Chapter Fourteen
For the first time in years Constantine didn’t want to leave for battle.
He sat alone in the Great Hall after his kins’ meeting took place. His men had all left and now he waited for the elder council.
In the silence, his thoughts drifted toward things of war. He had been a soldier since he was a boy, though it was not until he was five and ten that his fame began.
Dispatched to Inverlochy by his older brother, Gilbert, Constantine had fought under the Marquis of Montrose against the Campbells.
They won a decisive victory and every battle after that.
When it became evident that the victories were all due to him.
He was promoted to captain and gained several other titles.
But the cost had been too high. So high.
It didn’t escape Constantine’s notice that he had been apart from Ismay Drummond for several hours and thoughts of Alison had returned to haunt him.
He had been called to duty while building their home at the foot of Ben Nevis.
He had not wanted to leave her. She was carrying their babe and the thought of her alone had vexed him deeply, so he moved her parents to Tor Castle to be with her.
He had left to fight the Battle of the Pass Near Tullich, but after that victory his name became something to be feared and admired for his great strategic mind.
He fought, loving making the enemy suffer for supporting Cromwell and killing his kin.
He feared no army and won the next three battles.
He had received word that his wife had started her pains of labor. He celebrated with his men and asked for leave to see them. By morning, approval for his leave had been granted but it was too late. His wife and child had perished in the night.
He felt a swell of regret and guilt course through him now.
Fighting and killing took precedence over yer family, Constantine, his father-in-law had rightly accused.
Nae, her mother had spat. ’Tis fame and glory that beguiled his twisted heart.
We took them away and buried them without ye. Ye didna deserve to be there.
“Constantine.”
He opened his eyes to the sound of twinkling bells in his ears and looked into Ismay’s eyes.
“Lady, I must have dozed.” He sat up straighter.
“Were ye having a bad dream?”
His gaze found hers again. She marred her brow and concern narrowed her eyes as if seeing a glimpse of the truth in his gaze.
He quirked one side of his mouth to reassure her. Also because seeing her made him want to smile. She was like sunshine in the gloom. “Yer concern is unnecessary.”
“Is it?” she asked him, staring into his eyes. “I have never seen ye look so afraid before.”
He thought he should toss a mocking laugh into the air. But he could not deny that she was correct.
“Who or what is it that brings such fear to ye?”
How could he tell her that he was so afraid of the truths pouring from Alison’s parents’ mouths?
Truths he hated. It had indeed come to a point that he loved the glory he brought to the Camerons.
He poured all of himself into studying battlefields and the routes that reached them.
He had planned off the field and polished his sword at dawn, hoping his enemies’ allies arrived to aid them and give him more to kill.
“I was a monster and I’m haunted by the joy I took in it.” He blinked. Did he just speak out loud?
Who was this woman who he was confessing his sins to?
“Ferget I spoke,” he said with more command than he intended. “Just push it from yer thoughts. Aye? I spoke a feelin’ rather than a fact.”
“Why avoid speaking what ye are feeling?” she asked him, slipping into the chair on his right. “I speak about what I am feeling many times. It cleanses ye.”
“What?”
“Ye feel better when ye speak about yer feelings.”
He chuckled. Good. If she wanted to fixate on speaking her feelings, rather than focusing on his, that was fine with him.
“Chief,” she said in her soft, sorceress voice. “Is it possible that two monsters have found each other and have stopped long enough to help the other heal?”
His heart shuddered in his chest. Could they heal each other?
“Perhaps ’tis,” he responded with tenderness toward her. “But ye are no’ a monster, lass. Ye were a child, battered by a clan chief—a man above reproach. Ye killed to live.”
He reached out slowly and wiped the pad of his thumb across a tear pausing on her cheek.
“And ye, Constantine, the past is over. No amount of regret will change anything.” She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “A monster doesna grieve. It doesna feel anything. ’Tis clear that ye feel much.”
He heard the footsteps of men entering the Hall. He looked around Ismay’s shoulder and saw the elders. The first few wore looks of stunned apprehension, their eyes fastened on the couple sitting at the table.
Had they heard her declaring that he was not a monster? That he grieved?
Had the elders, or anyone in Lochaber considered the great weight that infected his confidence? They saw a hero, a protector, but his wife and child saw nothing, and his enemies saw the ravenous beast that lived off praise.
But he grieved. She was correct in that. In everything she said about him. Was he so transparent?
“Will she be here fer the meetin’, then?” asked old George Cameron, Constantine’s second great-uncle.
“Nae,” Ismay answered with a warm smile, saving Constantine from having a word with his uncle later about his manners. “I was just leaving.”
With one last smile, she moved in close enough to whisper into the Lochiel’s ear, “Dinna take any of their heads.” Then, she bid him a swift farewell and was gone.
He almost laughed out loud while she walked away. Hearing such a thing would likely cause at least three of the elders to fall down dead.
Turning from her departure to their weathered, weary faces, he let out a silent sigh and began briefing them on the Chattan’s missive.
After that, he told them his plan. “We will fight at Achnacarry. I want fifty men at the ford on the northern side of the loch ready to attack the rear. Meanwhile, I and a regiment of our kin will march aroond the head of the loch to outflank and attack the MacKintoshes from the east.”
“That is an eighteen-mile trek?” Lord Bran of Tilliisburgh pointed out.
“We can make it,” Constantine assured him.
“From whom will ye request aid?” asked Marten MacDonald, who fought in the battle of Craig Cailloch and many battles before that.
“I have already sent out messengers to the MacGregors and the MacIans, and of course, the MacMillans.”
“Good,” most of them muttered amongst themselves. A few narrowed their eyes on him, trying to gauge his confidence in this.
“Do ye think the MacMillans will help us since ye are now estranged from their kin, yer in-laws?”
“We will discover that soon enough,” Constantine let them know, then got off the topic of Alison MacMillan’s parents. “I anticipate some clans from the Chattan will arrive, possibly to aid MacKintosh. But I would have ye all know, ’tis nothin’ that concerns me.”
They discussed strategies and minor concerns, and when the meeting ended well into the night, Constantine found himself searching for Ismay.
He found her asleep in his private solar, curled up in an oversized chair by the hearth, with his plaid covering her. He did not want to wake her. He wanted to crouch before her and simply take his fill in the sight of her, so comfortable and at home in his solar.
So, after adding more wood to the hearthfire, that is what he did. After moving a nearby chair even closer to her, he sat and spread his gaze over her.
He had missed her today. He missed her playful glances and concerned frowns that marred her brow.
She worried about him. And though, at times, he thought it a wee bit insulting, he found himself liking her concern.
She was not full of bravado, but she carried herself with quiet strength.
He considered, letting his gaze trace the delicate steel of her jaw, that she would be a worthy wife to any Highland warrior she chose, if she chose to marry.
The idea of her as another man’s wife made his belly knot up, his hands ball into fists.
Aye, he was fond of her. So? Did it mean his demise or hers? Nae. Nae, it did not. Did it mean he was letting go of Alison and Katie? How could he?
He had planned out a future with Alison in his head from the moment he’d met her. And in one day, it was all over. He hadn’t had the chance to bid her farewell or promise to find her in heaven.
And now, because of this fiery woman covered in his plaid, he was not certain he wanted to find Alison.
His gaze roved over the sweet contour of Ismay Drummond’s lips, the color of ripe peaches.
The thought of tasting them to see if they were as sweet as they looked almost overwhelmed him.
But he was not one for letting go to his desires.
If he were, he would have continued killing enemies like Oliver Cromwell’s garrison and the rest of the English and their supporters.
Her small, pert nose reminded him of her challenging tongue and brought a smile to his face. He liked her temper. His woman should not be a—His woman?
He closed his eyes in defense of her, but then, uncharacteristically unable to fight himself and win, he opened them again and set them on her long, black lashes smudging her cheeks.
His resolute heart faltered.
He spoke her name on a whispered breath, agonized by what he was beginning to feel for her.
Her lashes lifted, exposing his admiring gaze on her. He did not look away at being caught. He did not want to look away ever again. Had she not been away from him enough today?
When she offered him a dreamy smile, he felt his mouth go dry and his muscles tighten throughout his body.
“Apologies fer coming in here while ye were away,” she began then stopped when he shook his head.
“Nae apologies are necessary, Lady.”