A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(29)

Rodric had fought against him. How he’d known his brother was wrong was never something he’d been able to understand. Instinct, he supposed, the same instinct which had kept him alive throughout the war. Except for the day Jake Duncan saved his life, which was more a matter of divine intervention, if anything.

During the storm, however, some inner voice had urged him to continue on his course. Straight ahead. He’d struggled against the wind, a wind which had all but knocked him off his feet.

If he’d fallen, he would’ve remained that way. He would have frozen to death. There was no doubt in his mind, nearly ten years later.

Alan had continued to insist, had tried to pull him off-course and to the right. He’d taken a few stumbling steps before withdrawing his hand from his brother’s. He wouldn’t allow anyone to lead him to the death which surely awaited them, not even his older brother.

Alan had waved his arms, as though to tell Rodric off and give up on him, before turning away to follow the course he believed was correct. Rodric’s voice had disappeared on the wind when he’d screamed for Alan to come back.

It was at that very moment that a light flickered in one of the windows.

Not twenty feet in front of him.

Straight ahead, where he would’ve led them, had Alan not insisted on going right.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself, but it was enough. Rodric had fought against the blowing snow to lunge for Alan—the sight of his fur-wrapped head and back had all but disappeared from view.

Somehow, he’d dragged his brother the rest of the way to the house. Perhaps it was the certainty that they’d both die if he didn’t manage it that gave him the strength he needed. No matter where it had come from, it saved their lives.

There had been times after that night when he’d felt his brother resented being saved. As though Rodric hadn’t been good enough to save him, as though the younger brother pulling the older one to safety was too much for his damnable pride to contend with.

He’d never understood Alan, not entirely.

What he understood was his thirst for vengeance. Rodric had thirsted that way, though he’d wished for vengeance against the warriors who’d killed friends of his. Fellow soldiers. The bastard who’d nearly killed him and Jake Duncan, too.

In battle, it was easy to want vengeance. A man’s heart raced, his blood was up. Life boiled down to its most essential basics in those violent moments. Kill or be killed. Live or die.

Was that how his brother lived his daily life? Always on the brink of battle?

All the more reason to get Caitlin far away from him, and as quickly as possible.





14





I wish I could spend more time here with you,” Caitlin murmured against her aunt’s shoulder as they embraced. It seemed impossible that she should leave again when they’d hardly been able to spend any time together.

It seemed cruel to leave her all alone on her land with no one to talk to. While neighbors had been helpful during Gavin’s illness, and of course had paid their respects the day before, life went on. Chores demanded attention, children needed raising.

Caitlin could not even make arrangements for someone from either the McAllister or Anderson households to make the ride, as that would mean revealing herself. If she’d not run from Alan, she might have been the one to do it. She might even have used her uncle’s passing as an excuse to stay in the little farmhouse for a while.

Another way in which she had failed, but how was she to know the way the future would unfold? And there was still so much more unfolding to be done. Just the thought was enough to dampen her spirits.

“Worry not, my dear,” Aunt Sorcha whispered, smiling in spite of her trembling chin. “I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

“You needn’t look so disbelieving,” she chuckled. “Yes. I’m happy, because I know you will be safe now.”

She knew no such thing, and neither did Caitlin. All either of them knew was that she would leave with Rodric and that he intended to escort her to Fiona’s. They would meet up with friends of Rodric’s at the inn in the village before continuing on.

Yet there was a certainty in her voice, a firmness in her nod. “You’ll be safe, because he would die before allowing harm to come to you,” Sorcha whispered, obviously referring to Rodric.

“Don’t even say such things,” Caitlin warned, a chill running through her at her aunt’s words.

Superstition did not seem to matter to Sorcha. Perhaps she’d already been through enough to know that superstition meant nothing. Caitlin had taken silent notice of the herbs which her aunt had burned at Gavin’s bedside, had seen the pillow which Sorcha had knelt on beside the bed in order to pray over him. The pillow was still there, just one of the many things which had fallen by the wayside in the wake of Gavin’s passing.

What good had prayers and burned herbs and who knew what else done for him? What difference did it make if one spoke of things they didn’t wish to see become true? If something was meant to happen, it would happen. No amount of avoiding the subject would help.

“I believe he will take care of you, and he will.” Sorcha pressed her lips to Caitlin’s tear-dampened cheek before pushing her in the direction of her mare.

Rodric stayed at a discreet distance, pretending as though he wasn’t listening. He had the grace to do that, at least.