Judith E. French (7 page)

Were he a Scot instead of a Sassenach, she might have sought him out. There was an aura of wild unpredictability about him that called to the reckless side of her own fierce Highland nature.

She had not wanted to wed him—never that. As much as she desired children of her own, she had never wished to surrender her independence to another man. Husbands brought too many controls. A wife gained respect and position, but in doing so, she surrendered her own will to that of her lord and master. Cailin had been a maid, a bride, and a widow. She greatly preferred the freedom of being a woman grown, with the right to make her own choices.

She liked men. In general, she would rather be in their company than that of females. She loved the sound of their deep, booming male laughter and the way their broad shoulders filled a doorway. She found their bluntness of speech and directness of manner a relief from the deviousness and petty jealousies of most women. She enjoyed playful flirtation and the easy camaraderie that came with knowing a good-natured man well.

And she was not immune to the intense pleasures of lovemaking. Sex was the one thing that had never been wrong with her first marriage. And since her widowhood, she had twice indulged herself with the comfort of strong arms and the whispered delights of a night of abandon.

Both of those men were dead now, she realized with a start. And for the first time, she wondered if she were a jinx. Make love to me and die young, she thought wryly. Her mouth curved into a smile. What would Sterling Gray think of that? Had anyone realized what she had done and whom she had done it with, they might have started calling her the “black widow” as they had Mary MacDonald, who had wed and lost four husbands in as many years.

Perhaps the blessing in the Eye of Mist had ebbed away, leaving only the curse, she mused. ’Twould serve her captor right if she turned some of her foul luck on him.

Her stomach growled, and she shifted in the saddle, suddenly becoming aware of a hollow feeling inside. She was hungry. The bread and cheese they’d shared at midday seemed to have been devoured weeks ago. She’d always had a keen appetite. Going without decent food had been one of the worst things about being in prison.

That and worrying if she was with child by her rapists ... She sighed with relief. That terror at least was behind her. Her body had healed, and she’d not been left with the guilt of carrying a child of shame. Had she been in the family way ... She shook her head. There was no use reliving the terrifying incident or her weeks of mental agony afterward. She only hoped that what the English soldiers had done to her had not ruined the act of love for her forever.

She’d felt rage against her attackers and a desire for revenge, but she’d known she was blameless. She had fought them tooth and nail with every ounce of her strength. They had overpowered her only because there were three of them. And what they had done to her had no relation to the natural beauty of the act between a willing man and woman. They had been worse than beasts, and she had contented herself by imagining their souls consigned to eternal hell.

She had done so logically. One by one, she had mentally brought each man before a clan tribunal. She had been the only judge and jury, but she had replayed each moment of the offense in detail. She had given them a chance to speak in their own behalf, and she had questioned them with the detachment of an Edinburgh barrister. Once their guilt had been declared, she had taken days to come to a decision about the sentence. Death, she’d decided, would be too easy. In the end, she’d stripped them of their immortal souls.

Later, she wondered if the imaginary trial had been an act of madness. Her delusions had been so real that she had been able to forget the damp stone walls and the stench of the dungeons. But dementia or sanity, her staged drama had allowed her to put her brutal violation behind her. The painful memories of her assault no longer haunted her dreams or caused her gut to twist with pain. Right or wrong, she had found her own version of justice.

“Cailin.”

She started as Sterling Gray called her name. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d forgotten him.

He pointed to a cluster of structures at a crossroads ahead. “There is an inn, the White Fleece. They bake a tasty pigeon pie, and the beds are free of vermin. I mean for us to spend the night under their roof.”

“So?”

“Would you rather ride in with your hands bound like a criminal or peacefully as my wife?”

She considered his offer. “Untie me.”

“Do you give me your word that you won’t slit my throat in the night or try to escape?”

“Aye,” she agreed readily enough. This was war. Any soldier could lie to an enemy without losing honor.

“Can I trust you, Cailin?”

She flashed a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Of course. As ye say, I am your prisoner and your wife. It would make no sense for me to risk your displeasure.”

“That’s the part that troubles me,” he said as he dismounted and walked back toward her mare.

Cailin smiled and held out her wrists.

C
ailin was so weary that she could hardly keep her eyes open long enough to eat the lamb stew and hot baked bread the serving girl had brought her. She sat alone at a small round table in a shadowy corner of the White Fleece Inn. Sterling had escorted her to a table, ordered a meal, and then had gone out to oversee the care of their horses. For the first time in months, she was not manacled or under close guard, and every instinct bade her use this opportunity to escape.

Her family, her homeland beckoned. Each day and each mile she and Sterling put between them and Scotland made it more difficult for her to return to her beloved Highlands. But her strength was gone, her will weakened by the ill treatment of the prison guards and the fatigue of her body. She’d not slept in a proper bed since the dragoons had raided Johnnie’s farm; she’d gone so long without decent food that her gums felt tender and one back tooth was sensitive.

Even her mind seemed dull and unable to respond. She desperately wanted to go home; she wanted to keep her promise to find Corey. But even more, she needed to bathe and climb between clean linen sheets and sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

Sterling had told her that Jeanne and her grandfather had gotten safely away from the farm. She had to believe that. She could not stand the death of one more person whom she loved.

How many times can a heart be broken and still beat? she wondered as she stirred the steaming food on her plate and nibbled at the bread.
Ye must be strong,
her grandfather had said. She’d heard him say those words on her sixth birthday, the morning her mother had hung the Eye of Mist around her neck and related the magical legend that accompanied it.

It was her grandfather who had taken her on his knee and confided the family secret that her father was not really Muireach Campbell—her mother’s first husband—but a rogue named Cameron Stewart who now lived somewhere in the wilds of the American Colonies. This Cameron Stewart, Grandda explained, had sent her the necklace and a sum of money to be used for her wedding dowry when she was a woman grown. Since Cailin’s birth date was ten months after Muireach Campbell’s murder by a jealous husband, there had always been servants’ whispers about her legitimacy. It was a shock to know that the gossip was true and that she was a bastard instead of the firstborn of a wealthy laird; but since she’d never known her mother’s first husband, she could not mourn his loss as her father. Neither could she feel anything for Cameron Stewart, another man who had been drawn into the complicated web of her mother’s life.

Ye must be strong.
Her grandfather had said the same thing on the night that her mother died in childbirth, and again when Cailin’s husband had died.

No wonder Jeanne is such a milksop of a woman, Cailin mused as she forced herself to take another bite of the delicious food in front of her. Meek little Jeanne. Sweet Jeanne. Jeanne’s weapons were her fair face and the big blue eyes that shed tears when a voice was raised in her presence or whenever she was frightened or angry. There was no need for little Jeanne to be strong; there were always others willing to be strong for her.

And I was always first in line ...

From the day she was born, I watched over her. I fought her battles and spoke up for her while she wept pretty tears. Jeanne has always looked so much like Mother, but her lovely shape and features are the only similarity. She has none of Mother’s shrewdness or her iron will. Yet Jeanne’s path has always been a smooth one.

Why couldn’t I have been the sweet one? Why hadn’t people said
gentle Cailin?
Why is it always taken for granted that I will do what needs to be done and save my tears for the privacy of my own pillow?

I’m tired of being strong,
a voice inside her cried.
I want someone to take care of me for a change.

“How’d ya like some company, darlin’?”

The strong smell of rum shattered Cailin’s reverie as a pock-faced stranger draped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her breast.

Without thinking, she seized her plate and hurled the contents into his face. He bellowed with rage as she leaped out of the chair, grabbed her eating knife, and faced him across the table. “Dinna touch me!” she cried. She stood trembling with the knife clutched in her hand, but her knees were slightly flexed, and she balanced on the balls of her feet as Johnnie had taught her.

The man was big and dirty with a wide nose that had been broken so many times that it had lost all shape. He was a giant—so tall that his bald, pock-scarred head barely cleared the low ceiling beams. He wore the coarse clothes of a drover, and he smelled like a rotting sheep.

In seconds, the public room erupted around her. A dog began to bark furiously, the barmaid shrieked, and the tavern owner came running with a thick oak staff in his hands. The intoxicated lout who’d accosted her stammered obscenities as he wiped the hot stew from his face. He circled Cailin ominously, keeping just out of range of her knife.

Behind him, several comrades surged forward, hooting with laughter. “Get her, Harley!”

Harley balled a meaty fist and took a stride forward. “Drop ’at knife, bitch.”

Johnnie MacLeod’s words echoed in Cailin’s head.
Watch a man’s eyes, lass. Watch his eyes, and you’ll ken what he means to do before he does.
Harley’s eyes were pale blue, small and piglike in his broad face.

She sucked in a ragged breath. “Touch me again, and I’ll make ye rue the day ye were born,” she threatened softly.

Harley took a swing at her. She dodged aside and drove the knife up to catch him in the underside of the arm. But before the blade touched his flesh, someone coming up behind her shoved her halfway across the room. She struck the side of a table, regained her balance, and looked back in time to see Sterling land a fist to the drunkard’s jaw.

The innkeeper stepped in front of her, barring her way with his staff. He reached for her knife. She handed it over without protest, then ducked past him to see what was happening.

Harley rocked back, shook his massive head, and blinked.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Sterling said in a low, reasonable tone. “The lady you have difficulty with is my wife. Admit your error, apologize to her, and walk out of here while you can still walk.”

A purple tide washed over Harley’s pocked face. He let out a roar and lunged for Sterling with arms that could have lifted an ox. Sterling waited until the last second, then moved aside so quickly that Cailin was astonished. And as he did, he put out a booted foot to trip Harley.

The big man crashed into the floor with enough force to rattle the tin plates on the tables, gave a single groan, and lay still.

Sterling glanced up at Harley’s companions and smiled. “Poor fellow. He’s had too much to drink. Best you take him somewhere to sleep it off.” His voice was amicable, but his right hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Wordlessly, two of the men took hold of Harley’s arms while the third grabbed his ankles. Sterling tossed a silver coin to the innkeeper. “That should cover any damages and pay for a round of ale for the house.”

The tavern owner grinned. “Aye, sir. It will. And you have my apologies. I run a decent inn.”

Cailin opened her mouth to comment on the quality of an inn where common folk felt free to lay hands on a lady, but before she could say a word, Sterling crossed the distance between them with two strides and took her arm.

“We’ll say no more about the matter,” he said to the innkeeper, “so long as my lady hasn’t been harmed.” He looked into her face. “Mistress?”

“No,” she replied. “I wasna hurt but—”

Sterling nodded to the innkeeper. “Good enough. We’ll have our meal in our room. Kindly send up a bottle of your best wine and plenty of hot water for the bath.” He pushed Cailin firmly toward the open staircase.

“It wasn’t my fault—” she began.

“Hush,
dear,”
he said. “We’ll discuss that later. Keep going. Top of the stairs, last room on the right.”

His fingers gripped her arm, not tightly enough to hurt, but too firmly to pull free. “Ye must listen to my side of—”

“Remind me not to let you near a blade,” he murmured in her ear as he hustled her up the staircase. “You wield it like an Italian assassin.”

She detected a hint of sarcasm. “He assaulted me,” she insisted. “I was eating my—”

“Can’t I leave you alone for five minutes without you getting into trouble? Were you planning on murdering this one too?”

“Mother of God!” she swore. “Only an Englishman would be stupid enough to fight a giant with his fists instead of drawing his sword. What right do ye have to judge my—”

“Quiet. You’ve caused enough of a commotion for one day in the public room.”

“Ye dinna believe me. That filthy swine took liberties with me. What would ye have me do? Fling myself into his arms?”

“You were minding your own business and he—”

“Aye,” she answered hotly. “I was.”

“If you’re telling the truth, I owe you an apology.”

“Aye, ye do that.”

“Men make a habit of attacking you without reason.”

“Aye, so it seems.”

“A coincidence that this should happen while I’m outside.”

“Would he dare to touch me with my ...” She started to say
husband,
but the hateful word refused to roll off her tongue. “... with you in the room,” she finished lamely. “He deserved killing. Ye should have run him through with your sword.”

He shrugged. “Many men deserve killing. If I made it my business to dispose of them all—”

“A Highlander would be ashamed to let a woman under his protection be insulted. Obviously, you English—”

“Peace, mistress. If you were wronged, I’m sorry. But when I came in and saw you about to carve that poor drover’s—”

“You assumed that it was my fault—that I’m a woman who welcomes mauling by—”

“No. That’s far from the truth. But I don’t like killing. I’ve been a soldier most of my life but—”

“If he’d put hands on an Englishwoman, what then? Suppose it had been your mother?”

“I told you that my mother wasn’t English, she was Indian. And no, if he’d insulted my mother, I wouldn’t have killed him for it—not unless I was forced to it.” He looked at her sharply. “You’re certain you’re not hurt?”

“Nay.”

“If he did hurt you, I’ll find him and—”

“Nay. He was drunk and crude. Had ye not come when ye did, I would have taught him some manners. But ye came to my aid, and for that I suppose I must thank you.”

“Don’t put yourself to any trouble.” Sterling pushed open the door to a cramped room containing an ancient bed, a fireplace, a single oak table, and a straight-backed chair. Wedged between the poster bed and the tiny fireplace was half a wooden barrel. Interior shutters covered the only window. To open it, someone would need to climb over the bed and stand on the chair.

Cailin stepped inside the shabby chamber, and Sterling followed. Worn floorboards creaked under her feet as she moved as far from him as she could without getting on the furniture or climbing into the barrel. She peered into the container. It was empty except for a puddle of water in the bottom. “This must be my laird’s bath,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s plain, but it will do,” he replied. “The room’s clean enough, and as I told you before, there aren’t any bugs. You should be grateful I didn’t put you in the common chamber. Up to twelve strangers share the three beds. The women’s side is curtained off for propriety’s sake.”

“It might be better if I stayed there.”

“I think not. You’ll remain here where I can keep my eyes on you.”

She glanced at the bed. “You expect me to sleep there with you?”

“Unless you’d prefer the tub.”

“I prefer my freedom.”

“Damn you, woman. Can you not give me an hour’s peace? It’s no wonder we’ve been at war with the Scots since the wheel was invented. You’re all a surly, troublemaking lot.” He removed his coat and hat and threw them on the bed.

“This marriage was not of my making,” she said. “I’ve slept with three men, all by my own choice. Do ye expect a husband’s rights, they will come dearer than ye reckon.”

His expression softened. “Is that what frightens you, mistress, that you think I’ll force you into—”

“You forced me into wedding vows.”

“To save your stubborn neck.”

She stared straight into his black devil eyes. “No man takes his enemy to wife for charity’s sake. Give me an honest explanation, and we may come to terms.”

His skin took on a darker hue, and Cailin knew she’d touched a nerve. “As I said before, my reasons are my own.” He laid a hand on her arm, and she jerked away. “I won’t hurt you, Cailin. I’ve beggared myself to keep you from harm. The last thing I’d want to do is hurt you.”

She wanted to believe him, but life had taught her better.
No man acts except in his own interest.
She’d not stayed alive when others around her died by playing the fool. “Ye hurt me most by holding me against my will. I’ve a child waiting for me. I must return to Scotland.”

“I can’t let you do that, Cailin.”

Frissons of excitement ran down her spine whenever he said her name. It should have sounded strange on his lips. His accent was all wrong. Instead,
Cailin
came out softer ... sweeter than she’d ever heard it spoken. Her face felt warm, her knees weak.

I’m tired unto death, she thought. My mind and body are playing tricks on me. Mayhap I’ve taken a chill. I had a fever earlier; maybe it’s coming back.

But she knew this was no ordinary sickness. Whatever spell Captain Sterling Gray had cast over her, it had naught to do with weak bowels or a queasy stomach. She’d not shrunk from him because she was afraid of him—it was fear of herself that drove her. She liked his touch. A little wine and a warm fire and she might find herself liking more than the feel of his fingers.