A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(59)

Padraig nodded, wordless.

“Och, it’s for the best that he be out of pain now,” Rodric murmured, though his heart ached nonetheless.

“Aye, so it is.” Padraig drew a deep breath, as though to steady himself. “I suppose you ought to speak to the men, then.”

“You haven’t told them?”

“It isn’t my place to make such a pronouncement. Also, I was certain you’d want to know first.”

“Aye, so it is,” Rodric replied. None of it mattered just then, however, something he didn’t expect the younger man to understand. The finality of Alan’s passing left him wanting no one but her. She was free, for good and all.

Free to be his, if she pleased.

“Where is Caitlin?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as they walked side-by-side. They were nearly the same height, he noted, and both walked with high heads and a long stride.

It struck him once again how his brother had grown, the man he’d become. A natural leader, intelligent, able to look ahead and foresee problems in order to address them in advance.

The way he’d ordered the bedchambers prepared, for one. He’d anticipated their needs even in the midst of a crisis.

Such a gift had to be born in a person, for Alan hadn’t possessed it in spite of his birth order and the great pains Ross Anderson took to shape him into the man worthy of clan leadership.

Rodric possessed perhaps a small portion of what Padraig exhibited regularly.

The obvious solution was in front of them, clear and plain.

First, he wished to speak with Caitlin.

Padraig offered only a blank stare. “I have not seen her since your arrival. I thought she might had been with…”

Rodric scowled. “She was still our brother’s wife, man.”

“I meant no disrespect. When I traveled throughout the house without sign of her, it was the only conclusion I could come to.”

“She certainly was not with me.” His mind darted to and fro, possibilities flying past.

“None of the McAllisters breached the borders of our land,” Padraig assured him, the two of them hurrying down the corridor to the room which had been prepared for Caitlin. It was empty, the bed smooth and untouched.

“And we know for certain that none of them were here? Absolutely for certain?” He went to the window as he spoke, looking out toward…

Sorcha’s. The farmhouse was small from a distance, but visible.

He knew her well enough to know what had been going through her mind as she gazed out the window. She would have wanted to escape the men downstairs, the house workers dashing back and forth to attend to their needs, the gut-twisting hours spent waiting for her husband to die.

She would have wished to spend the time somewhere more pleasant, peaceful, where she might rest easier.

“Rodric, the men will want to hear from you.”

He turned from the window, shaking his head as he did. “They’ve been up all night, drinking heavily and telling each other of the heroics they’ll perform on behalf of the clan. They’re all asleep now—note the silence.”

It was true. What had been a steady roar of male voices raised in oath swearing and calls for vengeance had turned to the occasional snore echoing off the stone floors and walls.

“Even so, I’d rather we not wait very long. Once they begin to wake, they’ll be hungry to learn what transpired. If you aren’t available to them, they’ll be certain to share their… frustration.”

Rodric sat at the foot of the bed, hands on his knees, smiling in spite of the serious nature of the situation. How had it taken him so long to see what was so plain?

“Perhaps you and I ought to speak first,” he suggested.





28





Caitlin woke on the pile of blankets which had been arranged for her on the floor, the sound of her aunt preparing tea had pulled her from her slumber. In spite of the rather uncomfortable conditions—while welcoming, the floor was hardly her first choice of bed—she had slept without moving or even dreaming.

“I did not wish to wake you,” Sorcha murmured.

“It is just as well you did,” Caitlin replied, groaning softly as she sat up. The muscles of her back and shoulders did not much care for the rough nature of her recent days of travel and sleep wherever—and whenever—she could manage it.

“Are you hungry? I have fish left over from last night’s supper.”

Caitlin’s stomach rumbled at the thought. “Yes, please.” When had she last eaten? In all the commotion over Alan, she had not taken a bite at the Anderson house.

“Will you tell me now what brought you here in the middle of the night? Hair hanging in your face, cheeks flushed, looking as though you were running from the very devil himself?” Sorcha cast a doleful eye in Caitlin’s direction. “Or must I wager a guess?”

Caitlin rose from the floor and set to work shaking out the blankets. “No, you do not need to guess. I came from the Andersons’.”

Sorcha nearly dropped the kettle onto the table. “What brought you there?”

“Alan Anderson is likely dead by now,” she reported, gooseflesh rising over her skin as she did. “My husband is dead.”

“What happened?”