A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(42)

And he hadn’t touched another bite of food in all that time.

If he’d truly not been planning to enforce his will upon her, he would have argued through the day and into the night. They would have screamed at each other until both were hoarse—they’d done it enough times prior to that day.

Instead, he’d accepted her decision and gone on with the business of setting up camp and tending to the horses. He hadn’t even hovered close to her, as he would’ve done otherwise. Because he didn’t want to give away his intentions, of course.

How laughably obvious he could be sometimes.

But now, curled up on her side with a saddle beneath her head, there was little she could do without being spotted first.

The men sat around the fire, Fergus, and Quinn, both with their backs to her. They blocked her view of Brice and Rodric, seated across from them.

They sat downwind from her, too, which mean she had difficulty understanding their conversation. A word or two would float her way, but nothing more. Not enough to give her an idea of what they were thinking or whether they were discussing her.

A grasshopper chirped just beside her head, making her jump while a high-pitched squeal came from her mouth. She hated the things, ugly and loud as they were. If she had her way, they would all die.

The men took notice, turning to see what had startled her. She settled back in without explanation, glad for the darkness which concealed her burning face.

So, they were on their guard. Every nerve tuned to the sound of her voice, every muscle tensed with the knowledge that they might have to spring into action at a moment’s notice. They were soldiers, after all. None of them would ever truly be relaxed.

Especially after what they’d seen at the farm.

She could not relax, either, and she certainly couldn’t sleep even in spite of the knowledge that they’d keep her safe. Every time she closed her eyes, even for a moment, she saw the billowing, black smoke. While she hadn’t seen her cousin’s charred body, she imagined it—and perhaps what lived in her imagination was far worse than what the reality had been.

She imagined the screams, too, and the terror which must have filled Fiona’s final moments. She had likely woken that morning as she had every morning, getting straight to work, not knowing until it was too late that she’d never see another dawn.

Tears threatened to choke her, tears which she swallowed back for fear of being overheard. There was no sense in attracting further attention. Especially not from Rodric.

If only he would’ve told her he wanted her to stay because he cared for her. If only he’d said he didn’t want her to belong to another man. She might have agreed to stay with him, might have agreed to follow any plan he saw fit to create.

She knew she would have. There was no “might” about it.

But he hadn’t. He didn’t care that way. She was a childhood friend, an old sweetheart, someone who had once meant a great deal to him but who was now merely a stone around his neck.

She’d free him soon, if he’d allow her to.

The night was still, peaceful. Such a difference from earlier in the day. Even the frogs down by the stream weren’t making the sort of riotous noise they normally did—there were evenings when she’d been able to hear them even from the house.

If only they would make their customary noise. They might mask the sounds of her movement. It was as if the very frogs didn’t wish for her to escape.

The moon was covered over by thick clouds which did not seem to move. She wondered if they would ever clear up, if there would be moonlight to show her the way when the time came to run. The lack of light might work out in her favor. However, there would be less of a chance of being spotted if there was no moon, and she was more familiar with the terrain than any of the men.

In the depths of her heart, she didn’t want to go. It was the very last thing she wished to do. Alan’s cruelty would be worse than ever because she’d run. Even Padraig’s kindness wouldn’t be enough to spare her the brunt of his brother’s punishment.

It might go easier if Rodric were to accompany her, but he never would. It would mean admitting she was correct about needing to return to her husband. He’d never admit such a thing.

Even if he did, and if he accompanied her, he couldn’t stay forever—in spite of the fact that the clan would be better for it, as Alan was perhaps a worse leader than Connor McAllister.

No, Rodric and Alan might have killed one another if they’d been forced to live under the same roof as grown men. They’d fought enough as children, in spite of knowing their father had no patience for their constant bickering and violence.

Without Ross Anderson to temper their mutual dislike, there was no telling what might result.

Alan’s deterioration was evidence enough of what had come of his father’s death. There was no longer any reason for him to employ self-control, no need to attempt mastery of his baser qualities. His gluttony, his laziness, his quick temper. The Anderson household had once been a pleasant, bustling one, one Caitlin had preferred to her own.

Even though Ross Anderson had intimidated her so—a large man with a deep voice more often than not raised in a shout. She’d often cowered in his presence and had done whatever possible to avoid him.

Still, she had liked him. Perhaps because he’d always treated her fairly. Perhaps because she’d seen through his gruff exterior to the warm-hearted man he was underneath.