Page 34 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

But hadn’t she also been blaming herself all these years? The thought was too painful to touch. Instead, she gently prompted, “So you had something to prove, then. When you went to war?”

He shot her a look with brows raised, as though she’d just given voice to the greatest of all understatements. “I always had much to prove. The battle, this battle,” he amended, studying the scars on his arm, “was in ’51. That’s one year after my da died.”

“You’d have thought you were man of the house,” she said, understanding. She struggled to make sense of males, and yet sometimes their reasoning could be so simple. “You and Gregor both. You’d have thought you needed to prove yourselves men.”

“Aye, there was that. And I was fair guilty, too.” He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes against the pain of it. “Don’t forget the guilt.”

“Guilt?” she asked quietly.

“That it’d been Aidan, and not me, who was taken.

The fates had ignored me, and so I dared death to take me.

I courted it. I accepted every fool’s errand.

Any danger I could embrace, I did. I ran off to spy when others were too scared.

Part of me thought, if I were good enough, I’d someday find Aidan.

But I never found him, and death never found me.

” He shrugged. “And so I was just fourteen when they made me a scout.”

“Your courage made you successful.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “’Twas folly , not courage. A lad’s bravado and a goodly dose of luck are what brought me success.”

He seemed to run out of words then, and she let him have the silence. What lifetimes he’d lived, all by the time he’d become a man grown.

She turned onto her side to face him. Reaching a hand out, she outlined the fine tracery of scars along his forearm.

Though he stiffened, she persisted, running her fingertip along the uneven surface, over unnaturally smooth knots of flesh, across small discs of satiny-thin skin. “You were telling me about these.”

“These,” he said simply. They both studied his scars until he brought his hand over hers to conceal them. “You wish to know about these, Ree?”

“Aye, Cormac. And be serious this time.” She smiled, trying to break the tension. “I assume Bridget can’t claim these wounds in addition to that crooked nose of yours.”

“It’s not as crooked as all that.” Though there was humor in his words, he seemed to be having trouble summoning it to his features. “No, my sister can’t claim these. Though mayhap if she’d been on the battlefield, the Royalists would’ve fared better.”

She edged closer to Cormac, reassured by his attempts to lighten the mood. She’d not let him feel alone in the telling of his tale. “Which battle was it?”

“Do you remember Worcester? ’Twas in 1651.”

She groaned inwardly. Of course she remembered the Battle of Worcester. It marked the end of the wars. “Aye, I recall it. The Royalists lost.”

“No, Ree, the Royalists were decimated . Thousands of Scotsmen killed to Cromwell’s two hundred.” Cormac grimaced. “The bastard called it his ‘Crowning Mercy.’ ”

She registered the reality of what he’d told her. “But Worcester is so far away. You were only fourteen.”

“Aye, we’d covered nigh on forty-five leagues in a week, marching deep into England. I told you I was a scout, traveling with Rothiemay’s Foot, out of Aberdeenshire. And march we did, straight into a rout . . .”

He grew silent, and she waited. She wouldn’t push him; rather she’d let his story rise to the surface as slowly as he needed it to.

She brought her fingers to his brow. Their candle had long since guttered out, and she studied his face by moonlight.

Gently, she combed her fingers through his hair, drawing it back from his forehead.

A strand had tangled in his lashes, just as it used to do when he was a boy.

Feelings of unutterable tenderness swelled within her, clutching hard at her throat.

She waited and stroked his hair, and finally his story came.

“As a scout, I didn’t see much of the battle. I had other duties.” Something dark flashed in his eyes, and the notion of what some of those duties might’ve entailed made her flesh crawl.

“I knew, when the officers sent me off, that we were destined for a crushing defeat. And yet, it had lit something in me. I suppose I thought there was something more I could do for the cause. I snuck farther afield than any of the other scouts had before. I was deep in Cromwell’s camp when I discovered something. ”

“What?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“The Parliamentary soldiers . . . Cromwell’s ‘New Model Army,’ ” he amended sarcastically. “They were gathering up innocents. Later, I found out that, by the end of the battle, they’d taken ten thousand prisoners. All men and boys, every last one shipped off to Barbados or to the colonies.”

She couldn’t help her gasp, knowing at once what that would mean for him. “So you were afraid they’d take you, too?”

“No, I was not afraid.” His body stiffened, a burst of savage energy vibrating through the room.

“I longed for them to take me. But I had a job to do.” Sighing, he came back to himself, his fury spent as quickly as it’d come.

“No, Ree, I wasn’t afraid they’d take me .

I was afraid for the others. They’d hundreds of lads in the camp by then, all well guarded. ”

His eyes went distant, lost to some horrific reverie.

She was hesitant to speak for fear he might stop talking altogether, but even more so, she feared letting him sink too deeply into the pain of his memories. Finally, she asked, “What happened?”

“What happened,” he repeated, his tone flat. “Well, there was no help for it, of course. They were as good as slaves already. And so I went back to report.”

His words began to lag, and she reached for his hand in encouragement.

Seeming bolstered by the gesture, he sighed deeply and continued, “I’d been told to keep to the trench road, through a place called Pirie Wood.

But something told me to leave the path.

Sure enough, I found an old barn. At first I congratulated myself on my great good luck. ”

He shot her a self-mocking smirk. “The honorable scout would return with word of refuge. A roof overhead for our wounded . . . Fool. Do you ken what I found instead, Ree?”

She shook her head mutely, mesmerized and yet utterly terrified by how his tale might unfold.

“’Twas a damned barn full of Irish.”

Her eyes went wide with disbelief. “Irish?”

“Aye, ’tis true. Did you know the soldiers travel with their families? The men had gone off to skirmish, and damned if I didn’t open the barn door to the sight of a dozen women and their bairns.”

“Good Lord,” she exclaimed, her voice finding strength. “They bring their babes into battle?”

“They bring them all .” He turned to face her on the bed, and the cold steadiness of his gaze chilled her. “And these women, they’d heard tell Cromwell was rounding up all the boys.”

“Oh . . .” Marjorie couldn’t imagine such terror. The last days of the wars had been distant to her, living in Aberdeen with her uncle. What would it be to squat with your children in a barn, praying to God to keep them safe and alive?

“They were mad with terror. Some of the boys were babes yet, and too young to be taken. But there were a handful of older lads . . .”

Marjorie held her breath. She’d thought she wanted his stories, but she didn’t know anymore that she could hear them. What had she asked him to tell her? What had she asked of him, to remember it in the retelling?

He watched her. Curled on his side in the darkness, he looked so alone, nervous even, and in need of reassurance. Who had reassured him after Aidan? And then who’d been there for him after his mother had died, so shortly after?

He’d turned his back on Marjorie before, but she was there now, and the only thing she wanted was to share his burden. She could be the brave one, this time, for him. “Tell me, Cormac. You can tell me.”

He nodded, and she imagined she saw his shoulders ease. “There were a few lads. They were . . . I don’t know . . . nine? Ten? About the same age Aidan had been.”

“Of course you’d want to help them.”

“It’s true.” He nodded, replaying the memory in his mind. “But I think what really got me was that they were about the same age as my younger brother.”

“Declan,” she exclaimed. “Where was Declan, all that time? With you and Gregor at war, who was home to mind him?”

“ Declan was home to mind Declan. Why do you think the villagers call us a pack of demons?” He cocked his mouth into a humorless smile. “Deck didn’t get to foster away like other boys. He didn’t have a mother to teach him manners and whatnot.”

“He hasn’t seemed to suffer for it,” she said, recalling the odd manner in which Declan always seemed to be lost in thought. “I think he’s quite bright, actually.”

“Aye, between my sisters and whatever books he could get his hands on, Deck’s done just fine by himself. But you see why the sight of these boys touched me so. I couldn’t see them taken.”

It was obvious to her. “You couldn’t allow it.”

“No, Ree. I couldn’t. The pain of Aidan . . . it was too fresh.”

“And so you fought,” she concluded.

“Not at first. At first, I ran. I took the boys and hid them in the gorse.”

“It was a brave thing to do.”

“It was a fool thing to do.” He scrubbed at his face, as if he wished he could wipe his mind free of the memory. “I should’ve taken them all.”

“ All the women and children?” She sat up, astounded at the ridiculous notion. His plaid slipped down her chest, and she folded it back under her arms. “You couldn’t have taken a barn full of Irish with you through the woods.”

“Aye, well, in any event, I didn’t. I came back, and they’d been slaughtered.”

“Oh, dear God,” she blurted. He’d stated it so simply, was watching her so warily. Was this his great confession? Did he think this would frighten her from him? “Oh, Cormac.”

“Every last mother, every last babe, killed. Except for a few of the . . .” He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving his head cradled in both hands. “I think a few of the older girls were missing. I can only imagine what came of them.”

“Maybe they got away.”

“And maybe I’ll be the next Stuart king.” He looked at her, his eyes empty of emotion.

She knew better, though. His gaze might appear blank, but the flatness in his eyes stanched unbearable emotion. He’d seen so much with those eyes, it broke her heart. A lad of fourteen had no business bearing such tragedy and such responsibility on his shoulders.

“What happened to the boys you’d hidden in the gorse?” They still hadn’t gotten to the topic of his scars, and she dreaded his reply.

“The boys,” he said, his tone gone icy. “Well, I went back, of course. Straightaway. Some of Cromwell’s men had found them; they were there still, rounding the Irish lads up, meaning to truss them like a drove of cattle.

I lost my mind then. I’d taken the soldiers by surprise and managed to kill a few of them.

” He tried to look away, but she slid her hand around his neck, the taut column of it hot under her palm.

He held her gaze, unspeakable sadness darkening his features. “I should’ve let them just have the boys. Maybe they’d be alive today. But the lads saw my fight, and fancying themselves men, they joined me. They were cut down, every last one.”

She cleared her throat, desperate for her voice not to crack. She would be strong for him. “And your arm?”

“Ah, yes, my arm.” He held it up, examining it in the moonlight. “I got this defending a lad. I was just a scout, you see. Thankfully I had a sword, but there was no shield to hand. I did the best I could, but my arm got in the way. Grazed by a redcoat blade.” He flexed his fist.

She took his hand and, with a kiss to the broad span of his palm, turned his arm to study the scars. “It’s a stroke of luck that it wasn’t sheared straight through.”

He grimaced. “Luck. My life seems to have been luck and more luck. Or perhaps it’s that I’m bad luck for the ones I come near.”

“You can’t say that, Cormac.”

He only shrugged.

“Where did you go after it all happened? What did you do?”

“Do? You wish to know what I did next? I ran, Ree. It was chaos. I saw the boys lying dead, I saw the soldiers’ ropes, and then I saw a path through the trees.

” Words picking up pace, his story barreled on, unstoppable now.

“I ran and ran. Because I didn’t want to be taken.

I’d thought I did. I thought I’d wanted to die.

But you see, I didn’t. I was too selfish.

In that instant, all I wanted was to live, to be free.

And it felt like a betrayal. Like I’d betrayed Aidan. ”

“But you were only fourteen. Your brother never would’ve wanted you to suffer his fate.”

“We’ll never know, aye?”

“No, Cormac. I know. Aidan loved you. He’d never have wanted you to be kidnapped or killed merely out of your own guilt.

” The notion was preposterous. She slid closer to him on the bed, needing to convince Cormac, to make him see.

“It was an impossible situation,” she insisted.

“You were a child, against a troop of redcoats. You might as well have found a barn full of Irish, dead already. There was naught you could’ve done. ”

“No,” he said, sounding wrung out. He’d been holding his story in for so long, the loosing of it had rendered him completely emotionally spent. “I should be dead. Those boys, at least, should be alive.”

“As forced laborers on a distant continent somewhere?”

“They could’ve been with Aidan,” he muttered. He shut his eyes, and only then did she see the exhaustion that had smudged them black.

She watched as sleep pulled him under, hoping it was dreamless, praying he’d exorcised his tale. It had devastated her, but rather than wanting to push it—and him—away as he’d feared she might, Marjorie wanted only to share his pain, to convince him, to absolve him.

She curled closer, longing to hold him tight. There was no shutting her out now.

Cormac had thought this was the thing that’d drive her away. Little did he know. His confession was what would bind her fast to him forever.