Chapter Two #2
When Gilbert, Constantine’s older brother and former “Lochiel,” as every Cameron chief was called, named him chief before he died last summer, Constantine refused the title at first. He didn’t want to be responsible for so many.
It was difficult enough on the battlefield, daily living in the Highlands of Scotland was an entirely different battle.
But there was no one else willing to do it.
“I heard the MacKintosh chief’s son was there,” Lachlan appeared on his horse beside him. “Ye left him to Lewis?”
“Aye.”
Lachlan didn’t let Constantine’s vague interest stop him. “Well, in truth, I…I…”
Constantine kept his gaze fixed in front of him and waited.
He didn’t care who knew it; he favored Lachlan.
The lad had been found in the snow outside the castle seventeen years ago, orphaned at the tender age of two.
At first, Constantine considered him a pest. The wee thing followed him everywhere he went with his other cousins, to do what ten-year-old boys did—mostly get into trouble.
Constantine could not get into trouble with a babe hanging onto his ankle.
But one day, while the boys were searching for frogs along the riverbank, Lachlan pretended to be a frog and hopped off a rock and into the river.
The water was not deep but was waist-high for Constantine.
The babe went under and didn’t reappear.
But Constantine had already begun running.
As he went, he realized he would miss the lad if he drowned.
Once Constantine saved him, he barely let the babe out of his sight.
He learned to love him as his little brother.
“’Tis just that,” Lachlan began again, “do ye think ’tis…best to leave him alone with Lewis?”
“Aye. I trust Lewis no’ to kill him.”
“But, Lochiel…”
“Lad,” he said, stopping him with the sheer, unmovable command of his voice. He loved Lachlan, but the lad should not forget authority.
“Fergive me,” Lachlan repented with a bowed head. “Ye know I love Lewis. That was no’ my heart speakin’.”
Constantine smiled in the filtered sunlight and kept his horse at a canter.
“Have ye given any more thought to weddin’ Millie Stewart?”
“Lachlan…” At the sound of his name coming from his chief’s mouth, Lachlan lowered his gaze again and stopped speaking. His chief went on though. “I have nae intention of weddin’ Miss Stewart or anyone else. Why would I?”
“To settle doun and—”
Constantine cast him a black look. His youngest cousin looked everywhere but at him.
“I dinna wish to settle doon. Dinna bring it up again.”
“Aye, Constantine.”
They rode on in silence, which was nothing new for Constantine, but obviously extremely difficult for Lachlan, judging from the way the lad opened his mouth to start speaking but then snapped his lips shut, likely remembering who he was traveling with.
Constantine didn’t find it awkward. Talking just for the sake of conversation was awkward. Flapping his lips or listening to someone else do it did not silence the voices.
My love, you are to be a father. His heart had filled with joy.
A father. He was to have a bairn of his own.
A son or a daughter. He didn’t care which.
It would be tiny. How would he hold it? Would his rough palms hurt its delicate skin?
He had to care for him or her, and he would—all their life.
The thought of another life…no, two lives completely dependent on a man could easily weigh him down.
But not Constantine. How could loving others more than himself weigh him down?
His life had been a blessing. He started building their house at the foot of Ben Nevis after she told him and took joy in watching them both grow.
But as dreams fade upon waking, his life changed almost overnight. War had broken out between the English, led by Oliver Cromwell, and the Scots. Constantine was called to fight for the Stuarts. He’d left his wife to go fight.
At the time, part of him thrilled at the prospect of fighting.
He stayed alive in the midst of death and barbarism such as no eye should see.
He stayed alive to see his family again.
To finish their house and live tending cattle.
But his family perished without him. And for that, he would forever reject having another family.
He felt the ground rumble beneath him and knew his kin were bringing the cattle to the castle.
“There’s the tavern,” Lachlan said, sounding as if it was an oasis in the wilderness—which it was, but Constantine’s cousin was thankful to reach this spot of civilization because there were others to talk to.
They dismounted, and after seeing to their horses, were about to step inside the Doomsday Tavern when the sky lit up with bolts of lightning followed by peals of thunder.
Vaguely, his other cousins crossed his thoughts. Would they be safe getting here? Lightning was known to strike a person in a wide-open glen.
But as quickly as the thought appeared, it was gone, leaving him looking over the four faces of drunken patrons at two of the tables.
Constantine ignored them and pulled out a chair at an empty table. Lachlan sat next, offering the strangers an amiable smile. They ordered their drinks from Bea, one of the friendly servers and waited for the others.
When the door opened a few moments later, Constantine expected to see Lewis or the brothers, Geoffry and Fionn, but a lass hurried in from rain.
It was a lass, was it not? Her features, as well as her hands were too delicate to belong to a lad.
Though she—or he—dressed in breeches and a coat at least three sizes too big, moved like a woman, with soft, hesitant steps.
The hair on the stranger’s head appeared to be burnt auburn in color, though it was stuffed beneath a bonnet of dull green.
She looked around nervously, peering up the stairs where the rooms were. He understood why a lass would disguise herself as a lad. He didn’t like it. Any man in Lochaber who put his unwanted hands on a lass would have his hands removed.
Or she could be running and hiding from someone, a husband or her father. Constantine didn’t want to know or to get involved in things that didn’t concern him and went back to his bread.
His rowdy cousins arrived, pushing open the door and almost knocking the emaciated soul to his or her feet.
“I think I saw a few teeth flying before I was finished with him,” Lewis mused and the brothers laughed. “I also gave him a scar”—he motioned with his index finger down the length of his left cheek—“that will nae doubt get him more lasses. I did him a service.”
They spotted Constantine first and then the new patron.
“What will it be, then?” Lewis asked her…him.
“I need a room fer the night.”
“Pardon,” Lewis demanded impatiently. “Speak up. I need a drink.”
“A room. I require one fer the night.”
“Look,” Lewis said with distaste marring his brow. “’tisna safe fer someone such as yerself to sleep here.”
She turned to cast a withering look at the front door being pelted with rain.
Constantine left his chair and blocked her path to the exit. “Lewis, will ye turn her away in the rain? Get her a room.” He turned his fiery gaze on the other men at the tables. “From this moment onward, she falls under my protection. If anyone goes near her room—”
My lord, fergive me,” she croaked out, daring, albeit with a shaky voice, to interrupt him. “I am no’ a she.”
He bent his head to stare into her eyes for a moment.
They were a clear, defiant gray, like mist over a loch, both haunting and unforgettable.
He looked away for a moment, but then, as if he had no control over his own eyes, his gaze returned to hers.
This time, he took in every inch of her face, with her delicate jaw, irresistibly plump lips, and a pert nose.
This was most definitely a lass. But there was steel behind her soft features.
He let his gaze rove over a stray, orange curl that had sprung loose from beneath her bonnet.
He was mildly curious, unwantedly so, about the hair she tried to hide.
Would it fall free around her shoulders like flames?
“I am corrected,” he announced to the others who were watching.
When he set his gaze on her again, the slightest trace of humor flashed across his eyes. “Fergive me, lad.”
Taking her turn, she let her wide, nervous gaze settle on him.
He felt the urge to look away, a warning to step away from her.
“Do ye remove yer protection from me then?” she asked in a voice so soft, he involuntarily moved closer to hear her.
As he looked down into her eyes, he felt an unfamiliar pull to stay close. Why should he? He began to shake his head.
“I…I need protection,” she told him. “Just fer one night. If I dinna sleep soundly one more night, I will go mad.”
Were those tears making her eyes glisten like starlight against a gray sky? She’d said for one more night. How many had she been traveling, and was she alone? All questions he didn’t need answers to.
He broke eye contact with her and spread his gaze over the men in the tavern. “He is still under my protection.”
“Yer word, my lord?” She shifted on her feet at the weight of his stare. Then, “My father always said a man who gave his word and kept it could be trusted.
He only gave his word to his men and only when he meant what he said. “What do I care if ye trust me or not?” he asked coolly.
“If I trust ye, I can finally sleep.”
Damn her, Constantine thought, searching her gaze for deceit. Why did shadows, like ghosts of things she had survived, fill her gaze? Why did she have to appear so pitiful in her filthy, oversized clothes?
She took a step to go around him and leave the tavern.
“Aye, I give it,” he allowed.
She stopped and turned back to him. “Thank ye, my lord.”
He wasn’t sure if he’d finally gone mad—his cousins all stared at him as if they believed so.
“Give the lad a room that locks from the inside,” he told Lewis. “Then return and tell me which room—” His words were interrupted by the loud rumble of the lass’s belly. He looked at her and then sighed.
“Come.” He crooked a finger at her. “Let’s eat.”