Callum used the time she was distracted to indulge in a close inspection of his rescuer. It was not easy to judge her figure when she had a child on her back but he could see that she had a small waist. The way her skirts were bunched up made it impossible to judge the curve of her hips but it did reveal strong, well-shaped legs. He smiled, thinking that few women would see that as a compliment.
It was her face that fascinated him, however. There was gentleness there, a calm that soothed him, and something that reminded him of someone else. Callum puzzled over that for a moment then decided he was too tired and in too much pain to care. He fought the urge to close his eyes and give in to his weariness, to gain some respite from his pain through sleep. She needed him to remain aware for a while longer, he thought, even as he closed his eyes.
Bethoc finally found a thick branch that had a fork at the top. She took the small axe she had brought with her to collect firewood out of her bag and removed the branch from the dying trunk. As she walked back to Sir Callum she hoped it would be the right height. She also wished she had a blanket at hand so she could make a litter for him. Dragging that up to the cave would be a chore, but a lot easier than helping a barely upright, hobbling man.
Once back at his side, she tested the length of the stick, needing to take off only a small bit at the bottom. The man looked to be asleep and she hated to wake him but knew she had to get him hidden away as soon as possible. Kneeling by his side, she gently shook him until his eyes opened.
“We have to try and get to the cave now,” she said.
Callum wanted to say no, to just leave him to sleep, but knew she was right. It was not safe to stay out in the open. He did not really think the men would return but he could not be absolutely sure. Careful not to put any weight on his broken leg, he took the stick from her and settled it under his arm. It was awkward, but he suspected it would still work.
“’Tis nay such a long walk to the cave, sir,” she said, “but I fear it is nay a smooth one, either.”
“Then we had best get started.”
“Margaret, sit up,” she ordered her sister, and then put his arm around her shoulders plus her arm around his waist. “I will try to pick the smoothest parts of the trail.”
“Just pick the quickest,” he replied, and gave her a brief smile before adjusting the stick beneath his arm.
“All I ask,” she said as they began to move toward the hill, “is that ye tell me if ye think ye are going to stumble for I will be walking close to the edge of the path and could fall.”
He made a sound of agreement that was more of a grunt and she knew even the current easy pace they did was paining him. The cave opening was only partway up the hill but she knew it was going to be a long, slow climb for him. Bethoc held him as tightly as she dared, trying to give him as much support as possible, as they began their way up the rocky path to the cave. The fact that she only reached his armpit made that a difficult chore.
It felt as if hours had passed before she got him to the cave. Every step had to be taken carefully and progress was slow. A few times he had nearly stumbled and, although he had warned her as she had asked him to, her heart had leapt into her throat. She could all too easily see herself tumbling down the rocky hillside, a fall that could easily prove fatal.
Carefully propping him up against the rocks at the mouth of the cave, she removed the brush she used to hide the entrance. Not only did it keep her father from finding her hiding place but, she prayed, it also kept her safe from men like those who had beaten Sir Callum. Bethoc helped him inside and settled him on the pallet she had made of old blankets and leaves. The moment she was certain he was simply recovering from the journey, she hurried to pull the brush back into place.
Kneeling by his side, she quickly checked his leg to be certain the bracing sticks and bandages were still in place. Bethoc wished she knew more about broken bones. She had little idea how long he would need to heal. He could be trapped here for weeks. She did not know if she would be able to hide helping him for that long.
“Do ye wish for some food and drink?” she asked as she brushed his hair from his sweaty face, forcing that worry from her mind for she had no choice.
“I suspicion I will soon but dinnae trouble yourself.”
“T’would be nay trouble at all.” She set down the pack and began to pull out some food, a little surprised at how much she had packed.
Callum almost smiled. “I begin to think ye have one of everything in that pack.”
Bethoc felt herself blush and avoided his eyes. She always kept the pack ready, stuffed with all she would need if she could ever make herself desert the others and flee the house. “I try to be prepared.” She did not wish him to know that he was hiding in her special secret place, her private haven, if only because he might ask why she felt the need for one.
“Sensible.” He struggled to sit up and felt her wrap her arm around him to help.
She carefully set a small plate of bread and cheese on his lap and then poured him a tankard of cider. Sitting back on her heels she watched him eat. His clothes were drying out but they would never return to the obviously fine attire they had once been. Bethoc had to wonder exactly why such a gentleman would be riding around the countryside on his own. Most of the ones of his ilk avoided this area or had a strong, well-trained guard with them. Thieves abounded in the area and the river was frequently used for smuggling. A fine-looking gentleman on what she suspected had been a very fine horse would be too great a temptation to let ride away.
As soon as he was done, she took the plate and tankard, cleaned them off with a rag, and stuck them back in her pack. She turned to help him lie down again, trying not to breathe in his scent too much for it made her stomach clench and she was not sure why. Fighting a blush, she briskly told him where the chamber pot was and then where he could find a little more food and drink if he wanted.
“I need to return home now,” she said as she idly straightened her skirts and tried not to resent the loss of the quiet respite she had planned on. She got too few of them. “I will do what I can to find your horse.”
“If he gets loose, he will come back here so I wouldnae trouble yourself o’er it too much.”
“That would be helpful. Sleep, sir. That is the best of medicines. No salve or potion can do better. I will try verra hard to return on the morrow.”
Callum was about to ask her why she was even coming to this place, why she did not just take him to her home, when he realized she was already headed out the opening. He cursed softly and stared up at the stone ceiling. There had been nothing to give him for the pain but he decided that was probably for the best. He was crippled and alone. It would not do to be unconscious as well. He was easy game with his leg broken and saw no point in making himself even easier game by being unconscious.
Why had she not offered to take him to her home? he wondered again. His eyes widened as he suddenly recalled the bruises he had seen. He had assumed they had come from wrestling his body out of the water but now he was not so sure. Now that he was no longer consumed by his own pain and worry about his attackers, he could see the bruises for what they were—the marks of a fist, the injuries of man’s hard grip, and the signs of abuse. Bethoc did not take him to her home because someone there was hurting her.
He pushed aside the anger that always filled him with when he recognized such abuse. As Payton was fond of telling him, he could not save the whole world and had to learn to be satisfied with his small part of it. But since she had been so kind to help him, he could not help but worry about her. It was a fruitless exercise though, he thought crossly.
If nothing else, he was in no condition to do anything about it. Nor had she asked him to, although that was no deterrent his rage would heed. When he recovered enough to move around, however, he would find out who had put those bruises on her and why she felt the need to have a hideaway. Then he would see to it that the one who hurt her paid for every bruise on her fair skin.
&nbs
p; Chapter Two
Bethoc felt her steps slow as she approached her home. It angered her that her father made her afraid of a place that should have brought her comfort and safety. For as long as she could recall, he had been the darkness in her life, stealing all the joy, and it had gotten worse as she had gotten older. The few glimpses of a good man there had been became less and less seen, buried beneath the bitterness and anger. It was true that he was harder on the boys if they did not do as he said but, with her and even little Margaret, it appeared that his rages had no reason.
She frowned as she neared the door and young Magnus came running up to her. “What is wrong?” she asked quietly.
“He is angry, verra angry, but then he gets all happy again. ’Tis verra odd. I dinnae like it,” Magnus said firmly. “And he has a new boy with him, one who doesnae say much.”
“A lad? Why does he have a lad with him?”
“Took him, I be thinking. Like he took me.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, stunned by what he had said. It was true that she had wondered about it but, to her shame, had never asked. Instead, she had pushed the thought away, not wanting to know where her brothers had come from. Nay, she thought, fighting to be honest with herself, she had been afraid to ask, afraid to know, and, mostly, afraid of asking questions that could anger her father.
That moment of truth brought tears to her eyes but she blinked them away. Now was not the time to bemoan her own cowardice. Bethoc looked at Magnus, noticing how closely he watched her with his dark brown eyes, a color that neither her mother nor father had. That made her even more certain of what a coward she had become.
“And like Bean and Colin,” she murmured and Magnus nodded, breaking her heart. “And Liam and Georgie and Gavin.” He nodded again, still watching her closely. “Are they all waiting inside?”
“Aye, and being verra quiet. Quiet is good now.” He bit his lip. “Some food would be as weel, I think.”
Bethoc nodded. “I think ye are right. I had nay realized it had grown so late. Come along then,” she said as she took him by the hand. “I had best get on with it.”
He smiled briefly and nodded his agreement. Her father’s tempers settled some when his belly was full. The moment she stepped into the cottage she felt his glare on her but ignored it as well as she could while she let go of Magnus and removed Margaret from the sling. She set her bag over by her bed, handed Margaret over to Bean, and turned her attention to the making of a stew.
When he stood up, she tensed but fought to keep all of her attention on the preparations of the meal. The man she still called Father was not tall, barely six inches above her own meager height of five foot two and he had gone soft. It could be seen in his expanding belly. Yet he was more than strong enough to do her harm. She had not fully recovered from his last show of temper.
“Where have ye been, lass?” he demanded.
“I was just on a walk, getting some fresh air,” she replied.
“Went to see a mon, did ye?”
“Nay. I have seen no mon. Just walked. Checked a few bushes for signs of berries but ’tis too early yet. May put some net over a few to keep the birds away so there will be some ripe ones to harvest.” The spoon she held flew from her hand when her father suddenly grabbed her and jerked her around to face him.
“Who is he? Who is the mon ye met?”
This was not good, she thought as she struggled to hide the fear threatening to swamp her. He was furious. She knew he had no idea where she had been or with whom so she did not understand his insistence that she had been meeting with a man. How could she argue with a suspicion he had simply plucked from the air? Bethoc was about to reply when he slapped her. She placed her hand over the spot and stared at him, not sure what to do or say to escape his fury.
“I met no mon, Father. I ken no mon save for the few ye have brought home now and then.”
“Tell me who he is!”
“Father, I . . .”
He struck her again and she fell to her knees, dazed. She knew she needed to get up, that she was helpless, yet could not hold that thought in her head long enough to act on it. That last blow had come too close to sending her into unconsciousness. Then he kicked her and she cried out in pain. Before he could kick her again, she was suddenly surrounded by dirty feet. Blinking to clear her vision, she saw that the boys had surrounded her and she feared for them.
“Get out of my way, brats,” their father growled. “She has been out with a mon. Rutting like a whore just like her mam.”
Bethoc made a noise, a denial she hastily smothered as she struggled to sit up.
“With Margaret along?” asked Bean. “Ye think she could be rutting with a mon with a bairn strapped to her back?”
Bean’s words appeared to stun her father as much as they did Bethoc. Not only was Bean ridiculing the man’s opinion but he did so in a tone that made it no secret. Fear for him gave her the strength to struggle to her feet.
“Ye watch how ye speak to me, boy.”
“We need her to make the food,” said Colin, and there was only a hint of scorn in his voice. “She needs to get back to cooking.”
Her father grunted but his gaze was narrowed as he studied the boys. She had the feeling he was suddenly thinking too much on how they were growing. Both Bean and Colin would soon tower over him and they were visibly stronger. Bethoc accepted the sad fact that she was going to have to try to plot a safe escape for them as well and probably very soon.
She got to her feet and brushed her skirts clean before returning to the stew. Her face hurt, the skin tightening as the swelling began. She badly wanted to place a cold cloth on it but did not dare. Long ago she had learned that making a fuss over any injury he had inflicted just inspired him to make more and lately the beatings had gotten more vicious. He seemed to take it as some insult that one would actually acknowledge the injury he had done you. One of her back teeth felt loose and she prayed she would not lose it.
As Bethoc served the stew she studied the boys. They watched both her father and her. Their gaze on their father was wary, the one they cast her way now and then was watchful. She knew they were looking for some serious injuries and so she made an effort to hide the many aches and pains she was suffering from. It was not easy although she was accustomed to doing so. Her ribs ached with every move she made but she was as certain as she could be that they were not broken.
The boys watched her father so carefully she feared for them. They were making themselves a threat. He did not appear to notice it yet, but he would. He had already taken note of their size. It would soon matter a lot. He would notice and then there would be trouble, the kind that could get one of them killed. She would have to talk to them soon, let them know she was aware of the truth as well.
She quickly sat down next to Margaret. As she helped her sister eat, she studied the new boy her father had obtained. He was small, perhaps four or five years of age, maybe younger. Big brown eyes, wild, curly reddish hair, and clean, he did not look like a street child. Innocent though he appeared, his presence made Bethoc nervous. This was not some filthy street child he had dragged home. She braced herself to ask who the boy was, knowing that her father did not appreciate questions.
“Who is the lad?” she asked, feeling her stomach knot with fear and hating herself for that.
“An orphan lad,” her father replied and she knew he lied.
“His name?” she asked tentatively, hoping that by keeping her voice soft and respectful she would not raise his ire.
“Why do ye want to ken it? What does it matter?”
“Nothing. I but thought it would be convenient.”
“It be Cathan. Just Cathan. That be all ye need to ken. He will stay with us now.”
Bethoc recognized the little speech. It was the same one he had given with each brother. She could recall it now. Why had she never questioned it? It was plausible except that her father was not a man who did good deeds like taking in orphaned
children. They were always boys, too. Boys who were immediately put to work in the fields. Only Bean and Colin had been babies when they had appeared in her life and he had said each one was her brother. Ignorant of such things as childbearing, she had never questioned it.
Suddenly she could barely swallow the stew she was trying to eat to keep herself from asking more questions. She had so many and each one would be a spark to set off her father’s temper. A part of her was deeply ashamed that she had never been curious about where the boys came from, her child’s mind consumed with the need to avoid her father’s fists. Yet, as she had grown older, she should have pressed for answers, should have found the courage to do so. She was one and twenty now yet, instead of demanding answers, she filled her mouth with food she did not want just to avoid asking any questions that might anger the man. Her own cowardice appalled her.
Hiding the fact that she had not finished her meal, Bethoc collected everyone’s empty bowl. She listened to the talk of what had been done in the fields today as she cleaned up. Nothing had gone wrong so her father’s mood was good as the boys climbed the stairs to the loft where they slept. To her relief, her father then took himself off to the tavern even though it meant there was a good chance he could return drunk. His drinking had also grown worse lately and she suspected it was one of the things that made his temper so uncertain.
As soon as she put Margaret to bed, she moved to the large wooden chest in the corner of the room. The scent of lavender wafted up to her as she began to go through all the clothes stored there to find a small nightshirt. Little Cathan had nothing and she was sure the boys had not thought to give him anything. She finally found one that she suspected would fit, closed the chest, and headed up to the loft.
Bethoc sighed when she found young Cathan huddled under a blanket on a pallet near the wall. She would have to see to a rope-strung cot for him. He stared at her wide-eyed when she sat down near his bed and held out the nightshirt.
Highland Chieftain Page 2
