Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

“Well, well, well… I thought ye’d be halfway up a mountain for the foreseeable future, with yer maither sendin’ a pack of dogs and hunters to smoke ye out!” a familiar voice called down the hallway as Camden emerged from the passageway that led to his underground study.

He had intended to return directly to Paisley to ‘help’ her select a gown for tomorrow’s cèilidh, but he should have known better than to think he would make it there without a hurdle or two.

“And I thought ye’d be poutin’ and sulkin’ at the notion of havin’ to put on a clean léine and run a brush through yer hair,” Camden quipped back, grinning at the sight of Jack and his lovely wife, Amelia—otherwise known as Laird and Lady Dougal.

“Nae ye, Lady Dougal,” Camden added with a wink. “Ye always look resplendent, and, if I may say so, ye look positively radiant this mornin’. How do ye do it? I dinnae come alive until noon at least.”

Amelia chuckled, hiding her laughter behind her hand. “Bairns, Camden. Bairns. Ye’ve nay choice but to be wide awake by dawn when ye have them. Though I cannae agree that I look anythin’ close to radiant. Ravaged by time and exhaustion would be a better description.”

“Nonsense,” Jack said with a softness reserved solely for her, bending his head to kiss the top of her hair. “Ye couldnae look anythin’ but beautiful if ye tried.”

Camden pretended to roll his eyes, though he could not have been happier for his fellow laird. Jack had once been a grim, grumpy individual with the sort of stubborn resolve that could put a mule to shame, but finding the love of a good woman had transformed him. He was still grim and grumpy with most people, but his wonderful wife had softened some of his sharper, harder edges.

“It’s lucky I havenae had me breakfast yet,” Camden said, smirking as he walked to the couple, “or else I’d be bringin’ it up at the sight of the pair of ye. Ye do realize that ye’re supposed to be jaded and spiteful by now, do ye nae? Ye cannae be in a perpetual honeymoon, or else everyone will have unrealistic expectations.”

Amelia raised an amused eyebrow at him. “It doesnae have to be unrealistic if ye put effort into it. Ye ought to bear that in mind for yer own marriage.”

“Marriage? What marriage? I havenae the faintest idea what ye’re talkin’ about,” Camden replied in a teasing tone, holding out his hand.

Amelia put her hand in his, and he earned a sharp glare from Jack as he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

“I’ve told ye nae to do that,” Jack muttered.

Camden shrugged, feigning innocence. “Did ye? I must have forgotten. Would ye have me be mannerless to yer dear wife instead? Should I follow yer lead from yer betrothal days and grunt and grumble at her?”

“I never grunted,” Jack replied, a hint of humor in the crease of his eyes.

Camden clapped his old friend on the shoulder. “Where are the other two? I assumed ye’d be arrivin’ together, to make the entirety of Clan Cairn swoon and gossip at the sickenin’ display of love.”

“Och, me braither isnae comin’,” Amelia said, smacking her forehead. “I promised to be the messenger, but I nearly forgot to pass it on!”

“Why nae?” Camden eyed Jack. “Did he have a squabble with yer beloved again? Have they decided they cannae be in a room with each other anymore?”

Had it not been for Amelia’s marriage to Jack, the MacAllens and the Dougals would still be in conflict with one another, upholding an old feud that neither laird had actually cared about.

All it took was one woman to end years of upheaval.

It made all of that enmity seem foolish, but Camden was not one to point that out, now that there was peace in at least one corner of Scotland.

“Keira wasnae well,” Amelia explained, her face a picture of empathy. “We barely rode five miles from MacAllen Castle before they had to stop. Keira wanted to carry on, but Noah insisted on them turnin’ around. The bairn is givin’ her trouble with nausea, ye see. Happens to the best of us, but they send their fondest wishes for yer happiness.”

Jack sniffed. “They probably wanted to avoid the bloodbath when Camden here does somethin’ daft and the MacLeans and Cairns end up in a feud worse than the one that gave me me beautiful wife.”

The remark rankled Camden, chipping at his unbothered facade. It was one thing for his mother to nag at him undeservedly, but to hear another laird make the same comment was a harder insult to bear.

“Och, well, I’ll have to hope there’s a desperate brother out there who’s eager to be rid of his sister then,” he said coolly, forcing a smile.

Amelia groaned and put a hand on Camden’s arm, her other hand on her husband’s shoulder. “The pair of ye—play nicely. I’m sure ye have plenty to discuss while I find that darlin’ maither of yers, Camden, and help her with the preparations.” She paused, casting a firmer look at Jack. “Ye could stand to learn a thing or two from Camden, love. There’s nay clan more united or prosperous than his, and nay soldiers more feared—I dinnae think that happened by accident.”

Camden promptly swooped her up into his arms, spinning her around and around to Jack’s obvious disapproval. But she laughed as she scolded Camden for being a bampot.

“Thank ye,” he said, setting her down. “I’m pleased to ken that someone appreciates me efforts.”

Jack sighed, smiling at his wife as he pulled her to him. “Of course, ye’ve done well for yer clan.” He kissed her forehead, before looking back at Camden. “I thought ye were a man who relished a jest? Has the cèilidh unraveled ye already?”

“Nae quite yet, but there are some loose threads here and there,” Camden replied, thinking of the novice nun upstairs in her room, and the other woman who would soon be arriving.

He had not yet decided how to navigate the cèilidh and the weighted expectations that were woven through the beautiful garlands and would be laced through every bite of the roasting venison. There was not yet a betrothal in place, which gave him some leeway, but Laird MacLean undoubtedly thought of the cèilidh as an engagement celebration.

But who is goin’ to argue against ‘true love’?

Laird MacLean doted on his own wife. Once upon a time, they had been one of the most celebrated couples in Scotland, famed for their romance and the epic tale of their love and all they had overcome to be together. But Camden knew as well as anyone that what was good for the goose was not always good for the gander, and fathers had a nasty habit of using their daughters as pawns.

“Aye, well, ye have yer manly natters—I’m away to sip tea and weave wreaths with Olivia,” Amelia announced.

She rose on tiptoe to plant a loving kiss on her husband’s lips and walked off before she had to mediate another friendly quarrel.

The sweet, familiar ease between Jack and Amelia—Noah and Keira, too—had never had any sort of effect on Camden. He had respected it, admired it, but never once sought it for himself. He liked variety, he liked being beholden to no one, he liked the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of the capture, and the liberty of nothing tying him down.

But, for just a moment, there was a pinch in the center of his chest, like a fingernail digging into his skin. A fleeting sensation that he could not describe. The closest thing he could compare it to was seeing someone with a horse or a sword or a maiden that he might have wanted for himself. But that did not seem right—why would he have any reason to envy them?

“What’s that look for?” Jack interrupted Camden’s wandering thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“That look. Ye seem… pensive. What’s wrong with ye?”

Camden headed for the nearest door leading into the stark gloom of the Minor Hall—a feasting chamber of cold stone, mahogany wainscoting, dark green walls, low hanging rafters, and portraits of lairds past that followed visitors around the room.

“Is it MacDunn?” Jack asked, following him into the hall. He closed the door behind him. “I received yer letter about the village just north of yer border. We’ve bolstered our guard around Dougal lands, heeded yer warnin’ to have every able man prepared for a fight, and I’ve got scouts out there tryin’ to track the wretch. Do we need to do more?”

Camden dragged a chair backward across the flagstones and sagged into it, still in dire need of a bath and a change of clothes and, possibly, the longest sleep of his life. Paisley could have helped with that, perhaps, but he sensed they would only be interrupted again by her unseen protector, guarding her virtue with a flaming sword.

“I caught one of ‘em—a MacDunn soldier.” Camden frowned down at his lap, picking at a patch of dried mud. “I was certain I’d be able to pry out the information we needed, but… they’re loyal to him, Jack. Loyal to death, and I cannae understand it for the life of me. There’s nay honor in razin’ villages to the ground and harmin’ those who cannae fight back.”

Jack came over and leaned against the back of the nearest chair. “I dinnae think that’s it.”

“What do ye mean?” Camden raised his gaze, surprised to find an amused gleam in Jack’s eyes.

“I dinnae think it’s MacDunn that’s eatin’ ye up.” The curiosity in Jack’s voice was uncommon for him. “Aye, it has a part in it, but ye’ve never spoken of him with such… a lack of violence in yer voice. So, either ye’re anticipatin’ defeat and ye’re givin’ up on tryin’ to stop MacDunn—which I dinnae think is likely—or there’s somethin’ else.”

Camden said nothing, staring at his friend and hoping the expression suggested that Jack had taken leave of his senses.

“I’m right, am I nae?” Jack squinted as if trying to read a secret message etched on Camden’s face. “Come now, I’ve kenned ye long enough to ken that fightin’ and riddin’ lands of MacDunn vermin isnae what ye worry about—ye devour the idea of such things for breakfast and have such a relentless confidence in yer triumph that ye make battle plans with a grin.”

Camden chuckled tightly. “There are some who’d call it blind faith or the invincibility of youth.”

After his father died, there were battles aplenty to be fought to gain back what the former Laird had lost—lands, reputation, trade routes, respect. Camden’s father would be written into the archives as a gentle man who had never wanted to be Laird, which had shown all too clearly in the way he had ruled. It stood to reason that he had sired a firebrand to restore what he had damaged.

“Aye, but ye’re thirty—ye’re nae so young anymore.” Jack smirked. “Me wife was right. Ye have the most feared soldiers in the Highlands, and it didnae happen by accident. It happened because they fed heartily from the fierce confidence of their leader. A leader who charges at the front of the vanguard and isnae afraid of who he’s facin’. So, what are ye really worried about?”

Camden shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Think what ye like, but it’s only MacDunn on me mind.”

“I dinnae believe ye.”

Camden shrugged. “There’s nae much I can do about that.”

For a short while, they were locked in a stalemate—Jack waiting for Camden to reveal some truth, and Camden waiting for Jack to change the subject. There was no clock in the Minor Hall, but Camden felt each ticking second in his innards.

“Is it the cèilidh?” Jack asked at last.

“Nay.”

“Is it the MacLean lass that the council wants ye to wed?”

Camden rolled his eyes. “Nay. I havenae thought about it much.”

“Is it a lass?” A flash of confidence appeared in Jack’s intent gaze.

Camden could not argue that it was probably the simplest guess to make, considering his reputation. He thought about continuing with the back and forth until Jack ran out of questions and gave up, but the letter popped into his mind—that wretched, cold thing that still made him want to tear out someone’s throat.

More than that, he wanted to save Paisley, but he did not know what saving her meant exactly. He did not want the convent to have her, he did not want her parents to have her, but she would not be seduced into doing the one thing that would grant her freedom to do whatever she pleased.

Unless I could offer security afterward—a sum of money, rooms to use for as long as she desires, or a position here that she might enjoy?

It was laughable. He could offer her the world, and she would still refuse.

“It’s worse,” he admitted to his friend.

Jack seemed surprised. “Worse than a lass?”

“Aye,” Camden replied in a harsh rasp. “It’s a nun.”

With the letter and Paisley’s hopes weighing heavy on his mind, he wondered if it would be for the best, after all, if he took her back to the convent without delay—before the cèilidh, before she became embroiled in his plan, before she ever found out that she had risked everything for parents who did not want her, before she ever had to learn that the one thing she wanted was the one thing she could never have.

“A nun?” Jack scrunched up his face, clearly confused.

Camden got up. “If ye’ll excuse me. I have a bath callin’ me name.”

And a lass to return to where she belongs, before I do somethin’ I cannae take back.