“Stay there, brother,” Duncan called out to him as the men finished peeling away the extra clothing they’d worn to protect them from the weather. “Hearth, food, and whisky aplenty. I speak for us all when I say we seek all three after this day's journey.”
With a subtle lift of one hand, Catriona flagged down a maidservant. “Food and whisky for the men, Maggie, and be quick about it, aye?”
“Yes, mistress.” The young girl gave a polite bobbing hop then darted off toward the kitchens.
The men all settled at one long table. Alexander lowered himself to the end of the bench and propped his crutch against it. Catriona stood beside him, glancing at the full benches overflowing with the seven brawny men. The poor lass was uncertain where to go or what to do.
“Sutherland.” Alexander thumped his knuckles on the table. “Fetch the lady a seat, aye?”
His youngest brother paused, arching a dark brow in a dubiousare ye certain, brotherlook.
“A seat. For the lady. Now,” Alexander repeated in a tone that left no doubt.
Sutherland hurried to pull a nearby, much shorter bench closer. He angled it to the end of the table beside Alexander. “M’lady?” With a polite smile, he held out his hand and helped Catriona maneuver her skirts between the table and bench.
“I thank ye.” Catriona folded her hands atop the table. She sat ramrod straight and stiff as though she sat at her own inquisition and fully expected to receive a sentence of hanging by the neck 'til dead.
“What did ye find?” Alexander dove straight in. It had pained him with a deep burning regret to have to stay behind. He longed to see for himself the whereabouts of any survivors and what might be left for them to return to in the glen. The grim looks around the table knotted the already choking sense of failure tightening in his gullet. He and his men were good at what they did, the best, in fact, according to many who had hired them. But this time they’d failed, and the failure left a taste in his mouth as bitter as a bite of rotted haggis. “Well? Speak. I’ll hear all of it.”
“Gone.” His cousin Alasdair finally spoke. “Burnt to the ground. The keep and every MacDonald croft in the glen cursed enough to be found by Argyll’s regiment.”
“I couldna even bury my Janet.” Ian, Alasdair’s younger brother, spoke in a tone filled with despair. “Nothing but ashes where I left her. Nothing.” Janet had died in Ian’s arms, her throat slit by a Campbell. “I set her a cairn with some of the keep’s stones. I’ll pray there whene’er I pass it.”
Alexander scrubbed a hand across his face. The memory of Ian's loss on that godforsaken day fed into his nightmares. Raw and cutting it was. Still verra much real. His cousin's grief-stricken keening had ripped through all their souls with a heart-wrenching slash. Alasdair had stood guard over Ian that day, shooting any who dared interrupt his brother’s grieving over his wife’s lifeless body.
“I take it ye didna find any survivors at all, else ye wouldha brought them back here with ye?” Alexander spoke in a hushed tone, forcing the words out and dreading to hear the answer. Somehow, the recent dead and their troubled spirits filled the hall, clamoring to make their injustices heard.
“No survivors that we could find unless they’re already sheltered somewhere else and no' giving away their location,” Duncan said then took a deep draw from the short, squat round-bellied glass of amber liquid in front of him. “Those we did find had frozen to death.” He stared down at the table, his face devoid of emotion. “We couldna bury them, what with the frozen ground, and the stones locked with ice. But we placed them together, the women, their wee bairns alongside them…” he paused and swallowed hard, bowing his head and closing his eyes, struggling to continue. “We covered them best we could and prayed over them,” he finally forced out then drained his glass and poured himself another.
“May God have mercy on their souls,” Catriona whispered. Tears flowed down her pale cheeks as she crossed herself and bowed her head.
"Aye," Alexander said. "A curse on Captain Robert Campbell." He fisted a hand on the table, clenching his fingers so tight every knuckle popped. What he wouldna give to have grasped Campbell's throat with just such a hold. "A curse on every Campbell born after him now and forevermore."
Catriona hitched in a startled breath. “Ye believe this to be the feud?”
“Nay. 'Twas made to look like a feud, m’lady,” Magnus replied. “I was at Fort Smith on that fateful day and I returned there to search for any news of the attack. 'Tis rumored the Earl of Stair, John Dalrymple ordered the massacre, acting on behalf of King William.”
“But ye can bet coin that Campbell and his men were more than glad enough to take part in it,” Alexander interjected. “I’m certain the honorable Laird of Glen Lyon has already claimed MacDonald lands to pay off some of his debts. He left his colors flying there, did he not?”
Alexander had met Robert Campbell once. The man was a drunkard and a gambler, and an arrogant fool at that. Supposedly, he’d lost all his lands on ill-placed betting and was desperate to find a means of supporting his wife and seven children. What better way to support them than by stealing the lands of a rival clan under cover of king’s orders?
“Aye,” Duncan said. “Campbell colors were there.” He took a long drink then thumped his tankard back to the table. “A curse on Robert Campbell and all his kin.”
“Excuse me,” Catriona said in a strained tone as she rose with an abrupt shuffling of her skirts and hurried to sidle her way out from between the bench and the table. “'Tis late and I’m verra weary.” Her pallor had grown even more wan, and she looked as though she might retch at any minute. “Good evenin' to ye all.” Without another word, she turned, caught up the folds of her heavy wool dress and nearly ran to the staircase.
“I knew we should nay have spoken in front of the lady,” Sutherland said as he shot an accusing glance at Alexander. “Where’s your sensitivities, man?”
Alexander ignored his brother, hefted himself up from the bench, and tucked his awkward crutch in place. Mind made up, he hobbled his way after Catriona. The stubborn woman would tell him her troubles if he had to stand outside her chamber door and beat on it with his crutch the rest of the night.
