Highland Soldiers: The Enemy

by J. L. Jarvis

  He took firm hold of her shoulders and looked as close to anger as she had seen him. “Say what you will to me, but dinnae let others hear you talking like that. Some might call it treason.”

  She quashed an unsettling fear as she lifted her chin and spoke her mind. “Whisht! That’s a convenient answer when you’ve not got a real one.”

  His eyes hardened. “A real answer? Here’s my real answer: Your Covenanters slaughtered my kinsmen and now threaten my king, and I will fight back.”

  “They may have been Covenanters, but they were not my people. How can you blame me for that?”

  “How can you blame me for the death of your brother and friend? And yet I see it in those bonnie green eyes of yours, lass.” His frank gaze bore through the fierce indignation that brightened her eyes and colored her cheeks.

  Her lips parted. The sight transfixed him. “Marion,” he said tenderly, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

  “How did you ken my name?”

  He glanced off to the side. He was sent to find James McEwan, he knew every name in her family, as well as her neighbors, but he could not admit that to her. So he said, “I’ve heard them calling you that.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Oh.”

  His eyes searched hers. She was wholly uneasy. They’d met when she was at her weakest. He knew too much about her. And now, just by looking at her, she felt his gaze through to her heart. She could not let him affect her so. Chest pounding, she turned away and picked up a pail of feed for the chickens as though he were not there.

  “Mari—”

  She kept walking.

  He called after her, “Mari will suit, I suppose, as I will not be given time to say more.”

  Had she not been so distraught, she might have smiled as she went outside to feed the chickens.

  *

  When, some while later, Marion was obliged to return and complete her chores, she entered the byre and exhaled in relief not to see him.

  “I would have a word with you.”

  Marion flinched at the sound of the quiet, firm voice from the shadows behind her. She turned around to find Callum, arms folded, leaning casually against a timber post.

  She let her eyes meet his. A mistake. His gaze burned into hers. She averted her eyes to the empty chicken feed pail in her hands. To set it down in its proper place would bring her nearer to him, so she clutched it tensely. Dusk was settling in, cloaking them both in its shadows.

  “I cannot talk with you here, or anywhere for that matter.” She quickly glanced at him, but the way he was staring at her made her more ill at ease. She impulsively pivoted away, but he grasped her wrist before she could escape. The pail dropped with a shallow clang. She froze, unwilling to turn toward him. Twisting her hand, she tried to free herself, but he pulled her gently, but firmly, to face him. When her eyes met his, he frowned to see her expression. Silence stretched between them, broken only by thrum of her heart in her ears. He studied her hand as he held it.

  She hated the way, with a touch, he dissolved the emotions she wielded against him and drew others she could not control. She tried to slip her hand from his to escape, but he held it and stroked it with his other hand.

  “Let me go, please,” she said weakly. She looked about to make sure no one watched. He is your enemy. Your brother and dear friend are dead. But her logic rebelled. He did not do it, any more than I killed his kinsmen. We both share similar grief and lack similar guilt. But still, we are opposed.

  “Mari.” He paused, searching for what to say next that would not set her into flight. In an effort to distract her and put her at ease, he said, “Do they call you Mari?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Sir—or rather, Soldier… ”

  She was flustered, which gave him hope. He regarded her with quiet confidence. “Ensign.”

  “Ensign,” she said, but then paused, blushing as she forgot what she had wanted to say.

  “MacDonell. Although, after I’ve been kissed, I tend to answer to Callum.” A grin tried to form on his lips, but he checked it.

  “Ensign MacDonell, you asked for a word with me. Now that you’ve had it and more, would you please let me go?”

  He stared at her hand for a moment, then looked away with a troubled expression. “I must tell you something.”

  “No, please do not. What happened before was a mistake. There is no more to say.”

  He frowned, even though he agreed. “It’s not that.”

  He stopped himself before blurting it out. Your brother is alive. He had not planned it, but his good sense seemed to fail in her presence. He wanted her to know there was hope. He had the power to ease her grief. And yet, what if her brother was not still alive after all? He could be mistaken. He struggled to make his thoughts clear. Did they have solid proof? Who in St. Andrews really knew James McEwan? What if someone, under threat of torture, had offered up his name, knowing he was dead? People did desperate things to avoid torture. What better way to appear to cooperate and yet not put another at risk, than to say that a dead man had done it? If he proceeded to tell Mari that her brother was alive and it turned out not to be true, he would cause her more grief. And if James were alive, why had the lad not told his own family? If he did not want his family to know, did Callum have the right to tell them otherwise? Callum could not help but to question his own motives. What would he more likely ease, her suffering or his conscience? No, it was too dangerous. There were too many questions attached. To speak now, without knowing the answers, could yield unexpected and uncontrollable results. He was not ready to risk Mari’s heart or the lives of his men. Suppositions were dangerous things.

  Mari said, “If you have something to say, please say it now, before someone sees us.”

  He loosened his grip on her wrist and stroked the edge of her sleeve with his thumb while he searched for the words. In a quiet voice, he said, “Mari,” and lifted his eyes to meet hers with a smoldering look.

  Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced down, now spellbound by his thumb as it stroked the folded edge of her sleeve. “You are too familiar, sir. If someone saw…”

  With a reluctant nod, he withdrew his hand. “Forgive me. You’ve bewitched me.”

  She swung her arm to slap him, but he caught her wrist neatly and held it. “If I’m to be struck, I’ll first ken the reason.”

  “You accused me of witchcraft and disguised it as flattery.”

  He was nonplussed. “I said what I feel.”

  “As though I were to blame for your lack of control.” As she said it, the heat rose to her face. The mere thought of control or lack of it implied emotions she could not properly think let alone speak, carnal emotions that scared her, most of all because she felt them, too.

  He peered at her while he forced down his anger.

  “I assure you, as I stand here, I dinnae lack control, even though it may be put to the test at this moment.” He leveled a probing look. “Lass, have I given you any cause not to trust me?”

  Mari’s fingertips trembled in his sure hand. “Not yet, but I’ve heard such words before. People behave in one way, but they change once they get what they want.”

  “Mari.” Callum took a step toward her, but she stiffened, so he stopped. What he wanted to do was take firm hold of her shoulders. Instead he spoke with forced calm. “Look at me. Really look at me, and tell me you truly believe I would speak false words to you.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I believe that you would. You’re a man, and men lie.”

  He interrupted her. “Mari, I will not lie to you. Nor will I hurt you.”

  “No one ever says in advance that they’ll hurt you. But they do just the same.” She cast her eyes to the side to avoid his.

  “I am not like the bairn’s father, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nor will I pay for his wrongs.” His temper sparked, and he clenched his jaw as he tamped down his anger. Had he not pulled her from certain death? How could she
not trust him, when all he wanted to do was to help her? Ah, but now he was not being truthful to himself. He wanted much more than that, he was forced to admit. Eejit, the lass is in pain. Give her some time. But that was one thing he could not seem to do.

  Marion said, “I’m not asking you to pay for what he did. I’m just asking you to leave me alone.”

  “Is that truly what you want—what you feel in your heart?”

  As she gazed at him, she knew that the answer was no. Lest he see it in her eyes, she looked down—anywhere but at him—but not before her eyebrows drew together. The light caught her moist lashes. “I dinnae trust feelings.”

  He softened his voice. “Mari. My feelings are true.”

  No one called her Mari, and somehow the way that he did made her heart pound. She fought it and lifted her eyes to stare boldly, but faltered and looked down again. “It’s my own feelings I dinnae trust.” Silent moments passed, so she looked up to see his reaction. His gentle look gripped her heart.

  Callum felt a surge of relief from her confession. She had as much as declared there was something between them.

  “You’re a soldier,” she said.

  “Aye,” he replied.

  She said, “In battle, if someone sank a dirk into your heart, could you choose how it would feel?”

  “No, but I’d let the wound heal.”

  She cried, “But not all wounds heal.”

  “Och, lass.” He was beginning to wish he could sink a dirk into whoever had hurt her. “This one will.” He reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek, but she turned to avoid his touch.

  He nearly said that people did not die from broken hearts, but then he thought of how he had met her, when she was about to do just that. He wished he could make her forget, but how could she when the memory grew in her belly? Until her heart healed, his attentions were no better than salt for her wound. Walk away, said a voice in his head. Now.

  Despite that, he heard himself say, “I will not hurt you like the bairn’s father did. You must trust me, lass.”

  She practically scoffed, and that wounded him. “People who ask for trust seldom deserve it. Forbye, my past is no business of yours.”

  “It’s my business if he stands between us.”

  Her bitter tears shimmered. “Us? There is no us. And do you truly believe that the wee one’s father is all that stands between us?”

  “So there is an us!” He grinned in triumph, but quickly saw she was in no mood to be grinned at.

  “Mari,” he said, running a thumb along her wrist as he studied it. “I’ve laid bare my heart.” He could not quite believe it himself. He gazed at a strand of hair that lay on her brow and reached up to touch it. His hand lingered, stroking the smooth strands of hair.

  “Stop that!” she snapped as she took a step backward, but her foot caught a crack in the cobblestone floor and she faltered. With firm hands, he caught her waist and steadied her. She took in a small gasp and kept her eyes focused straight ahead, at his chest. She leaned as though pulled closer to him. Correcting herself, she took a careful step backward until he released her.

  When she would not meet his gaze, he studied her troubled brow, her flushed cheeks and the lips he had once tasted. Stillness hovered between them. “Mari, I dinnae want to hurt you. Believe me.”

  “I do.” In a soft voice she added, “But you will.”

  Callum said nothing. No words would change her mistrust. Not today. Not for a very long time. Yet he stood there, not wanting to leave her. He would stand there until she forced him to go.

  Marion’s brow furrowed. She exhaled with resignation. “He said he wanted to marry me.”

  Of course he did. Callum’s eyes shut for an instant. There was really no need to hear more. But until she told him, it would loom there between them. He could not share his particular thoughts at the moment, for they were too harsh. So he held his tongue. She glanced toward him, almost as though she were rolling her eyes from self-loathing, but also checking to see if he looked poised to flee. That charmed him—that and her eyes, which were green and quite round. He had no plans to flee.

  She spoke in a quiet voice, with little emotion. “He came by one day, on his way to speak with my father to ask for my hand, or so he said, and I was fool enough to believe him. There’s a burn not far from here, with a thicket of trees beside it. It was a grand day, very warm for the season. It was the kind of day you smell spring like a hint of what’s coming. I’d gone for a long walk. I was warm and had dabbed my face with a handkerchief, when a gust of wind caught it and carried it to the water. I waded in after it. Och! It was so cold! That’s where he happened upon me by chance.”

  Callum arched a brow. By chance.

  She went on. “He was thirsty from walking and came to the burn for some water to drink. He was surprised to find me there.”

  With no warning, she glanced over at Callum and caught something in his expression. With a painful nod, she said, “I suppose that was a lie, too.”

  Callum imagined himself there, met with the sight of her wading—skirts up past her knees, legs wet and silken, turning a startled face toward him. Her chest heaving with a sigh of relief to find someone she loved. Eyes wide with trust, the brisk air drawing a blush to her cheeks. The thought alone stirred him. The sight would have tested his honor.

  She continued. “I was chilled from the water. He opened his coat and wrapped it around me for warmth.”

  Callum looked away to conceal his disgust for the rogue.

  Mari said, “It was a mistake to stay there alone with him. I should have gone home.” She stopped talking, her troubled thoughts distant.

  A wisp of hair brushed her jaw line. He wanted to slip it behind her ear, but then he would slide his fingers into her hair and touch his palm to the nape of her neck underneath it. All that thickness of hair seemed to cry out to him to clutched in his hand while he kissed her. He resolved not to touch Mari’s hair.

  Her gaze hardened. “Afterward, he was furious with me.”

  A frown was only the surface of the anger now roiling within Callum. The man was a scoundrel, and a lucky one not to be here now.

  “He said it was my fault. I’d bewitched him.” She lifted her eyes to meet his.

  Callum dropped his chin with a sigh. “So when I said the same words… ”

  She nodded.

  He had touched a raw nerve. How he wished he had known.

  “He told me I was not fit for a godly man’s wife.”

  Callum’s jaw clenched. The only words that now came to mind were curses, so instead he quietly listened.

  She swallowed her pain. “He never spoke to my father to ask for my hand.”

  “Och, lass.” He was moved by her pain, which had only been deepened by her sweet, trusting nature.

  “He had high ideals,” she explained.

  He scoffed, but then worked to suppress any further reaction. High ideals? The only thing high in this lout was in the front of his trews—that is, when he managed to keep it inside them. With restraint he said, “He was not worthy of you.”

  “He held quite the opposite view.”

  “Because he was a blackguard, or an eejit. Either way, he was worthless.”

  “He was married within a month.”

  “Then he was both.”

  “And I was a fool.”

  Callum’s anger with the bairn’s father doubled as he saw Mari’s sorrow. Without thinking, he brushed a tear from her cheek, but his hand lingered there. She leaned into it slightly, enough to undo him. When she took in a soft breath, he touched his lips to her tear-moistened cheek. He told himself to stop there. But her face inclined toward his, and he gave her a kiss, soft and brief. But when it was over, neither pulled away as they should have. Instead their lips lingered, not touching, but near enough that a breath brought them nearer, and into a kiss. Callum lost himself to the taste of her lips and her mouth, the physical thrill of her body leaning against his, and her arms about his nec
k.

  Mari’s resolve came moments too late, as she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him away. “Despite what you now ken and may think of me, your past kindness will purchase no more than my thanks.”

  “Purchase?” he said, eyes flashing in anger. “Mari—”

  “Marion.” Her strong words came in a weak voice. “Everyone calls me Marion. Who are you to think you can call me what you want, and to do what you want?”

  “What I want? It did not appear that I was alone in the wanting. Say what you want, lass, but your lips make you a liar.” Callum shot a harsh look at her and then shook his head as he cast his eyes elsewhere. He had wanted that kiss and, yes, she had kissed him back. He wished he could pause for a moment to contemplate that, but he had taken it knowing how fragile she was. With a good deal of trust, she had shared a deeply personal story; and it had moved him—enough, as it turned out, for him to lose control and scare her away. Again.

  He looked earnestly at her. “I am not like the bairn’s father. I’ll admit that to kiss you like that was impulsive and selfish, but it was honest.”

  She considered his words for a moment, but abruptly said, “Ensign—”

  “Callum.”

  “Ensign MacDonell.” In vain, she tried to replace some formality between them, as though it could erase what they had shared.

  “Mari,” said Callum.

  “Marion—Mistress McEwan.” Color rushed to her cheeks, which made her look all the more lovely to Callum.

  “Have we not progressed beyond formal address?” Callum asked her.

  “No, we have not. We will not.” She stammered, which drew a grin that he worked to conceal. She had feelings for him. No matter how reluctant they were, as long as he saw them he would not be dissuaded. She had touched his heart, and his heart once touched was tenacious.

  She struggled to continue, “We met, and you saved me. I believe you are not—a bad man.”

  Callum did not lack modesty, but he thought he was a bit more than that. Not a bad man.

  She went on. “But we—well, there is no we. We can be no more than… ”