by Aileen Adams
“And who should I happen to find you with?” Connor chuckled. “Your old friend. I should’ve known you’d find your way to each other.”
“I didn’t know you’d taken up the slave trade while I was away, McAllister,” Rodric muttered. “Had I known, I would have returned sooner to ensure you couldn’t sell your stepdaughter into marriage.”
“Sell,” Connor snickered. “I sold no one, lad. I merely drew up a contractual obligation with your brother in order to seal the peace between the clans. And what does this arrogant little lass do?”
“Watch your tongue when you speak of her,” Rodric warned in a low voice, “or you just might find yourself without it.”
“Big talk,” Connor replied with a chuckle. “We’ll see how big a man you are when your brother finds out you’ve been traveling with his wife. I wouldn’t wish to be in your shoes when he gets word, lad.”
“I wouldn’t wish to be in your shoes at any time,” Rodric growled.
Against her, his heart raced faster than ever. He was holding himself back by the thinnest thread, she knew, and with her in the way, he couldn’t strike out at the man holding the sword.
It was very nearly dark there, under cover of the trees, which made it difficult for anyone to see her hand slide beneath his tunic to grasp the dirk she knew he’d hidden there. She’d seen it several times, most recently when he’d dipped his head into the stream—the motion had caused the tunic to ride up over his abdomen, and a flash of metal had caught her eye.
Along with other things.
Slowly, carefully, she slid the dirk from the sheath. He tensed, knowing what she was doing but unable to stop her without giving them both away. Inch by inch she lifted the dirk and then, just as slowly, she lowered her hand until it was free and passed it between their bodies.
He slid his hand between them, too, meeting hers and taking the dirk’s handle from her fingers. It was with a sense of relief that she gave it over—she’d never held such a weapon before and had no desire to use it on another person, even if they threatened her life.
“Duck,” he breathed, just by her ear and just loud enough for her to hear. She did so, her legs bending until she was nearly crouched on the ground. A sharp cry, followed by a groan of pain, and the man who’d been standing behind her fell to the ground in a heap.
Rodric pulled her to her feet, nearly slamming her against the tree he’d been resting on and shielding her with his body. It all happened so quickly.
“My, your training has served ye well, lad,” Connor observed, but with an edge of fear in his voice. How many men had he with him? Surely more than one. One of them had been left to watch Fiona’s house, she recalled. What of the others?
He let out a low whistle, surely to signal those very men.
No one came.
“What seems to be the trouble, McAllister?” Rodric bent quickly, snapping back up with the sword in his hand. He leveled it at Connor, whose hand immediately flew to his side in order to grasp the hilt of his own sword.
Rodric flicked at it, slicing the skin covering Connor’s knuckles, making him hiss in pain and draw his hand back as though his sword burned to the touch. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Rodric warned.
The rain began pooling at her feet, soaking through her leather shoes and running down the trunk against which her back was pressed. She shivered, colder than ever, but unable to care very much in light of what was taking place in front of her. A thrill ran through her body at the sight of her stepfather’s apparent confusion and growing fear.
“You had to kill them, didn’t you?” Rodric asked. “Kent. Fiona. Why couldn’t you leave them be? They harmed no one.”
“They sheltered her!” Connor roared, pointing at Caitlin who cowered behind Rodric’s shoulder. “They knew what they were doing! She ran from her lawful husband and refused to abide by the marriage contract. They aided her in her refusal. They paid the price!”
“You’re pitiful and weak,” Rodric sneered, the sword dangerously close to Connor’s throat. “Killing innocent people, destroying the farm and the livestock, those working for them. It makes me ill to look upon ye.”
Even in the darkness, Connor’s eyes seemed to glow with fanatical fire. “It makes you ill, eh? You’ve no idea what took place just before we set out for Fiona’s, I’d wager.”
It sounded as though he was taunting Rodric, which made Caitlin’s blood run cold. He’d done something terrible.
“What took place?” Rodric asked, the sword never wavering. It would take more than an idle suggestion to break his concentration.
“Why don’t you ask your older brother? If he’s still alive to tell you.”
She gasped, her fingers digging into Rodric’s shoulders.
Connor’s eyes met hers. “Oh, yes, my dearie. Your loving husband is more than likely dead by now.”
Rodric roared, unable to hold himself back any longer.
Caitlin tried to pull him back but it was no use; she couldn’t have controlled him when he wasn’t in a rage, much less when one had overtaken him. He rushed at Connor, causing the older, slower man to stumble backward until the thick, unmoving trunk of a gnarled birch stopped him.
“Don’t, Rodric!” she pleaded, standing at his side.
He was dangerous, just at the edge of giving in to his rage. His arms shook, his breathing reminded her of a bull on the rampage. The sword trembled ever so slightly but never moved much from its mark: the center of Connor’s throat, just beneath his chin.
“What did you do to him?” he whispered, his teeth tightly clenched beneath lips curled in a snarl. “Tell me!”
“It was his own fault!” Connor spat. “He was the one who began things! He was the one always ready for a fight! He challenged me, called me a thief for not standing up to my part of our agreement, demanded repayment, and finally threatened me. One of his men began a scuffle with one of mine, and your fool brother jumped into the fight!”
“What did you do?” Rodric roared.
“Stabbed him.” Connor smiled. “I ran him through with my dirk, again and again, left him lying in a pool of his own blood before we set out for Fiona’s. We must have just beaten you to it; a shame, since I wouldn’t have minded hearing your screams of terror as you burned to death in that house.”
He looked at Caitlin, their eyes locking for a single, chilling moment. “Both of you.”
Rodric drew his arm back as though preparing to strike a blow and Caitlin gasped, ready to scream.
“Wait!” Another voice called out over everything else, even over the rain which seemed to be slowing down but still filled the air. Her head snapped around in time to see a tall, dark-haired stranger on horseback riding toward them, with several men behind him.
Among them were Brice, Fergus, and Quinn.
“We took care of the rest of them,” Brice muttered, and she noticed a bleeding gash which ran the length of his arm.
“Rodric. Don’t do this,” the man warned, dismounting and standing on Rodric’s opposite side. “He isn’t worth it, and it’s more than likely what he wants you to do now.”
“Why would I want this?” Connor spat, glaring at the stranger.
“Because you have nowhere to go now, Connor McAllister. No one will shelter you. You’ve no clan, no power, nothing.”
“Why? Because Phillip Duncan declares it so?”
Oh! So this was Phillip Duncan! Quinn had reached the Duncans after all. She would have kissed him if things weren’t still so dire.
“Aye, because I declare it so and because I know it to be true. You’ve slain innocent people and only just confessed to murdering Alan Anderson, leader of clan Anderson. You have nothing now, and we both know it.”
Connor trembled slightly, his chin quivering, but his eyes were still hard as flint. “What do you plan to do with me, then?”
“My men will take you to neutral territory, where you will be set free to wander the rest of your days. I have little co
ncern over what happens to you past that point.”
Caitlin watched in awe as two men twice as big as Connor took him by the arms and hauled him to his feet, leading him to a horse. They ordered him to mount, one of them riding behind him.
Phillip turned to Rodric, who still held the sword, and removed it from his hand. “I see we arrived just in time,” he murmured.
“Would that you hadn’t,” Rodric snarled.
“As I said, you would have been granting him the death he most likely wished for,” Phillip reminded him. His eyes fell on Caitlin. “I suppose you’re Caitlin, then?”
“I am.”
“I’m Phillip Duncan. It’s pleased I am to meet ye.” He looked over his shoulder to where Brice and Fergus were both being treated by a woman. “It seems those two were ambushed while searching for shelter.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered, her heart sinking.
“Fear not, lass,” Brice called out with a hearty laugh. “They weren’t long for this world once they decided to tangle with the McDougal brothers.” It seemed as though he was genuinely enjoying himself.
Rodric looked down at her, and in his eyes was a mixture of relief and confusion and still-blazing rage. It was a frightful combination, but she stood straight and tall before it. She would not back down, not when the man she loved needed her.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, placing tentative hands on his chest. He’d killed a man on her behalf, to protect her. It was almost too much to take in all at once.
He touched her cheek, sighing softly as he did, and he seemed to come back to himself—only to jerk away with a grunt. “Alan.”
She knew exactly what he meant. “We can go.”
“We have to go.” He looked at Phillip. “I must go to my brother.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “Take two of our horses. They’re fresher than yours.”
“I’m going as well.” The healer who’d cleaned and bandaged Brice’s wound stood, tossing a long, thick braid over her shoulder as she did.
Phillip all but sputtered in obvious surprise. “You will do no such thing!”
“Phillip Duncan, a man may need my help,” she argued, already mounting a small, black mare. “It’s no more than a day’s ride if we go straight through, is it not?”
“Aye, if it’s just past midday we ought to arrive past midnight if we don’t stop,” Rodric confirmed.
She nodded, turning to Phillip. “I must go. Heather’s looking after Mary. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Sarah, I refuse to allow this!” Phillip blustered.
Caitlin surmised that they were husband and wife. She respected the woman instantly, standing up to such an obviously powerful man as the laird himself.
“I don’t recall asking your permission, as you didn’t ask mine when we first met. Or need I remind you?” She turned her attention to Rodric. “Come. We have no time to lose.”
Yes. Caitlin liked her very much.
25
They rode through the day and into the night, the three of them, hardly stopping for anything but the direst of nature’s needs and the watering of the horses. They exchanged barely a word, concentrating on the ride.
That was more than enough to concentrate on, as the muddy ground and hot, moist air—combined with nonstop riding—made the journey one of the most difficult he’d ever taken. He couldn’t imagine how much more difficult it was for two women, though they seemed to be handling it well.
Always in the back of his mind was his brother.
His brother who he’d never liked much but who was still his blood. They shared a clan, they’d shared a home. So many of his earliest memories involved Alan. As youngsters, they’d even been friends.
Where had they gone wrong? What had changed? Certainly, Alan had been all but impossible to get along with, but they were still brothers. He should have tried to be a better friend to him, to support him a bit more instead of looking down on him as a temperamental, undisciplined, immoral waste.
He might never have the chance to make amends.
For all he knew, he might already be head of the clan.
They rode alongside the River Nevis on the last leg of the journey, the horses all but ready to collapse from exhaustion. “Just a bit more,” he urged, tapping his heels to the beast’s sides and praying in his awkward, unpracticed way that they could make it in time.
It had been so long since he’d prayed, since he’d even felt the need to do so.
He prayed then. As fervently as he ever had.
There were lights in the windows of the house, and he kept his gaze focused on them. Come on, come on, hurry, he silently urged. What was happening inside? There were horses out in front, dozens of them left to their own devices rather than being cared for in the stables. The closer they came to the house, the louder the sound of men’s voices raised in angry protest.
Caitlin shot him a terrified look when they dismounted. She was still somewhat of an outlaw as far as the Andersons were concerned, he supposed.
“Worry not,” he assured her as he took her by the hand, Sarah on their heels.
The house was a flurry of activity, the entry hall packed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with clansmen. Rodric pushed his way through, pulling Caitlin along with him. As he cut a path, he heard enough to know that Alan was still alive.
At least, according to what the men believed.
The stairs were empty, and he took them two at a time in his haste. So great was his haste, in fact, that he crashed into Padraig as he turned the corner.
His younger brother looked as though he might burst into tears. “How did you know?” he asked, already leading the way down the corridor.
“It’s a long story. I’ve brought a healer.”
Padraig cast a look over his shoulder. “I don’t know if that will help now.” They stopped at the door, and Padraig threw up an arm to block Rodric’s progress. “I must warn you. He is in dire condition. The village healer has done what she can, but I do not think it’s done much good.”
He looked over Rodric’s shoulder to where Sarah stood. “Perhaps you can do more.”
“I’ll do everything I can.” She touched Rodric’s arm. “I must have space in which to assess him, however. I ask that you wait here while I do. You can leave the door open to watch, if you wish.”
He nodded, unable to speak, only grateful that his brother still lived. There could still be a way to save him.
Why he wanted so badly to save Alan was just as much a surprise to him as it would have been to anyone else, he supposed.
Padraig opened the door, revealing a dark room. The curtains hanging in front of the windows were drawn tight. Only a single candle burned by the side of the bed.
Once his eyes adjusted, Rodric made out the shape of his brother’s oversized body stretched out on the bed. He was covered in linen sheets pulled up to his neck, leaving no way of seeing what was beneath.
His eyes were closed, though his head turned from side to side as though he were in the middle of an unhappy dream. Sweat glistened on his brow.
Sarah immediately went to work, washing her hands before drawing back the sheets. He held his breath.
Caitlin gasped, burying her face in Rodric’s arm. He should have warned her of what she might see and smell.
The wounds were infected. Anyone could see it. He’d witnessed the progression of infection more times than he cared to remember. There was no way to forget the way a festering wound looked and smelled, the foulness of it. The red lines which extended from the wound once the infection began to enter the blood.
Alan bore wounds to his stomach, his sides. Sarah examined each, the creases in her brow deepening all the while.
“Can you assist me?” she whispered, motioning for Padraig to join her in rolling Alan onto his side, away from the door. When they attempted it, and the sheet beneath the body stuck to the wounds on his back, he closed his eyes in impotent rage.
Who had allowe
d his brother to come to this? The head of the Anderson clan, no less?
Sarah looked up from her work, her gaze meeting his. There was no need to ask whether his brother would live through this. Just from the look of the wounds and the spread of the infection, the fact that he was alive at all was something near a miracle.
Caitlin saw it, too, and her hand tightened around Rodric’s. It wasn’t for Alan’s sake that she was concerned, but rather for his. He loved her all the more for knowing without being told of it the conflict raging within her.
The same conflict raged within him as well.
Alan’s death might just bring peace to the clan for the first time since he’d assumed leadership.
Alan was his brother. Their father’s firstborn son.
Alan had never been kind to him.
He’d looked up to his older brother as a child.
He was only a child then. He knew no better.
Alan was his blood. Part of his past was dying in front of him.
Sarah straightened, washing her hands once again in the basin beside the bed before motioning for Rodric to join her. Caitlin nudged him into the room, waiting in the doorway.
“The fever will take him before the night is out,” she predicted in a low voice, grimacing as she looked around him to where his brother lay dying. “I know not who treated him, but they have no right to call themselves a healer.”
Why did he care so? Why did her words send a cramp of panic to his chest? “I heard of what you did for Jake Duncan when he was wounded. He, too, was close to death when you arrived at the manor house.”
Her face seemed to crumble. “Aye,” she whispered, placing her hands on his arms. “But the damage is far more widespread than it was in Jake’s case. He’s sustained multiple wounds, including what I fear is a puncture to his liver. Even if we had been here to immediately treat him, I’m afraid there would have been nothing to do to save him. I’m very sorry.”
It didn’t seem possible. How was such a thing possible? How could a man as vital as Alan succumb so quickly?
