Chapter 5
Iain watched Cait spoon stew into bowls and prepare a tray of warm, crusty bread.
“It smells delicious.”
“Thank ye.” She didn’t turn to look at him, and for a strange moment he wanted to see her smile. Did she smile anymore? Did any Scotsman have much to smile about these days?
He picked up the tray she’d been reaching for. “Join us,” he said on a whim. He wasn’t usually prone to whims, but it was ridiculous that she eat down here all alone while he and Adair ate upstairs.
He bit back a smile of victory when he heard the light tap of her feet on the steps behind him. Dare he hope that he’d put a chink in the ice she’d formed between them?
Adair was sitting up in bed, dressed in a clean saffron shirt. Iain wondered if the shirt had been John’s but then pushed the thought away.
“You’re looking a far sight better than last night,” Iain said as he placed the tray on the table beside the bed. He handed out the bowls of stew and motioned for Cait to sit in the lone chair while he stood to eat.
Adair ate only a few bites before setting the bowl down. “What have ye heard about the droving?” he asked as he leaned back, his face pale, though looking better than yesterday.
“Droving?” Cait asked.
“Just a bit of cattle thieving,” Iain said offhandedly. It was quite a bit more than cattle thieving, but he didn’t want anyone to know more than necessary. “Nothing serious.”
Adair snorted, and Cait looked between them. “Something tells me that this droving is more serious than ye’re letting on.”
“An old enemy,” Iain said with a shrug, not wanting to get into it.
Cait tilted her head and studied him. “Yer list of enemies is quite long.”
He grunted as he finished his stew and placed it on the table next to Adair’s. He didn’t need her telling him that his list of enemies was long. His cattle were disappearing at an alarming rate, and no matter how many men he put on patrol, he couldn’t catch the bastards.
It didn’t help that his men were stretched thin—having either perished at Culloden or using their particular talents for Graham’s special mission.
A few weeks ago Graham, the oldest and most respected clan chief, had gathered twelve clan chiefs in a secret meeting.
Just the fact that they were together could have had them all arrested by the English.
But they had come because every last one of them believed in Scotland and wanted to help their people.
Graham’s idea was simple. He wanted men patrolling the roads of Scotland to protect their people from the bands of English soldiers roaming the countryside and wreaking havoc.
Rumor had it that after the Battle of Culloden, where the Scottish were summarily and embarrassingly defeated by the English, the Duke of Cumberland had ordered his English soldiers to kill any Scotsman they thought might be a threat, by means of dirks, daggers, or bayonets only.
A brutal way to die, to be sure, and not the way for the English to endear themselves to the Scots.
Iain had been surprised that he’d been invited to the meeting, and the eleven other chiefs were just as surprised. But something had to be done. The English were running rampant through the countryside, killing men, raping women and children. Someone needed to protect the weak and defenseless.
“So ye think the cattle thief is MacGregor?” Cait asked.
“Probably,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is exactly something the MacGregor would do. He’s been a pain in my backside for years.”
The MacGregors and Campbells had been at odds for two generations, ever since Iain’s grandfather had offered the MacGregor chief sanctuary and then killed him in his sleep.
It didn’t matter to the current MacGregor chief that Iain and his father had nothing to do with the murder.
MacGregor continued to carry on the tradition of holding a grudge, forcing Iain to defend himself and his people at every turn.
Scotsmen could be damn stubborn, and feuds lasted for generations.
MacGregor was the perfect example. The country was falling apart, but to MacGregor, it was more important to be a thorn in Iain’s side than put the feud aside to fight a common enemy.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s ridiculous that Wallace MacGregor is still fixated on that old feud. The man is daft. Now more than ever, we need to band together and fight the English, no’ each other. I wish he wasn’t so hardheaded. Stealing cattle,” she muttered more to herself.
“I didn’t realize you were so emotional about this old feud,” Iain said, amused at her vehemence.
She shrugged. “I just think there are far more important things that we all should be working on together instead of fretting over a feud that happened over forty years ago.”
“I’m sure the fact that most Highlanders believe me a traitor has something to do with it.” Did she believe the talk of the other chiefs? Did she think him a traitor? Did it matter?
“So ye think other chiefs might be involved in the droving?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” But he wished like hell that he did know, because he was weary of losing cattle and worried about feeding his people during the coming winter.
Adair had drifted off during their conversation, and Cait leaned forward to touch the back of her hand to his flushed forehead. “Just as I thought. He’s running a fever.”
“Nay.” Adair, not as fast asleep as Iain had thought, cracked his eyes open and glared at Cait.
“Aye,” she said firmly.
“I want to go home,” Adair mumbled.
“No’ with a fever. Besides, that wound needs more healing.”
He struggled to sit up and Cait scowled at him.
“We’ve taken advantage of yer hospitality for too long,” Adair said.
“What? Ye don’t like the accommodations? Am I treating ye poorly?”
“Nay, but I’m taking yer bed and forcing ye to sleep on the settee—”
“Ye’ll stay, and that’s the final word. Now, the Campbell on the other hand—” She turned to Iain and he straightened, feeling he was about to be chastised. “There’s no reason for ye to stay. As ye can see, Adair is no’ going anywhere until I say so.”
Ever since he’d darkened her doorstep she’d been trying to get him to leave, and he’d stubbornly dug in his heels, insisting on staying when he was well aware that Adair would be fine without him.
She didn’t like him, but her insistence that he leave was frustrating.
And his own determination to stay was bewildering.
“We’ll revisit this in the morning,” Iain said. “If Adair doesn’t worsen, then I will leave and send someone to fetch him when you tell me he’s well enough to travel.”
Cait pursed her lips and looked like she was going to argue but then nodded and picked up their dishes.
“Rest,” she commanded Adair. “I’ll be back in a bit to change yer bandages.”
—
An hour later, Cait sat down in the comfortable chair in her sitting room and grabbed her bag of sewing.
She’d checked on Adair and found that he still had a fever, but it hadn’t worsened, and he was both exhausted and angry that he was exhausted.
She wasn’t willing to let him go home yet.
She’d seen too many warriors claim they were well only to succumb to their injuries a few days later because they hadn’t given themselves enough time to heal.
Campbell had disappeared after dinner, and she didn’t know what he was up to.
She was fixing a tear in one of her old but still serviceable gowns when he came in through the back door, bringing with him the smell of the loamy woods and fresh air.
Like a caged lion, he paced the small sitting room, never touching anything but looking at everything. She continued to sew, watching her needle pierce the worn fabric. In and out. In and out.
He dropped down on the settee, his long, lean frame nearly dwarfing the small piece of furniture. John had always hated the settee, saying it was far too small and uncomfortable for a large man, but it fit her sitting room, so she’d brought it to her new home.
Campbell placed his elbows on his knees and cleared his throat, a sure sign that he wanted to discuss something.
“When John died…” His voice trailed off and he looked away.
Cait froze, her gaze riveted to her sewing needle. “We’re no’ talking about this.”
“You have no idea what I’m about to say.”
“I don’t care what ye have to say. Whatever it is, ye can keep it to yerself.”
“It needs to be said, Cait.”
She stood abruptly, her sewing falling to the ground. Black Cat peeked his head out from beneath her chair and quickly ducked back. “Nay.”
Iain wiped his hands on his breeches and stood as well. “Please sit down.”
“Nay.”
“Cait—”
She sliced her hand through the air as anger surged through her. She didn’t want to hear. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to discuss anything about John with this man.
“I’ve asked ye several times to leave, and ye’ve ignored me every time,” she said through a tight throat. “Ye’re my chief and ye were John’s friend, but ye’ve sorely overstayed yer welcome here. I have nothing to say to ye about John or anything else, and I wish ye would just leave.”
“I promised him on his dying breath that I would watch over you.”
She laughed, noting the tone of hysteria that crept in. “I don’t want yer protection. I don’t need yer protection. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“You live in a small cottage as far from the main house as you can get.”
“On purpose,” she spat. “I moved this far out on purpose. Ye don’t think its coincidence that I’ve perched myself on the border of Campbell land?”
The skin around his eyes tightened in anger, but she didn’t care if he was angry.
She was furious. How dare he come here after four years and tell her what to do and where to live?
How dare he tell her that he promised John he’d protect her?
She’d not seen him do anything of the sort since John’s death.
She didn’t want or need Iain Campbell. Her life was just fine without him.
“Please let me help you,” he said softly.
“Help with what?” she said in exasperation.
“You can have your old home back, the one you lived in with—”
“Good God, no.” She couldn’t bear it, all the happy memories of that place. She’d given birth to Christina in that house and watched her baby girl die in that house. It was where she’d been when Campbell came to tell her John was dead.
“If ye can’t honor my wish to leave me be,” she said, “then I will ask Sutherland to take me in.”
His lips thinned and those dark eyes narrowed.
“I have no ties to the Campbells anymore.” She could just as easily help Sutherland from his land, and he would be happy to have a healer closer to his home.
“You truly despise me, don’t you?”
She looked away. At one time she had disliked the way John worshipped his chief and maybe resented the amount of time John spent with him.
Afterward she’d been so insulated by her grief over first Christina’s death and then John’s that she had no room for hatred toward Iain Campbell.
The hatred had grown as her grief waned.
“I don’t despise ye,” she said, but she couldn’t look him in the eyes when she said it.
“You don’t like me overmuch,” he said.
“I have a hard time being friendly to someone who has ties to the English like ye do.”
“You can’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“There are far too many rumors about ye to ignore. I can’t believe all of them are false. Ye break bread with the redcoats at the expense of yer men.”
“Are you referring to John’s death? Do you think my…connection to the English killed him?”
She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “Did it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to prove who killed John.”
“I…I heard ye searched for the killer.”
“I did. For a long while I looked. I wish I could give you a name of the person who shot that pistol. I’d give anything to know.”
“Would it assuage your guilt?”
He drew back. “If anything, it would probably increase it. I think we both believe that pistol ball was meant for me. And Cait?” He waited until she met his gaze. “You don’t know how sorry I am for it.”
She swallowed her tears through a thick throat. She’d not stopped to think overmuch about Iain’s grief or guilt, and while it didn’t ease her own, it shed new light on the man’s suffering.
“I’m no’ leaving here,” she said softly.
Suddenly, the sound of a galloping horse broke the quiet of their thoughts. They looked at each other in surprise. It was late for visitors, but Cait was accustomed to late-night interruptions.
Campbell moved to the window and peered out. His tense shoulders relaxed. “It’s Gavin,” he said as he opened the door.
The horse had barely come to a stop before Gavin, a Campbell lad on the cusp of manhood, was inside the house, covered in dust and grime and breathing heavily.
“Fire,” he said, then gulped in another breath.