by Aileen Adams
The way he held himself, the tension in his arms and shoulders, spoke of how he fought to keep himself together.
Caitlin backed away from the door, not uncertain as to what he’d do. There was so much tenderness and affection in the way he spoke, in the way he touched his brother’s head. So much love there which had never found expression before.
What would that love do to the love he claimed to feel for her?
Even the thought of being without a clan to protect her was nothing compared to the stark, cold, lonely expanse of nothingness which came to mind when she imagined being without Rodric.
27
Rodric couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be real. And yet, he knew it was.
Sarah washed her hands again, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again with a sigh. “I wish there was more to be done for him. I’d like the chance to speak with the healer who treated him. Perhaps they can be instructed against allowing something such as this to happen again.”
Her words hardly registered with Rodric, sounding as though they came from a great distance. She might as well have been shouting to him from the Duncan manor house.
He’d been through this before. The finality of watching a man die.
But he’d never watched his brother die. He’d not known until that very day that there were further horrors in the world.
When Rodric did not reply, Padraig cleared his throat. “I’ll send for her, and for her apprentice. They ought to both learn of the mistakes made here.”
“Do not be too hard on them,” she warned. “As I told Rodric, if the liver was punctured there was not much a healer could have managed. And I do believe that was the case, judging by the placement of the wound to his lower back.”
Connor had stabbed him in the back, the coward. Banishment wasn’t enough for him. He should’ve died for what he did. To murder the leader of another clan…
“Rodric.” Sarah touched his shoulder, her voice stronger than before. “You need to wash, and I believe food and rest would do you a world of good.”
“There’s far too much to manage,” he replied, still staring at the dying man stretched out before him.
“You’ll manage it much better when you’ve taken care of yourself.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. “I’m the wife of the laird. I’ve spoken those words many times, and I’ve always been correct.”
“She makes a good point,” Padraig agreed. “You ought to refresh yourself. There’s nothing to be done at the moment, while he sleeps.”
“I do not wish to leave him.”
“I won’t leave his side,” Sarah promised. “Now, please. You’ve been traveling for many days with little food and even less sleep. I do not wish to have to treat you because you’ve run yourself into exhaustion.”
It was as if her words sank into his bones and weighed him down. Yes, he was nearing the point of exhaustion, and she only reminded him of this.
He nodded at Padraig. “I’ll go to my old room, then.”
“I instructed one of the maids to prepare it for you when you arrived,” Padraig replied.
“You always think ahead.” He shared a long look with his brother, rivers of thought and feeling and regret flowing between them. It would go unspoken, as it always did. It was there nonetheless.
His feet were heavy as he walked from the room which no longer held the thick stench of death, likely thanks to Sarah’s opening of the window curtains. Or he’d grown accustomed to it that quickly.
His clan. Within hours, it would be his to do with as he pleased. By blood and by law.
He wanted none of it.
The sensation of a rope slowly tightening around his neck was strong enough to make him touch his fingers to his throat, as though rough, coarse fiber would be there instead of skin. Every breath his brother took put him one step closer to losing his freedom.
Some men would consider it gaining power and strength. Alan certainly had, and their father had before them. What was wrong with him, then, that he saw it as being just the opposite?
Caitlin wasn’t waiting in the corridor, as he’d assumed she would be. Judging by the sounds of it, she wasn’t downstairs with the men—they were ready to rush from the house and cut down any McAllisters who came into view, and like as not were merely waiting for word of their leader’s death to do so.
He supposed she’d gone to rest and was glad of it. She had been running for too long. They both had.
It occurred to him that once Alan breathed his last, she would be free. She could be his. He’d waste no time in making it so. They had already nearly missed their chance.
Only the thought of their marriage could lift his spirits, but it did, and it carried him the rest of the way to the room in which he’d spent so much of his life.
The bed was the same, still sitting by the window which overlooked the breadth of Anderson territory. From where he stood, the Grampians looked like little more than foothills. To his left, too far off to see clearly, was the River Nevis and the farm where Sorcha lived her solitary life. To the right, beyond the lands his clan oversaw, were thick woods populated by any number of animals and birds and wandering stragglers.
So much of it would be under his control, and so soon.
A yawn wide enough to split his head open reminded him it was well past time to sleep. There would be much to address once Alan succumbed to his wounds.
The bed was still soft, at least, and the linens clean. He sank into it without removing his tunic or trousers, exhaustion overtaking him before his head touched the pillow. The full weight of all that had transpired seemed to catch up to him at once.
He fell into a deep slumber.
When he woke to the sound of knocking at the closed chamber door, he knew what needed to be done. It was all so clear.
Much to his bemusement, Sarah had been correct, in order to manage the matters before him, he needed first to attend to himself. Nothing was as murky as it had been before after even a short sleep.
No wonder Phillip Duncan managed to keep his clan in line and the activities of the manor house running smoothly, with a wife such as herself behind him.
There was no need to ask why Padraig waited on the other side of the door. The light outside told Rodric that he’d slept for hours, meaning enough time had passed that Alan could only be dead.
Padraig nodded, wordless.
“Och, it’s for the best that he be out of pain now,” Rodric murmured, though his heart ached nonetheless.
“Aye, so it is.” Padraig drew a deep breath, as though to steady himself. “I suppose you ought to speak to the men, then.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“It isn’t my place to make such a pronouncement. Also, I was certain you’d want to know first.”
“Aye, so it is,” Rodric replied. None of it mattered just then, however, something he didn’t expect the younger man to understand. The finality of Alan’s passing left him wanting no one but her. She was free, for good and all.
Free to be his, if she pleased.
“Where is Caitlin?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as they walked side-by-side. They were nearly the same height, he noted, and both walked with high heads and a long stride.
It struck him once again how his brother had grown, the man he’d become. A natural leader, intelligent, able to look ahead and foresee problems in order to address them in advance.
The way he’d ordered the bedchambers prepared, for one. He’d anticipated their needs even in the midst of a crisis.
Such a gift had to be born in a person, for Alan hadn’t possessed it in spite of his birth order and the great pains Ross Anderson took to shape him into the man worthy of clan leadership.
Rodric possessed perhaps a small portion of what Padraig exhibited regularly.
The obvious solution was in front of them, clear and plain.
First, he wished to speak with Caitlin.
Padraig offered only a blank stare. “I
have not seen her since your arrival. I thought she might had been with…”
Rodric scowled. “She was still our brother’s wife, man.”
“I meant no disrespect. When I traveled throughout the house without sign of her, it was the only conclusion I could come to.”
“She certainly was not with me.” His mind darted to and fro, possibilities flying past.
“None of the McAllisters breached the borders of our land,” Padraig assured him, the two of them hurrying down the corridor to the room which had been prepared for Caitlin. It was empty, the bed smooth and untouched.
“And we know for certain that none of them were here? Absolutely for certain?” He went to the window as he spoke, looking out toward…
Sorcha’s. The farmhouse was small from a distance, but visible.
He knew her well enough to know what had been going through her mind as she gazed out the window. She would have wanted to escape the men downstairs, the house workers dashing back and forth to attend to their needs, the gut-twisting hours spent waiting for her husband to die.
She would have wished to spend the time somewhere more pleasant, peaceful, where she might rest easier.
“Rodric, the men will want to hear from you.”
He turned from the window, shaking his head as he did. “They’ve been up all night, drinking heavily and telling each other of the heroics they’ll perform on behalf of the clan. They’re all asleep now—note the silence.”
It was true. What had been a steady roar of male voices raised in oath swearing and calls for vengeance had turned to the occasional snore echoing off the stone floors and walls.
“Even so, I’d rather we not wait very long. Once they begin to wake, they’ll be hungry to learn what transpired. If you aren’t available to them, they’ll be certain to share their… frustration.”
Rodric sat at the foot of the bed, hands on his knees, smiling in spite of the serious nature of the situation. How had it taken him so long to see what was so plain?
“Perhaps you and I ought to speak first,” he suggested.
28
Caitlin woke on the pile of blankets which had been arranged for her on the floor, the sound of her aunt preparing tea had pulled her from her slumber. In spite of the rather uncomfortable conditions—while welcoming, the floor was hardly her first choice of bed—she had slept without moving or even dreaming.
“I did not wish to wake you,” Sorcha murmured.
“It is just as well you did,” Caitlin replied, groaning softly as she sat up. The muscles of her back and shoulders did not much care for the rough nature of her recent days of travel and sleep wherever—and whenever—she could manage it.
“Are you hungry? I have fish left over from last night’s supper.”
Caitlin’s stomach rumbled at the thought. “Yes, please.” When had she last eaten? In all the commotion over Alan, she had not taken a bite at the Anderson house.
“Will you tell me now what brought you here in the middle of the night? Hair hanging in your face, cheeks flushed, looking as though you were running from the very devil himself?” Sorcha cast a doleful eye in Caitlin’s direction. “Or must I wager a guess?”
Caitlin rose from the floor and set to work shaking out the blankets. “No, you do not need to guess. I came from the Andersons’.”
Sorcha nearly dropped the kettle onto the table. “What brought you there?”
“Alan Anderson is likely dead by now,” she reported, gooseflesh rising over her skin as she did. “My husband is dead.”
“What happened?”
Caitlin told all, the attack by Connor’s men and their escort back to the Duncans, the ride to the Anderson house, the wounds he’d sustained and the assessment Sarah had made. “She’s a good healer, quite the legend, from what I hear. And she said there was no hope. Even if we’d been there at the time of the fight, there would likely have been no saving him.”
“Och, poor lad,” Sorcha murmured, sinking into a chair. “I mean no disrespect to you, my dear. You know I have always had your side and always will, no matter what. But anyone could see he was an unhappy sort, never able to settle down and be satisfied with what he had.”
“He confessed to Rodric that he only wished for us to be wed in order to take something Rodric wanted,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together. It was an embarrassment to admit it, though she was not at fault for what her husband had done.
“He did, did he? I could have guessed that, as well,” Sorcha replied, sipping the tea. “Go on. Eat. You need to build your strength.”
The fact that both she and her aunt were widows occurred to Caitlin then. What a difference there was between them. She’d never loved her husband, hadn’t even liked him, while Sorcha’s eyes still always looked a bit red, slightly watery, as though she had only just finished crying or might start crying again at any moment.
Sorcha watched as she ate, which Caitlin found rather unnerving. “What is it?” she finally asked, making the ungraceful choice to lick her fingers free of every last delicious morsel of fish. Even a day past its full freshness, it was a marvel. Her aunt had always prepared an excellent meal.
“I merely wondered what you will do now,” Sorcha explained. “Where will you go?”
“I’m uncertain,” she admitted with a shrug, deliberately keeping her eyes downcast.
“You’ll marry Rodric, no doubt.”
It was an effort to keep her tone light. “Why is there no doubt?”
“Because he is the one you were always meant to marry. I know it. Your uncle knew it. Even Alan Anderson knew, considering what you just told me. He confessed on his very deathbed that he only wanted to take you from his brother. It seems everyone except for you knows of the path you were meant to take.”
“Not only me,” she muttered in reply. “I’m not the only one.”
“Do you mean Rodric?” Sorcha laughed.
“Don’t laugh!”
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I cannot help myself.” It was an effort for the older woman to compose her features. “It’s only that the idea of Rodric Anderson, who’s been in love with you his entire life, not wishing to marry you is too amusing.”
“I don’t find it amusing at all. And if you would be so kind as to look back on the words I chose, Aunt Sorcha, you’ll find that I never said he doesn’t wish for us to be wed. Perhaps he does. But with Alan dead by now—I assume—there are far too many concerns for him to turn his attention to. With Connor banished and Alan dead, I’m no longer threatened.”
“Do you truly believe he would forget about you because you’re now safe? Do you believe he would push you aside because the needs of his clan would demand his attention? Oh, no, my dear.” Sorcha shook her head, wisps of gray-streaked hair floating around her face. “No, you will always be his highest priority. I’m as certain of it as I am of my own name.”
“What if…” She chewed her lip and stared at the wall, not seeing the wall but something much further away. “What if he blames me?”
“Why do you always think you’re to blame? Oh, Caitlin, you cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of others. Alan Anderson behaved much the way he has his entire life. He was selfish and stubborn and quick-tempered, and—God rest his soul—he has paid the price for it.”
“If I had stayed…”
“If you had stayed, you would not be the young woman I know my niece to be. I would never have expected for you to step aside and allow others to determine your future. Especially not if the future included a man you so clearly wanted no part of.”
“There are other considerations to be made,” Caitlin argued, leaning closer. “I should have considered what this would mean for both clans. I was the stepdaughter of the leader of one, and the new wife of the leader of another. This was always about more than simply my happiness. It wasn’t that I turned my back on the others involved. I simply never considered them. And that is what I cannot forgive myself for.”
“So, you assume that means Rodric will not forgive you, either.”
It pained her to do it, but Caitlin nodded. “How can he? Now that he sits where his brother did, he’ll be able to see things as his brother did. He will have to start thinking for the entire clan, not only for himself.”
“Why should he?” Sorcha asked, tilting her head to the side. “He has you doing all of his thinking for him.”
The comment—and the almost mocking tone in her aunt’s voice—sent her reeling back. “Aunt Sorcha.”
“Did it occur to you that you should speak with him about this before making up your mind on his behalf?”
Her cheeks flushed. “No. He was at Alan’s bedside.”
“And instead of waiting and offering him your strength, you came here.”
“To be fair,” Caitlin pointed out, holding up a finger, “there was no spending the night in the house with all of those men. Rough, drunken, loud-mouthed, angry.”
“A fair point. Even so, you sit at my table and fret and tell stories of what might be, what you think could happen if Rodric believes this or that. You’ve all but named yourself Alan’s murderer, my dear, when you were far away and had no knowledge of the fighting here. Why not wait until you have the time to speak with Rodric before you conclude what he’s thinking?”
Caitlin wanted to answer—wished to tell her aunt she had no understanding of things—but couldn’t. It seemed that all she could do was let out a long, frustrated sigh and wonder if there would ever come an end to her troubles. It seemed that no sooner did one fade away before another came up.
“You love him,” Sorcha whispered.
“I do. With all my heart, always.” It was the only thing of which she was entirely certain, and she answered without hesitation.
“Then, my dear, there is nothing to question, because I’m certain he loves you in the same manner. Do not allow what you only think to be true to cloud your judgment, because it might get in the way of the happiness you both deserve. You’ve waited your entire lives, after all.”
