Chapter 4
Cameron sat next to his brother, who lay dead on the floor in front of the fire, and listened to the absolute silence.
Gilly had finally fallen asleep next to Breac, her bloody hand resting on his chest. Her accusations during the night had been shrill and unending.
Cameron had said nothing to her out of respect for his brother and how that brother would have wanted his wife to be treated, but now that she slept he could admit that he was exceedingly relieved not to have to listen to her anymore.
She would no doubt wake and begin to scream again, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
He felt a little like shouting himself.
His first instinct had been to wrap his plaid about himself, stick several dirks down his boots, then slip into Simon Fergusson’s hall and slay him in his sleep.
He supposed that he could have sent quite a few more Fergusson clansmen to hell after their laird, but he supposed he couldn’t kill the entire clan single-handedly—though he might just attempt it the next time they dared raise a sword against a Cameron.
He turned away from thoughts of revenge and looked at his brother.
He watched Gilly sleep next to him and wondered absently how Breac had borne being wed to her.
She was unpleasant, argumentative, and plain.
Cameron generally didn’t judge a woman by the fairness of her face, but he would have thought that since she had all those other faults, she might have at least been easy to look at.
Cameron knew Breac had thought wedding Gilly Fergusson would bring a measure of peace to their clans.
A deadly miscalculation, to be sure.
Cameron rubbed his hands over his face and dragged his mind back to what needed to be done.
He would have to see to the burying soon.
He would need to send a message to the Fergusson and let him know how many he’d lost so he would understand what his arrogance had cost him.
Generally that was his favorite part of a battle.
Today, though, he had no stomach for such grim details.
It wouldn’t matter how many men they lost, those bloody idiotic Fergussons would continue to come against him, continue to waste the blood of their young men to appease the egos of the old, continue to receive his messenger with the number of their dead. Nothing would change.
Only he wouldn’t have his brothers fighting with him anymore.
The door opened. He half expected to see Sim come bounding inside, all smiles, frothing at the mouth about some ridiculous adventure that would involve glory, cattle, and potential death.
But it wasn’t Sim, it was Giric. Giric looked at Breac, looked a bit longer at Gilly, then leaned back against the door frame.
“I thought you might want to see to the burying now.”
Cameron blinked. “Is it day already?”
Giric frowned. “Didn’t you notice?”
Cameron shook his head wearily. “I hadn’t, actually. How many dead on the field?”
“We’ve lost six men. Fergussons lost twenty-five. But that isn’t all.”
Cameron grunted. Too many of his own lads dead for his taste, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He contemplated that for a moment or two, then the remainder of Giric’s words sank in. He looked up. “Who else, then?”
“The witch.”
Cameron nodded absently, then he realized what his cousin had said. He looked up in surprise. “The MacLeod witch?”
Giric lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “They’re trying her right now down at the loch—”
Cameron leaped to his feet. “And you didn’t stop it?”
“Her beauty alone is suspect—”
“Giric, you’re a bloody fool,” Cameron snarled as he strode across the chamber and pushed past his cousin.
The sun was coming up over the eastern hills as he ran across the courtyard. He cursed as he sprinted through the village and across the meadow. If he found her alive, ’twould be a miracle, and if he found her dead, ’twould be his fault.
It was only a handful of moments later that he was pushing his way through the cluster of men at the edge of the water. He didn’t even bother taking off his boots before he waded in himself. He jerked a pair of his men away so he could see what was happening.
Well, Sunshine MacLeod was half drowned, that’s what was happening.
She might have been able to keep her feet if she hadn’t been having them continually kicked out from underneath her.
Perhaps the lads thought it would be easier to keep her underwater that way.
He knew all this because he watched it happen once more before he could get to her.
He clapped a hand on Brice, his fourth cousin twice removed, and shoved him out of the way.
He had to dive under the water himself to get Sunshine back up. She didn’t even cough as she surfaced.
He bent, put his shoulder against her belly, then straightened. She was completely limp, damn Giric and the lads to hell. He fought against the water and hurried to the shore, stumbling as he did so. He snarled curses at the villagers, whom he didn’t blame, and his men, whom he most certainly did.
“Give the gel room to breathe,” he snapped.
They all backed away, crossing themselves.
Cameron swept them all with a look. The villagers turned and scuttled away. His men followed suit, though certainly more slowly. Soon only Giric was left there, watching him silently.
Cameron laid Sunshine gently on the ground, then turned her over onto her side and whacked her firmly on the back several times.
She coughed up water enough, to be sure, but she didn’t rouse.
He continued to force more water from her by pressing on her belly, but there came a point where he could see that his efforts weren’t going to be of any more use.
At least she was breathing. Perhaps that was all he could hope for. He looked at his cousin.
“Well done,” he said coldly.
Giric only shrugged. “The safety of the clan is my first thought, as always. I never would have brought such a creature into the hall—”
Cameron shot him a look that had him, for a change, shutting his mouth.
Giric was a dangerous fool, but a stupid one and perhaps all the more unpredictable because of it.
It was no secret that Giric believed he should have been leading the clan.
He conveniently forgot that Cameron’s father, not his own, had been the laird before him, and that his own father had thought him particularly unsuited to leading anyone anywhere but astray.
Cameron didn’t trust him, but he kept him close.
It was easier that way to see when he would strike.
“I wonder that she’s still breathing,” Giric said suspiciously, obviously unable to keep his mouth shut. “Surely that says much.”
“She’s no witch,” Cameron said with a snort. “If she had been, Breac would be alive, wouldn’t he?”
“Perhaps she’s not a very good one.”
Cameron looked up at him evenly. “If you want my sword going into your belly and out through your back, keep talking.”
Giric smirked. “You don’t have your sword.”
Cameron realized with a start that his cousin had that aright. “Then I’ll just use yours.”
“Will you?”
Cameron stood up. “Aye. Care to test it?”
Giric only folded his arms over his chest. “I would be more careful where I laid my blade, cousin, were I you. You never know when you might find it being all that stands between you and many hands wielding death.”
“I’ll remember that,” Cameron said blandly.
Giric gave Sunshine another very long look, then turned and walked away.
Cameron watched him go, wished rather acutely for the comforting weight of his sword strapped to his back, then decided there was nothing to be done about it.
He had knives in his boots and two wits to rub together. He would gain his hall without trouble.
He picked Sunshine up in his arms and quickly walked back the way he’d come.
The village streets were empty, but he was sure he was being observed.
His people were no doubt crossing themselves furiously and looking for whatever charm of ward they might have had lying about their houses to use in protecting themselves against evil—all whilst a beautiful, innocent woman lay unconscious in his arms.
He entered his great hall, glared at his men as he passed them, then made his way up to his bedchamber.
Gilly was no longer there, but Breac was still lying in front of the fire.
Cameron sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be placing Sunshine next to him come sunset.
He laid her on his bed, then looked down at her.
She couldn’t stay as she was; she would catch the ague and die.
Obviously, her clothes would have to go.
Unfortunately, he could hardly bring himself to touch them.
Her skirt was made of a sort of fabric he’d never before seen in his life, not even in Edinburgh on the one occasion he’d traveled there in his youth. He wasn’t overly superstitious, but he couldn’t deny what he faced at present.
Magic, obviously.
But he wasn’t a squeamish gel, and the woman before him would catch her death if he didn’t aid her.
He drew his knife out of his boot and slit her skirt from waist to hem before he could think about it anymore.
He pulled it out from under her, then quickly cast it into his fire before he had to touch it overmuch.
He cast more wood onto the fire to build it up, then took a deep breath and turned and walked back over to the bed.
Sunshine’s remaining gear covered her from wrist to ankle and was made of cloth equally magical and unusual.
He cut it all from her. He didn’t even allow himself to wonder about what she was wearing under that layer of cloth.
He cut those things from her as well and consigned the lot to the fire.
He didn’t look at her as he put her under the covers.
Well, not much.