A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(8)

Her head snapped around at the sound of her cousin’s call.

Fiona was visible in the doorway of the house, the kitchen hearth burning and crackling behind her.

She stood, stretching after sitting for so long in the same position. She’d lost track of time, the sun having set, the sky dark. A few stars already twinkled above.

“Yes, I’m here!” she called back, taking a few steps toward the house.

Kent’s beloved horse sat just beyond the door, meaning he’d returned from his ride to the village.

Fiona waved her arms. “Come quickly! Word from home!”





4





What will you do, then?” Fergus looked at the others before turning his attention back to Rodric. He looked… skeptical.

No more skeptical than Rodric himself. “The thought of returning to my home hardly pleases me. It’s something I’ve avoided until now. If it were anyone but Jake, I wouldn’t go at all. But I feel it’s my duty to at least do what I can.”

“What can you do?” Quinn asked. “You’ve told us of your brother. He’s—”

“Not the type one negotiates with,” Rodric finished. “I know this.”

“What do you think you can do, then?”

“I can at least find out what it is he’s fighting over. I can try, somehow, to make peace with the McAllisters.”

“You know them, then?” Brice asked.

“Aye. At least, I did when I was young. Before I left to train. I haven’t seen any of their lot since.”

“How large a clan?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t say. The family itself is nothing. Only Connor McAllister. His wife bore no living sons. Only a daughter, and she was born prior to the marriage, to the first husband.”

Did his voice give him away? He fought hard for it not to be so. No sense in letting them know what that single daughter meant to him. What they’d once meant to each other.

“And you know nothing of the nature of the feud?” Brice asked, frowning.

“Jake could give me no insight into that.”

“That isn’t an answer to the question which I asked ye.”

Rodric fairly growled. “How would I know? I haven’t seen my brother in years, which you all know, or you would’ve seen him as well.”

“Aye,” Fergus agreed, shooting his brother a look Rodric recognized as a warning.

It rankled with him, the idea that his friends would hold an opinion they didn’t see fit to share—and about him, no less. He supposed he’d have to become accustomed to it rather than arguing the point.

He’d found that excessive argument only made the one doing the arguing seem guilty of something.

He rose, regretting that there would only be that single night in the comfortable bed on which he’d been seated. Not that they would’ve spent much time in the Duncan lands, but a few days of rest in a civilized household would’ve been a pleasant diversion.

“I’ll set out at first light.”

“You’ll set out?” Quinn chuckled. “And what are we? Mere baggage?”

“There’s no need for you to come along with me,” Rodric declared. He knew his men would wish to accompany him, but his was the type of task best performed alone.

No telling what his brother might say, what accusations he might hurl. The sort of things a man didn’t want his friends to hear.

And… she would be there. He had no wish for them to witness what might transpire.

Fergus snored. “What do you think we’ll do in your absence? Lie about here, waiting for your return? While I’m not entirely opposed to the notion of having my every need catered to—”

“And don’t think I haven’t got my eye on the cook’s daughter,” Quinn added with a grin.

“We won’t hear of you going on your own,” Brice concluded with a shrug. “We’ll follow along behind you at a distance if you’re ashamed to be seen with such a rough group as ourselves.”

Rodric merely snorted at this assessment.

True, they were rough—burly, dressed in the same clothing they’d traveled in for endless months. None of them owned more than three tunics, total, and all were in need of new footwear to replace the leather they’d all but worn through.

“Unless I miss my mark, I doubt my brother or anyone in his household has adopted a better mode of dress,” he replied.

They were all cut from the same cloth, truly, men accustomed to spending most of their lives outdoors.

Except for Padraig. The thought of seeing his younger brother was possibly the only worthwhile aspect of what otherwise appeared to be an unpleasant task. The youngest Anderson son had always been quiet, intelligent, thoughtful. In many ways the opposite of Alan—and, as a result, the one with whom Rodric had gotten along with.

But Padraig was little more than a child when Rodric went off to fight. It had been seven years since they’d last seen each other, with Rodric riding off on horseback while his younger brother ran alongside him on the road until they reached the end of the stone wall which signaled the end of Anderson lands.

Padraig had been thirteen years old then. He’d be a full-grown man.

The realization that he hadn’t thought of his brother in years shamed Rodric to his core.