A Soldier's Salvation

by Aileen Adams

  Or perhaps Rodric had been so overcome at the sight of Caitlin’s horror that he’d found strength he didn’t know he had. Perhaps that had been enough for him to knock Alan to the ground.

  The doll had been left in the bucket. Caitlin would never forget the extreme tenderness with which her seven-year-old hero had lifted the rag doll, squeezing gently so as to wring out some of the water, then handed her over.

  She had fallen in love with him then and there, and the feeling hadn’t dimmed with time. If anything, it had grown brighter and stronger until there was nothing in the world but him. Rodric. Her hero, always, from that day on.

  And, where was he? Gone. Dead, perhaps. No one had heard from him in ages, ever since the death of his father. From the few times she’d had the displeasure of being in Alan’s presence, she’d gathered he believed his younger brother to be jealous of his claim over the clan. He claimed that Rodric wouldn’t return because he believed he should be the one to lead the Andersons.

  There was no sense in telling him she didn’t believe this. It wasn’t in Rodric’s nature to be jealous—besides, he had never wished to be in Alan’s place. He was the second son. He’d never once harbored delusions of one day taking on his father’s role. It simply wasn’t done. Why would he then carry on such a pointless desire?

  Because Alan liked to believe he’d won. Won what? She couldn’t say. Perhaps he couldn’t, either. Perhaps it was just enough for him to feel like the winner. He had won the clan. He had won the girl.

  Her.

  The very thought brought sickness to her stomach. He hadn’t wanted her, not for a single minute. He’d only wanted to have what his brother couldn’t have. He wanted to be the winner.

  She’d never had a brother or sister. She didn’t understand the pain of sibling rivalry—yet even if she had a sibling of her own, Caitlin was certain she’d never treat them the way Alan had treated Rodric. She wouldn’t ignore them, either, as he’d ignored the youngest brother, Padraig.

  It wasn’t until her twelfth year that she understood, truly understood, the wedge between the first two sons. At the time, Rodric had been nearly fourteen—an exciting, dashing older man as far as she’d been concerned—and Alan, sixteen and a man by anyone’s standards.

  The storm had raged for two days—days full of wind and hard, driving snow. It had come up quickly, without any warning, while Caitlin’s stepfather—and, thus, Caitlin herself—had been visiting the neighboring Anderson clan.

  The thought of being trapped in the great Anderson house, with the second son, had all but stopped Caitlin’s twelve-year-old heart. She had imagined so many situations in which they might be alone together. Even if they only exchanged a few words, a glance or a touch of the hand, it would be enough for her to live on until they saw each other again.

  But he’d been preoccupied throughout the storm, his father ordering the men to get the livestock under cover. It had been all but impossible, the wind whipping the snow into a curtain which left any who stepped out of doors blinded and half-frozen in an instant.

  Even so, Ross Anderson had insisted the older two of his three sons go out into the storm and assist the other men. Caitlin had all but fretted herself into a frenzy, wringing her hands and pacing the room to which she’d been relegated during the commotion. Would he come back? When? And in what condition?

  When one of the older men returned, snow caking his beard to the point where he could hardly speak for the ice which covered the lower half of his face, and reported having lost sight of the Anderson sons, she was certain she’d die.

  Judging by Ross Anderson’s reaction, he thought he would as well.

  But it was Rodric’s name he repeated over and over. Rodric he demanded someone look for. Not Alan. No one else seemed to notice this or think it strange. Perhaps she’d noticed because she, too, was so concerned for him that she saw his father’s panic for what it was.

  He loved Rodric as she did.

  Alan? Alan was his son, his heir, the one who would take his father’s place one day by sheer luck of the order in which he’d been born.

  Yet Ross did not much care for him. He protected his son, yes, perhaps a bit too fiercely.

  Caitlin had never been one to agree with her stepfather on anything, but she couldn’t help believing he was correct when he declared Alan Anderson to be in dire need of a good whipping.

  Perhaps if he’d received that whipping from a young age, and as regularly as necessary, he would’ve been a bit better disciplined instead of flying into a rage of temper whenever he didn’t get his way.

  Yet Ross had never seen fit to mete out such punishment. And his son had grown wild. The wilder he grew, the greater the distance between him and his father’s affections.

  She’d always recalled that storm, the type of squall which would’ve been remembered for its fierceness even if it hadn’t otherwise been so momentous. She had never forgotten the rejoicing in her heart when Rodric had stumbled in, half-dead but still breathing, still smiling through his chattering teeth when their eyes met from across the great hall.

  “Caitlin!”

  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 civili
zed 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.

  He looked around the room at the three men who were set on accompanying him. It was no use arguing—also, they had a point. There was little else for them to do while he was gone, unless they intended to take on another mission without him. They were more than welcome to do it, but his absence would take their number down to three. Very little only three men could do.

  Fierce and skilled though they were.

  “I suppose we’d best get to sleep, then, if we’re leaving so early,” he announced by way of accepting their company.

  As though there had ever been a question of whether they would gift him with it.

  “If anything should go wrong, send word for help,” Jake urged as Rodric mounted one of the horses Phillip had insisted they take along for the journey.

  If they were going out of their way to protect Duncan interests, Phillip had reasoned, they should at least have fresh horses on which to ride.

  “I will that,” Rodric promised, though he had to wonder what good such an action would do. It would take at least a solid day of riding to reach the border of the land which his father had held down by the sweat of his brow and more than a few fierce battles, which meant it would be at least two days before help would arrive.

  A young woman carrying a babe against her body joined them. Phillip’s wife, Sarah. “How did the tincture work last night?” she asked.

  “Like a miracle,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. Thanks to whatever it was she’d given him, he’d been able to sleep through the night without so much as a hint of discomfort in his shoulder.

  “I thought so.” She handed him a wrapped bundle. “There is more of it included here—just a few drops in a cup of hot broth or water, as you took last night—along with herbs which I’ve labeled and instructions for creating poultices. There is never any telling what trouble Phillip’s or Jake’s friends might find themselves in.”

  “Thank you very much.” He tucked it carefully into his bedroll, marveling at the generosity of the laird’s wife. Phillip had married well.

  Just like that, at the mere thought of marriage, his mood darkened. And he had been so looking forward to another night of pain-free sleep, too. That was the furthest thing from his mind when he set off with the others following on his heels.

  Would she want to see him? More important, would he want to see her? No, he decided. He had no desire to set eyes on his brother’s wife. If there was a way to ensure avoidance of her, he would follow it and gladly.

  It was better to remember her as she’d been than to see what she’d become.

  In his memories, she was his. Only his. Caitlin. With her beautiful light hair and eyes that reminded him of the sky in autumn. Deep blue, clear and expressive. He’d been able to read the love he held for her reflected in those eyes.

  Or perhaps he’d only told himself that much.

  It only made sense in the end, her marrying Alan instead of waiting for the love of her childhood to return from service. He’d held every intention of making her his wife once the war ended and he was free to go home. He’d resisted temptation at every turn, passing up the many opportunities afforded a soldier whom women seemed to find attractive.

  There had only been Caitlin.

  She was the one who had changed, not him. When he’d received word of his father’s passing and the almost simultaneous announcement that Alan and Caitlin were betrothed, he had gone so far as to wish Jake Duncan hadn’t saved his life.

  A fleeting thought, one which had exploded into the forefront of his consciousness unbidden, but the sentiment had been true. Without her, what was there? What had he been fighting for? There they were, at the end of the war, and him without a home to return to.

  Hence his acceptance of the offer Brice had made for him to join their band of rootless men who no longer had a war to fight but did possess skills which made them valuable to those in need of muscle.

  Even so, not a night had gone by that he hadn’t imagined her in his brother’s arms, warming his brother’s bed. Perhaps carrying his child—it was inevitable that he would seek an heir, and as soon as possible. She might very well already be carrying an Anderson in her belly.

  It turned his stomach. All of it. His Cait, wed to another man. Even if that man happened to be his brother.

  Especially him.

  “Are you listening? Or have you gone deaf up there?” Quinn shouted.

  It was a relief, this break from his terrible thoughts. “I’ll start listening once you start speaking of things which hold any interest to me,” he called back over one shoulder, affecting a sense of carelessness he certainly didn’t feel.

  “He was merely commenting on our good fortune,” Brice explained. “The way the rainy spell seems to have passed.”

  “Oh, aye,” Rodric agreed, distracted. “We ought to make good time.”

  Brice picked up his pace on the wide trail between the thick-growing spruce and pine. “I find myself wondering why you sound displeased when you say that,” he murmured.

  “You know why,” Rodric grumbled, already beyond the point of patience.

  “Do I?”

  “Perhaps you do too much wondering.” He tapped his heels to the horse’s sides and urged it ahead, just close enough to allow the others the chance to follow but far enough to discourage conversation.

  5

  Caitlin wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. Just when she thought she’d cried every tear available.

  “From what I heard, it was a brief illness,” Kent explained. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom he shared with his wife, drying his face and hands on a strip of linen after having washed b
oth in the basin. “The fever flared up of a sudden, and it was all over within another two days.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. It was too painful to imagine poor, sweet Uncle Gavin succumbing to any such illness. To think, she would never see him again. Would never be able to thank him for treating her as though she were his own daughter.

  Fiona patted her back. “He was a good man. I’m certain he’s gone on to his reward.”

  “Aye, I’m certain he has,” Caitlin sighed, not wishing to upset either of her hosts by asking what good it was for him to be gone, reward or no reward. Surely, if what they’d all been taught as children was true and there really was an eternal reward waiting for all God-fearing, pious people, Gavin McMannis was in the Heavenly Kingdom at that very moment.

  Little good it did her. A selfish thought, but her heart was far too pained for her mind to think unselfishly. She needed him. Aunt Sorcha needed him, too. They had never been blessed with children, and she would be all alone.

  What difference did it make for a person to do good their entire life? To be good, to do right by others? Sorcha and Gavin had been the kindest, dearest people in the world and the only true family she’d known after her mother’s passing. If it hadn’t been for the certainty that their home would be the first place Alan would look for her, she would’ve fled to them after the wedding. Their modest home had been more of a home, more of a comfort, to her than her own had ever been.

  And where did it get them? Uncle Gavin, dead after a sudden illness. Aunt Sorcha, alone and poor and childless, without the husband with whom she’d lived so happily in spite of their meager circumstances. They had always been loving and dear, and had always kept her best interests at heart.

  They’d even gone so far as to stand up to her stepfather when he’d announced her betrothal. Not that he had listened. Not that she had expected him to.

  “You say he only died early this morning?” Caitlin asked, looking at Kent.

  “Aye, just this morning. I tried to call upon your aunt to express my condolences, but she was far too occupied with other callers and the arrangements which needed to be made.”