Page 4 of Warrior’s Lady

Camden braced himself against the ache of sentimentality. He could think on such things later, after he made certain his sister-in-law and niece were safe. Yet even as the thought formed, he realized no Lockhart would ever be safe as long as the Ruthvens still roamed the land. His own life was proof of that.

He brushed the dirt on his hands against the soft wool of his tartan. What they'd done to him … what he'd had to survive … Camden forced the thoughts away. Nay, he would not go back there. He would never give the Ruthvens that kind of control over him again.

"Bring me a fresh horse," Camden called to the men near the stable.

"What do you intend to do?" Orrin asked, his body tensed, awaiting orders.

Camden bent down to retrieve the Ruthven crested sword. With methodical care, he wiped the blade clean of James' blood, then slipped the weapon into the sheath at his back. "Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet shall be my first priority." He stood. "But James deserves a swift revenge." And he knew what to do. A quick and violent end was more than the Ruthvens deserved.

"You are right to think that Lady Lockhart and Lady Violet could be in trouble." Orrin met Camden's gaze, his concern palpable.

"That's why you will take the men and head to Lockhart Castle. As soon as I put my plan in motion, I shall join you there."

"Revenge?"

Camden gave a savage nod. "Justice. This time the Ruthvens will suffer. They have murdered too many Scots, collaborated with the English, and tormented this family for far too long." Fury coiled within him, vibrating with intensity. "It will end here and now, until they no longer walk these lands in human form."

Orrin frowned. "Revenge has a way of coming back to you."

"Not this time."

Camden strode through the darkened streets of Glasgow, toward the alley where the blacksmith on the green near the River Clyde had directed him. The glare of the torch in his hand caused eerie shadows to play across red, stone walls, wet with brackish slime. Mist from the River Clyde hung heavy on the air, seeped through his cloak, while the stench of sewage clotted in his nostrils.

And despite the dreary, ghostly façade the night cast upon this dangerous part of town, Camden found himself smiling. 'Twas the perfect part of town to find what he needed.

His boot heels beat a sharp tattoo on the cobbled street. A figure moved out of the shadows and into the light of the torch.

The glare from the flame made cruel work of the man's haggard and pinched face, and exposed an arsenal of weapons. Three lethal daggers nestled beneath a harness over his chest, and a sword lay strapped to his back. The man waited, hands on hips. "Ye lookin' for trouble?"

"The smithy said you were looking for work." Camden strode closer.

The man relaxed his hands. "What kind o' work ye got?"

"The lethal kind."

The man smiled, revealing brown, uneven teeth. "Murder?"

Camden lowered his voice. "Find and kill all the remaining Ruthvens."

The man's smile slipped. "All o' them?"

"Aye."

"It's gonna cost ye."

Camden's pulse beat thick and urgent in his veins as he unhooked a heavy bag of gold from his belt and tossed it on the ground at the man's feet. "There's half. You'll get the other half when your deed is done."

A soft jingle shattered the silence of the night as the stranger scooped up the bag. "Should I send ye word when they're dead?"

"The blacksmith will release the other half of your payment when you prove the remaining Ruthvens are dead."

The man nodded, then stepped back into the shadows. A moment later he was gone.

"The Ruthvens will rue the day they betrayed the Lockharts or any of their countrymen," Camden whispered into the night. He expected to feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought. He did not.

For the last ten years he had dreamed of nothing but his revenge against the Ruthvens. He'd plotted how he would make each and every one of the last remaining males pay for their part in his own torture and imprisonment. He had wanted them to suffer as he had suffered. And now that the moment was at hand, it seemed less than heroic to hire a mercenary to destroy his enemy.

Clara and Violet need you. The thought steadied him, brought his focus back to the tasks that remained undone.

He strode back through the alley to his horse. He mounted, then kicked his horse into a gallop. Duty to his family forced his hand. He had no choice but to leave things as they were. Let the stranger execute his revenge.

His kin needed him more.