A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(12)

“I should go. Now.” She hugged her cousin, who returned the embrace. “I owe you no less than my life, and should I not make it back to you…”

“Do not speak of such a thing. Do not even dare think it,” Fiona whispered in her ear, fierce and determined. “You will return. He will not find you.”

“Pray for me.” She kissed her cousin’s cheek and turned away, wanting to leave before the tears in her eyes became evident. As she went, she pulled her long braid up on top of her head before jamming a borrowed hat on top. It would do little to conceal her feminine features, but she might keep her head down in the presence of others while passing through the village. Her only chance at survival.

The morning air was soft, warm, full of dew, and the stars still shone when Caitlin mounted the gentle mare Kent had agreed to lend her along with his clothing. The song of the grasshoppers was nearly deafening, what seemed like hundreds of them shouting to be heard over their brethren.

She turned in the saddle. “Tell Kent I owe him everything as well, and I plan to repay him whenever I can.”

Fiona nodded from the doorway, a deep frown creasing her brow. “I will, though you know he’ll accept no such repayment.”

“I can offer, can’t I?”

The two of them were smiling when Caitlin clicked her tongue to signal the beginning of her journey.

The mare took off at a trot, and soon the farm was behind them.





6





Rodric Anderson!” the tavernkeeper shouted when the four of them entered. “A face I’d never expected to see again in this life!”

“Nor had I expected to see yours, MacKendrick.” The men clasped hands before Rodric turned to introduce his companions. Any hope of quietly entering Anderson lands was dashed in an instant—he knew word would quickly spread of his return and eventually meet his brother’s ears. So be it, then, he thought with a grim smile as the four of them sat about a large table.

“You lot look as though you could use a large meal and an even larger tankard of ale.” MacKendrick chuckled, his bulbous stomach jiggling as he did. He looked a fright, as always, though he took pride in maintaining a clean tavern. As though the time he could’ve spent washing himself and investing in a clean tunic was spent on scrubbing the place, instead.

“Aye, and we thank ye most heartily,” Quinn growled, having complained of hunger for at least a dozen leagues prior to their reaching the tavern. If it had been up to Rodric, they would never have stopped. He hadn’t wished for the news of his arrival to spread so far in advance of his arrival at his brother’s doorstep.

His brother’s. All his brother’s. Everything that had ever mattered to him was Alan’s.

“Are you back for the burial, then?” MacKendrick asked, a sour look marring his features.

Rodric’s stomach dropped, and he was suddenly as far from hunger as was humanly possible. “Burial?” he croaked.

Not her. Not her, please, not her. Anyone but Cait.

“Aye. Old Gavin McMannis. Passed away two days back. They’re putting him in the ground this very day.” MacKendrick patted him on the back. “I thought certainly, since ye were so often seen on their land in your youth…”

The fact that he felt relief at the announcement of Gavin’s death had to speak poorly of his character. Did it not? He could breathe again. He could think again. Because it wasn’t Caitlin who was being placed in the ground.

He realized then and there that he very much wished to see her again, even though he’d been set against it only moments before.

“I’m sorry to hear of it,” he murmured, quite sincere. “A good man. A loyal man.”

“Aye, and with no one to mourn him but his poor wife.” The tavernkeeper shook his head. “It’s a pity, to be sure, but at least the sickness took him quickly. They say he barely knew who or where he was for much of it, a fever wiping out his reason.” MacKendrick hurried away—if a man of his size could be said to hurry—in order to see after the needs of another patron.

“You knew this man of whom he speaks?” Brice asked.

“Aye. Gavin and his wife, Sorcha, were good friends. The uncle and aunt of a childhood friend whose home was not far. She spent most of her time there, and I followed suit whenever possible.”

“She?” Brice raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Wise of him.

Better to get it out of the way now. “Aye. I told you of her last night—indirectly, at least. Caitlin McAllister. The stepdaughter of the man with whom my brother is feuding.”

“Ah,” came Brice’s soft sound of understanding.

Rodric ignored it. “Theirs was a happy home. A warm, loving home. They had no children of their own, so they welcomed our presence. Kind, generous people. I’m sorry to hear Gavin came to an end.”

He smiled to himself at the memory of the games they had once played, the races they had run from the well to the barn, from the barn to the stables, then back to the house. They were young and so full of life, vitality, seemingly never fatigued.

Sorcha never grew tired of their boundless energy, either. She had indulged them, laughing at their antics, feigning surprise or wonder at their feats of strength and speed.

Caitlin had been the ideal playmate, in some ways the brother Rodric had always wanted. She wasn’t temperamental and rough as Alan, nor was she a baby like Padraig. She looked up to him, saw him as a brave and daring older boy, and he’d basked in the glow of her adoration.