Highland Soldiers: The Enemy (6 page)

“I have a duty to my clan, and this is part of it. I will not apologize for that.”

“How could we lowlanders possibly matter to you or your clan way up there in the Highlands?”

Anger flared as he interrupted her. “I might ask you the same. Why did we matter to you when thousands of Campbells—your fellow Covenanters—marched into our homes? And your people did not merely quarter there, as we are doing here. They killed our women and children and laid waste to our glen. And we have not forgotten. You have suffered a loss, and I’m sorry. But you are not alone in the suffering of losses.”

Her eyes flashed in protest, while at the same time her feelings of guilt kept her silent.

His eyes met hers directly. “My mother watched your blessed Covenanters destroy everything our family owned. Then they murdered her mother. When her father fought back to defend her, they murdered him, too. My mother was spared because she ran into the hills and escaped them. But other bairns and their mothers were killed. And what had they done to deserve it?”

Marion said, “I dinnae ken about that. The Covenanters I know are good men who fight for our freedom to worship.”

“By destroying ours? Lass, I dinnae care a whit about whether you pray to that hedgerow over there. But while your Covenanters hide behind the skirts of religion, they are plotting to bring down the monarchy, and that I cannae abide.”

“I have not heard talk of that.”

“Aye, well it may not have made it to your wee world here, but it’s there just the same.”

His arrogant tone made her bristle. “In that case, our ‘wee world’ can hardly be worth your trouble. So why are you here?”

“Because our chief called us to serve.”

“He calls, and you fight—without question?”

“The more trust a man has, the fewer questions he need ask.”

“And you trust that what you are doing is right?”

“Aye. It’s a matter of duty and honor to my chief and to our king.”

“Aye, well that sounds very manly, but explain to me this: Monarchs go back and forth—from Catholic to Episcopal to Presbyterian. If the king is divinely appointed by God, then why cannae God make up his mind which church he should go to?”

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.