Campbell's Redemption

by Sharon Cullen

  And then he saw the devastation wrought by the English. He’d witnessed what they’d done to Colin MacLean when they took over his home, and to Sutherland’s English wife, Eleanor. He saw it in the faces of his fellow countrymen, displaced and hunted by the redcoats, and he knew that his weariness was nothing compared to theirs. So he continued to be the villain, hated by all of Scotland, so he could gather the information he needed to work for a better, more peaceful Scotland.

  It was people like Cait who paid the ultimate price. People like him survived.

  He thought of the seven people he’d seen leave in the wee hours of the morning. Was Cait fighting this battle with the English in her own way? He’d heard rumors of a secret tunnel system that was spiriting the worst of the displaced and hunted out of Scotland. He’d purposely not sought information on it, because the less he knew, the better. But now he wondered if what he’d seen last night had something to do with that. Yet he’d decided he wouldn’t confront Cait until he had more answers. He didn’t like thinking that Cait Campbell had secrets that could possibly harm him, but he wouldn’t draw conclusions until he knew the facts.

  He stood, the scraping of the chair loud in the silence. “I’ll chop some wood.”

  “As ye wish,” she said tightly.

  What he wished was that she would forgive him for John’s death. What he wished was that he could forgive himself for John’s death.

  What he wished would probably never happen.

  —

  What Cait wished was that Iain Campbell had picked a better place to chop wood. Did he purposely position himself right outside her window, halfway between the house and the barn? He’d found her ax, set up a wooden block, and carried a mound of sturdy logs to the block.

  And then he’d taken off his shirt, and Cait had abandoned any pretext of baking.

  He lifted the ax high above his head, rippling torso tensing, revealing a stomach laddered with well-defined muscles. Shoulders flexed as he swung the ax down, cleanly slicing the log in half. He bent over to toss the pieces to the growing pile of kindling and started all over. Cait’s gaze traveled over wide shoulders that tapered to a thin waist. His trousers hung loosely, clinging to his hip bones and revealing the dip of muscles that arrowed down to…

  Cait’s fingers dug into the bread dough. If she were a fair person, she would admit that Iain Campbell was kind on the eyes. But she’d met many men in her life who were easy to look at. It was what was on the inside that mattered, she tried to remind herself as she watched those stomach muscles tense before the ax swung down to cleave the next log.

  She missed having a man in her bed. She missed a man’s hard, warm body pressing her into the mattress.

  She’d not been entirely celibate during her widowhood; she’d had a lover for well over a year. Cormac had been kind and gentle and the perfect man to ease her from being a grieving widow to being a woman who still desired a man in her bed. He’d not asked anything else of her, possibly knowing that she couldn’t give him anything else.

  Cormac had died at the Battle of Culloden, and it was then that Cait vowed she was finished with men. They all left her to die.

  The battle had been months ago, and she still missed Cormac. Not nearly as much as she missed John, though the dull ache occasionally took her by surprise. But she no longer desired a man’s presence in her life.

  She was honest enough to admit that Iain was nice to look at as he chopped her wood. Surely there was no harm in looking when she wouldn’t be doing anything more than that.

  He leaned on the ax, wiping his brow with his forearm and breathing deeply as beads of sweat slowly rolled down his heaving chest. Unconsciously, Cait pressed harder on the dough, standing on her toes to put all her weight into it.

  A sharp stab of need raced through her, and she grabbed the rag to wipe her hands, breaking the hold that Iain’s nearly naked form had on her.

  She put the loaves to baking, then tidied up her sitting room even though it needed no tidying. She rarely used it because she was busy either baking and cooking, hiding fugitives, fixing the sick and wounded, or sleeping. She was happy with her life, proud that she could contribute in some way, but that didn’t mean she didn’t miss the little family she had created. The loss of John was like a giant hole inside of her, never filled and always painful; the loss of Christina the year before John’s death was so much worse.

  It was her biggest regret in life that she hadn’t been able to save her little girl from the awful cough that had racked her small body. Had Christina lived, she would be six years old now, running wild on her short little legs, chasing after horses, or learning to knead dough at her mother’s side.

  Cait swiped at the hair that had fallen out of its bun and was tickling her eyelashes. Black Cat appeared and sat in front of her. Black Cat always knew when Cait was feeling low. Otherwise, the aloof cat was usually sunning himself or hunting.

  The cat’s head swung toward the door and he meowed. Cait paused, listening. Black Cat was as good as any warning system Cait could have concocted on her own. Black Cat always knew when people were approaching, and there seemed to be someone approaching now.

  Cait went to her front door and waited.

  Three redcoats rounded the bend. Her stomach fluttered, and she put a calming hand on it. Even though she didn’t like doing so, she’d treated redcoats before. Her reasons were for self-preservation. If she treated the redcoats well, they wouldn’t bother her, and that meant that she and the people in her care were a bit safer. There had been plenty of times when she’d been fixing some redcoat’s ailment in her kitchen while her hiding place was full of fugitives.

  These particular redcoats stopped at her door and dismounted. She immediately recognized Sergeant Halloway—a nice enough young man, but his presence always gave Cait pause. This would be his third visit to her in the last few months, and that set off her senses.

  He bowed to her, and Cait bit back a smile because she was no lady. Not anymore, at least, though Halloway always treated her as such.

  “Sergeant,” she said.

  “Lady Cait.”

  “I’m no’ a lady, Sergeant. I’ve told ye that before.”

  He shrugged, a gleam in his pale blue eyes. “Allow me my quirks, ma’am.”

  She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “What can I do for ye today, Sergeant?”

  “I have an ache in me back.” He reached behind him and presumably pressed on the ache, because he winced.

  “Stop sleeping on the ground and riding all day.”

  “I have no choice, because the military says I have to.”

  “Then there’s no’ much I can do for ye.”

  His smile was easy. He liked to flirt, and she figured he considered his visits a welcome break from the drudgery of army life.

  His gaze flicked behind her, and the smile slowly faded. Cait glanced over her shoulder to find Campbell standing behind her, pulling his shirt on and watching the three redcoats warily.

  Halloway’s friends stayed with their horses, but when they spied Campbell, they tensed.

  Campbell put a hand on her shoulder, and Cait had to grit her teeth at this unnecessary show of possession.

  “Sergeant Halloway, I’d like ye to meet Iain Campbell, chief of Clan Campbell.”

  Halloway nodded tersely.

  “Sergeant,” Campbell said. “Are you in need of medical care?”

  “The sergeant’s back bothers him, and he periodically requires my poultices,” Cait said.

  Campbell’s fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she bit back a grimace as she slithered out of his grasp.

  “Let me get that poultice for ye, Sergeant.”

  She skirted around Campbell, who seemed not inclined to move from the doorway, and left the four men. What a mess all of this was. She couldn’t afford for Campbell to anger Halloway, because Halloway patrolled this part of the land.

  Why in the world would Campbell be offended that Halloway was her
e? It wasn’t as if Iain were the enemy of the English. He practically slept with them, and he definitely broke bread with them.

  Cait returned with the poultice, and Halloway and his men left. When Cait turned to go inside, she was faced with an angry Campbell.

  “My goodness, that’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen on yer face.”

  “This isn’t a laughing matter, Cait.”

  “Do ye see me laughing?”

  “Why were they here?”

  “I told ye. Halloway has a bad back. Sleeping on the ground does no’ help matters, but he can’t do anything about that. The poultice helps.”

  “So ye aid the enemy?”

  She paused and considered him. “That’s a strange thing for ye to say, being as ye’re very tight with the English yerself.”

  “We’re not talking about me. It’s not safe for you.”

  “Ah. But it’s safe for ye?”

  “They’re unpredictable, the English.”

  “I’m safer knowing the sergeant who patrols this area.”

  “So you’re playing both sides?”

  “I’m playing my side.”

  He seemed to want to say something but held back, and she wondered if he was finally going to mention the people he’d seen leaving her home. If he even saw them, but she was nearly convinced he had.

  “You need to move closer to the big house, where you’ll be safer.”

  “Nay.”

  “Cait—”

  “I’ll no’ discuss this with ye any further. Ye may be my chief, but I won’t obey ye on this.”

  “This is my land. I can take this home away from you and force you back.”

  Alarm skittered up her spine. “Ye wouldn’t,” she said softly.

  Chapter 5

  Iain watched Cait spoon stew into bowls and prepare a tray of warm, crusty bread.

  “It smells delicious.”

  “Thank ye.” She didn’t turn to look at him, and for a strange moment he wanted to see her smile. Did she smile anymore? Did any Scotsman have much to smile about these days?

  He picked up the tray she’d been reaching for. “Join us,” he said on a whim. He wasn’t usually prone to whims, but it was ridiculous that she eat down here all alone while he and Adair ate upstairs.

  He bit back a smile of victory when he heard the light tap of her feet on the steps behind him. Dare he hope that he’d put a chink in the ice she’d formed between them?

  Adair was sitting up in bed, dressed in a clean saffron shirt. Iain wondered if the shirt had been John’s but then pushed the thought away.

  “You’re looking a far sight better than last night,” Iain said as he placed the tray on the table beside the bed. He handed out the bowls of stew and motioned for Cait to sit in the lone chair while he stood to eat.

  Adair ate only a few bites before setting the bowl down. “What have ye heard about the droving?” he asked as he leaned back, his face pale, though looking better than yesterday.

  “Droving?” Cait asked.

  “Just a bit of cattle thieving,” Iain said offhandedly. It was quite a bit more than cattle thieving, but he didn’t want anyone to know more than necessary. “Nothing serious.”

  Adair snorted, and Cait looked between them. “Something tells me that this droving is more serious than ye’re letting on.”

  “An old enemy,” Iain said with a shrug, not wanting to get into it.

  Cait tilted her head and studied him. “Yer list of enemies is quite long.”

  He grunted as he finished his stew and placed it on the table next to Adair’s. He didn’t need her telling him that his list of enemies was long. His cattle were disappearing at an alarming rate, and no matter how many men he put on patrol, he couldn’t catch the bastards.

  It didn’t help that his men were stretched thin—having either perished at Culloden or using their particular talents for Graham’s special mission. A few weeks ago Graham, the oldest and most respected clan chief, had gathered twelve clan chiefs in a secret meeting. Just the fact that they were together could have had them all arrested by the English. But they had come because every last one of them believed in Scotland and wanted to help their people. Graham’s idea was simple. He wanted men patrolling the roads of Scotland to protect their people from the bands of English soldiers roaming the countryside and wreaking havoc.

  Rumor had it that after the Battle of Culloden, where the Scottish were summarily and embarrassingly defeated by the English, the Duke of Cumberland had ordered his English soldiers to kill any Scotsman they thought might be a threat, by means of dirks, daggers, or bayonets only. A brutal way to die, to be sure, and not the way for the English to endear themselves to the Scots.

  Iain had been surprised that he’d been invited to the meeting, and the eleven other chiefs were just as surprised. But something had to be done. The English were running rampant through the countryside, killing men, raping women and children. Someone needed to protect the weak and defenseless.

  “So ye think the cattle thief is MacGregor?” Cait asked.

  “Probably,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is exactly something the MacGregor would do. He’s been a pain in my backside for years.”

  The MacGregors and Campbells had been at odds for two generations, ever since Iain’s grandfather had offered the MacGregor chief sanctuary and then killed him in his sleep. It didn’t matter to the current MacGregor chief that Iain and his father had nothing to do with the murder. MacGregor continued to carry on the tradition of holding a grudge, forcing Iain to defend himself and his people at every turn. Scotsmen could be damn stubborn, and feuds lasted for generations. MacGregor was the perfect example. The country was falling apart, but to MacGregor, it was more important to be a thorn in Iain’s side than put the feud aside to fight a common enemy.

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s ridiculous that Wallace MacGregor is still fixated on that old feud. The man is daft. Now more than ever, we need to band together and fight the English, no’ each other. I wish he wasn’t so hardheaded. Stealing cattle,” she muttered more to herself.

  “I didn’t realize you were so emotional about this old feud,” Iain said, amused at her vehemence.

  She shrugged. “I just think there are far more important things that we all should be working on together instead of fretting over a feud that happened over forty years ago.”

  “I’m sure the fact that most Highlanders believe me a traitor has something to do with it.” Did she believe the talk of the other chiefs? Did she think him a traitor? Did it matter?

  “So ye think other chiefs might be involved in the droving?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” But he wished like hell that he did know, because he was weary of losing cattle and worried about feeding his people during the coming winter.

  Adair had drifted off during their conversation, and Cait leaned forward to touch the back of her hand to his flushed forehead. “Just as I thought. He’s running a fever.”

  “Nay.” Adair, not as fast asleep as Iain had thought, cracked his eyes open and glared at Cait.

  “Aye,” she said firmly.

  “I want to go home,” Adair mumbled.

  “No’ with a fever. Besides, that wound needs more healing.”

  He struggled to sit up and Cait scowled at him.

  “We’ve taken advantage of yer hospitality for too long,” Adair said.

  “What? Ye don’t like the accommodations? Am I treating ye poorly?”

  “Nay, but I’m taking yer bed and forcing ye to sleep on the settee—”

  “Ye’ll stay, and that’s the final word. Now, the Campbell on the other hand—” She turned to Iain and he straightened, feeling he was about to be chastised. “There’s no reason for ye to stay. As ye can see, Adair is no’ going anywhere until I say so.”

  Ever since he’d darkened her doorstep she’d been trying to get him to leave, and he’d stubbornly dug in his heels, insisting on staying when he was well aware that Adair would
be fine without him. She didn’t like him, but her insistence that he leave was frustrating. And his own determination to stay was bewildering.

  “We’ll revisit this in the morning,” Iain said. “If Adair doesn’t worsen, then I will leave and send someone to fetch him when you tell me he’s well enough to travel.”

  Cait pursed her lips and looked like she was going to argue but then nodded and picked up their dishes.

  “Rest,” she commanded Adair. “I’ll be back in a bit to change yer bandages.”

  —

  An hour later, Cait sat down in the comfortable chair in her sitting room and grabbed her bag of sewing. She’d checked on Adair and found that he still had a fever, but it hadn’t worsened, and he was both exhausted and angry that he was exhausted. She wasn’t willing to let him go home yet. She’d seen too many warriors claim they were well only to succumb to their injuries a few days later because they hadn’t given themselves enough time to heal.

  Campbell had disappeared after dinner, and she didn’t know what he was up to.

  She was fixing a tear in one of her old but still serviceable gowns when he came in through the back door, bringing with him the smell of the loamy woods and fresh air.

  Like a caged lion, he paced the small sitting room, never touching anything but looking at everything. She continued to sew, watching her needle pierce the worn fabric. In and out. In and out.

  He dropped down on the settee, his long, lean frame nearly dwarfing the small piece of furniture. John had always hated the settee, saying it was far too small and uncomfortable for a large man, but it fit her sitting room, so she’d brought it to her new home.

  Campbell placed his elbows on his knees and cleared his throat, a sure sign that he wanted to discuss something.

  “When John died…” His voice trailed off and he looked away.

  Cait froze, her gaze riveted to her sewing needle. “We’re no’ talking about this.”

  “You have no idea what I’m about to say.”