Beloved Imposter Read Online Free Page A

few months he was in port.
    He had not brought Anne back to where Maggie had died. If he stayed away, mayhap the curse would not touch him again.
    But it had found him … and Anne.
    He’d still not returned, not until twelve days earlier, ten years to the day he had left. He had found a keep falling into ruin, a dispirited clan decimated by the feud with the Campbells and a household with few women. Many apparently had come to believe that the Campbell curse affected not only the chiefs of the clan but all the Macleans.
    His brother Lachlan seemed to care more about his lute than management of the keep. And while an aging Douglas served as steward, a woman named Moira was responsible for housekeeping duties. She was a healer who had been forced into a position for which she had no aptitude or training. The few women servants she instructed were no more trained than she. Some were timid wives of his soldiers; some were daughters. Some cared, but most did not.
    Rory had kept his ship spotless. He knew discipline was vital to the well-being of his crew, and discipline began with keeping some measure of order.
    There was no order at home.
    Lachlan deserved some blame but not all. He was not a soldier, had no inclination to be one, nor was he meant to be a steward. He was too soft, too forgiving of the unforgivable. He had planned to be a priest and was well suited by temperament to be one. Rory hadn’t discovered yet why he had not pursued his vocation. Lachlan had avoided questions thus far.
    Rory only knew that once his father had died and his oldest brother disappeared, the clan had lost heart.
    The scout returned. Malcolm held up his arm. They stopped, dismounted, and spoke quietly.
    Rory was excluded. Though all appeared to respect and look up to him, it was obvious that they trusted one another more man their newly arrived chief.
    He turned to the scout. “You have found the cattle.”
    “Aye,” the man said cautiously.
    “How many guarding them?”
    “Four.”
    Rory turned to Malcolm. “I do not want anyone killed. It will only bring more attacks. I will take one man—the scout—and silence the guards. You stay here until you hear a whistle, then approach and take the cattle.”
    “But my lord …”
    “There is no but, Malcolm. Those are my orders.”
    The other eight men stared at him in disbelief. And unhappiness. Blood lust was apparent. They all looked at Malcolm, who nodded. Reluctantly.
    He turned to the scout, “Nab. You lead.” The man seemed to have eyes that penetrated the dark, but then so did Rory. He had perfected that ability during his years at sea and the need to adjust his eyes to absolute blackness.
    The man turned, gave him a wary look, then moved ahead. They walked for a long while, then the man stopped. Nab climbed a hill and signaled Rory to move next to him.
    He looked down. Shadows materialized beneath them. Cattle. Many of them. A fire was barely visible under a shelter of some kind.
    “Maclean cattle,” the man next to him muttered. “There were none here three days ago.”
    Rory did not ask how he knew. Apparently his kinsmen kept an eye on Campbell properties.
    He peered through the mist that had started to fall. He could barely make out three shapes. “You said there were four men. I see only three.”
    “Two near at the shelter. One straight across. Another to the left of us.”
    “I will take the one closest to us,” Rory said, “then the one to the far side. Move close to the two near the fire but do not act unless they see one of us. Wait until you hear the hoot of an owl. That means I have taken down the two.” He paused, then added, “I do not want anyone killed unless you have no choice.”
    He did not give Nab an opportunity to protest, though Rory sensed the man intended to do just that.
    Rory moved swiftly ahead, his shoes making no noise in the gentle but incessant patter of rain. He skirted around until he was in back of the first man, then he stepped