A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(56)

“You’re their leader,” Padraig reminded him. “Surely, they’re here to offer their allegiance to you, and to whoever you name as your successor.”

Successor. The word turned Rodric’s blood to ice. Everything around him seemed to fall away—even the stench of the sweat-soaked bedding which had commanded so much of his attention up to that point. None of it existed any longer.

Successor.

He was the second son.

The clan would, by rights, be his to lead.

Should he choose to do so.





26





Kill the bastards.”

“Run them through.”

“Make them pay for what they’ve done.”

“Anderson forever. They forget who they’ve crossed swords with, the bastards.”

Their words sent chills up Caitlin’s spine. She pressed herself to the wall running the length of the corridor, not daring to venture from the deep shadow in which she’d hidden herself when it became clear there was nothing else for her to do.

They hadn’t recognized her when she escorted Sarah to and from the kitchen, which was certainly a blessing—though if they had, what could they have done? She was an Anderson by marriage, in spite of her having run from her husband. Their clan was hers.

Even so, the very thought of bearing the weight of their rage had they stared at her, muttered, whispered vile threats toward the clan which had been hers since she was a child…

She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms in a weak attempt to warm and comfort herself.

There was nowhere for her to go, really. Nothing in the world could have convinced her to sit at Alan’s deathbed, not even if Rodric had begged her to join him. She had no wish to watch a man die, even a man who’d caused her so much pain.

And there was no telling what he would say to her. What he’d accuse her of.

Because, once again, she’d brought death upon the head of another. It may have been Connor McAllister’s dirk which had slid into Alan’s body. It may have been Connor’s hand which held the weapon, his arm which had delivered the force which drove the blade into the soft, yielding flesh.

But it had been she who’d put the dirk in his hand, because she’d been the one to break the agreement. If only she’d seen into the future, if only she had seen the string of events which would lead from her escape.

At the time, in the room which had been prepared for her the day of the wedding ceremony, there had only been one concern: escaping before he had the chance to put his hands on her. Escaping before he could truly solidify the bonds of their marriage.

Nothing else had mattered. Nothing else had even entered her head.

Fool! For she’d known Alan well. She’d known her stepfather, too. She should’ve seen what might come of her hasty escape.

She’d behaved selfishly, and now Alan was near death.

What would Rodric think of her once his brother had passed on to the other side? It was one thing for a rivalry or bad blood or whatever it was which stood between the pair to stand strong while both parties were healthy and vital. Let one or the other die, and suddenly, everything in the past might fade away until brotherly love was all that remained.

He might blame her for his brother’s death.

And then what? He would no longer love her. She would truly have no one. No clan, no stepfather’s protection, no protection from the Andersons as Rodric would surely assume leadership as the second-born son.

She might live with Sorcha, but how long could that last? While she loved her aunt, life with her would be cold comfort compared to the brief promise of paradise which Rodric’s love had afforded. If he loved her no longer, nothing could make up for that loss.

A tear escaped her eye, one which she knuckled away before willing no others to follow. If she was on her own—she hoped not, prayed not, but had learned how unfair life could be and wished to be prepared—she had to harden herself against emotion. Wallowing in self-pity would not serve her.

It would only make her suffering more unbearable. A winter of starvation had taught her this lesson.

Padraig walked past her without seeing, rounding the corner after climbing the stairs from the entry hall. She waited until he was inside Alan’s chambers before deciding to follow him. Her curiosity was too great to ignore any longer.

Also, she needed to get away from the vicious talk downstairs.

She hovered just beside the door, allowing only half her body past the doorjamb in order to cast an eye upon the scene inside. Sarah was just in the act of opening the draperies, allowing light and air into the room; all the while, she shook her head and muttered to herself.

While they were in the kitchen, she’d told Caitlin about the many mistakes the healer had made in treating Alan. “I do not believe the mistakes were intentionally made,” she was quick to point out. “I once treated a man who it was clear from the start had been deliberately poisoned. That is not the situation here. I believe ignorance and laziness have played a part. And, having heard all I care to know about Alan Anderson, stubbornness from the patient.”

Caitlin had merely nodded in agreement. She could just imagine Alan refusing the proper treatment, calling for his ale and his food while his body was dying from the inside out. He’d always been reckless, pretending to care little for the wisdom of others. She would have just bet he’d gone against the healer’s orders just to be contrary, to prove what a strong man he was.