Free Child of the Mist by Kathleen Morgan Page B

Caitlin hurried from the chamber. Silence hung heavy in the room for a time, until a fire-eaten log fell to the hearth in a loud 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. Tis cold enough in this castle without ye enduring the stone damp on top o' 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 upon the twinkling blue stone surrounded by its ornate silver setting. It had once been her mother's, but that gentle lady was now dead over five years. Anne cherished the necklace with all her heart.
    She sighed. 'Twill give me the strength to see this night through, she thought, and all the days thereafter, if only I keep it close. 'Twill sustain my courage so I don't bring dishonor upon my clan .
    The creak of iron hinges intruded on her poignant musings, and Anne laid down the mirror.
    "M'lord. Your 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 molded to his hard-muscled legs, and 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 brogs 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 as he stared down at her. 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 you quite done staring at me, m'lord? If I haven't dressed to your satisfaction, there's yet time to change."
    A chuckle rumbled deep within Niall's chest. "For such a wee wisp o' a lass, you're certainly always looking for a fight. But you won't get one from me."
    He glanced admiringly down the length of her body. "That particular shade o' pale blue does special things to your eyes. You've dressed to my satisfaction and more."
    Warily, Anne eyed his proffered arm. "What are you about? 'Tisn't time for the meal."
    "My father wishes to meet you. 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 Campbellthe man, in the end, responsible for the long, bitter feud. The man who'd 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 welfare o' our clan . . . its very survival . . . now in your hands."
    No matter her true feelings for the despicable Campbell leader, Anne knew she must mask them with courtesy and good will. She accepted. Niall's arm. What did one more compromise in a day beset with