It was at times such as these when Rodric was glad to be a decent man. Otherwise, there was no way he’d have been able to control himself after seeing her in the river.

He’d noticed her right off, as soon as the McMannis house had come into view. Her skin shining like silver in the moonlight when she stood with her back to him. It had nearly been enough to stop his heart.

He’d battled with himself then, wondering if he should call out to her as a warning—only the vague notion that someone might hear him doing so and come to explore had stopped him. A silly idea, in hindsight, as there hadn’t been a soul in sight except for her.

But it had been enough reason at the moment to hold his tongue and see what would happen next.

“Whoa,” he’d whispered, slowing the horse to barely a walk as he’d crept up on her. It had been the wrong thing to do, like as not, but there had been no helping it. The closer he drew to her moonlit magnificence, the further away his resolve seemed to flee.

The slim arms, the curve of her shoulders. The way her waist narrowed before flaring just slightly at the hip—he hadn’t been able to see more than that, the water covered the rest of her. But that slight beginning of a flare, just the mere hint of it, was enough to fuel a lifetime’s worth of dreaming.

He’d remembered the young lass, the one he’d grown up with. The fourteen-year-old who he’d left behind. In some part of his mind, he’d known she must’ve grown up. He had, after all.

But what she’d grown into. He couldn’t have imagined that, had no idea of it while she wore those large, shapeless, clearly borrowed clothes.

He stretched out on his side with his back to the latched door, staring out into darkness broken only by the moonlight coming through a window above his head. The kitchen wasn’t a large room by any means, but it might as well have been the great hall of the Duncan manor house for all the distance between him and the lass on the other side of it.

Would that she were awake.

What would he say to her if she was?

That would always be the trouble: not knowing what to say to her. They were no longer children and had no understanding of each other as adults. How could they hope to reach each other, then? When it seemed that no matter how he tried, every conversation ended in an argument?

Longing for her wouldn’t help things. He needed to sleep at least a bit, needed a clear head in the morning when it came time to devise a plan for getting her to safety. He’d need his men, naturally—there was no sense in leaving them at the inn, no matter how pleasurably they might pass the time in his absence.

The mere hint of this, combined with a body which already ached to be pressed to the one which rested across the room from him, drew from him a frustrated groan.

“Hmm?” A sleepy voice replied. She stirred beneath the thin blanket.

He averted his eyes—in the state he was in, even that slight bit of movement was nearly enough to inflame him. “I’m sorry. Go to sleep.”

“Are you all right?” she whispered, raising herself up on one elbow as though to get a better look at him.

“I’m well. Go to sleep now.”

She sighed. “Now I’m awake again.”

“I’m sorry to have awoken you.”

“I sleep lightly.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She snorted. “Why would you?”

“I don’t know. It seemed as though you deserved an answer.”

Another snort. “You sounded uncomfortable, or worried.”

“I said, I’m well.”

“All right. Good night.” She sounded doubtful as she lowered herself to the floor once again, her makeshift bed nothing more than a bundle of blankets. Even so, he would’ve wagered she was more comfortable than he was.

Not that discomfort meant much. He’d been in far worse situations before—sleeping in muck, mud which carried the stench of waste and blood, during torrential storms, and in cold worse than anything he’d ever experienced.

Except, perhaps, the night he and Alan had gone out to secure the livestock during the great blizzard.

He rolled onto his back, one arm under his head as he remembered. The wind, the snow caking itself to his face. The certainty at one point that he was beginning to lose sensation in his feet and hands.

And why had he gone? To keep Alan in line, as always. To ensure that his brother didn’t do something stupid or reckless which would only get him killed. Even then, when he was little more than a child who thought he was a man, he’d been looking out for his older brother.

What good had it done?

There had been one moment, one heart-stopping moment, when everything could’ve gone far differently.

He closed his eyes, almost feeling as though he were back in that storm in spite of the warm, summer night of the present day. The swirling snow had all but wiped away every trace of familiar land or building. He could see nothing—no barn, no stables, no house. No light from candles in the windows.

It was as if the entire world had disappeared, leaving him and his brother wandering, searching in vain for something which no longer existed.

Alan had tugged his arm, gesturing wildly to the right. Wanting to move in that direction.

Rodric had fought against him. How he’d known his brother was wrong was never something he’d been able to understand. Instinct, he supposed, the same instinct which had kept him alive throughout the war. Except for the day Jake Duncan saved his life, which was more a matter of divine intervention, if anything.

During the storm, however, some inner voice had urged him to continue on his course. Straight ahead. He’d struggled against the wind, a wind which had all but knocked him off his feet.

If he’d fallen, he would’ve remained that way. He would have frozen to death. There was no doubt in his mind, nearly ten years later.

Alan had continued to insist, had tried to pull him off-course and to the right. He’d taken a few stumbling steps before withdrawing his hand from his brother’s. He wouldn’t allow anyone to lead him to the death which surely awaited them, not even his older brother.

Alan had waved his arms, as though to tell Rodric off and give up on him, before turning away to follow the course he believed was correct. Rodric’s voice had disappeared on the wind when he’d screamed for Alan to come back.

It was at that very moment that a light flickered in one of the windows.

Not twenty feet in front of him.

Straight ahead, where he would’ve led them, had Alan not insisted on going right.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself, but it was enough. Rodric had fought against the blowing snow to lunge for Alan—the sight of his fur-wrapped head and back had all but disappeared from view.

Somehow, he’d dragged his brother the rest of the way to the house. Perhaps it was the certainty that they’d both die if he didn’t manage it that gave him the strength he needed. No matter where it had come from, it saved their lives.

There had been times after that night when he’d felt his brother resented being saved. As though Rodric hadn’t been good enough to save him, as though the younger brother pulling the older one to safety was too much for his damnable pride to contend with.

He’d never understood Alan, not entirely.

What he understood was his thirst for vengeance. Rodric had thirsted that way, though he’d wished for vengeance against the warriors who’d killed friends of his. Fellow soldiers. The bastard who’d nearly killed him and Jake Duncan, too.

In battle, it was easy to want vengeance. A man’s heart raced, his blood was up. Life boiled down to its most essential basics in those violent moments. Kill or be killed. Live or die.

Was that how his brother lived his daily life? Always on the brink of battle?

All the more reason to get Caitlin far away from him, and as quickly as possible.