Chapter Two
Rosecairn, Sutherland territory, five weeks before midsummer
How had she ever imagined she could marry Baird Sutherland? Cait MacLeod kicked the stubborn garron, trying to coax the creature into a trot. He was handsome enough, she supposed, and not without charm—Baird, of course, not the garron.
“Hie yourself,” she bid the horse through anger-gritted teeth, but the beast’s ears flattened against its head, and it slowed down instead of speeding up.
Baird and his men had more than an hour’s head start.
She had to stop them.
She’d known a week ago that she didn’t want to marry her cousin after all, just a day after her arrival at Rosecairn. She should have left for home then, returned to Glen Iolair, but she’d suspected there was something very wrong at Rosecairn, and she’d hesitated. People were unhappy—afraid, even. No one smiled.
She kicked the garron again, and the beast snorted disdainfully and sidestepped, trying to unseat her so it could return to its warm stall, certain this was a fool’s mission.
Oh, she’d been so sure that Baird was the one—the handsome cousin she used to play with at clan gatherings when she was ten years younger. He’d stolen a kiss once, when she was only ten and he was twelve, and she had imagined herself in love with him for weeks afterward, until she’d forgotten all about him.
When his letter arrived at Glen Cairn in early spring, her father had summoned her to hear its contents. She’d been surprised that Baird was offering for her, seemed quite ardent in his desire to wed her at midsummer. She’d been flattered, surprised he remembered her, and that ten-year-old infatuation had flared all over again. He loved her, had remembered the innocent kiss and pined for her all these years, waiting until he became laird of the Sutherlands and she was old enough to wed . . . As she prepared for her journey, she’d tried hard to recall what Baird looked like, and in her imagination, he was transformed from the skinny, pimply boy she remembered to a charming, clever, handsome man with every good quality she could possibly want in a husband.
She had been so very sure that this was her best chance for the kind of love she wanted, a husband who’d adore her, give her bairns, and never look at another lass once he’d set eyes on Cait.
And when she arrived at Rosecairn, it hadn’t taken long for reality to shoot her dreams of love through the heart and drop them at her feet, dead.
She saw what Baird was really after, and it wasn’t Cait’s love. He wanted an alliance with her father, the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair, one of Scotland’s most powerful lairds. She knew now that any one of Donal MacLeod’s daughters would have done for Baird—he’d only asked for Cait because her name was the only one out of all twelve MacLeod sisters that he remembered. And he’d used the fact that her mother—one of Donal’s nine wives—had been a Sutherland, and there was kinship and an old connection between their clans. Her father remembered her mother with love, as he did all his wives.
But the kind of marriage Baird had in mind wasn’t love. It was business.
And something darker.
His own folk found his temper unpredictable—and he wasn’t handsome and charming and clever. He had a roving eye, quick, mean, and greedy.
Too late she recalled that after he’d kissed her as a child, he’d cruelly shoved her into the mud, ruining her gown and taunting her when she cried.
Cait knew she couldn’t marry such a bully, so today she’d written to her father, telling him she’d changed her mind and wished to come home. She’d been in the stables tonight to find someone to carry her letter home to Glen Iolair. It had been quite by chance that she’d overheard men talking about a raid on a neighboring clan, laughing about how the victims would be unprepared, and how each time the Sutherland raiders rode down upon them the pickings got easier, the destruction more amusing.
Cait wasn’t naive. She was a Highlander born and bred. Reiving was a way of life to some. Clans with less stole from clans with plenty. Feuds developed, folk suffered and died, and hatred became ingrained and lasted for centuries. But the Sutherlands lived in plenty, and there was no need for them to steal from their neighbors.
The laughter had abruptly stopped when she stepped out of the shadows. “Where has the laird gone?” she asked one of the stable hands she’d overheard.
He’d grinned proudly. “To raid the Culmore Munros, mistress.”
“Why?” she asked.
The lad had looked at his companions and snickered. “Because the Munros are weak, and we Sutherlands are strong.”
“What have these Munros done to you?” Cait asked.
The boy had shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s for sport, so the men don’t get restless.”
The terrible injustice of that had stung Cait. If her father were here, he’d put a stop to it. But he wasn’t—she was, and she could see only one way to stop the raid.
So she’d taken the garron and ridden out after her cousin. When she found him, she’d voice her disapproval in no uncertain terms. She’d tell him she would not marry him, that she’d inform her father that an alliance between the Sutherlands and the MacLeods would be most ill-advised.
She kicked the garron again, urging it along the track her cousin and his men had taken, and hoped she was going the right way. It was dark, somewhere close to midnight—or past it perhaps—and there was a storm grumbling on the horizon. The horse tried again to turn for home, and Cait gripped the shaggy mane tighter and coaxed the beast onward, cajoled it, soothed it with words, and drummed her feet vainly against the creature’s sides. Without starlight or moonlight it was almost impossible to see the track. She counted on the garron to follow the fading scent of the other horses.
The wind picked up, grew sharp and cold, tore at her gown and her hair. She wished now she’d stopped to fetch a cloak or her plaid. It was so dark . . . Without the horse, she’d be lost. She most often was. Her father and her sisters knew not to let her go out alone. She had no sense of direction, got turned around easily, lost in the middle of familiar territory, even at Glen Iolair, where she’d grown up. At least folk there knew to guide her home when they came upon her wandering in the hills or in the wood alone. Her sisters would follow her if they saw her heading out the gate. Her father assigned a tail of warriors to trail behind her and bring her home whenever she went out. But tonight, she had no tail, and she was very far from home and anything familiar.
A flash of lightning lit the woods around her, and the horse screeched in fear and rose up on his hind legs. He kicked, determined to dislodge her from his back, and broke into a run at long last.
Cait struggled to control the frightened beast, but it plunged off the track and into the dark wood. She held on as branches slapped at her, caught at her gown and tore it, and twigs gouged her face, arms, and legs, and pulled her hair.
She didn’t see the branch that swept her off the garron’s back. It hit her hard across the belly, knocked the breath from her lungs, and flung her off the horse and into space. Her teeth jarred together as she slammed into the ground. The garron rushed on, abandoning her. Another spear of lightning lit the sky, and it was just enough for her to see the horse disappearing between the trees. And then the light was gone, leaving her blinded and alone.
* * *
Alex followed his men out to the stable, buckling on his sword as he went. “How many men?”
“The lad said were at least a dozen of the bastards,” Hector Munro, Alex’s captain of the guards, said.
Alex glanced at the boy who’d come running to Culmore with the news of the raid. He was crying, shivering, his eyes wide with fear. He cupped a hand around the boy’s shoulder as he passed. “Go and see Janet in the kitchen. Get some hot soup into ye.”
“This time, they wore their plaids, not the black garments they used before,” Hector said, and spat into the dirt. “They aren’t bothering to hide their identity now. They think we’re beaten.”
They very nearly were, Alex thought as he mounted the garron that waited already saddled for him. “How much damage?” he asked as he rode out.
“They had torches,” Hector said.
Alex’s gut tensed. That meant more burned cotts, more homeless folk, possibly injury or death. “Which way were they headed?”
“The lad saw them cross the ford. That will bring them to Aggie MacCulloch’s and Jock Munro’s. It was Jock’s son who came for us. His mother has a newborn babe, just three days old, and Aggie has the four little ones.”
Alex felt rage ball in his belly. He kicked the garron and felt the beast quicken its pace at once. “We’d best hurry.”
Hector waved the pitiful handful of warriors forward. They’d taken ten men, and that left only eight warriors and a handful of lads and old men to guard Culmore Castle.
“We can catch them this time,” Hector said. “They won’t be finished thieving yet. If they have, we can go after them. They’ll be slow, carrying livestock and goods. We’ll take them, hang ‘em, drag their corpses home behind our horses and dangle them from the top of the tower. Just say the word, Laird, and we’ll ride all the way to Rosecairn with fire and sword, make the bastards pay.”
Alex’s jaw tightened. Not with only ten men, not against Baird Sutherland’s warriors. “We’ll see our kin safe, first of all,” he said.
Hector made a sound of surprise. “So we’ll simply put out fires and let them escape again? Why won’t ye give the order to fight back?”
Alex felt frustration flare. “Ye know why. Would you have Culmore left entirely undefended? We can’t afford to lose a pitched battle with Baird Sutherland.”
“Then we need to call in favors and men. Our allies—”
“Are few,” Alex cut in. “My father failed to answer calls for help from the MacCullochs and the MacKays. They’ll not come to aid us now.”
“They’ll send men if we pay them,” Hector said.
Baird Sutherland used paid mercenaries, men without clan or scruples. They were savage, dangerous, and cruel.
But Culmore had no coin, either, and little wealth left. Baird’s men would take other more precious and irreplaceable things if they couldn’t take plunder—they’d rape and torture and kill for sport instead. He kicked the horse to a gallop, picturing Aggie, and Jock and a half dozen bairns put to the sword.
He’d have to marry, but not for the sake of magic, or the seanchas, or love—he needed a bride who came with money, manpower, grain, and cattle as part of her tocher.
The garron tensed under him, snorted. The beast could smell smoke now, driven on the wind. They crossed the river and rode over a hill. Alex’s belly tensed at the sight of the angry orange glow of flame against the inky sky, at the stark outline of the two cotts and a barn, all engulfed and beyond saving.
Alex looked at the sky. The wind was picking up, and the rain dawdled far behind it. The flames would spread, take a foothold in the wood, devour the hayfields behind the cotts.
He kicked the garron again. “Make haste,” he ordered his men, and sent up a prayer for a miracle, fairy-sent, or otherwise.
* * *
Cait sat up and touched the scratches on her face, wincing at the bruise forming on her cheek, swollen and tender.
Thunder crashed above her head, and she screamed in surprise.
“Horse?” she called into the dark, feeling panic well in her breast. But the feckless beast had abandoned her. No doubt it was halfway home by now—and which way was that? She had no idea, and there was no sign of the track.
She was lost and she was alone. The fretful scatter of raindrops fell, sudden and cold, windblown, then stopped. She forced herself to her feet and hugged her arms around her body.
Which way?
She picked a direction and began to walk, slipping on mossy rocks and tripping over roots in the darkness. Vines and branches stole the ribbon from her hair, unplaited her long braid. She pushed the tangled locks out of her eyes and blinked into the darkness. In a moment, she’d come upon the track, find her way. She was climbing a hill—had the horse carried her down a hill? Her thin slippers slid on the leaves and small plants under her feet, and she fell more than once. When she finally reached the top of the slope, she clung to a tree to catch her breath. Still there was no sign of the track. Her fingernails dug into the bark of the tree as fear tightened her belly. She was lost.
She sniffed the air, smelled smoke. Her breath caught in her throat.
She turned, and in the distance, she could see the hellish glow of fire.
* * *
“Laird!” Aggie MacCulloch rushed toward Alex as he rode in. The widow was crying. Frightened children clung to her skirts and wailed, adding to the din. Aggie didn’t wait for him to dismount. She clutched his knee and looked up at him beseechingly, her cheeks stained with soot, streaked with tears. “My wee Morag is missing.”
Alex was off the garron in an instant. “Is she inside the cott?” He looked at Aggie’s modest home, began to move toward it, but Hector pulled him back. “Nay, Laird—it’s too late.”
The roof fell in with a crash, and flames exploded skyward.
“Nay,” Aggie shrieked. “Nay!” One of the men held her as she tried to rush toward her ruined home.
One of Jock Munro’s lads hurried up, caught Alex’s sleeve. “I saw Morag outside, Laird. She ran into the wood.”
Alex looked at his men. “Ewan, take Aggie and the bairns back to Culmore. Rob, see to Jock’s family. The rest of you come with me. We need to find the child before the storm comes.”
“The Sutherlands went that way, Alex, through the wood. What if they’ve taken her?” Hector demanded.
Alex scanned the dark wood. “Then we’ll go after her.”
* * *
Cait was close enough now that she could hear screams and the crackle of flame. She hurried through the trees, oblivious to the unseen branches that tried to stop her. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she hoped no one was hurt—or worse.
At first she thought she was feeling thunder, but the vibrations were pounding up through the earth, making the ground shake. She saw the shapes moving between the trees, fast-moving shadows. Horses . . . With a cry she flung herself out of the path of the first rider, clinging to the trunk of a tree as he galloped past her, so close that she felt the brush of a garron’s tail on her face, heard the creature’s harsh breath. The man on his back cursed as the branches slapped at him. Baird. She knew his voice.
She opened her mouth to call out, but another horse followed his, and another after that, their riders bent low, and she was forced to stay where she was. One man grunted as his plaid snagged on a branch, and she saw his soot stained, hate-filled face as he turned in the firelight. He slashed at the tangled cloth with his sword, and rode on without it.
Cait stared after them, her heart pounding. What did they do? She looked back toward the flame-filled clearing, saw the panicked silhouettes of men, women, and children against the hellish light, heard cries and curses even over the roar of the flames. Her fists clenched. Damn him. Damn Baird Sutherland to hell . . . He’d pay for this—Cait would bear witness to what he’d done this night, and her father would see that justice was done. But for now, people were hurt and homeless, afraid and abused. They were trying to put out the flames, but it was too late. The wind was shifting. She glanced at the sky. Where was the rain?
She had to help if she could . . .
A small sob made her ears prick and drove a shiver up her spine. Wild creatures lurked in the dark, hungry and dangerous . . . She reached for the dirk she usually wore in her sleeve, but it was gone, dropped when she fell from the garron.
The sound came again, followed by a cough. It wasn’t an animal. “Hello?” she said. She scanned the shadows until she saw a small white face in the dark undergrowth. The child’s teeth were chattering with fear and cold, eyes wide pools of wordless terror.
Cait reached for the Sutherland plaid that hung from the tree and tugged it down. She would have given the child her own cloak, her own plaid, if she’d been wearing one, but this plaid was thick and warm against the cold.
“You can come out,” she said gently. “I won’t hurt you.”
The wee girl crept forward, and Cait wrapped the plaid around her shivering little body and picked her up. She was as small and light as a bird, smaller than Annie, Cait’s own youngest sister, and Cait felt another wave of anguish for these folk, and outrage at Baird. This wasn’t how decent folk behaved. A clan laird protected all, lived with honor in harmony and peace with his neighbors.
The child clung to her and Cait felt the child’s sobs in her own breast. She held the girl tight as she walked toward the clearing. Someone would be frantic, missing this child, fearing the worst.
“Don’t be afraid,” she crooned.
She felt the prick of cold steel under her ear. “Stand where ye are, Sutherland bitch!”
They tore the child from her arms and grabbed Cait roughly, their grip painful, their stride too long for her to keep up without stumbling, as they dragged her into the fire lit clearing.
“It’s a Sutherland plaid!” someone snarled, and he stripped the warm wool from the wee girl.
“She’s cold,” Cait objected, but the man drew his arm back, and she braced herself for the blow.
It didn’t come. “Hold!” The command was sharp as a dirk. Her captor stopped at once and lowered his fist. “She’s a Sutherland, Alex. She was stealing wee Morag.”
She looked at the newcomer. He was tall, even taller than the rest, and they were all big men. She was used to big men, for MacLeod warriors were as tall and broad as trees. It was the coldness in this man’s eyes that drove the breath from her body. He caught her chin, looked into her face, and she felt a jolt of fear rush through her. She winced as he rolled his thumb over the bruise on her cheek.
“I’m not a Sutherland,” she gasped.
His fingers tensed on her jaw. “But ye were with them. Are cows not enough? Ye’d steal our children too?”
She gaped at him. “Nay! Nay—I was coming to help . . . I found the child hiding in the wood, afraid. Please—she’s cold.”
But the man holding the Sutherland plaid sneered as he dropped it and ground it into the mud with the heel of his boot.
“I’m not a Sutherland,” Cait said again, afraid now. But the big man wasn’t listening. He let go of her face, unwound his own plaid and tucked the child into the soft folds of it.
“Take her to Aggie and let her know she’s safe,” he said gently, for the girl’s sake. He was obeyed at once. The wee girl stared at Cait over the warrior’s shoulder as he walked away.
The man holding her jerked her arms hard, shook her until her teeth rattled. “What do ye want to do with this one, Alex?”
Alex . . . She scanned his face, memorized his name.
He looked down at her, scanned her from head to toe and back again, his expression cold and grim. “We’ll take her back to Culmore,” he said. “I have some questions for her.” He winced as the man holding her tugged her nearly off her feet. He caught her opposite arm, his grip firm, but not painful. “I’ll see to her. The rest of ye go help douse the fires.”
* * *
He marched her across the clearing without a word, and backed her against a tree. He pinned her with his shoulder and reached for the hem of her gown.
Cait screamed as she heard the fabric tear.
She was the daughter of Donal MacLeod, the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair, and she was as fierce as any man, as capable. No man was going to rape her while she had breath in her body. With a cry of fury, she drew back her fist and aimed it at his face.
* * *
Alex was almost inclined to feel sorry for the lass—she was bruised, tattered, rumpled, and tangled. Whatever had happened to her, she’d been through a hard time. When he got her back to Culmore Castle, he’d have Flora feed her and clean her up before he questioned her.
Unlike the Sutherlands, the Munros were civilized.
He grunted when her fist slammed into his jaw. Then she aimed her knee at his groin. He turned just in time. She caught hold of his hair, tried to yank it out by the roots, still kicking, fighting like a wildcat, though he was twice her size. She was cursing him, too—in Gaelic, English, and even French. He didn’t have time to be impressed—he was going to lose an eye or a limb if she kept fighting him. He encircled her thrashing body with his own and pinned her arms. Still she struggled. He felt her nails in his flesh, and her knee came dangerously close on her next attempt to unman him. With a roar, he lifted her off her feet and dropped her to the ground to knock the wind out of her. Small and delicate she might be, but even kitten scratches hurt. He pinned her beneath him so she couldn’t move, he held her arms over her head. Even then, unquestionably bested, she continued to buck and shout under him.
“Be still!” he bellowed, and he felt her stiffen with surprise. He looked down into her wide eyes, felt the coiled tension in the body under his. She struggled to free her hands.
“I will not let you rape me!”
“Rape ye?” He almost laughed. “I have a fire to put out, and two families to see safe, and I intend for ye to stay put while I do that.” He reached down with one hand and finished tearing the strip of cloth off the bottom of her gown. “I’m going bind your wrists and tie ye to this tree, and I need a strip of your gown to do it. It’s already torn in a dozen places anyway.”
She gave a grunt of indignation and tried to pull free again, but he held both her hands in just one of his easily. Her fingers were cold, and she was shaking with chill or fear, or from the exertions of fighting a man twice her size. She stopped struggling so suddenly, he looked at her in surprise.
“I can help,” she said.
The look in her eyes was so earnest he blinked. “Ye want to help? Then ye shouldn’t have come to Culmore.” He tied a loop of cloth around her wrists, made it tight. “Ye and your kin should have stayed on your own side of the border.” He got off of her and hauled her to her feet. “The Sutherlands have done enough harm for one night.”
“I’m not a Sutherland. My name is Cait MacLeod. My father is Donal MacLeod, Laird of the MacLeods of Glen Iolair,” she said, panting.
Alex scanned her battered face in the firelight, noted the tangled mass of russet curls that surrounded her head like a gull’s nest, the stained and ragged gown she wore. “The Fearsome MacLeod, one of the most powerful men in Scotland, is your father?” he asked in disbelief.
Her scratched and muddy chin rose. “Aye. Take me to him, he’ll tell you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Glen Iolair is seventy miles away.” He looked at her bedraggled state again. “And why would the daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod be here on Munro territory in the middle of the night, wrapped in a Sutherland plaid?”
“I was not wrapped in it—” she began. “I-I found it, and—” A cry of dismay went up as the roof of the second cott collapsed and the hungry flames leaped in triumph.
Anger coursed through Alex. Two cotts gone, and those responsible had slipped away into the night, leaving only this woman, this liar.
He hauled her to her feet, pushed her back against the tree, and held her in place with his body, bringing his face close to hers. He’d force the truth from her . . .
But he felt the softness of her body under his, felt her heart pounding in her breast, saw the fear in her fire-lit eyes. He could smell the feminine fragrance of her hair, something flowery and sweet, and feel her breath on his face. She was trembling again, had no cloak or plaid of her own, since she’d given hers to the child. Doubt crept in, and his belly did a slow roll. “Alex!” someone called him, needing his help. There wasn’t time now.
He raised her bound hands above her head, looped the strip of cloth over a branch, and tied it.
She didn’t try to escape—not that she could have. She stared at him, and at the devastation in the clearing. “Please let me—”
“Stay there,” he commanded, cutting through her plea as he turned away.
He grabbed a bucket and spent the rest of the night throwing water on the trampled barley crop behind Jock Munro’s cott. But in the end, it was no use.
* * *
Cait’s arms ached then grew numb as she watched the Laird of the Munros work to save what he could. His men looked to him, and he did every job they did, and offered praise and encouragement. This was how a laird should behave, how her own father led his people. He took responsibility, felt their sorrows. She read the deep worry and the anger on the Munro’s face. He was a good man.
Still, he blamed her for this, thought she’d taken part in creating such misery, such horror. She watched as the crying and bewildered children were loaded onto a cart, wrapped in blankets, and taken away. The men wanted someone to blame, someone to punish. She read the hatred, the fury in their eyes when they looked across the clearing at her, bound and helpless. Fear warred with outrage in her breast. Her cousin had done this, her almost betrothed . . .
It was nearly dawn when the fires were tamed to a petulant smolder, and everyone was soot-stained and exhausted. She wondered if Alex Munro would forget she was there, but he turned and gazed at her for a long moment with speculation in his gray eyes, his mouth firm and angry. He unsheathed his dirk and stalked across the clearing toward her with the weapon in his fist. Her heart kicked, and fear made her belly contract against her spine. She was helpless . . . Still, she held his gaze fiercely. He didn’t say a word as he raised the weapon and cut the cloth that bound her hands. Her arms fell, bloodless, numb, and useless. She was cold, but she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Somewhere he’d found another plaid, wore it over his long shirt. It was stained and singed, and he looked as ragged as his men. He took her elbow and led her forward, and she stumbled.
With a grunt of impatience, he picked her up, as if she weighed no more than the wee girl with bird’s bones, and carried her. His body was warm against hers, but she held herself stiffly and resisted the urge to melt against his chest and draw heat from him. Men were packing the few items they’d managed to salvage onto the garrons. She looked at the devastation as he walked past it and felt deep sorrow. An iron kettle lay in the dirt near a charred roof timber.
“Wait—the kettle,” she said, squirming in his arms.
He frowned at her, the black soot making him sinister, even as it made the gray of his eyes stand out. “What of it?”
“The woman who owned it will want it. If she can have only that, she’ll want it.” He stared at her, and she held his eyes with hers. At last he nodded.
“Take the kettle to Aggie,” he said to one of his men.
He mounted his garron and settled her on his lap and between his arms. Cait sat up straight, tried to let as little of her body touch his as possible. She’d rather shiver . . . But when she did, he wrapped a fold of his plaid around her. She felt his thighs flex under her bottom as he guided the horse with his knees. His arms nudged the undersides of her breasts, and she clutched the horse’s mane in her bound hands.
“Where are you taking me?” she said as a stormy dawn rose, cranky and gray. The rain had been no more than a brief shower, too little and far too late.
“To Culmore Castle,” he said briefly.
Culmore. She looked at the river that rushed through a gorge beside the track, at the hills and mountains beyond. Of course, even if she’d known these landmarks well, she could not find her own way home. It was seventy miles to Glen Iolair, he’d said . . . She was forced to depend on these strangers to help her. Or harm her. She stared at the torn scrap of her skirt, now bound around her wrists. The man surrounding her thought she was his enemy, that she’d steal a wee child . . .
“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked.
“You’re my prisoner. I’ll send word to the Sutherlands that I have ye and arrange a trade. You in exchange for the return of my cattle, and a fine fat ransom.”
She felt a moment’s fear rush through her. “If it’s a ransom you want, ask my father, not Baird. He—he won’t pay it.”
He laughed. “Are ye so sure? Are ye his wife, or his—” he paused, shifted under her. Cait felt her face redden.
“I’m his cousin!” she snapped.
He didn’t reply, and she twisted, trying to see his face, to judge whether or not he believed her. She met his disbelieving smirk, and his eyes, gray as the sea in winter, scanned her face and roamed over her with male interest. His eyes stopped on her mouth.
“Your cousin,” he drawled, making his disbelief clear.
She gasped and turned to face forward, her back as straight and rigid as she could make it. She felt her cheeks fill with hot blood, and the bruises and scratches throbbed. She was thirsty and hungry, and she wanted a bath.
“Baird won’t pay,” she said again. Knowing that she was a captive would only make it worse for the Munros, and give Baird an excuse to ride against these folk with all his men. No one would fault him, not even her father, for doing what he had to do to rescue his captive cousin. “Please take me to my father. I promise he’ll pay—if I’m unharmed.”
“Ye’ve a lot of demands for a captive,” he said, his tone even enough. The sun had risen through the trees at last, and it made her squint. The track climbed a hill, and when the garron reached the top, she saw what must be Culmore Castle—a square, gray, stone keep standing next to a wide, shallow place in the river and surrounded by green and craggy hills. It was beautiful. She felt the pride in the man behind her, the way his chest swelled and his chin rose as they paused to look at the keep.
The track wound through a small cluster of cotts in the shadow of the keep’s walls. Folk peered out of doors and windows as they passed, and asked for news. The soot-stained men shook their heads and glanced balefully at Cait. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, hard and cold and angry. Hatred hit her like a wall.
They do not even know me . . .
She didn’t realize she’d pressed herself back against the safety of Alex Munro’s broad chest until he spoke. “Not so bold now, are ye?” he said softly. His lips were right against her ear. “See the red-haired woman by the last cott? Your kin burned her out of her home—that’s her sister’s cott, and there’s scarcely room for Annag and her three bairns.” His voice turned hard. “I suppose your kin might say it’s fortunate that her husband and her oldest lad died last fall in one of the first Sutherland raids, or there’d be no room at all.”
Cait met Annag’s hard eyes as she passed. The Munro woman spit into the street.
“And the old woman there—that’s Aggie. Her granddaughter was the wee child ye tried to take. Her daughter died, left Aggie with four bairns to care for. It’s been hard for them since the Sutherlands stole her milk cow and her chickens, and slaughtered her sheep, but she was determined to stay in her cott—until last night. It was her kettle that ye saved, though she’s no fire to hang it over.”
Cait swallowed the bitterness in her throat. She silently cursed her cousin. Alex rode through the gate and up to the keep and dismounted. He lifted her off the horse, and she stood on stiff legs, looking back at the folk glaring at her. I didn’t do this, she wanted to say. I am a MacLeod and the Sutherlands aren’t my kin. But they were.
And she was the enemy.