A Soldier's Salvation

by Aileen Adams

  “Yes, it’s a difficult first few hours, just after someone dies.” Caitlin been but a child when her mother died after having given birth to her fourth dead son, but she remembered the great commotion just afterward. People coming and going, the village deacon hanging about, the weeping of women in nearly every room of the suddenly very crowded house.

  Only Aunt Sorcha had thought of her that day, finding her in her bedchamber and ensuring she was cared for while everyone else mourned the double death.

  Who would care for Sorcha now?

  “I must go to her,” she decided, determination setting her jaw in a firm line.

  “What?” Fiona leaped to her feet, hands on her hips. “You’ll do no such thing! What do you think? That we’ve taken the chance of allowing you to live here all this time so you could then be so foolhardy as to show yourself on McAllister lands?”

  “Fiona…” Kent murmured, taking her arm.

  Caitlin merely shook her head. “It’s all right, Kent. You needn’t behave as though you haven’t felt my presence just as keenly as my cousin has. I hold nothing against you—in fact, I owe you everything, and I’m well aware of it.”

  “Even so,” he replied, not bothering to tell her she was wrong. “Even so, it seems a great risk, and an unnecessary one. What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “I must at least let her know she isn’t alone.”

  “She has the entire clan to look after her,” Fiona argued.

  “Do you think any of them care? Truly? Connor cares nothing for my mother’s family, as they are not his blood relations. He’ll extend no courtesies to her; you can be sure.”

  “You’ll still accomplish nothing by going. Nothing real, nothing lasting, as you cannot afford to be seen. You’d never be able to stay without someone spotting you and reporting back to Alan or Connor that you were seen.”

  “I’ll simply have to be smart enough to avoid detection,” she reasoned.

  Fiona shot Kent a look of exasperation, throwing her hands into the air. “There’s no reasoning with her! My mother was right when she told tales of her cousin Caitriona and how that hair of hers meant a stubborn temperament. She passed it on to her daughter.”

  “You might not speak of me as though I’m not here,” Caitlin interjected, looking from one of them to the other and back again. “Also, once I’m gone, you won’t have to fret over my presence.”

  Fiona’s cheeks flushed scarlet, matching the color of her hair. Clearly ashamed of her cousin knowing the truth of her feelings.

  “It’s all right,” Caitlin assured her. “I forced myself on you, and you’ve been kind enough to keep me here all this time.”

  “You’re welcome to return—would that you wouldn’t leave at all.” Fiona wrapped her in a tight hug.

  “It’s what I feel I must do. I’m alive and well and a half-day’s ride away. I could return in two days, perhaps three. Once I’m certain Sorcha is taken care of.”

  “She’ll be furious when she sees you,” Fiona warned. “You know that once you tell her the chance you’ve taken, she’ll be so disappointed.”

  “I know. There’s nothing I can do about that. She’s worth the risk.”

  Kent sighed, wringing his hands together. “You’ll want to borrow some clothing, then. No use traveling in…” He waved his hands to indicate her light grey kirtle.

  She eyed him up and down. “You would lend me something?”

  “Aye—you’ll need to belt it tightly, but I’ve an old pair of trousers which might help.” He let out an anxious sigh, but then he was an anxious man. It was a wonder he’d ever agreed to allow her to live under his roof.

  At least he’d breathe more freely once she was gone, even if it was only for a short while.

  If she managed to escape detection, of course.

  Otherwise, it was back to the Andersons, back to Alan. He’d never let her out of his sight again.

  And that terrible thought was nearly enough to make her doubt herself. Was she indeed behaving rashly by rushing to join her aunt? When Alan would undoubtedly make her pay dearly for running from him?

  The thought of Sorcha suffering alone, Sorcha who’d been like a mother to her, reminded Caitlin of the reason why she had to make the journey. She simply had to, if only to provide a small bit of comfort.

  “I’ll leave before dawn,” she announced, squaring her shoulders in determination.

  It was still dark when she awoke on the straw-filled tick tucked in one corner of the main room. Had it been winter, she would’ve been nearer the hearth—even without a fire blazing inside, the stones which lined it would hold warmth. She’d often slept by the hearth while staying with her aunt and uncle.

  Even a makeshift bed on the floor of a house full of love was better than comfortable lodgings in that cold, lonely home which had once been her mother’s domain. Mother had always ensured that her daughter felt wanted. Safe. Protected.

  Not like Connor, who had all but cast her aside once Caitriona McAllister’s body gave up after the fourth stillbirth. Theirs had never been a loving relationship prior to her mother’s death—she wasn’t his child, not really, though that might have been forgivable had she been male. There was no one for him to pass his name on to.

  Hence the near obsession he’d had with his wife bearing him a son. He hadn’t suffered as Caitriona had suffered with each loss, he hadn’t carried the babies in his body as she had. Lines hadn’t etched themselves into his face, deeper and deeper, as though each line represented another child which never lived outside its mother’s womb.

  He’d killed Caitriona as surely as if he’d driven a blade into her heart. It might have been easier on her, at that.

  And what had he done afterward? Had he expressed sympathy toward his motherless stepdaughter? Had he shown her love, attention, even the slightest semblance of caring what came of her? No. None of it.

  If anything, he’d regretted her existence. He would’ve been free had it not been for Caitlin.

  It was easy to fall into dark memories when she was alone, and the rest of the world seemed to be asleep. Were Fiona and Kent enjoying a good, deep sleep? Perhaps so. They wouldn’t need to fear Caitlin being discovered on their farm for at least a few days.

  She washed her hands and face before sliding into the trousers and tunic which Kent had left for her. Both were quite large, though Kent was of a smaller build than the men she’d grown up around. Highlanders, all of them. Burly and massive.

  She never could’ve worn Rodric’s clothing, had he been there to lend it to her. His trousers would likely have billowed around her legs like sheets no matter how tightly she’d cinched them.

  The mere thought of him made her heart clench tight, as though a hand were squeezing it. The sensation took her breath away, made her clutch the sides of the kitchen table for support. How different it would all be if he had never gone away.

  Perhaps it was easier to believe that. The truth wasn’t as simple as she liked to believe. There was no way of knowing whether Rodric would’ve wanted to marry her upon his return.

  War changed a man. Hadn’t he warned her of as much before leaving? He swore his feelings for her would never change. Why, then, hadn’t he come for her once the war ended? Why hadn’t he at least let his clan know he was living?

  He’d never once stepped foot on Anderson land again, so far as she knew.

  He hadn’t really loved her. Theirs had been nothing more than a childhood romance which had ended with the passage of childhood. Its usefulness had run its course along with other childish concerns.

  For him.

  Not for her. Never for her.

  “Still set on leaving?” Fiona’s soft whisper was still enough to make Caitlin jump and whirl about. “I must admit to having my doubts.”

  “You ought to know me better than that.”

  “Aye. I also know how you loathe waking before the dawn.”

  Caitlin barely stifled a laugh for Kent’s sake. She assum
ed he slept on, though he’d surely be awake soon enough in order to begin the day’s business. One was rarely idle on a farm, no matter how many hands were employed there.

  “I should go. Now.” She hugged her cousin, who returned the embrace. “I owe you no less than my life, and should I not make it back to you…”

  “Do not speak of such a thing. Do not even dare think it,” Fiona whispered in her ear, fierce and determined. “You will return. He will not find you.”

  “Pray for me.” She kissed her cousin’s cheek and turned away, wanting to leave before the tears in her eyes became evident. As she went, she pulled her long braid up on top of her head before jamming a borrowed hat on top. It would do little to conceal her feminine features, but she might keep her head down in the presence of others while passing through the village. Her only chance at survival.

  The morning air was soft, warm, full of dew, and the stars still shone when Caitlin mounted the gentle mare Kent had agreed to lend her along with his clothing. The song of the grasshoppers was nearly deafening, what seemed like hundreds of them shouting to be heard over their brethren.

  She turned in the saddle. “Tell Kent I owe him everything as well, and I plan to repay him whenever I can.”

  Fiona nodded from the doorway, a deep frown creasing her brow. “I will, though you know he’ll accept no such repayment.”

  “I can offer, can’t I?”

  The two of them were smiling when Caitlin clicked her tongue to signal the beginning of her journey.

  The mare took off at a trot, and soon the farm was behind them.

  6

  Rodric Anderson!” the tavernkeeper shouted when the four of them entered. “A face I’d never expected to see again in this life!”

  “Nor had I expected to see yours, MacKendrick.” The men clasped hands before Rodric turned to introduce his companions. Any hope of quietly entering Anderson lands was dashed in an instant—he knew word would quickly spread of his return and eventually meet his brother’s ears. So be it, then, he thought with a grim smile as the four of them sat about a large table.

  “You lot look as though you could use a large meal and an even larger tankard of ale.” MacKendrick chuckled, his bulbous stomach jiggling as he did. He looked a fright, as always, though he took pride in maintaining a clean tavern. As though the time he could’ve spent washing himself and investing in a clean tunic was spent on scrubbing the place, instead.

  “Aye, and we thank ye most heartily,” Quinn growled, having complained of hunger for at least a dozen leagues prior to their reaching the tavern. If it had been up to Rodric, they would never have stopped. He hadn’t wished for the news of his arrival to spread so far in advance of his arrival at his brother’s doorstep.

  His brother’s. All his brother’s. Everything that had ever mattered to him was Alan’s.

  “Are you back for the burial, then?” MacKendrick asked, a sour look marring his features.

  Rodric’s stomach dropped, and he was suddenly as far from hunger as was humanly possible. “Burial?” he croaked.

  Not her. Not her, please, not her. Anyone but Cait.

  “Aye. Old Gavin McMannis. Passed away two days back. They’re putting him in the ground this very day.” MacKendrick patted him on the back. “I thought certainly, since ye were so often seen on their land in your youth…”

  The fact that he felt relief at the announcement of Gavin’s death had to speak poorly of his character. Did it not? He could breathe again. He could think again. Because it wasn’t Caitlin who was being placed in the ground.

  He realized then and there that he very much wished to see her again, even though he’d been set against it only moments before.

  “I’m sorry to hear of it,” he murmured, quite sincere. “A good man. A loyal man.”

  “Aye, and with no one to mourn him but his poor wife.” The tavernkeeper shook his head. “It’s a pity, to be sure, but at least the sickness took him quickly. They say he barely knew who or where he was for much of it, a fever wiping out his reason.” MacKendrick hurried away—if a man of his size could be said to hurry—in order to see after the needs of another patron.

  “You knew this man of whom he speaks?” Brice asked.

  “Aye. Gavin and his wife, Sorcha, were good friends. The uncle and aunt of a childhood friend whose home was not far. She spent most of her time there, and I followed suit whenever possible.”

  “She?” Brice raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Wise of him.

  Better to get it out of the way now. “Aye. I told you of her last night—indirectly, at least. Caitlin McAllister. The stepdaughter of the man with whom my brother is feuding.”

  “Ah,” came Brice’s soft sound of understanding.

  Rodric ignored it. “Theirs was a happy home. A warm, loving home. They had no children of their own, so they welcomed our presence. Kind, generous people. I’m sorry to hear Gavin came to an end.”

  He smiled to himself at the memory of the games they had once played, the races they had run from the well to the barn, from the barn to the stables, then back to the house. They were young and so full of life, vitality, seemingly never fatigued.

  Sorcha never grew tired of their boundless energy, either. She had indulged them, laughing at their antics, feigning surprise or wonder at their feats of strength and speed.

  Caitlin had been the ideal playmate, in some ways the brother Rodric had always wanted. She wasn’t temperamental and rough as Alan, nor was she a baby like Padraig. She looked up to him, saw him as a brave and daring older boy, and he’d basked in the glow of her adoration.

  All of this had taken place under Sorcha’s watchful eye, with Gavin’s hearty laughter and understanding nature a welcome change from the often-fractious nature of the Anderson home.

  Those were golden, peaceful, idyllic days. When he was too young for his father to expect much from him, at the age when it was more desirable that he find something to do outdoors, away from clan business. Ross Anderson had always been a busy man, always smoothing over one dispute or another, always seeing to it that his clan’s lands were held fast.

  After a time, his eldest son’s exploits had taken a good deal of attention, too.

  And by then, Caitlin had become more than just a playmate to Rodric.

  Their refreshments arrived, and not a moment too soon.

  “I thought I’d soon have no choice but to eat my own arm,” Quinn admitted before sinking his teeth into a hunk of browned, sizzling meat hanging from a thick bone.

  “To hear you talk, I’d think you never knew hardship,” Fergus snorted. “You forget what it was like out there, in the field. Now that was real starvation, laddie, and it lasted longer than half a day.”

  “Half a day?” Brice laughed. “Half a day would’ve seemed a grand miracle. I’d have felt like a king if the longest I ever had to go hungry was from the time I broke my fast until the time the sun was just past overhead.”

  “I suppose younger men simply grow hungry faster than you older ones,” Quinn shrugged, and the three of the burst into good-natured laughter.

  “Aye, or perhaps you were a bit busy this morning with one of the village girls—I saw a pair of them making sheep’s eyes at you as we left the Duncans,” Brice grinned.

  “I think you overestimate even my stamina.”

  They laughed again, louder this time.

  Rodric smiled, tried to stay in the conversation, but it was no use. The past tugged at him, pulled him back into its embrace, wrapped itself around him in the form of memories he’d worked so hard for so long to free himself of.

  And they were so vivid, too, as if the ignoring of them made them that much stronger. They’d been untouched and were therefore fresh once he reached a tentative hand their way. It seemed strange that, on looking around himself, it wasn’t Sorcha and Gavin seated across from him. It should’ve been Caitlin at his left hand instead of Quinn. He could nearly hear their laughter. They were always laughing.

&n
bsp; He’d lived such a wonderful life in those days without ever knowing it. Perhaps that was the saddest part of life, that the good times never appeared as good while a body was going through them. Only after, and usually in comparison to something terrible.

  Like the war. How many times had he wished he were back home and fighting with Alan while in reality he was camped out in the mud, the stench of blood and sweat and rotting flesh hanging heavy in the air? Life at home had seemed all but unbearable at times thanks to the bitterness between father and eldest son, a bitterness which had at times left Rodric feeling as though he would choke from it.

  In those ugly, stark moments just after a battle, he would’ve given anything to go back to when everything was simpler.

  As good as things were, seated around a table with his friends, in a warm and welcoming place run by a man happy to see him, Rodric still wished himself back to when life was simple.

  When Caitlin was his.

  “I ought to go and at least pay my respects.”

  He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until three pairs of eyes turned his way, the table suddenly silent.

  Fergus spoke first. “What was that?”

  “I said, I ought to go and pay my respects at the burial. It’s the least I can do.”

  “And what are we to do in the meantime?” Quinn asked.

  “Aye, and what of the promise to Jake?” Brice added, eyes narrowing.

  “We’ll be on our way right after the burial,” Rodric promised. “If ye don’t wish to come with me, take a room for the night at the inn. We have more than enough silver, thanks to the payment from Phillip. I’ll even pay for it out of my share.”

  “It’s that important to ye,” Brice mused, sitting back in his chair.

  “Aye. It is.”

  “Ye don’t wish us to come along?” Quinn asked, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

  “Nay, it’s best I do something of this nature on my own. It’s less than a half-day’s ride from here. I’ll be back for ye in the morning, at the latest. Perhaps I’ll spend the night at the McMannis house, depending on how long the visit takes. Otherwise, I’ll return tonight and take a room at the inn with you.”