Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(35)
But there was something, or rather someone, she remembered clearly. A bone-deep chill cut through her as it always did when she thought of Jamie Campbell.
You will regret your refusal of my offer. One day, Caitrina, the brutal reality of our world will find you.
Words that were cruelly prophetic or possibly something more?
When she’d first realized that Campbells were attacking Ascog, she’d wondered if Jamie were involved. It had been a relief to discover he wasn’t. She hadn’t wanted to believe he could be so cruel or that she could have given herself so intimately to a monster. Was she a fool for not wanting to believe she could be so wrong?
But it turned out that she was wrong. He had been there. But why? Could he really have wrought such destruction on her clan? Had her harsh refusal of him had anything to do with the attack? If she had heeded her father’s warning—done her duty to her clan—and accepted Jamie Campbell’s offer, would her family still be alive? More than anything, these were the questions that haunted her.
But even if she couldn’t be sure of Jamie’s role in the attack on her family, it was clear his clan was responsible. If she’d hated the Campbells before, it was nothing compared with what she felt for them now. Her hatred had festered like an open wound, leaving it burning and inflamed. She vowed that they would pay for the murder of her family. It was this fierce determination to see justice done that had wrenched her from the bog of her own grief.
If it took her last breath, she would see Ascog returned to her kin. The remaining members of her clan were all she had left, and she vowed the Campbells would not profit from the blood of her family.
At last she reached the beach and picked her way across the rocky shoreline, the pebbles poking her feet through the thin leather soles of her shoes. Ignoring the cold, she stood at the edge of the water, the waves lapping at her toes, inhaling the salty tang of the sea air. She lifted her face to the icy spray, letting it wash over her as she’d done many times before. The sea drew her, as if she could find absolution in its frothy blue depths. But its cleansing power was illusory and all too fleeting. She loved the desolate and remote feeling of standing on the very tip of Cowal, looking across the blue sea to the Isle of Bute—to home.
Hearing a sound behind her, she jumped. Frayed nerves were another lasting reminder of the attack. It was only Bessie, an old washerwoman and one of the handful of servants who’d come with Caitrina from Ascog. She rushed over to her. “Here, let me help you with that, Bessie,” she said, taking the basket of clothing from her. “ ’Tis too heavy for you.”
The old woman spread her lips into a wide grin devoid of a few teeth. “Bless you, mistress. Though Mor will have my hide if she sees you helping me again.”
Mor couldn’t understand why Caitrina chose to spend her days with the servants outside rather than with her aunt and cousins in the keep. But Caitrina didn’t feel comfortable with her Toward kin. Her clansmen from Ascog were all the family she had left and her one connection to the past.
Caitrina gave Bessie a conspiratorial smile. “Well then, it shall have to be our secret.”
The old woman chortled. “Ah, it’s good to see a smile on your bonny face, mistress.”
Caitrina nodded, acknowledging her kind sentiment, if not the underlying reference to her change in temperament. In the long dark days following the attack at Ascog, Caitrina hadn’t been sure she would ever laugh again. Everything she once knew—her happy, carefree life as the beloved sister and daughter—was gone. Dead.
Toiling alongside Bessie for the better part of two hours, she scraped and rubbed the linen until her hands were raw from the lye in the soap. But she hardly noticed the discomfort, finding solace in the hard work. Work. The concept had been foreign to her a few short months ago, and now it was her saving grace.
When they’d finished with the washing, they bundled the sodden clothing in the basket and Caitrina helped Bessie carry it back up the path to the keep, where it would hang to dry.
Mor must have been watching because as soon as Caitrina entered the courtyard, her former nursemaid was there with a pack of serving girls to relieve them of their burden. Ever since the attack, Caitrina hadn’t been able to blink without Mor knowing about it. Before, Caitrina would have found her hovering stifling, but now she found it oddly comforting.
She owed her so much.
It was Mor and the handful of servants left from Ascog who’d secreted the injured Caitrina into the caves while the Campbell soldiers were still scouring the hills for her father’s remaining clansmen and the MacGregors. In addition to the smoke that had filled her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe, the blows to her head had done some damage. She’d flitted in and out of consciousness for days. When she’d recovered enough to travel the short distance across the Firth of Clyde, they’d taken refuge at Toward Castle with her uncle, Sir John Lamont of Inveryne, who’d welcomed her dispossessed clansmen into his family without question.
Mor waited for the others to leave before clasping Caitrina’s hands and turning them over to reveal her red palms and ragged fingertips. Her gray brows wrinkled. “Look what you’ve done to your beautiful hands! This must stop, Caiti Rose—”
Caitrina froze, the flash of pain nearly unbearable. Caiti Rose. It was what her father had called her.
Not realizing the unintentional hurt she’d inflicted, Mor continued, “It’s not right, you working alongside the servants all day. I hardly recognize you.” Mor’s gaze traveled down the length of her. “Though you won’t see fit to wear any of the gowns your aunt has generously provided, you are still the daughter of a chief. What would your father think to see you like this? A year ago, you would have used that gown as a rag.”