Free Laird of the Mist by Paula Quinn

man pushed his son away with a quiet order to leave the cottage. He waited until the boy was gone before he spoke. “’Twas a band of Menzies who did this to m’ Rhona.”
    Callum’s jaw twisted around a low curse battering against his teeth.
    “We’ve had nae quarrel with the Menzies fer years.” Cameron assured him. “These men acted on their own. No’ under any command of their laird.”
    “They marked m’ wife’s face in accordance with the law!” The man stepped closer to Callum, his eyes gleaming with defiance and fury. “They are Argyll’s dogs, fer they spoke of their reward as they burned oot her eye.”
    A sharp gasp drew the men’s attention to where Kate stood at the door, her face ashen and her hands trembling as they twisted the woolen folds of her skirts. “What has my uncle to do with this?”
    “Yer uncle?” the man asked, sounding as horrified as Kate looked. His expression changed quickly to loathing as he drew a small dagger from a fold in his plaid. “Have ye come to finish what yer kin began, then?”
    Before he took a step in her direction, Callum blocked his path and snatched the dagger from his hand.
    “I will avenge m’ wife,” the man insisted.
    Callum’s rigid gaze stilled the remainder of his protests. “No’ on her.” The thread of warning in his softly spoken words was unmistakable. “Bring me to yer wife. I’ve tarried here long enough.”
    The man did as he was commanded without sparing Kate another glance. “M’ Rhona is here,” he said, pulling away the curtain that separated the outer room from the sleeping quarters. “Her sister is changin’ the dressin’ to her wound.”
    Kate watched him lead Callum inside. The Cameron did not follow. When they were alone, the older chieftain turned to her, a deep frown drawing his gray brows over his eyes.
    “A Campbell,” he whispered.
    Kate turned to him, still horrified that her uncle was responsible for branding a woman. “You needn’t worry that I’ll tell my uncle you are friends with Callum.”
    He stared at her, looking somewhat perplexed by her casual use of the laird’s name. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dinna care what ye tell him, lass. The MacGregor saved my life.”
    Kate smiled, glad to hear it. “He saved mine, as well.”
    Now the Cameron stared outright at her, his jaw going slack an instant before his scowl returned full force. “The Devil has never spared a Campbell’s life, let alone saved one. Surely he has ye too frightened to speak the truth.”
    Kate’s feet took root in her spot.
The Devil?
Nae. Och, God, nae! Fear and anger warred within her, stopping her from running out the door or charging through the curtain. It was Callum who killed her father! Her grandfather! He had lied to her. He was the Devil MacGregor!
He has never spared a Campbell’s life.
Dear God, was Robert dead, as well? She swayed on her heavy feet, feeling ill, her breath growing tight. She had smiled at the murderer, likened him to a knight of old! Now his cold regard made perfect sense. He had no heart.
    The curtain snapped open. Callum stood in the doorway. His expression bore the remnants of horror but hardened with each breath into a mask of barely contained control. His eyes blazed with fury, hatred, revenge. Kate took an involuntary step backward when he stormed across the rushes. It was easy to see now how he had gained such a worthy title.
    “Devil,” she whispered as he passed her, heading for the door.
    His scorching gaze swung to her, halting her drumming heart. He moved toward her before she could run, and closed his fingers around her arm. Without a word, he dragged her back to the curtained doorway and then left her there gaping at the sight within. She heard his determined footfalls as he left the cottage. His coarse command for his men to await his return two leagues outside the village faded against the gurgled wheeze of a woman’s breath and the mournful sobs of her sister as