She didn’t say a word, just agreed with a polite nod and looked away.
They sat in silence for what seemed like forever, their conversation stalled. Alexander cursed his ineptness at social chatter.If only I had Magnus’s gift with the lasses.
Catriona cleared her throat. “Ye asked a great deal about myself, Alexander, but ye’ve told me verra little about your own life.” She gave him a smug look as though she’d baited a trap and felt sure he was doomed to step into it. “How did ye come by all those wounds that brought ye to my keep? Before ye woke from your fever, your brothers said ye were mercenaries but would no’ explain anything beyond that. They said ye would tell me.”
“Aye. We are mercenaries for hire. 'Tis true.” He was too ashamed to tell her everything, but he’d tell her some. He owed her that much. “Unfortunately, with our latest quest, the odds were no' in our favor.”
She watched him, silent as a judge. 'Twas clear she waited for him to continue so that she might weigh the truth of his words.
“We come from Islay,” he said, staring down at his bandaged leg and the sickly bruised skin bordering the linen strips wrapped around his thigh. “Our clan, the MacCoinnichs, is gone.” It pained him to say such a thing aloud but there was no escaping the truth. “We, my brothers and two cousins, are some of the few of a once vibrant clan that made the best whisky ye ever placed upon your tongue.”
“What happened?” Catriona asked in a hushed tone.
“Putrid throat.” He remembered the malady well. The aching. The fever and then the sweats. Feeling as though well-honed blades had lodged in his throat. “My brothers, my cousins ye’ve met here, and only a handful of others survived.” He pulled in a deep breath and allowed it to ease out. “There wasna enough of us to bury the dead in proper graves. We did the best we could for them and remember them in our prayers, begging their forgiveness.”
The soft, calming weight of Catriona’s light touch on his arm urged him on. Alexander nodded toward his men where they sat gathered at one of the long trestle tables on the other side of the room. “The seven of us agreed to band together and survive.” He shifted and looked at Catriona, his heart swelling at the compassion shining in her eyes. “The five or so others that withstood the scourge are scattered.” He shrugged with a shake of his head. “I reckon they’re settled now. Somewhere. 'Twas but a few distant cousins.”
“I’m more than a little sorry for your loss.” Catriona squeezed his arm, her gentle understanding a balm to the wounds he’d never tended. She soothed his soul, somehow eased the painful memories. “But take heart—ye have your brothers. The lot of ye could rebuild Clan MacCoinnich. Who tends the land ye left behind?”
“Campbells.” Alexander spit out the word. “The king gave it to them when they discovered the fate of Clan MacCoinnich.” 'Twas but another reason he and his brothers had jumped at the chance to serve the MacDonald of Islay, who was once known—and would always be known in Alexander’s mind—as Lord of the Isles.
“M’lady?” A tall, stocky lass that looked stout enough to take up a sword and fight alongside any man came to a halt a few feet in front of them. “Mrs. Aberfeldy says Himself is ringing the bell for ye.”
Catriona’s demeanor transformed. Gone was the kind, hopeful young woman, replaced by a tensed lass with dread straining her features. “Thank ye, Leona. Tell Mrs. Aberfeldy I’ll see to him right away.”
The lass gave an obedient nod then lumbered off toward the kitchens.
“I must go,” Catriona said, regret lending a heaviness to her tone. She rose from her chair, took a step forward, then paused and looked back at him.
Alexander held his breath, unable to read her or discern what she was about to do.
After stealing a glance around the room, Catriona darted to his side, pecked a quick chaste kiss to his cheek, and squeezed his arm again. “Ye can rebuild your clan, Alexander. Never give up hope when it comes to your kin.” Then she turned and fled before he could react.
Alexander watched her scurry away, hand pressed to the side of his face she’d just kissed. “Never give up hope,” he repeated in a whisper. Hope. What dangers and heartache could something as simple as hope bring to a man’s life?
