A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)

by Aileen Adams

  She took a dainty bite of meat, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. He gave her credit for at least appearing as though the age of the meat and its dry chewiness didn’t turn her stomach.

  Quinn, on the other hand, chortled as he settled back on one elbow. “Not to your liking, lass?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, her eyes averted, before taking another bite to show how amenable she was.

  “It isn’t normally like this,” Brice offered with a grin in Rodric’s direction. “Normally, it’s even worse.”

  To his surprise and the warming of his heart, Caitlin smiled. “I’ve had worse than this. I’m glad to have something to eat at all.”

  “When did you have worse?” Rodric asked. He couldn’t help himself.

  She turned the meat over and over between her fingers. He thought she did it to pass the time while she came up with a story which the group would believe. The way she frowned, however, told a different story.

  “It was the winter after you went away,” she murmured, glancing at Rodric before looking down at the half-eaten meat. “That was a bad winter. Very cold. It seemed the storms came back-to-back, with hardly the chance to catch one’s breath before the next one hit.”

  “I remember that,” he agreed. “And I do recall wondering about all of you. How you were getting along.”

  “At first, it wasn’t anything worse than any other winter,” she explained. “Yes, the larder was a bit sparser than normal, but it was nothing unusual. At first,” she repeated.

  “How bad was it by the end?” he asked, moving closer until he felt the warmth of her body. And the way she trembled.

  He wished he hadn’t asked.

  “If I ate once per day, it was a good day,” she said. “Normally, a piece of bread was the most we could spare. Every few days, some pottage.”

  “All day,” Quinn murmured.

  “Every two or three days. I rarely got out of bed toward the end. I didn’t have the strength.”

  “What happened?” Rodric asked, still unclear. “We had difficult winters prior to that. I don’t recall you ever coming close to starvation before.”

  “We weren’t prepared.” And that was as much as she would say. There was a finality in her voice which put to rest any further questions. Did it mean Connor had allowed her to starve? That he’d allowed for such lack of preparation?

  They passed the rest of their meal in silence, the men exchanging glances now and then. All of them wondering what to do with her, he knew. Wondering at a so-called leader who would allow his people to starve. His own stepdaughter, at that.

  Then again, he’d burned innocent people to death that very day.

  “I’m very tired,” Caitlin announced of a sudden, stretching for effect. Rodric felt Brice’s eyes on the side of his head but made no move to return the stare. If she saw, she would know they knew.

  “Aye. It’s been a long day,” he agreed. “Perhaps you should rest, then. We’ll be quiet.”

  She looked around, confusion creasing her brow. “Won’t you be sleeping?”

  “Aye, we’ll sleep. In shifts, most likely. After today, there’s no telling who might have decided to follow us.”

  “Besides,” Fergus added, “it’s never a wise practice for all members of a party to sleep in an unknown place throughout the night. There’s no telling what might be out there, in the dark.”

  “He’s only teasing ye, lass,” Brice muttered, cuffing his brother about the head. “Though ‘tis true, it’s better for one member of a party to keep watch at all times.”

  She looked crestfallen at this turn of events. “Oh. I see.”

  So she had been counting on the men falling asleep. It was a bit childish of a plan, but she was unaccustomed to such business.

  “I should think it would ease your mind,” Rodric pointed out. “Knowing there won’t be a time when you’re unprotected.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. Naturally, I’m grateful to all of you. Truly.” Her voice broke, but only slightly before she added, “Truly, I am.”

  “It was the least we could do,” Brice replied in a gruff voice, looking off into the fire to avoid looking at her. No, what they’d seen and done that day would not soon be forgotten.

  “I… suppose I’ll try to go to sleep, then.” She sounded hesitant, even disappointed.

  Rodric felt sorry for her, but it was no matter.

  He would stay up all night long if need be, only for the sake of ensuring she didn’t leave the camp.

  20

  What was Caitlin supposed to do?

  How was she going to get away if one of them was awake at all times?

  Did Rodric know? He seemed mildly amused at her disappointment, as though he were trying to hold back a smile and failing horribly. Did he know?

  It would mean his knowing that she knew what he intended to do to her. He intended to take her along with him by any means necessary.

  How was she so certain of this? Because she was certain of him. She knew him almost as well as she knew herself. He was far too smug, far too full of his own cleverness, to know how easily she saw through him.

  He’d accepted her decision too quickly, for one. He might have put up a bit of a fight, but he’d given in too soon. Rodric was still the boy who’d once fallen asleep at the supper table because he’d refused to finish his meal, though his father had threatened to leave him there until he ate every last bite.

  Ross had followed through on his threat. Rodric had sat alone, in the dark, with only his plate before him and everyone else in the house ordered to leave him on his own. He had spent the night sitting up in his chair, sleeping without so much as a blanket to warm him.

  And he hadn’t touched another bite of food in all that time.

  If he’d truly not been planning to enforce his will upon her, he would have argued through the day and into the night. They would have screamed at each other until both were hoarse—they’d done it enough times prior to that day.

  Instead, he’d accepted her decision and gone on with the business of setting up camp and tending to the horses. He hadn’t even hovered close to her, as he would’ve done otherwise. Because he didn’t want to give away his intentions, of course.

  How laughably obvious he could be sometimes.

  But now, curled up on her side with a saddle beneath her head, there was little she could do without being spotted first.

  The men sat around the fire, Fergus, and Quinn, both with their backs to her. They blocked her view of Brice and Rodric, seated across from them.

  They sat downwind from her, too, which mean she had difficulty understanding their conversation. A word or two would float her way, but nothing more. Not enough to give her an idea of what they were thinking or whether they were discussing her.

  A grasshopper chirped just beside her head, making her jump while a high-pitched squeal came from her mouth. She hated the things, ugly and loud as they were. If she had her way, they would all die.

  The men took notice, turning to see what had startled her. She settled back in without explanation, glad for the darkness which concealed her burning face.

  So, they were on their guard. Every nerve tuned to the sound of her voice, every muscle tensed with the knowledge that they might have to spring into action at a moment’s notice. They were soldiers, after all. None of them would ever truly be relaxed.

  Especially after what they’d seen at the farm.

  She could not relax, either, and she certainly couldn’t sleep even in spite of the knowledge that they’d keep her safe. Every time she closed her eyes, even for a moment, she saw the billowing, black smoke. While she hadn’t seen her cousin’s charred body, she imagined it—and perhaps what lived in her imagination was far worse than what the reality had been.

  She imagined the screams, too, and the terror which must have filled Fiona’s final moments. She had likely woken that morning as she had every morning, getting straight to work, not knowing unt
il it was too late that she’d never see another dawn.

  Tears threatened to choke her, tears which she swallowed back for fear of being overheard. There was no sense in attracting further attention. Especially not from Rodric.

  If only he would’ve told her he wanted her to stay because he cared for her. If only he’d said he didn’t want her to belong to another man. She might have agreed to stay with him, might have agreed to follow any plan he saw fit to create.

  She knew she would have. There was no “might” about it.

  But he hadn’t. He didn’t care that way. She was a childhood friend, an old sweetheart, someone who had once meant a great deal to him but who was now merely a stone around his neck.

  She’d free him soon, if he’d allow her to.

  The night was still, peaceful. Such a difference from earlier in the day. Even the frogs down by the stream weren’t making the sort of riotous noise they normally did—there were evenings when she’d been able to hear them even from the house.

  If only they would make their customary noise. They might mask the sounds of her movement. It was as if the very frogs didn’t wish for her to escape.

  The moon was covered over by thick clouds which did not seem to move. She wondered if they would ever clear up, if there would be moonlight to show her the way when the time came to run. The lack of light might work out in her favor. However, there would be less of a chance of being spotted if there was no moon, and she was more familiar with the terrain than any of the men.

  In the depths of her heart, she didn’t want to go. It was the very last thing she wished to do. Alan’s cruelty would be worse than ever because she’d run. Even Padraig’s kindness wouldn’t be enough to spare her the brunt of his brother’s punishment.

  It might go easier if Rodric were to accompany her, but he never would. It would mean admitting she was correct about needing to return to her husband. He’d never admit such a thing.

  Even if he did, and if he accompanied her, he couldn’t stay forever—in spite of the fact that the clan would be better for it, as Alan was perhaps a worse leader than Connor McAllister.

  No, Rodric and Alan might have killed one another if they’d been forced to live under the same roof as grown men. They’d fought enough as children, in spite of knowing their father had no patience for their constant bickering and violence.

  Without Ross Anderson to temper their mutual dislike, there was no telling what might result.

  Alan’s deterioration was evidence enough of what had come of his father’s death. There was no longer any reason for him to employ self-control, no need to attempt mastery of his baser qualities. His gluttony, his laziness, his quick temper. The Anderson household had once been a pleasant, bustling one, one Caitlin had preferred to her own.

  Even though Ross Anderson had intimidated her so—a large man with a deep voice more often than not raised in a shout. She’d often cowered in his presence and had done whatever possible to avoid him.

  Still, she had liked him. Perhaps because he’d always treated her fairly. Perhaps because she’d seen through his gruff exterior to the warm-hearted man he was underneath.

  Everything had changed the day of his passing. Nothing would ever be as it had once been. The several instances in which she had paid visit to the house in the years after Alan’s assumption of leadership had revealed an ever-degrading situation.

  The eldest Anderson son had not the warm heart his father had possessed; if he had, he’d learned to hide it.

  Padraig attempted to keep the clan running as their father had, and he performed admirably. Yet there was only so much one man could do when it seemed as though another man with final say in all matters pertaining to the clan was intent on destroying all the good his brother managed.

  There was stirring by the fire.

  Caitlin’s eyes opened just enough for her to see Quinn and Brice move to their respective saddles to rest their heads. Fergus and Rodric continued their conversation, their voices softer than ever.

  She could’ve screamed. All she asked for was a moment, one single moment in which they were otherwise occupied. One moment in which she might be able to escape.

  Fleeing on foot would be her only hope, seeing as how the mare’s saddle and blanket were beneath her head. She had never ridden bareback before and would not wish to attempt such a long journey in that manner.

  If she could make it to the woods, all would be well. She could lose them there. She’d hide in a tree if necessary—it had been years since she’d last climbed one, but surely the skill would come back to her if she called upon it.

  For one brief moment, the entire folly of her plan was clear. What was she thinking? How much longer would she lie to herself?

  She would never get away from them, would never be able to escape detection when all four men would certainly be searching at once. She would starve while hiding, or encounter a hungry animal intent on making a meal of her.

  If she made it to the woods at all.

  She had to try. So long as she remembered the reason for her actions—the love she felt for Rodric, the vital importance of keeping him safe from his brother and Connor McAllister both—she would find a way.

  Rodric chuckled over something, turning his face to the side so she might catch sight of his profile. The light from the fire danced over him, casting him in shadow one moment and a warm glow the next. His smile flashed, his eyes gleaming. She noticed a thin scar along his hairline which she hadn’t seen before. He’d sustained a wound while fighting.

  He’d likely sustained much more than that.

  Even with his rather rough edges, no matter the scars he might possess, he was handsome. He was still her hero.

  If she’d been aware of falling asleep, it would’ve come as a great surprise.

  21

  If Caitlin was pretending to sleep, she was going a good job of it. He thought he even heard her snore once or twice, quite convincingly.

  She was near exhaustion. It was natural. No one could lie there after going through all she’d suffered that day without eventually falling asleep. No matter how determined she might have been to stay awake, her body had won out.

  This came as a relief, and not just because he had no desire to chase after the lass through a moonless countryside with which he was unfamiliar. There were many things he’d do for her, and do gladly, but that wasn’t one of them.

  Och, but she was beautiful. The fact that she slept meant he had the chance to admire that beauty unnoticed. Her full mouth curved into a pout, as though she were unhappy with what she dreamed of. Fair brows against creamy skin. The fine, straight nose and gently curved jaw.

  He longed to run his fingers over that curve and hold her chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing her to him. Her sweet breath on his face, the slight flaring of her nostrils as her breathing sped up the closer he came.

  He longed to taste her lips, to feel the racing beat of her heart as he pulled her, clutched her, held onto her for dear life. He wanted to move his mouth deliciously slowly against hers, listening as she sighed, drinking in the curves of her body with both hands.

  Starting with the waist and working down.

  He shook his head, alarmed at his growing ardor.

  There was more to be considered. He was wasting time imagining all manner of private fantasies while he needed to keep watch on her.

  He’d already gone over the plans with each of the men, and everyone knew the part they’d play. He didn’t doubt their faithfulness, not for a moment. He would do the same for them if they asked.

  The fire was dying out, dwindling until it was little more than a pile of dying embers; occasional cracking and popping were the only sounds to puncture the otherwise silent night. He’d never heard a night so silent.

  It was as if all the world knew something was out of place. Something vital. A life-or-death matter.

  Or perhaps nature itself knew of the death which had already occurred that day. So much deat
h. It was one thing to witness such horrors on the battlefield but another to bear witness on a farm, in the middle of an otherwise quiet countryside with not so much as a neighboring cottage to mar the pastoral purity.

  Perhaps if there had been a neighboring cottage, there might have been assistance offered to the now-deceased pair. Or, more likely, the neighbor who’d come on the run would also have been killed.

  No, there had been no assisting Caitlin’s cousin. The moment McAllister had remembered the distant relative to whom Caitlin must have fled, her fate had been sealed.

  Like as not, the fact that his stepdaughter had all but stepped foot on his very territory in order to pay respects to her uncle had infuriated him.

  He would’ve taken the most direct route back to his home, in a rush to catch up with his stepdaughter—that was, if he knew where she had gone. Perhaps Fiona and Kent had kept the knowledge to themselves. All he could do was hope they had feigned ignorance of where Caitlin had run to or to what purpose she’d fled.

  Otherwise, Connor would pay a visit to Sorcha.

  On the one hand, woe to the man who believed he could force Sorcha McMannis to do anything she did not wish to do. If he alleged that she’d seen Caitlin or had harbored her in the house, she would never admit to it.

  She loved Caitlin nearly as much as he did.

  On the other hand, he might show Sorcha the same mercy he’d shown Fiona—then again, no, that would be a terrible mistake on his part. It would mean setting fire to a home or murdering the woman inside when she lived just beyond Anderson borders. The McMannises had always been good friends of the Andersons, too. It would be tantamount to a declaration of war.

  Would Connor go that far?

  He jumped when a large branch broke apart in what was left of the fire, the sound breaking the otherwise silent evening.

  Caitlin jumped, sitting up entirely, eyes wide and chest heaving. He was at her side in an instant, ready to take her in his arms and perhaps indulge in what he’d only just been imagining.