A Fire Within (These Highland Hills, Book 3) (7 page)

"I'm a healer as well, and have been long before I ever met
Niall Campbell or came to Kilchurn." She smiled. "Caitlin's my
apprentice."

Dar felt his face go red with shame. "Truly, Lady, I didn't
know. It was foolish of me to presume aught, but I did. I beg
pardon-for my stupidity and for my audacity in kissing the
Campbell's sister."

"No harm was done, I suppose. Still, I hope ye can understand
now why I feel it prudent that Caitlin and ye not be left alone
anymore." Anne paused to wet her lips. "I care for my sister-in-law
deeply. Even more importantly, her brother is verra protective of
her. Indeed, fiercely protective, to say the least."

Dar laid awake deep into the night, awaiting the time when
Kilchurn's inhabitants would all be abed. In the meanwhile, his
mind was amply supplied with chaotic thoughts to keep him wide
awake, if ever he had feared dozing off. To his chagrin, however,
they all involved a certain bonny if exceedingly exasperating
young woman.

Caitlin was Niall Campbell's sister. Of all the sorry, misplaced
fortune to pursue the sister of the man Clan MacNaghten considered one of their worst enemies. Even if Niall Campbell-save
for Athe's capture and imprisonment-hadn't played an active
role in the persecution of Dar's clan, he was still a Campbell and
part and parcel of those who had led the successful push to have
Clan MacNaghten proscribed.

Caitlin had also admitted to a low opinion of the MacNaghtens. In the doing, she was as much a participant in this despicable
travesty as the rest of her kin.

He knew it was daft to feel a sense of betrayal, even pain, at that
admission. By mountain and sea, he had kissed the lass but once!
And it had meant nothing-neither to him or her. Yet, despite
repeated attempts to put Caitlin out of his mind, especially the
surprising intensity of their kiss and the unnerving shock the kiss
had stirred of something akin to recognition, of some uncanny connection even, Dar's thoughts kept returning to her over and
over and over again.

Had she bewitched him then? It didn't seem possible. She
had given him no potion to drink. He hadn't seen her make
any strange signs or mutter any unintelligible words that might
hint at spell casting. But healers were known-leastwise some
of them-to dabble in the black arts.

Indeed, hadn't Anne Campbell, born a MacGregor, once been
called the "Witch of Glenstrae"? And she had admitted to being
a healer well before she ever wed Niall Campbell. Were both
women, then, but a witch and her apprentice?

With a disgusted grunt, Dar rolled over, pulled the blankets
back up to snug high against his shoulders, and clenched shut
his eyes. Had it come to this now? That he was so overcome by
the strain of the past two and a half years of living like some
wild, hunted animal, he now imagined his enemies were worse
than cruel and heartless? That they were actually satanic beings?
Without mercy and forgiveness in the world, there certainly
was no God. But did such an absence still permit the presence
of Satan?

Somehow, Dar doubted that. Nevertheless, witchcraft seemed
the only plausible explanation for how swiftly Caitlin Campbell
had gotten under his skin. She was but a wee wisp of a lass,
beautiful, it was true, but there were many beautiful women in
the world.

Yet, somehow, she was different. Within that small frame
burned a fiery, indomitable spirit, a courage equal to that of any
man. There was a passion there as well and a hunger to give herself, heart and soul, to an all-consuming, unconditional love.

He knew that with a deep certainty. He knew that because he
recognized a kindred soul. He knew that, because in the deepest
depths of his heart, it was the same way with him.

Dar opened his eyes to pitch blackness and sighed. When would he ever face the reality of his life, and what he would
and wouldn't have no matter how he wished it otherwise? Most
times now, he managed to keep those niggling, ridiculously futile
desires firmly at bay, walled off in a secret, impregnable place in
his mind.

Indeed, he hadn't had to face them for months now. The
daunting tasks of staying alive and finding the next meal, shelter
from the driving rain, or a safe spot to sleep for the night had
been quite effective at banishing less primal needs. An outlaw in
constant fear for his life had little spare time left for futile hopes
and dreams.

But coming to Kilchurn, enemy territory though it was, had
apparently provided the respite sufficient to lure him back where
he chose never to go again. That, and the ardent desires meeting
Caitlin Campbell had stirred in him.

There was but one remedy, Dar decided, tossing aside his
blankets and moving to sit on the side of his bed, and that remedy
was action. He felt around for his cuarans and pulled on the soft,
knee-high leather boots, lacing them snugly. They were beginning
to wear thin again, especially the soles, and would soon need
patching. Dar didn't know how many more times he could sew
on another sole to the ever thinning leather sides, before even
they would give way. It would be barefoot after that, he supposed,
which was no worse a fate than that already suffered by most of
his remaining clan.

Once, as the second son of the clan chief, he had never lacked
for any necessity. Though Clan MacNaghten had never been a
prosperous clan, they had managed well enough. But Dundarave
Castle was now an empty shell.

Once the proscription had been imposed and it had been
necessary to desert the castle and take to hiding in the hills, its
former possessions were soon plundered by marauding, neighboring clans. Indeed, the Argyll Campbells with their headquarters at Inveraray, located just four miles southeast, had lost little time
in initiating the rapine.

Dar rose, adjusted the belted plaid he had chosen to sleep
in this night, and quietly headed for the door. Once out in the
corridor, the faint light of pitch-soaked torches illuminated the
long expanse leading to the dungeon. All was silent, just as he
expected it would be at this late hour. Nonetheless, Dar kept his
hearing acutely attuned for any untoward noise.

Several times, he caught the scratching of tiny feet, startled
squeaks, and skittering sounds as he surprised rats along the
way. Denizens of dark, undisturbed places, they were common
enough. The last time he had dared visit Dundarave one cloudy
winter's day just three month's past, the place had seemed infested with the vermin. But then the entire castle, a four-storied,
L-shaped tower house enclosed by a high wall, had already fallen
into disrepair.

Wooden shutters hung from broken, rusted hinges, if they
still hung at all. Snow had piled in various nooks and crannies in
rooms left unprotected by shutters, and the wind whistled unimpeded through the chambers and down deserted hallways. What
tapestries hadn't been carried off hung in tatters on the walls. And
not only rats had added to the carnage. Birds had built nests in
the ceilings and covered the floor with their droppings.

It was the damage done to the entrance at the foot of the stair
tower, however, that had most sorely torn at Dar's heart. Not only
had the finely carved front door been all but hacked to shreds,
but over the portal, the dog-toothed molded ornamentation and
family motto, "I hope in God," had been so defaced that one
could now hardly read it.

The callous and calculated desecration had not only added
further insult to an already broken people, but also struck at
the very heart of the last comfort and strength they could call
upon-the Lord God Himself. For without hope in God, no men, including the MacNaghtens, had anything left to keep them
going, keep them fighting on when all seemed lost.

Not that he mourned that loss for himself, Dar thought as he
neared the barred, iron-grated door that separated what looked
to be the dungeon's guardroom from the main corridor. He had
given up on a just, merciful, and loving God years ago.

Nonetheless, he mourned that loss of hope for his people.
Many of them, even to this day, clung to their religious faith like
those drowning might cling to a passing bit of flotsam. And, as
flawed and ineffectual as he himself might view those beliefs,
Dar didn't have the heart to take that away.

The rise and fall of voices coming from beyond the iron door
drew him up short. Dar slipped into the shadows beyond the last
torch and listened. There were two men in the guardroom, wide
awake and, by the sounds, playing a game of dice.

He edged closer until he reached the wall at the end of the corridor and moved until he was to the very frame of the iron door.
On close inspection, Dar noted a thick iron padlock hanging from
a stout hasp and staple, locked from the inside. Not only was the
dungeon well guarded, but it was also very well secured.

Examining the door, Dar found the hinges were fastened by
huge bolts driven into solid rock. A quick glance around the
frame into the guardroom revealed, besides several doors that
likely led into small prison chambers, a pit cell carved deep into
the earth and equally protected with a padlocked iron grate. This
was most certainly where Athe was being held.

Dar choked back a savage curse. His only hope of freeing Athe
had been to threaten the guards with his dagg, but the short,
heavy, wheel-lock pistol held only one shot. Even if he could
take down one guard if he refused immediately to surrender the
keys, the second guard could ring the bell Dar had seen hanging in the corner, calling for help long before Dar could reload
again. And with the alarm sounded, it would be impossible to pry loose the door from its hinges before help came. If it were
even possible at all.

Few castle dungeons were as impregnable as Kilchurn's apparently was. He had counted on a much simpler task than this one
presented. Short of using gunpowder to blast down the guardroom door, Dar couldn't think of any quick way to get in and
free his brother.

Smuggling in the necessary amount of gunpowder to do the
job through Kilchurn's keep undetected, however, would be next
to impossible. Indeed, it would be impossible.

With heavy heart, Dar crept back the way he had come. When
he reached the stairs leading to the upper level, he took a seat on
one of the lower steps. His mind raced, trying to make sense of
all he had observed, picking through every detail to find a flaw
that might yet yield a viable plan for rescuing Athe.

If his brother had been imprisoned in some above-ground cell,
even perhaps in a freestanding guardhouse, there might have been
a chance. Perhaps then there might have been a way to smuggle
enough gunpowder in to blow down the cell door or even the
outside wall. But it was impossible, leastwise in the short period
of time in which they could continue to make their excuses to
remain in Kilchurn under Campbell hospitality.

Drugging the guards' food would only leave them unconscious
inside the guardroom and of absolutely no use. Getting his hands
on the keys long enough to make a copy also seemed futile. To
do so, he would have to learn the guards' routines. And that
necessitated asking too many questions that might easily arouse
suspicions.

His plan to woo Caitlin, then ply her for information, had
flown out the window the moment he learned her true identity.
Indeed, if the truth were told, Dar had already begun to suspect
he would never be able to tease much useful out of her at any
rate.

No, it was indeed impossible. With a frustrated groan, Dar
leaned down and rested his head in his hands. There had to be
some other way, but what? What?

His old mentor, Feandan MacNaghten, captain of Dundarave's
guards and his uncle, had once told him when one problem
seemed to present insurmountable difficulties, step back and
look around for a clever, fresher approach. And if Dar had ever
needed to do that, he needed to do so now. But what other clever,
fresher approach was there to this problem?

He inhaled slowly, deeply, willing himself to calm the tortured
thoughts roiling in his head. A direct assault in battle against
Campbell might had always been unfeasible. Taking Kilchurn
by stealth and deception had seemed the only alternative. Now
that, too, had come to a quick and ignominious end. Dar needed
another plan, one that would strike at the heart of all Niall Campbell held dear.

The memory of Anne Campbell embracing her son-Niall
Campbell's son-flashed through his mind. Did the Campbell
chief hold his family as close as Dar had once tried to hold his
own? If so, the woman and bairn might well be invaluable in a
trade for Athe.

He certainly couldn't just kidnap the child alone. The bairn
still needed his mother. Dar couldn't fathom how he would care
for a squalling babe as he made his way through the hills and
glens to put a safe, negotiable distance between an enraged father
and himself.

Yet taking Anne Campbell alone would leave the child motherless. Even for the sake of his clan, Dar realized he lacked the
stomach to stoop to that particular form of cruelty. And he most
definitely didn't care to deal with mother and child!

But what if, he thought, his head jerking up with a surge of
excitement, he instead abducted Caitlin, holding her as hostage
in exchange for Athe? According to his wife, Niall Campbell was ferociously protective of his sister. Surely she meant more to him
than some point of honor that might compel him to hold a man
prisoner until he could be brought to trial. And Caitlin seemed
of a strong enough bent to withstand the rigors of several days'
hard ride, not to mention the minor indignities of spending a
time in his company without the services of a lady's maid or the
comforts of a soft bed and finely cooked meal.

It went without saying he would treat her with all respect
and consideration and return her as pure as he had taken her.
Even if his earlier intentions toward Caitlin hadn't been all that
honorable, once he took her hostage, the situation-and the
rules-would change. Sister though she was to one of Clan
MacNaghten's direst enemies, Dar had no intent purposely to
make her suffer.