Chapter Eight
Constantine looked behind him twice. The lass had said she would follow him, and he believed her. She might be a fool to have traveled alone for a whole month, but she was courageous to do it, as well, and crafty to have made it this far.
It seemed she was not behind him while he made his way to the exit.
Hugh stopped him before he left to remind him he had to hold council with his tacksmen to discuss rents, the marriage between Ennis Cameron and Ellen Stewart, and the crofters wanted him to hear their grievances on the upcoming harvest shares.
“I will meet with the tacksmen in two hours,” Constantine told him. “After that, I will meet with the crofters in the Great Hall. Inform the cooks to have enough food prepared for everyone.”
“Everyone?” Hugh repeated.
“Everyone.” He began to leave but Hugh called to him. Constantine turned back to him. His eye caught the swift movement of a hem of a skirt edged in ladybugs disappearing around the far corner.
“Lochiel,” Hugh’s voice pulled his attention back, “my duty as yer steward is to manage and protect Tor’s coffers. Feeding everyone will drain some of the castle coffers.”
Constantine flashed him a quick, practiced, disingenuous smile. “Yer concern has been noted, Hugh.”
He left the castle and continued on toward the hills and the mist that would swallow him up and keep him unseen while he started many of his days looking out for his clan. Today was no different save that his day started later than usual.
He did not turn back to see if Miss Drummond was still following him.
If she made it to the shrouded hills, he would go to her and scold her.
He did not fancy anyone disobeying him, not because he wanted to feel powerful.
He gave orders that were meant to keep his people safe.
If everyone went around doing as they pleased, how could he protect them against their enemies?
And they had plenty of those.
There were the MacKintoshes, who were a part of the Confederation of the Clan Chattan, which included the Chattan Clan Chief, Angus MacKintosh, MacPhersons, MacGillivrays, and Davidsons.
The Campbells, who sided with Parliament, came against the Camerons because of their Royalist sympathies.
The Clan Fraser had tried to attack on several occasions.
He’d had much to prove since he had been fighting battles and hadn’t been here for years while his brother was Lochiel. Enemy clans had not been as familiar and afraid of him as he would like. But they had learned.
It wasn’t long after he entered the mist that he heard a sound, amplified in the silence. A soft grunt, a stifled cry. He should leave her alone for another moment or two—but she could get attacked by a wild animal.
With a scowl that did not reach his eyes, he turned and headed back the way he’d come. The sound of her shouting the words, “Get back!” caused him to break into a run. He found her wielding a large stick against a gray coyote, dripping saliva from its canines.
Constantine did not wait to see what the braw lass would do next against the beast. Without hesitating, he drew his dirk and in mid-run, leaped for the coyote.
The instant the animal spotted him, it turned and fled, leaving Constantine to look after it. He did not pursue the predator. If he didn’t have to kill an animal, he wouldn’t. Other than hunger, the coyote had no evil intent toward his clan.
Slightly out of breath, he turned to have a look at Miss Drummond. Damnation, she reminded him of a fierce warrior. He’d seen many. Never a lass though.
Some of her pins had fallen from her hair, leaving the fiery tresses to fall over her forehead and cheek. She blew them out of her face and stared at him, still clutching her stick.
He wanted to admonish her. He’d warned her not to follow him alone. What was he trying to keep her safe for if she was just going to do as she pleased?
But he remained silent.
Finally, she dipped her terrified gaze to her fingers and dropped the stick. “It seems all I seem to do is thank ye,” she said in her soft, quiet voice.
Though she had been prepared to fight the coyote, she was terrified of losing. Something in his chest shook and made him want to go to her. Instead, he sheathed his dirk and walked past her. “I would rather ye stay alive and thank me than become a wild animal’s breakfast.”
This time, she did not try to conceal her presence but hurried after him. “The way ye described yer morning made me want to spend mine in the peaceful quiet too.”
“So ye thought to disobey me and take a walk by yerself?”
“Nae!” she defended immediately. “No’ by myself, but with ye!”
He stopped and set his gaze on hers. Mist curled around her, as high as her face. Looking into her eyes was like gazing into the charcoal sea before the storm.
“Dinna try to win my favor, Miss Drummond. My affections are long dead. In fact, I would venture to say, they have become ashes.”
She stared at him and he thought he saw the oceans fill and threaten to overflow down her cheeks. “I assure ye, ’tis not yer affections I seek. Just yer protection.”
He nodded. “Then do as I say.”
“Fine.” She turned and took a step forward. “If ye dinna want me with ye so bad, I will return to the castle.”
His fingers closing around her wrist stopped her. “I willna send ye off alone and I canna return yet as I still have things to do, so ye will have to stay with me.”
She didn’t argue. In this instance, he didn’t expect her to. She was where she wanted to be—in the peaceful quiet—with him.
What would he do with her if she grew fond of him? Bethia had often told him that many of the lasses at Tor found him pleasing to the eyes. Some had even professed him to be more handsome than Lachlan, but they were afraid of his dark silence and intimidated by his cold demeanor. He was glad.
But this lass didn’t seem to mind his terse replies, dangerous scowls, or brooding character.
Braw lass.
He continued walking upward without a sound. He was pleased that she remained quiet as well. Up here, he could hear a hare hiding in the bush, or the booming hoof steps of horses approaching his cattle.
After another half hour of listening and watching, Constantine began to think of his home.
Not the castle, as the lass trudging alongside him had pointed out.
His home, shadowed toward the east by Ben Nevis.
Remarkably, he had not thought about the house—even while he was bathing behind the castle this morn.
He also had not thought about Alison or all the hatred in her kin’s eyes…
He turned to set his gaze on Miss Drummond. What had she done?
As if sensing his powerful stare, she angled her head toward his and let her face break into a smile that made him feel like some pitiful sot who would allow her to make him forget…
The warmth that curled his lips bubbled up out of someplace he had forgotten. He let himself get a little lost in her and what she—it seemed only she—could do for him. She chased away his ghosts, even brandishing her stick against his demons.
“What was she like, Chief?” she suddenly asked. If the sound of her did not make him toss away reason, he would have better guarded himself against such a question.
Had he not told her he wanted quiet? Here she was not an hour in, talking.
“I dinna wish to speak of her.”
“Ye loved her.”
Despite the words piercing him, her voice soothed his wounds.
“Of course.”
“Do ye miss her?”
“Lass,” he said on a warning thread, “aye, I miss her. Why are ye askin’ me these questions?”
She bent her knees and sat on the ground, then looked up at him. “I have never been in love as ye have. My father didna force me to marry without love. Neither he nor I thought I would ever wish to wed a man.”
Constantine listened and folded his legs to sit next to her, his heart thumping madly as he remembered the reason she would not wish to marry. He also recalled her telling him the chief who had abused her was dead. By whose hand? The man who had adopted her?
“Ye said ye were taken in as a babe,” he began. “How did ye come to know yer father, whom ye loved?”
“He saved my life when I was eight and took me in. I lived with him and his wife and he cared fer and loved me as his own daughter.”
“I would like to thank him fer bein’ a good man. But ye mentioned him dyin’.”
“Aye, he fell ill this past summer. The clan physician couldna be certain what was the cause. He continued to grow more ill until he perished.” She looked as if she wanted to say more. But she dipped her gaze to her hands folded in her lap.
What was she not telling him?
“Ye loved him,” he said in a quiet voice, seeing the pain in her face, wrapped in foggy tendrils.
“He was the only man I have ever or will ever love.”
She lifted her elegant fingers to wipe her eyes.
It soon became apparent to him that she was doing her best to conceal her emotions.
Normally, Constantine hated emotions. Weeping usually meant pain—and Constantine had enough of that in his life.
But from the first night this lass had wept while she ate her supper, he felt pity and compassion—and understanding.
It was as if she could not stop herself that night, but now she could.
“Lass,” he said softly, not really understanding why, save that sometimes he wished there was someone who understood his pain, who would just listen. “Ye dinna need to hold back yer tears. Losin’ the one ye love can be earth shatterin’.”
She stopped sniffling and looked at him. “Has it been earth shattering fer ye too?”
Habit told him to shrug his shoulders and remain quiet. Some things he could not share. But he found himself being held steady by her gaze while he nodded and then spoke. “It shatters anew every day.”
He shook his head, gazing at her. “Nae. No’ every day.” Not anymore.
A wave of guilt washed over him. His wife and child were lost to him forever and he hadn’t even bid them farewell properly. How dare he take interest in any other woman?