Pewter clouds rolled across the pale sky, spilling rain on the misty earth below, and on the folks who came to bid Robbie Wallace farewell. Many of the villagers followed Charlie while she led Mary and the children toward the hillside overlooking the Wallaces’ small holding.
Having arrived hours earlier to make a place for Robbie in the ground, Patrick and Duff were already there waiting.
Patrick swiped the rain from his eyes and watched the procession. He hadn’t met the people of Pinwherry yet, but one look at their tattered clothing and gaunt features proved their lives were difficult under Allan Cunningham, who was not present.
His gaze swept over their lady, filling his vision with her, making his other four senses come alive.
Of all the lasses he’d ever known, none were like Charlie. She defied danger and her kin for the safety of others. He wondered how many of them she had helped in the past. She couldn’t do it all on her own—but he’d hesitate to ever tell her so again. The last time he tried, her response was swift and laden with disappointment in him. Her simple question asking him how helping everyone she could was too much weight to carry, stung because he’d always shrugged off any weight at all. It also brought to full light the differences between them.
He’d lived his life like an indolent rogue, defying the wind and its words.
But the winds were shifting and she was the navigator, seeking the best in him. Duff was there too, reminding him of the possible consequences of his lifestyle.
It seemed, Charlie knew just where to look. His gaze fell to Nonie. He winked at her and gained a smile in response.
Hell, he loved her. He loved her brothers. His gaze rose back to Charlie. He loved her.
He was silent while the priest recited from the Holy Book, his thoughts in a state of being he knew nothing about. He loved her. He’d let it happen. It had to be love, or something even stronger, more wild and uncontainable than anything he’d ever experienced before. She consumed him, both awake and asleep. Whenever she came into his vision, his heart pounded with a force that sometimes made him a wee bit light-headed. He felt inept and unskilled in her arms, intoxicated by desire to know her in his bed and out of it.
Did he want to be bound to her for the remainder of his days?
He suspected he did since the thought of living his life without her made him want to groan and punch someone in the face.
How would he tell her? When he’d quipped about it last eve, she hadn’t seemed overly excited. He had to tell her who he truly was first. A Fergusson. Kendrick’s cousin. An outlawed MacGregor. Duff’s cousin. Would she forgive him for keeping it from her? What about Kendrick? Would she continue to cling to him?
“Patrick?” Wee Jamie tapped him on the leg, thankfully pulling Patrick’s attention away from things that vexed him. “Can I dig next?”
“Another day, lad.” Patrick bent to scoop him up his arms.
Was he staying? Could he leave the babes? Would Charlie be able to go?
He stepped out of the way when Mary urged Robert and Andrew past him to toss handfuls of dirt into their father’s grave. He watched Charlie move closer, her long black hair clinging to her body like a mantle. She lifted her face and their gazes met. He wanted to tell her. All of it, and he wanted to trust that he could win her back after that. He believed he was ready to start a new life and he wanted to live it with her. He reached his hand toward hers, wanting to tell her that he wasn’t leaving, not until she left with him.
A much smaller hand fit itself into his first. He smiled down at Nonie, feeling privileged that she chose his hand to hold when her turn came to bid her father farewell.
The rest of the morning passed with more prayer, more tears from Robbie’s widow and children, who cried mainly because their mother did. Patrick was glad to be there to comfort them.
Finally, when the clouds parted, they all made their way back to the Wallace holding to eat, drink, and help Mary through her difficult day.
Patrick strolled back with Jamie on his shoulders and Charlie at his side.
“How is Elsie this morn?” he asked her.
“Duff says she is better, but he didn’t think she should be out in the rain so he didn’t let her come.”
“’Twas a good decision.”
“Aye,” she agreed, smiling up at him and then at Jamie.
Now seemed as good a time as any. He didn’t know why he hadn’t told her last night while he made love to her. Hell, he couldn’t think of that now. He’d struggled at the gravesite not to think of it. Reminiscing about the carnal pleasure they’d shared during such a time as this didn’t seem right.
“Tell me, lass,” he said, determined to press on. He bent slightly to her. “Would ye protest me stayin’ here?”
Hell, he loved looking into her eyes and seeing every emotion that possessed her.
“Staying here? In Pinwherry?”
“Aye.” He nodded, making Jamie laugh above him. “With ye.”
Her glorious eyes opened wider. Her lips parted, drawing his eyes to them. “Me?” she breathed.
He was about to reply when a woman somewhere just ahead screamed. Patrick lifted Jamie off his shoulders, handed him to Charlie, and ran ahead.
Almost immediately he saw the reason for the outburst. A man, at least Patrick thought he was, stumbled toward the crowd. He didn’t make it far when his wobbly legs failed him and he crumpled to the ground.
Patrick reached him, and with the people gathering around, bent to the stranger. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. He was covered in dirt and grime from the top of his head to the soles of his bare, bleeding feet. He appeared to have walked through hell.
“Who is he?” someone asked.
“Is he dead?” asked another.
Patrick dipped his ear to the stranger’s chest. His cheek hit bone. The wretched soul was breathing. “He needs care.”
“Come,” Mary stepped forward, “bring him to the house. ’Tis closest.”
Patrick shoved his arms under the man and lifted him with little effort. There wasn’t much left of him beneath his torn, dirt-encrusted clothes. “We have to clean his feet,” he told Charlie who kept pace at his side, Jamie traded off to someone else.
“What do we do?” she asked him, her eyes looking over the poor stranger.
“Put fresh linen on the babes’ bed. We need scaldin’ water and rags.” He didn’t remember seeing any herbs growing in Mary’s yard, but there was another way to destroy infections. “I need honey and yarrow.”
When they reached the house, she gathered up Mary and raced with her and some of the other lasses inside.
He carried the man to the children’s bed and removed the stranger’s mud-soaked shirt while fresh linens were prepared and laid. “Duff,” he said, without turning to him when he set the unresponsive stranger on the bed. “He’ll suffer fever. I’m goin’ to give ye a list of things I need from Alice’s kitchen that will help.”
“I cannot read,” Duff told him. “But tell me what you require and I’ll get it.”
Patrick did so while Mary set to boiling water and Charlie waited for more instructions.
“We need a basin,” Patrick told her, rolling up his sleeves. “His feet must be cleaned and tended to else he’ll lose them.”
“He will not lose them.”
Patrick turned his head to look at her. She smiled at him. He smiled back, appreciating her confidence. He was no healer. In fact, he’d left men bleeding and broken after a fight. He’d never tried to heal any of them. He knew the remedies for many ailments but he’d never put any of them to work before Elsie’s butterbur.
When he had everything he needed, he set about cutting the stranger’s tattered pants away and then proceeded to tend to him. The man did not react or respond during his care, which worried Patrick. Still, he worked while Mary returned to her children and her guests. Charlie hadn’t left his side, watching everything he did and gracing him with more encouraging smiles. When he was satisfied that the poor man’s feet were as clean as he could get them, he applied the honey to fight infection then wrapped each foot in clean rags.
“It looks as if he’s been walkin’ fer quite a while,” he said, stepping back from his work and washing his hands.
“Do you think he’s a thief?” Charlie asked, gently lifting the man’s grimy head to the pillows. They could clean the rest of him later.
“I think anyone who is as thin as he is likely had to rob fer food. He wasna good at it by the look of his bones.
“Ye dinna recognize him from yer travels?”
She shook her head, coming around to his side of the bed. “Should I cover him?”
“Aye, but leave his feet uncovered. Nothin’ is to touch them.”
He fell into the chair by the children’s bed and exhaled a long breath. He wasn’t tired from not sleeping all night and digging all morning. Oddly, his body felt refreshed, revived. He looked over at the bed. “I dinna know if anything will help him.”
She came to him and fit herself into his lap. “Whether it does, or not, you’ve done everything you can.”
He looked at her and nodded. Hell, he loved her face, the sensuous curves of her mouth. He wanted her to know how he felt. But he had to tell her the truth first. “Take a walk with me, lass. There are things I would have ye know. There’s nothin’ more we can do fer this man presently.”
She followed him out of the room, and after letting the people of Pinwherry know the condition of the stranger, slipped out of the house with him.
“You’re behaving strangely,” she told him while they walked together through the field.
“Am I?”
She nodded and took his hand. “You’re solemn. What troubles you?”
“Solemn things,” he told her quietly. “Things I wouldna tell ye on a day when even the sun hides its face. Things I must tell ye now while I have the courage.”
“It sounds like whatever ’tis, I won’t like it.”
“Ye willna,” he said hoarsely.
“Well go ahead then.” She held his hand a little tighter. Somehow, it hooked Patrick worse than the priest’s words over Robbie Wallace.
Hell, where should he begin?
“I wasna truthful aboot how I know Duff’s faither.”
“Oh?” she asked nervously. “How do you know him then?”
“Will MacGregor is…he is m’ cousin. He lives in Camlochlin with the rest of m’ kin.” There. He said it. She didn’t let go of his hand. There was more. He couldn’t stop now.
“You said Will MacGregor was from Skye,” she interrupted as the full weight of the truth began to dawn on her. “Are you telling me you’re kin to the MacGregors of Skye?”
“Nae, lass. I am a MacGregor from Skye. Camlochlin is in Skye. ’Tis where we all live.”
She shook her head as if still confused and let go of his hand. “I don’t understand. You said you are a Campbell.”
“Campbell blood runs through me but m’ faither is a MacGregor.”
She backed away from him slowly. His heart sank when he reached for her and she held up her palms to ward him off. “I don’t understand this, Patrick.” She looked around her as if she were lost, her eyes misted with tears. She closed them to stop any from falling. “I don’t want to,” she said, opening her eyes and setting them on him. “You’re a MacGregor from Skye, so you also deceived me about your ties to the Fergussons.”
It was what he’d wanted to tell her, but hearing the words spoken aloud made him want to turn away. He’d deceived her, not about trivial things, but about truths that might have caused her to make different decisions about him. He saw the accusation in her eyes. The shame of what she’d let him do to her last night. He was a cad and nothing more. A dark, somber wave washed over him like nothing he’d ever felt before. He feared that if he didn’t correct this now, he might not get the chance again.
“Patrick?” her voice snapped like a whip. “Do I have that right? Do you have ties to the Fergussons?”
“Charlie, let me first say this—”
“Do you?”
“Aye, I do, but the reason I kept it from ye isna—”
“What kind of ties, Patrick?” she demanded. “Blood ties?”
Hell, he should not have told her. Nae, he had to tell her the truth. Whatever the consequences he had to do the right damned thing. Damn it. And he might as well go headlong into it, the way he did with his fists. The quicker it was over with, the less damage was done.
“Aye, they are blood ties,” he admitted. “M’ mother is Cameron Fergusson’s sister.” He moved toward her again when she moved farther away. “I truly didna know how to tell ye, lass. M’ reasons fer keepin’ it from ye changed, but m’ reason fer tellin’ ye now never will. I love ye, Charlie. I dinna want to keep anything from ye.”
“Well then, that makes it all right,” she said crisply. “A man, who has no idea what love even means”—her voice rose in pitch—“loves me! What should I care that he lied to me about being kin to men who left only six people alive when they last came here?”
He held up his palm. “I would speak with ye aboot that, lass.”
She took a step forward and slapped his hand away. “Do you think I’d believe anything you say? Did Cameron Fergusson send you here to kill Duff and Hendry? I know you wouldn’t be opposed to hurting the latter.”
“M’ wantin’ to harm Hendry has nothin’ to do with the Fergussons,” Patrick defended. “And as fer them sendin’ me here, I was on m’ way to visit them fer the first time in ten years the mornin’ yer stone struck me.”
Her dark glare faltered as another terrible truth dawned on her—one he could not defend or deny. “You’re Kendrick’s cousin.”
Finally, he lowered his gaze at the disgust in her expression.
“Does it satisfy you to know that you succeeded where my father failed?”
“Charlie, nae. I—”
She yanked her hand back when he reached for it. “I was a fool. The victory is yours. I’m certain you’ll display it proudly on your belt.”
She didn’t wait for his reply but left him there to look after her as she ran away.