Page 22 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

21

A fter her admission, Calliope got cold feet.

A rush of nerves seized her body, and she backed away. "I'll get Duncan for you," she muttered before turning around in a cloud of cowardice and rushing toward the gate.

"Calliope, wait," Alistair called after her, confusion laced in his voice. But she couldn't worry about his confusion when she had her own filtering through her.

Why was she running? Why was she suddenly scared? No one, not even Bryce back in England, whom she was supposed to marry, made her feel the way Alistair did. His kiss was… magic. And the way he smiled at her made her entire body tingle with anticipation.

Yet, the moment she confessed to wanting him had been when she'd panicked. What if he only wanted her for kissing? What if the feelings swirling around in her mind weren't reciprocated? Being as na?ve as she was in the ways of love, there was a good chance she was completely mistaken in his intent.

Fortunately, Duncan and Broderick didn't seem to have listened when Alistair told them to remain inside, and they hovered around the gate.

"My lady?" Broderick stepped forward, concern etched in the corners of his eyes.

Calliope smiled at him, hoping to ease whatever worry he might have had. "Your laird will need assistance. There's a chamber on the level above the great hall that I had Bessie prepare for him. If you could see, he is brought there to rest." She didn't wait to see them collect him.

She hurried into the castle courtyard, keeping her mind occupied with other things and forcing her thoughts of Alistair out. There was much to do with the setting up of the castle, returning it to its rights, and holding a vigil for her father. No one knew what the English who'd laid siege to the castle had done with his body. A search yielded no results, so they held a service over an empty grave.

There were tears from many, including her. She was not mourning the man she knew but the man she'd never know.

Whatever memories her mother had given her, Calliope had no reason to believe them to be true. And she'd been so young the last time she was in Scotland that she couldn't be sure if the fleeting images of her father that played behind her eyes were real or imagined.

What she did know was that he was beloved by his people and that he had allies like the Sinclairs, Drummonds, and Buchanans. That must have meant he was important to them and well-respected in the world. It also meant that she, too, had allies.

The outpouring of support she received from the people was heartwarming, encouraging, and totally unexpected. At night, she'd lain awake thinking they would call her an interloper, an outsider. That they'd tell her one of their own should lead the clan.

And to be fair, she was starting to think the latter might have been best.

But then came the suggestion that instead of someone else ruling her stead, she get married. And though all of the potential grooms they'd thrust before her had been nice, pleasant to look at even, none had held a candle to Alistair.

Perhaps that was the other reason why she'd run. She may have wanted Alistair for her own, but she couldn't have him. Could she?

The elders of the clan had been very specific about her marrying a Ramsey.

Calliope slipped into the castle, nodding to the staff as they called out to her, but rushed up to her bedchamber. She needed a moment to think. To figure out exactly what it was that she wanted.

At no moment in her life had she ever been in charge of her own Fate. And quite honestly, she wasn't sure if she was right now either.

When her mother took her away from Scotland, that was not her decision. Marrying Bryce had not been her choice either. The purpose of her journey to Scotland had not been her own. Her stepsire had wanted to be rid of her, and in her mourning over her mother, she'd not had a say. To be fair, she wouldn't have had a say besides. Women never did.

And when she'd arrived, she'd wanted to get to know her father, the people in the clan she'd been gone from for so long. Only that, too, had been ripped from her.

Thrust into a position of power she wasn't certain she'd wanted. As they'd learned about how she'd felled the enemy, the respect of her had grown. But was it what she wanted?

There had been a thousand small rebellions that she'd made in her life. Learning to climb. Mastering a bow and arrow. Sewing her symbol into the linen square she'd gifted a lad.

Calliope couldn't help but think that meant something. When all of her rebellions were added up, they led her to one man: Alistair Sinclair.

A pillar in her life, not just the last sennight since she'd first escaped the siege. But a lad she'd thought of often when she was growing up. The first one she'd given her favor to. She'd wondered if he'd ever noticed the symbol. If he'd kept the embroidered linen.

And he had. In fact, he claimed it had never left him for every battle. That her gift was a talisman to him.

Why was she ignoring all the signs and trying to push aside her feelings? Calliope walked swiftly to the window in her bedchamber, which had the perfect view of the courtyard and the gate. Duncan and Broderick stood with Alistair, who was clearly refusing to be put to bed. And that made her smile. The man was just as stubborn as she was.

Calliope had a decision to make, but the words of all those in her past who'd made decisions for her battled against her will.

Well, she could make one decision right now, but she wasn't going to make a decision just yet. Before broaching the topic with her clan elders, she had to be certain.

Alistair Sinclair would remain for his recovery for at least a few more days, a week or two if she had her way. But given she knew exactly who he was, the sooner she made a choice, the better. Because she already knew that Alistair was not a man to sit on his laurels. He was a man of action.

Calliope did not see Alistair again until the evening meal. As he entered the great hall, his gaze seeking out hers, she kept herself steady, eyes on him. Admittedly, she'd been afraid earlier, but now she needed to show him a confidence she wasn't sure she felt. What if he rejected her?

Tucked against her skirts, her hands shook as she nodded to Alistair and then beckoned him to sit beside her at the trestle table. The question in his gaze dissipated, and he marched forward with a swagger and confidence that she recognized.

"I see you're feeling better this evening," she remarked, noticing his freshly shaved face and cleaned-up appearance.

"Amazing what a bath can do," he said with a teasing grin.

"And some fresh air, too. How is your shoulder?"

"Almost good as new."

Calliope smiled. "You are a tough one."

"A good warrior always is." He pulled out her chair with his good arm, and she sat, smiling at his chivalry.

Throughout the meal, they chatted about nothing and everything, getting to know one another better. They teased each other and reminisced about a few funny moments when he'd had a fever.

"Who is Scala?" she asked. "You seemed quite enamored."

Alistair laughed. "Scala was my childhood pup."

"Ah, well, he and you were having quite the game of fetch one night. I almost had to have Duncan restrain you when you grabbed hold of the broth bowl and threatened to throw it to Scala."

Alistair chuckled. "That dog loved to fetch."

"Do you have dogs now?" she asked.

"Aye, several."

Calliope smiled. "My mother hated dogs, so we didn't have any. But I've always found them to be amazing creatures."

"The next time ye're at Dunbais, I'll introduce ye to my dogs, and if ye want, when we've got a litter, I'll let ye have one."

Warmth and happiness fell over Calliope at that moment. Although she'd never considered getting a puppy of her own, she was already looking forward to the moment she could hold a tiny, soft pup in her arms.

"Cousin, we've found your father."

Calliope glanced up sharply from where she'd been grinding herbs into a paste for Alistair's shoulder. Her hands trembled, and she dropped the pestle against the mortar bowl. She could not have heard that correctly. They’d searched for days. "Where?"

Her cousin Hugh, who she'd played with as a child, looked like he'd seen a ghost. Hugh was nearly the spitting image of her father, his mother being Ramsey’s sister. When Calliope’s aunt had died in childhood, Hugh had been brought into their home and raised as if he were his son.

"The dungeon," Hugh said.

Calliope closed her eyes and shook her head, devastated all over again. Rather than bury him or even burn his bones, the enemy had simply tossed her father's lifeless body into the dungeon to rot. They’d never checked the dungeon, and he must have been deep within, for when they’d put the English soldiers in the pit for questioning, no one had seen her father then.

But there was no use in putting blame. Why would any of them had thought her father was tossed there in death?

"He's alive, Calliope. But barely. They found him covered in an old wool sack. ’Tis why we missed him when we did our initial search. We've taken him to his chamber."

"What?" At this bit of news, Calliope’s lost her balance, catching herself on the edge of the table. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked to bring herself back. She drew in several steadying breaths, then rushed her cousin, gripping his shirt. "Take me to him."

Hugh nodded gravely, his eyes going to the herbs she’d been grinding behind her. "I think ye're going to want to bring whatever it was ye were making."

"I need to see him first." Then, she could truly assess the situation. From what she'd heard during the moment of attack, he'd been given a death blow, had even claimed the Sassenach had killed him. If he'd been left to die for days in the dungeon, it was a miracle he had any breath at all.

Hugh led the way up the castle stairs to her father's bedchamber. Calliope took every step carefully, afraid that at any moment her trembling legs would give out. A wave of fetid air hit them as the bedchamber door was opened. The stench coming from the room was enough to nearly knock her backward. Her hand came to her mouth and nose, tears stung her eyes.

Ramsey lay unconscious on top of the blankets, his clothes bloody, wounds gaping and untended. The sight was enough to make Calliope cry out. Her legs buckled, and she started to fall backward, but someone caught her from behind. Strong arms wrapped around her middle, steadying her, and lifting her back onto her feet. But they didn’t let her go, rather held her until she could find her balance once more. She turned around to see Alistair there, gravely staring toward the bed, and she was instantly comforted by his presence.

"I've got ye, lass," he whispered, taking her hand and leading her toward the edge of the bed.

If not for Hugh haven’t told her he was alive, she would swear her father was dead. He was the very picture of the aftermath of battle.

"Papa," she whispered, reaching out to touch her father's weathered face.

The man who had done this to him… But she shook away the vengeful thoughts. Now was not the time for her anger but for getting to work. If her father had any chance of survival, it would be up to her.

Calliope straightened her spine, forced herself to find that stoic calm she had when working on the ill. Though she’d never witnessed something this bad, she managed to conjure the strength she would need to take care of her father. He’d been given a second chance at life, and she wasn’t about to be the reason he couldn’t grasp it.

"I need linens, hot water, whisky, all of my herbs, bandages," her list went on, and people started running to do her bidding. "Knife," she said, holding out her hand.

Alistair placed his own dagger in her hand.

There was no time to lose. Calliope cut away her father's mangled, bloody clothes. There were a few times she had to turn away, fearful of crying or retching, and each time, Alistair put a calming hand on her shoulder, took the knife, and continued the work.

Without him, she wasn't certain how she would have finished.

All through the cleaning of the wounds with hot water and the whisky, her father didn't make a sound. The wounds had all become infected, and there was evidence of rat bites, as well as an infestation of maggots. How could anyone do this to another person… Though she was grateful her father was alive, she was tormented by the thought of what he'd been through.

His chest barely rose and fell, and she held a finger just beneath his nose more than once to see if he was still breathing.

His body was covered in wounds, deep gashes from a blade, and bruises from the fight. Calliope packed the wounds with herbs, sewed them up, and put healing poultices on them, wrapping them tight. Still, he didn't move.

She worked for hours, well into the night, and then she collapsed in a chair beside his bed and fell asleep, only to startle every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing.

This went on for several days. If not for the slow breath coming from her father's nose, she would have thought him dead. By her side always was Alistair until Hugh, Duncan, and Broderick insisted they get some sleep of their own. Each was reluctant to leave. Calliope because she wanted to be there for her father, and Alistair because he wanted to be there for her.

On the third morning, her father stirred, eyes burning with fever. He stared at her as if he'd seen a ghost. "Mary."

"Nay, Papa, 'tis Calliope."

"Calliope…" he whispered before falling unconscious once more.

Nearly a week went by like this, her father hovering on the brink of death. But by day seven, he was awake for several minutes at a time, and they were able to give him broth.

By day eight, he was swatting away Calliope and Bessie's helping hands.

"Papa," Calliope said, taking his hand in hers. She wanted to tell him how scared she'd been. How happy she was that he was alive. But the words caught in her throat.

He patted her hand. "I know, lass, I know. We've both been through Hell, and now we're getting a second chance at life. No damned Sassenach is going to take us down."

Ramsey stared over Calliope's shoulder at Alistair. "Sinclair. Ye have my thanks."

Alistair nodded. "'Tis your daughter who deserves the credit, Ramsey. She escaped to find us, and then she saved us, too."

Ramsey nodded. "I want to hear about that."

Calliope settled into the chair to share the story.