From the way Campbell shoveled food into his mouth it was clear he was either very hungry or had no desire to linger either.

  “I am a God-fearing woman and I’ll no’ have that English tart served!” The loud rant of the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen could be clearly heard in the main room.

  “Hush yerself, woman. If Campbell wants to keep a lightskirt he is welcome to it.”

  “But he is no’ welcome to bring her here. This is a decent inn, Nigel. See her gone!”

  The Nigel in question came hustling back to the table, a tight smile on his face. “Is everything well here? Aye? I can see this young thing to the borders myself.” He looked down the front of her gown. “Indeed I can.”

  Isabelle covered her exposed cleavage with a hand and flashed her eyes at Campbell. She wanted to get to Bewcastle, but she feared she would get no farther than the hayloft of the barn with this man.

  “We will be traveling on, thank ye for yer hospitality. I require a cloak for the lady.”

  “Ye go on together? No need. No need. I will care for her, aye, I will.”

  “She will no’ stay. A cloak is what we need.”

  “Cloak?” The man frowned. “Nay, I have none.” He folded his arms across his chest in a gesture reminiscent of a spoiled child not getting what he wanted.

  Campbell stood up, towering over the man. “A horse and a cloak.” His voice was low and there was an edge to it.

  “Y-yes, sir,” the man stammered and ran away.

  Isabelle stood and put her hand on Campbell’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

  Within minutes Isabelle was clothed in a wool cloak, old but serviceable. Campbell chose a fresh horse to replace the one he left with the inn, and they were on their way. Despite the angry frowns of both the innkeeper and his lady, Campbell lifted Isabelle up into his lap. It was not decent, and Isabelle flushed at being handled such, but it was also a sign of acceptance and she was glad for it.

  “Thank you for not leaving me there,” breathed Isabelle.

  “English. Naught but trouble.” His words were hardly comforting, but his tone was soft and his arm around her waist was warm and secure.

  The sun was low on the horizon as they continued down the road on their journey. Campbell gently rested her head against his chest. “Get some sleep as ye can. We ride all night.”

  Isabelle considered protesting but leaned against him instead. The gentle sway of the horse lulled her to close her eyes and wish Sir David Campbell was not quite so much a Scot, and she was not quite so much married.

  Six

  Dundaff Castle, Scotland

  “Rouse yerself, sweetling. Ye’ve been summoned by Laird Graham.”

  Gavin Patrick yawned and opened one eye at his mother. “Why?”

  “I dinna ken, but it must be important. Lady Graham is wi’ him.”

  “Lady Graham?” Gavin sat up in bed. “What does that auld battle-ax want wi’ me?”

  “Wheesht now! I’ve no’ taught ye to speak so. We are much indebted to the Grahams and well ye ken it.”

  “Aye, Mother,” said Gavin sheepishly.

  Mary gave Gavin one of her no-nonsense, get-your-arse-out-of-bed looks and swept from the room. Gavin grumbled in response, but moved quickly and dressed in some of his finest for such an audience. His mother, Lady Mary, and his stepfather, Sir Chaumont, met him at the entrance to the great hall.

  “Ye look verra braw,” his mother beamed up at him. “Happy nineteenth birthday, my dearest.”

  “Thank ye, Mother.”

  Chaumont clapped him on the back with a smile. “Ready to find out what the old battle-ax has planned for you?” he asked in his faint French accent.

  “Chaumont!” protested his wife.

  Chaumont gave her a winning smile and a cocky wink and led them into the great hall. The great hall of Dundaff Castle was as impressive as the castle itself. Brightly colored tapestries lined the walls showing vibrant scenes of battles and hunts. On the raised dais, Laird Graham sat in a high-backed chair next to his wife. He was a large man, his round face tanned and wrinkled. He had been a renowned fighter in his day. Many years ago Chaumont, then a landless French knight, had saved Graham’s life. In appreciation, Graham adopted Chaumont as a foster son.

  “Come, come, my son,” boomed the loud voice of Laird Graham. “Many returns o’ the day, Gavin my lad.”

  “Thank ye,” replied Gavin and gave a bow to the stout laird of Dundaff Castle.

  “Many returns o’ the day, Master Gavin,” said Lady Graham. She sat beside her husband, drenched in fur.

  Gavin was careful to provide his lowest and most dignified bow to avoid Lady Graham’s quick temper should she consider herself slighted.

  “Well now, Gavin, seems ye’ve grown to be a man and I’m sure ye’ve been thinking on taking a wife,” said Laird Graham in a jovial tone.

  Gavin’s breath caught in his throat. He had been thinking no such thing.

  “Ye need no’ concern yerself anymore, we have made you a most eligible match,” continued Graham.

  “One of Laird Campbell’s own sisters,” Lady Graham purred with delight.

  “Lady Caitrina Campbell to be exact. She’ll be coming soon for the wedding. Are ye no’ surprised?”

  Gavin stared at Laird and Lady Graham. Surprise could not do justice to his feelings. Married? Now? Campbell and a few of his brothers had visited Dundaff a few weeks ago, but no one had spoken to Gavin of marriage. Had his mother and Chaumont been part of this plot? One glance at their startled faces told him they had not.

  Chaumont was the first to recover. “You have surprised us beyond measure.”

  “Indeed, we have taken great pains to see to yer comfort. Let me assure ye that Lady Campbell comes wi’ a generous dowry. I saw to the negotiations myself,” said Lady Graham with pride.

  Graham gave his wife a broad smile. “Poor Campbell ne’er had a chance against my lady wife.”

  Gavin knew how he felt. His gaze flitted from Lord Graham to Lady Graham to the tips of his leather boots. It wasn’t that he did not wish to be married… eventually. It was just that he had planned to have some adventures first, maybe even choose his own bride.

  Lady Graham’s smile faded and she gave Gavin a hard look. “Why is the lad silent?” she asked Laird Graham in a loud voice. “Why is he no’ thanking us?”

  Gavin shot a pleading look to Chaumont. One that hopefully conveyed the message, Help, save me!

  Chaumont caught Gavin’s eye and put his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for your generosity. But Gavin here is of the MacLaren clan. I warrant we should consult with Laird MacLaren bef
ore we settle on the lad’s nuptials.”

  “I have already spoken with my daughter and MacLaren about the matter,” said Lady Graham in an arch tone as if they should be grateful she was condescending enough to explain the matter. “She assured me they had made no previous arrangements for Gavin’s bride.”

  “MacLaren told me I need no’ trouble myself,” said Graham. “But it was no trouble at all for ye, my good lad. He gave permission for ye to wed where’er ye please.”

  “Yer bride should be arriving in a few days. I wanted to have some time to train her before ye wed,” said Lady Graham with a self-satisfied grin.

  Gavin gave Lady Graham a shrewd look. It was all becoming clear. Lady Graham was not as interested in a wife for Gavin as in a chatelaine and personal servant for herself. Gavin was determined to get out of this, but how?

  “I thank ye both for this most unexpected surprise, but I… but I…” Gavin struggled to find the words he wanted to say without seeming terribly offensive. Despite his reticence, he was not unaware that a marriage into the Campbell family, to one of the laird’s own sisters, was quite an eligible match. Gavin had no title and only a modest farm on MacLaren land to call his own. Marrying a Campbell would indeed be an advantageous connection.

  “I wish to prove myself, to earn my spurs before I take a wife,” finished Gavin. There now, that didn’t sound half bad.

  “And so ye shall, my lad,” said Graham in his booming voice, the smile returning to his face. “And right ye should.”

  Lady Graham was mollified. “Ye may take a few years if ye like. Lady Campbell will arrive soon. As yer fiancée, she is most welcome to make this her home until ye are prepared to take yer vows.”

  I warrant ye would. Gavin had evaded an immediate marriage, but a fiancée was just as bad, just as binding. He would have to think of something to get out of it, and to save poor Cait Campbell from the horrible fate of serving Lady Graham.

  ***

  David Campbell watched the sun rise across fields of swaying heather, bathing the countryside in a warm, orange glow. He held the sleeping Isabelle in his arms and rode on, though his muscles ached and cramped.

  Ever since he saved Isabelle on the road, his journey had gone poorly. No, that was not entirely true. Things had gone bad from the moment he saw Laird Douglas and began to dodge questions regarding his nuptials with Douglas’s daughter. Campbell still had a difficult meeting ahead of him in Glasgow, so his day had the strong possibility of getting worse. At least he had been able to arrange a good match for his sister, Cait, so his journey was not a complete loss.

  Isabelle moved slightly, made a soft mewling sound, and slept on. At least one of them was comfortable. Despite the cramp in his back, Isabelle was warm and soft and smelled like only a woman could smell. Her straight black hair spilled over her sleeping form. She had tried to braid it back, but without a tie it fought for its freedom and flowed free once more. He had been unable to resist the urge to touch it and had stroked its silky length in the dark of night. Though her deep red velvet gown was quite ruined, the fabric was still soft to the touch. His hand rested on her waist and burned with the desire to caress the soft fabric and the woman beneath it.

  Who was this Isabelle and how had she come to be alone and ruined on the road to Glasgow? He suspected he had not gotten the full story. Despite some lack of clarity as to her past, one thing was perfectly clear, she was undeniably English. Her regrettable lineage should have put an end to the direction his thoughts had taken. Unfortunately, his body responded to hers in a manner beyond all rational control.

  Isabelle stirred again and stretched. Campbell had to hold on tight to prevent her from slipping to the ground. Her eyes flew open. “Where am I?” Isabelle’s wide eyes met his. “Oh!”

  “Good morn to ye.”

  “Yes, well. Good morn—is it morning already? Did we not have a brown horse? Have I slept all night?”

  “Aye, we had a brown horse; we changed hours ago. And aye, ye did sleep through the night.”

  “I did? Well, I do apologize. It has been a trying time, I must have been quite exhausted. I hope I did not cause you any trouble carrying me.”

  “No burden at all,” Campbell lied.

  Isabelle sat up straight, which should have relieved his aching arm, but instead left him missing her warmth. “How beautiful. The morning sun makes the grasses shine like gold.”

  Campbell looked out over the fields and indeed they glistened. Isabelle’s eyes also shone warm and brown. Her dark eyes were intriguing, enticing him to gaze into them longer than he should. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead of him. She could never be his.

  Even if he was not promised in marriage, he was still the laird to the large and powerful Campbell clan. It was expected, no required, that he form an alliance with a Scot clan. And she would never be anything other than English. Odd that he had to remind himself of this fact. Generally he was reserved with women. As laird, he could not risk having a bastard son to grow up and challenge his rightful heirs. He had to be discreet.

  Holding this infernal English bundle on his lap reminded him of just how discreet he had been. It had been long, much too long, since he had allowed himself the comforts of a bedmate. His body screamed with need.

  He needed to direct his thoughts to more pressing matters. His sister Cait would be wed soon. And he too must marry. But whom? Somehow he needed to choose a bride… without sparking the clans into war.

  “I’m to be married.” He had not the slightest idea why he said that.

  She turned to face him, her brown eyes warm. “Congratulations. Is that who you were visiting?”

  “Aye. The daughter o’ Douglas.” Campbell frowned, the words feeling rough and awkward in his mouth. And not quite true.

  He pulled up short and handed her down to the road. He needed to get her off of his lap before she noticed he was growing friendlier than he ought. She landed hard and turned back to him, her eyes flashing. He was not about to explain the problem.

  “Walk, we need to give the horse a rest.” Campbell set his jaw and trudged forward. She had addled his brain, it was the only explanation. He needed to be rid of her, but there was no way to return her to England without being drawn and quartered, and no way to set her free in Scotland that would not end most unpleasantly for her.

  “Well!” Isabelle spun away from him and glided down the road ahead of him, her back straight, her head high, her ridiculous velvet train following her like a bedraggled puppy.

  Seven

  Campbell leaned down from his horse and reached for Isabelle. “We need to move quickly if we are to make it into Glasgow before the gates close.”

  Isabelle was too tired to answer. They had traveled hard all day, alternating between riding and walking, though Campbell’s walking stride required Isabelle to hustle to keep pace. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt, her back hurt, and she was greatly tired of this journey. Campbell offered his hand and she allowed herself to be hauled back onto the horse, and onto the Highlander’s lap. She collapsed against his chest and he spurred his mount toward Glasgow.

  Having spent most of her life in a castle, Isabelle thought herself immune to whatever splendor the Scots may have created, but as they approached Glasgow, she realized she had misjudged. They plodded over a wooden bridge crossing the River Clyde, and she stared at the large wooden ships. Several were tied along the banks, looking impressive with their single, tall mast in the middle. Never had she seen such a wonder. At Briggait Port Gate her Highlander had a few words with the guard, and they proceeded into the burgh.

  Isabelle was immersed in the sights and sounds and smells of the Glasgow market. The streets were lined with small shops and carts of people selling wares. People crowded the streets, brushing by her as they passed. Vegetables, fish, and game were proudly displayed, along with cloth, ribbons, and spices. Each little,
crowded shop sold goods from their particular guild: tanners, skinners, weavers, and fishmongers. Carts of fresh produce lined the street. The pungent aroma of dead fish, cinnamon, roasting meat, and many bodies assailed her like a restorative.

  She sat up tall, soaking in the new sights and sounds. Never had she seen so many people, so many wares, such brilliant colors. She was accustomed to traders who came once a moon to Alnsworth Castle, but this was extraordinary. Her uncle had never allowed her to leave the castle, so she had never been to a fair or market. Apparently she had missed much.

  “Ye’ve ne’er seen a market before?” Campbell raised one eyebrow.

  Isabelle shut her gaping mouth. “No, never.”

  “Saltmarket, this is. The weekly market at Glasgow Cross.”

  “Cross?” Isabelle looked for some sort of sculpture.

  “The cross streets of Saltmarket, High Street, Trongate, and Gallowgate; ’tis market day, almost its close. The time when the best deals can be made.” The corners of Campbell’s mouth twitched up.

  Isabelle glanced at him sideways. “I’ve heard tell the Scots are a frugal folk.”

  Campbell smiled, “With seven sisters I’ve had to be. Here, maybe ye can be of service to me.” He dismounted and helped Isabelle down. “If I dinna return wi’ cloth, my sisters will have my head. Perhaps ye can help me choose?”

  Isabelle smiled at the chance and put up the hood of her cloak to appear more respectable. She walked to a storefront of a cloth merchant in one of the thatch-roofed houses crowding the streets. Cloth was arranged in organized piles, and hung on rungs of short ladders leaned up against the walls. Isabelle ran her hand over several selections, smiling. There was a nice variety, some rough, some fine.

  Isabelle brushed her hand over gray wool, russet brown damask, and saffron yellow linen. The shop clerk eyed her and Campbell with interest and disappeared back into his shop, emerging a moment later with an armful of silk. Isabelle’s pulse quickened.