Free Laird of the Mist by Paula Quinn Page A

she applied more ointment to the charred flesh beneath her fingers.

 

    Chapter Nine
    K ATE STARED SILENTLY into the growing flames, fed by Brodie’s careful attendance. Vaguely, she was aware of Jamie covering her shoulders with a thick plaid of coarse wool. Sitting beside her, his dark eyes flickering against the firelight, Angus held out his pouch of brew to her. When she refused it, he tapped it against her arm.
    “Drink. There’s a deep chill in the air this night. The whiskey will keep ye warm.”
    Indeed, the cold seeped into her marrow, but the weather was not to blame. Callum was out here, somewhere, alone. Roderick Cameron had told her where Callum had gone. What he intended to do. She was not afraid for Callum’s life, or for the lives of the men who had branded Rhona MacGregor’s beautiful face. Nae, if their judgment was about to come upon them, it was a righteous one. The chill that iced her blood came from the memory of looking into their executioner’s eyes. He was going to hunt them down. He would show them no mercy, for there was none in him to give.
    He never left a Campbell alive.
Her grandfather. All the men of Kildun’s garrison.
    Her father.
    She looked up at Graham when he folded his legs and sat opposite her.
    “Is my brother dead?” Her quavering voice shattered the silence around them.
    Graham pulled off his cap, tucked it into his plaid, and raked a golden lock of hair out of his eyes. “Nae.” He shook his head when Angus held up his pouch. But for the pop of a thin branch burning in the fire, quiet had once again descended on the campsite.
    Please God, Kate wanted to believe him. If the Devil killed Robert, too, she would cut his throat while he slept.
    “Is it only Campbells he kills?” she asked coolly.
    Jamie shifted closer to the fire. Brodie spat into it and then lay down, closing his eyes for the night. Graham’s gaze, though, never wavered from hers.
    “Nae, lass. He kills friends of the Campbells, as well.”
    Kate’s blood drained from her face at the indifference in the commander’s voice. Her uncle deserved to be flogged for his part in Rhona MacGregor’s branding, but how could life mean so little to these men? She knew she could never understand, for she cared even for the lives of her cattle. “Why? Why all the killing? I know our clans have been warring for centuries, but what is behind it all? A woman? What offense did my clan commit so long ago that cost my father his life and still brings such scorn to all your faces?”
    No one answered her right away. Brodie opened his eyes and cast her a narrowed look before closing them again and shaking his head.
    Graham poked a long stick into the embers, his handsome face growing pensive. “Would that this war was about a lass,” he said. “Fer nae matter how fine she was, it would have ended before it ever touched Callum and Maggie.” He caught a small piece of dried meat that Angus tossed him and took a bite. He chewed for a moment, then continued. “This war began three centuries ago. Callum was born with its purpose already flowing in his veins.”
    “Aye, I know of the battles,” Kate told him. “But I don’t understand what sort of men would fight them for so long?”
    Graham’s eyes glittered at hers across the firelight. “Men who are the sons of kings,” he said, his words weighted with the measure of respect and affection he felt for them of whom he spoke. “Ye want the full tale of it, then?” When she nodded, he pulled in a deep breath and threw the remainder of the meat into the fire, as if the telling of it ruined his appetite. “The MacGregors are a royal race, descended from King MacAlpine. Their territories were once vast and held by the old ways—by right of sword. A fierce and mighty clan, they fought at the side of Robert the Bruce. But they were betrayed, and their land in Glen Orchy was given over to the Campbells, who had gained influence in the royal court.” His voice was soft