Yesterday's Promise

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “You’ve thought of everything,” I said, feeling safe and glowing with pride at my husband’s survival skills. “Something tells me you don’t need a clan or castle. You could survive just fine on your own.”

  Collin shrugged. “I could. But I had enough of that when I was younger. Sometimes I grow weary with the responsibilities of the clan, but I’d still rather be with them than alone.”

  “You’re not alone anymore,” I reminded him.

  “It takes some getting used to,” he said by way of an answer. I longed for the Collin who had spoken so tenderly last night and this morning, who had talked of friendship between us. But that Collin had been present very little today. I tried to be content that at least we were talking to one another now, a vast improvement over the first few days of our marriage.

  “I would like to tell you of my father,” Collin said suddenly, leaving me tense and relieved at the same time. This was what I had hoped for, yet also what I dreaded.

  “I would like that,” I said in an encouraging tone. I snuggled closer, leaning against Collin’s side, enjoying the comfort of his arm around me.

  “Da raised Ian and me on his own,” Collin began. “My mother died birthing us, and though we’d a series of nursemaids and then tutors, it was our father who cared for us much of the time and taught us most everything we needed to know about leading a clan.” Collin expounded on what this entailed, from the accounting of coin, to knowing a healthy sheep from an ill one, to being an intent listener, able to hear between the words what a person is really saying.

  He told of the trouble he and Ian had caused, among said sheep and various other farm animals, and the switch his father had used to cease those adventures. He spoke of sneaking into places they ought not to and of hearing things they shouldn’t have, both amusing and serious. He told a tale of leaving the door open on the granary and the barley crop getting ruined with rain.

  “As punishment Ian and I spent the entire next summer, day after day, mashing the malt. I cannot say that I’ve cared for whisky much since.”

  “We agree on that,” I said, recalling last night’s taste that had burned its way down my throat.

  When Collin spoke of his education I was surprised at the consideration he’d been given, as the younger twin.

  “Your father educated you both equally?” In England to be a younger brother— even minutes younger— was to be a lesser individual and therefore denied equal privileges and opportunities, even from a very young age.

  “Taught us both, expected the same of us, gave us the same responsibilities,” Collin said. “The only time he treated us differently was at the end. Ian was given over to the Munros a few days before I was taken by the Campbells. He went first, and I believe Da thought Ian was getting the better lot of the two of us. Your grandfather had a terrible reputation, particularly among MacDonalds.”

  “There’s the little matter of our clans hating each other the past century or so.”

  “There was that,” Collin agreed. “And it was no secret that Laird Campbell hosted English soldiers regularly and worked with them in seeking out those who were labeled traitors for siding with bonnie Prince Charles.”

  “As your father had?” I knew this much already but wanted to hear Collin’s side of things.

  “Da believed the prince would be the one to finally look out for Scotland and have her interests at heart, particularly the Highlanders and the clans.”

  “Is that what you and Ian thought as well?” I asked.

  “I cannot speak for Ian, but now that time has passed and I have learned both sides of it— I think the prince merely used the Highlanders to accomplish his purposes. He had no real concern for us, but we were easily led to believe he did. Not foolish, exactly, but too trusting. In the end it did not matter if he cared for us or not. We never had the chance to see what he might or might not do on the throne.”

  I wondered what would have been different had the outcome of the war changed. What would it have meant for England and Scotland? For my father, who’d fought for King George? Would the Campbells have been the hunted outlaws instead of the MacDonalds?

  “After Ian was gone, Father and I carried on a few more days. He seemed to have lost his spirit, though. His will to live had gone with Ian, who I believed dead at the time. Only later did I come to realize that Da had purposely given him over to the Munros.”

  “Giving you both to clans who had sided with the English was the only way he knew to keep you safe?” The reality of such circumstances set in. I felt ill at the thought of giving Timothy over to an enemy. “What guarantee did your father have that those clans would honor their agreements?”

  “None beyond the lairds’ word,” Collin said. “And as I’ve told you, Ian did not fare well in his situation. I was fortunate that your grandfather was a man of honor. He kept his promise to my father and went far beyond that, even, raising me almost as if I was one of his own. I had privileges— food, clothing, education, and training— that most clan chiefs reserve for their sons.”

  “But Grandfather didn’t have a son. Only a daughter, and she was dead.”

  Collin nodded. “But still, doesn’t it seem your grandfather’s logical choice ought to have been one of his own— a Campbell?”

  “Brann?” I guessed. “Was he the one next in line to be laird when my grandfather died?”

  “The next male,” Collin affirmed. “But he never has been, nor will he ever be a good leader. Like Ian— worse than Ian, in fact— Brann thinks only of himself. Your people have suffered under his governing.”

  I thought about this a few minutes and of what more I needed to learn of Brann and the Campbells before we arrived. Collin got up and tended the fire. It was dying now, and he raked the coals and embers together toward the center, concentrating their heat to last as long as possible.

  Putting aside my immediate concerns about the Campbells, I attempted to return to the topic we’d started with. “We’ve strayed from talking of your father,” I said when Collin had returned and pulled me close again. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that we would be near to each other like this, and I could only feel grateful for the cool evening and the excuse it gave for us to sit thusly.

  “There’s not much more to tell. He allowed the Campbells to lead the English to him. In exchange I was to be under your grandfather’s care. All happened as each man agreed it would.”

  “Was your father taken to prison? Or was he—”

  “Laird Campbell was merciful,” Collin said abruptly. “A firing squad of English soldiers killed him. He didn’t have to suffer months of torture and starvation in a prison. Wasn’t hanged for his crimes before a crowd of leering English.”

  A firing squad was showing mercy? I brought a hand to my mouth, holding back the sob I felt in my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t need to ask if my father was one of those who had fired his musket at Collin’s father. I knew it in my heart already. I knew it and hurt for it, for Collin, for the grievous wrong it seemed.

  “Katie?” He leaned away, taking my shoulders and turning me toward him. “What is it?”

  “I’m so sorry. No wonder you hate him. You ought to hate me.” Tears slipped down my cheeks. I wanted to ask Collin’s forgiveness but felt I had no right.

  “You’re seeing into the past now as well?” Collin pulled me close again, and I buried my face in his side, crying.

  “How can you stand to touch me, let alone marry me?” Maybe he couldn’t— not really— and that had been the cause for his unhappy temperament.

  “You didn’t kill him.”

  “But my father—”

  “Was following orders.” Collin’s chest heaved with a sigh. “I spent a long time hating him and the other men who killed Da. I dreamed of hunting every one of them down. But reliving the past was going to kill me. Da died so I could live. I had to stop.”

  This was what he’d been referring to earlier when he’d told me I needed to forg
et. “How did you leave it behind?”

  “It wasn’t easy, and it took time. But there was this little lass. Quite a bossy thing.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “Not her again.”

  “Yes, her again.” Collin gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. “She told me— the very first night I came to live at her home— that even when I am sad or angry, I must still be nice. Then later she told me that I must forget, no matter how hard it was, no matter that I heard the guns firing each night, that I saw Da’s crumpled body and ashen face and bloodstained clothes in my dreams. I must work to forget, or to remember only occasionally, when it was important to remember.”

  “That was not right for her, for me, to tell you such things,” I said, once again appalled at my younger self.

  “It was very right,” Collin said. “She was only four and had been with her mother when she died.” He spoke of me as if I wasn’t there, as if the child in question was some other girl. But it was me, and his words released a floodgate of memories. I gasped as they returned, trumpeting through my mind with a viciousness that struck painfully.

  My mother and I together— how beautiful she was, how happy and alive. I was her shadow; we went everywhere together— running through the castle, playing outside, picnicking and chasing butterflies. At night she told me stories. We shared a room. I slept in her bed often, as my father was not there. I didn’t mind. We had each other. And Grandfather.

  The pleasant memories flew by all too quickly, leaving me with an emptiness and yearning. Then Mother and I were outside again, playing a game with some other children. A hiding game. I was hiding and she was searching. She found—

  “Brann!” I sat up suddenly, shaking at the vision hovering in my mind. “Brann killed my mother.”

  “Are you certain?” Collin grasped my arms, steadying me.

  “I saw it. Just now. He came up behind her and strangled her. He used a band of cloth so it wouldn’t leave any marks at her throat. I saw him do it. He said I was next. I screamed so loudly that others came, and he couldn’t hurt me, too.”

  “You are seeing the past.” Collin stood and pulled me with him. “You’re certain it’s a vision Katie and not—”

  “It’s not a vision. It’s a memory. I saw him kill my mother— and I didn’t stop him.” I clutched my stomach as I turned away. “I was hiding. I was afraid he would hurt me, so I waited to come out, to save her— until it was too late.”

  I turned to Collin. “That’s what I meant when I said you must forget. We had nightmares— both of us— and the only way to be rid of them was to force the memory away.”

  “You put it from your mind because you were afraid,” Collin said.

  “I guess— I don’t know. But why didn’t I stop it or tell someone?”

  “Because you were four years old and frightened.” Collin gathered me close again, as if that might protect me from the past.

  “I remember my mother.” My voice broke. “I remember her, Collin.” I wept into his chest, uncertain which of my tears were for the happy memories and which were for those best forgotten. I felt so relieved that pieces of my past were returning. I really was a Campbell. I belonged here. But what awaited me? What other memories had I forced into the deep recesses of my mind? If Brann had killed my mother, what was to stop him from doing the same to me?

  Collin. The answer had his arms wrapped firmly around me, his head bent near to mine. Grandfather had given him to me— had given us to each other— for comfort and protection.In return, Collin’s responsibility for me— the task given him by the laird himself— must have protected him from other clan members who would have done him, an enemy MacDonald, harm.

  He claimed I had helped him. But all he had done for the past week was protect and comfort me. It was time I started returning the favor. We had been talking of his father’s death, and somehow Collin was still the one comforting me when it should have been the other way around.

  I wiped my eyes and leaned away from his embrace. “I’m sorry for falling apart again. It seems all I’ve done this past week is cry. It is not a regular habit.”

  “It was when you were a child,” he said seriously.

  “Oh dear.” I sighed again. “From this time forward I shall endeavor to be better than my childhood self.” I didn’t quite promise that there would never be tears, not trusting my current, fragile state of emotions, to be that stable.

  “I don’t mind your tears.” Collin brushed his fingers lightly across my cheek. “But I mind that you’re hurting. And now I mind that I’m taking you home to a murderer.”

  “We knew he was that before tonight. Now we’ve just added my mother to the list of his victims.” I drew in a breath and wished the memory away. “Time enough to talk of our plans tomorrow,” I said, using a turn of phrase spoken to me more than once over the past days. I felt suddenly tired, drained from the flash flood of recollection.

  “Tomorrow,” Collin agreed. “Morning, more than night, is a time for clarity.” He moved his arm, releasing me completely. “And now I’d best get the rest of my clothes on.”

  I smiled through the dark. “A good idea,” I agreed, though I wouldn’t have minded if he’d tried to kiss me goodnight.

  “Quit following me around.” Katie tossed her long hair over her shoulder as she turned her back on me and broke into a run. She was surprisingly quick for someone so little, but she was no match for my stride.

  I caught her by her dress and hauled her back. “I don’t like this anymore than you do. Less, in fact.” The last few days of traipsing after her— all while receiving looks of disdain from everyone around us— had done little to improve my opinion of the Campbells. That I was mistrusted and hated by everyone but the laird was obvious.

  Despite her grandfather’s instructions, Katie was fighting our new arrangement vehemently. I’d had very little sleep, given the hardness of the stone and her attempts to sneak past me in the night. If not for the food that was both good and plentiful and helping to restore my strength, I would have made my escape by now, promises to the laird notwithstanding. I would leave soon. Just a day or two more, and I’d be ready.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Good morning.” Collin glanced at me from his place by the fire.

  I thought his lazy smile the perfect way to awaken and returned it with one of my own before a rush of self-consciousness heated my face. We’d spent the night curled up together in the shared blanket. Alone. The two of us. Not even the wolves had ventured close, and Ian’s horse hardly counted as a chaperone.

  Silly thought. I was married now. The time for chaperones had passed.

  “What are you thinking?” Collin dropped oats into his tin cup and began stirring. “You seem upset.”

  “Oh no,” I assured him, sitting up. I pushed the blanket aside before remembering my torn gown. I reached for the corner of the blanket and held it up to me again. “It’s somewhat disconcerting to awake like this is all.”

  “In the middle of the wilderness,” Collin said. “Without a bed or even a roof overhead.”

  “No. It’s not that.” I twisted the cloth round my fingers. “With a man— with you. I feel as if I’m missing a chaperone— as if I’ve done something scandalous.”

  “Ah.” Understanding and perhaps a flicker of amusement lightened Collin’s eyes.

  “Not that it’s unpleasant,” I hurried to add, not wanting him to feel injured. “I quite like being here— with you. I was warm through the night, and it was nice to...” My cheeks had to be positively flaming now.

  “Nice to be close,” Collin suggested. “To share a bed, as it were.”

  I nodded, then stood quickly. “Excuse me.” I hurried past him, toward the meadow, wondering where I should have a moment of privacy with so few trees about.

  Behind me Collin began whistling. “Breakfast is ready when you return. The oats have been cooked this time.”

  “Thank you,” I called and hurried to a spot hidden from our camp. W
hen finished I came back by way of the river, taking a minute to splash water on my face, pat down my hair, and arrange the dress to cover as much of me as possible.

  Collin waited for me near the fire. He held the cup out.

  “Thank you.” I accepted it, careful to avoid looking at him directly. I wasn’t certain what made this morning different from the others we’d spent together. We’d been alone a good part of yesterday as well, and I hadn’t felt this awkward.

  He’d held my hand. We’d ridden together, he’d stood behind me in the river when we fished. But after spending the entirety of the night curled up beside him, his arms not once moving from their protective embrace, something was definitely different.

  I couldn’t look at Collin or think of him or talk to him without feeling incredibly aware of our proximity to each other and the distance separating us from the rest of the world. I’d wished for this very thing, and now that I had it, I wasn’t certain what to do or how to act.

  I took a bite of oatmeal, then held the tin out to Collin. Our fingers brushed as he took it, and even that little touch set my nerves afire. I watched him lift the spoon to his mouth, pressing my own lips together when his closed over our shared utensil.

  This time he kept the cup but held the next bite out to me. I opened my mouth and allowed him to feed me and felt it even more intimate than our sharing of the blanket had been.

  It’s just breakfast, for heaven’s sake! What is wrong with me? My knees felt weak, my palms sweaty. I couldn’t meet Collin’s eye. It was part embarrassment, part feeling like I was about to take flight. Part feeling like I would give anything if he’d just set the cup aside, take my face in his hands, and kiss me instead.

  I didn’t want oatmeal for breakfast. I wanted him.

  I gave a little sigh, accepting that the fluttering in my stomach wasn’t about to go away anytime soon but would likely only get worse in his continued presence.

  “Are you unwell this morning?” Collin asked when I declined any more of the porridge.