Highland Soldiers: The Enemy (4 page)

“No.”

Guileless blue eyes met his for a moment and pierced him with their sorrow. Doing her best to discreetly wipe her nose on her sleeve, she said, “Well then, prepare to watch me die, although now in less haste and with far more pain.”

His mouth twitched, suppressing a grin. “You are not going die.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because it is not your time yet.”

“But it’s your time to blether,” she said, frowning.

He grinned. She was no longer weeping, and he seemed to have gained a small measure of trust. “If it were truly your time, you wouldnae have to work so hard at it, would you?” He leaned closer and looked in her eyes.

Her expression softened, but her sadness stayed close to the surface. A breeze tugged at some strands of silk tresses. Callum was troubled by a sudden impulse to gather the thickness of hair in his fist and inhale.

She said, “You can leave. I’ll not jump.”

He looked away and thought through the more sensible actions of standing and leaving, but he was reluctant to do so.

He said, “When you first saw me, you were frightened.”

“Aye, and why would I not be?”

“I had just saved your life, for one thing.”

“And for what? I ken all about you Highlanders.”

“Oh. And you ken about me, do you?”

“I had no cause to believe you were different from the others.”

“Which others, lass?”

“The other Highlanders. They’re all about us, and you ken that already.”

He did. He was one of eight thousand who had descended upon the inhabitants of this part of the country to quell Covenanter activity on behalf of the Crown.

He said, “We all come from different clans. We’re not all the same, ken?”

She scrutinized him with suspicion, but something in his gentle gaze drew the words from her. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize—except for the kicking and clawing.” He touched his forearm as though examining a fresh wound. As she caught sight of his grin, she smiled back, her first genuine smile, and it pleased him. He wondered what she might have been like, had he met her in happier times.

She looked offended. “You find me amusing?”

“Aye.” He smiled genuinely. “It’s not a bad thing.”

She met his eyes with a less guarded look. “Stop, please.” She looked away toward the water pounding over the edge of the falls.

He said, “I was looking at you—”

“I ken that. It’s called staring, and I dinnae like it,” she snapped.

He grinned to himself and continued. “And I thought, as you stood on that rock with your raven black hair, that you looked—”

“It isnae raven black. It’s plain dark brown.”

“There is nothing plain about you, lass.” From the sharp look he received, he returned to his story in haste. “Seeing you there on that rock made me think of a raven.”

“So now I’m a crow?”

“No, lass.” He shook his head, smiling, and started to say that she was too lovely for that, but stopped short. Flattery neither impressed nor pleased her. “Our clan motto is Rock of the Raven. I was reminded of home. I felt as though I had been drawn to that rock—to the raven on that rock—for a purpose. You see, where I come from in the Highlands, ‘tis said that the cry of the raven can foretell things.”

“Soothsaying is wicked.”

Callum winced. She did not make conversation easy. In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether conversation was worth all this effort.

“What sorts of things can it foretell?”

She’d surprised him with that. “Ah, well, it could mean the coming of an important guest or good fortune. It can also foretell of a battle, a loss, or a death.”

“The raven isnae very specific then, is it?” said Marion, beginning to smile.

“Ah, but look at us now. You’re not… flying off that cliff over there, and I’m—” He paused to rephrase what would have sounded like more idle flattery. He would not tell her that he was sitting beside a young woman whose beauty was different from any he’d seen. Nor would he marvel at how she intrigued him. “And I’m glad that you’re not… there—but here.” He inwardly groaned at how poorly that came out. He was not used to feeling awkward.

She said nothing, but her frown made it clear. He was overstepping his bounds, but he could not shy away. “Tell me, lass, what’s so bad as all this?”

“I cannot speak of it.”

“Whatever is troubling you, it’s not worth doing that.”

She shook her head gently, but said nothing.

He tried to accept her silence, but only managed to make it look so. A long period of silence passed between them. It should be enough, Callum thought, to have helped her. It was not. He wanted to know her, and to see her untroubled by whatever had brought her to this desperate moment. “You could not shock me.”

“Nor will I.”

With a sudden lurch, she rose to her feet. Callum leapt to his feet, fearing she had changed her mind about hurting herself. But instead of running toward the cliff, she ran in the other direction. Callum caught her by the waist, as she bent over and vomited. Once more, he was reduced to awkwardness. He should withdraw, he decided. But she put her arms over his for support. Callum circled her waist with the one arm and pulled her hair back with the other. By the time she was done, she was weeping and he was behind her, soothing her with deep, quiet words in her ear.

She wiped her mouth with her hands and said, “May I please go to the water—just to wash?”

Her pitiable plea struck his heart. He cast his eyes doubtfully at her. “Only if I hold onto you.” He trusted her, but with a fair measure of caution. He took hold of her wrist and led her a safe ways upstream from the falls, where he allowed her to kneel by the water. Having planted himself between her and the cliff, he released her to splash water on her face and sip gingerly from cupped hands. When she was finished, Callum offered a bit of his plaid, and she dried her face and hands with it. Her eyes softened to his as he offered a hand to help her up, and then led her away.

Once seated beside her under a tree, he studied her and considered his next words with care. “It’s not an illness that sickens you, is it?” he said, knowing the answer.

Once more, silent tears dropped from her soft moss green eyes as she shook her head.

“Does the father ken?”

When she did not answer, he imagined the father abandoning her and his rage erupted. “Will the cursed scoundrel not claim the wee thing as his own?”

“He does not ken, nor will he. Ever.”

Her bitterness brought him to a hush. “Och, lass. Did he force you?”

Callum fought the impulse to reach for her hand and to pull her to him. He wanted to comfort her, to take on her burden—if only for a moment.

She averted her eyes and softly said, “No.”

Abruptly she rose to her feet. Callum followed, unsure of where she might go next. He would not let her return to the cliff. At the same time, his mind raced as he tried to absorb what she had told him.

“It isnae right to talk like this with a strange man.” She stood poised to leave, yet hesitant.

She was right, of course. She was vulnerable, and that made him want to help and protect her. That, and her large eyes and raven silk hair drew him to her. He had shown honor and no small restraint in his actions toward her. He had saved her life and stayed with her to help her calm down. He had done the right thing. Now, before he did the wrong thing, he needed to step away.

She would need to be escorted home. There could be other Highlanders about. What gentleman would not do as much? It would be wrong to leave a lady out here in the woods unprotected, so Callum decided to escort her home. And then, while she was turned away from him, he leaned down and brushed his lips on her silken hair and inhaled.

She turned her head and, finding his face so close to hers, took a step back, but not before her gaze drifted down to his mouth. Her lips parted. “I must go.”

He forced himself slowly to take a step back. This put her a bit more at ease, but she looked about as though lost. Whether unsure or unwilling, neither of them left. With each moment that passed, the thought of taking her into his arms grew more tangible. His thoughts turned to yearning. His instincts were not serving him well, and good judgment was waning. The fact that she lingered was not helping him live up to his former claims about duty and honor.

At last, with her eyes cast to the ground, she said softly, “I dinnae ken where to go.”

He sighed. It was no more than sympathy that he was feeling, he told himself. But he was, in truth, relieved that she was not leaving him yet. “Have you no home?”

“Aye, but if I go there, I will have to behave as though nothing were wrong. I’m not ready to do that quite yet.”

 “You could stay here with me for a while. We could sit here—or go for a walk.”

He could see in her eyes that she doubted his motives. And why would she trust him? She had told him that she had been with a man, by choice, and conceived a bairn, but would not tell the father. A man might draw conclusions about her, and yet he did not. Her pain and her spirit moved him. The fact that she kept her distance from him and her wits about her proved she had not given up. If she chose not to tell the father, she no doubt had good reason. He suspected a broken, but proud, heart, for which he admired her. She had faced the path down which this decision would send her, even if she had faltered today. Callum hoped she would find her way down that rough road. More than that, he wanted to help her. No, that would be madness, he corrected himself. That was not why he had been sent here.

She said, “I’d like to go away from this place.”

Callum nodded and got up and offered his arm, and they walked through the tall grasses.

“If Jamie saw me out walking with a Highlander—and a royalist soldier, to boot—och! He’d save me the trouble and throw me over a cliff himself!” She nearly laughed, but soon sobered. She reminded herself that he was gone.

“Jamie? Is he the wee one’s father?”

“Och, no! He’s my brother!”

Callum nodded, trying not to reveal his relief—until he realized that her Jamie was the James McEwan whom they sought as a suspect in the murder of Archbishop Sharp.

Marion’s expression clouded. “He was killed by a Highland dragoon.” The way she said Highland left no doubt of the common contempt with which they were held in these parts. Her eyes swept from his plaid to his royalist uniform jacket and up to his eyes.

He felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He may not have been there, but in her eyes it could have been he. Already stories spread of the Highland Host who now quartered themselves in the area, seeking to quell Covenanters. There were many clans in the Highlands, and as many standards of behavior. But in her eyes, he was no different from any of them.

“I’m… sorry.”

“They shot Jamie. They—had their way with Ellen, and then they shot her. She was a good friend to me. She was Jamie’s true love.”

He reached out his hand, barely brushing the tips of his fingers to hers.

She slipped her hand away. “The next day we went to bury them, but they were gone.

“We found Ellen’s body outside of the kirkyard, where the heathen are buried. Then the men sent me home. Women cannot go to a funeral. So I went home without even saying goodbye.” Her breathing grew heavy as her eyes filled with tears.

“We never found Jamie. They do terrible things, you ken.” Her eyes darted toward him. “Of course you do.”

He did. Although he had not been party to such deeds, it was not unusual to behead and dismember the bodies and send them to their hometowns for display as a warning. She had every reason to despise Highlanders. If she found out he had followed her here she would spurn him as well. In these days of illegal meetings outside on the moors and in the hills, wandering off was suspicious. He had been sent here to put an end to Covenanter meetings and their illegal activities. He had not found her by chance by the cliff. He had been spying on her. When she had wandered off, he had followed her. He was doing his duty. He would not be sorry for that.

She stopped walking. “By being here, talking with you, I betray Jamie and Ellen. It’s like turning my back on their memory.” Bitter tears led to gut-wrenching sobs shook her lithe body until he could stand it no more.

He put his hand lightly on her shoulder. When she did not flinch or scoff—either of which he expected--he gently enfolded her in his arms. It was for comfort, as one would comfort a sister. He told himself so, and he nearly believed it. But she clung to him as a drowning person would cling even to an enemy. She clutched folds of his sleeves in her fists, and he held her clinging form against his, not as one would comfort a sister. Good sense flickered and faded. He touched her chin with his thumb and forefinger and it tilted up. Her eyes opened to his, and with that, he was lost. He lowered his lips to hers, soft, barely touching. And he was undone.

She placed her palms on his chest and pressed him away.

He pulled away with a guttural whisper.  “Och, lass.” Slowly, he shook his head and smoothed a stray hair from her cheek.

She looked down as she mumbled a breathless goodbye, and then she was gone.

Callum kept his eyes fixed on her until she had gone out of sight, then he leaned his head back against the tree with a heavy sigh. “Bloody hell, MacDonell. You’ve made a pish of it now.”

Marion ran until she was sure she was out of sight and had not been followed. Then, slowing her pace, she tried to sort through what had happened. “When will you learn?” she scolded herself. She had always been prone to dreaming. She had been told often enough to resist such sinful imaginings, but she had persisted. Love was one such dream for which she would pay dearly. She had longed for what Jamie and Ellen had shared. Thinking she had found it, she was fooled into a love that was false. It taught her that love could not be trusted. Men could not be trusted. She had too easily given her heart. That was a mistake she could not make again. If she ever gave her heart to another, it would take a long time before he earned her trust. And yet, before she gave her heart and body to the bairn’s father, she had known him her whole life. Even that had not been long enough.