Chapter One
He needed to get his head above the water. Callum struggled upward, every movement sending pain ripping through his body. His lungs were ready to burst by the time he succeeded. Despite the pain dogging him, he took a moment to catch his breath and look around.
The shore appeared to be miles away, although Callum knew that was not true, was just an illusion. He could vaguely recall the men tossing him in. Ignoring his screams, they had taken him by his arms and legs and swung him a few times before letting his body go. Callum knew he was not far from the shore but the pain throbbing in his leg told him it would be a long, hard haul to get there. The water did not ease the pain at all.
Gritting his teeth, he attempted to swim back to the shore. Pain tore through his leg and he bit back a scream, hissing out curses between his clenched teeth. He turned onto his back and let his wounded leg just hang. His arms were not in much better shape but they were not broken and he used them to propel himself along. Very slowly. Then his foot touched the ground, agony tore through his leg, and he floundered. Callum gave out a shaky curse when he settled again. The pain really was too much. He did not think he would reach the shore any longer.
“SweetJesu,” he muttered, lying in the water with a useless leg dangling beneath him.
Just a few more strokes, he told himself. Just a few more and he could collapse on solid ground and think about his next move. Each move he made would have brought a scream if he had not clamped his mouth shut. He did not know what had been done to his leg, aside from breaking it, but he was now determined to have a look. After that, once he was fully recovered from his injuries, he would make the bastards who had done this to him pay dearly.
The moment his hands could reach the bottom without his head going beneath the water, Callum turned and used them to pull himself up onto the bank. He gave up when he was half the way out of the water, his arms folding and dropping him to the ground. A soft grunt escaped him when the side of his face hit a rock but he did not, could not, move. Callum thought about checking his leg to see how bad it was but he was exhausted. He closed his eyes and, even as he wondered where he was, he passed out.
* * *
Bethoc Matheson winced and cursed as she walked along, every bruise her father had given her protesting her movements. She suspected that bringing little Margaret was not helping her but the girl needed some time away from the brutality of her father, from the pall of unhappiness that hung over the house. The man grew worse every day. Bethoc dreamed of leaving but there was the problem about where she should go.
She supposed she could hunt down her real father but had no idea of how to do that. Her mother had given her a name as she had lain dying after birthing little Margaret but the name meant nothing to Bethoc. Nor could she ask anyone since her father’s demands and the care of the children kept her tied to the house. These short trips to her cave were all she could allow herself. Even now she felt some guilt about that for the boys were left on their own. She did worry about what could happen if their father came home before she did, but she needed to get away for just a little while. The walls of the house had begun to close in on her, her fears and worries growing too big for her to handle.
“Enough,” she muttered as she started up a small hill that led to her hidden cave. “Ye need to cease fretting.”
Later. She would think about it all later. What her mother had told her weighed on her, however, and as Margaret grew, requiring less constant care, the need to think grew stronger. Having to call a man Father when he was not also became a problem. She had a feeling he knew and often wondered if that was why he was so brutal, but that thought did not hold. He was brutal to all of them. She even had to protect Margaret and there was no doubt that Margaret was his.
In truth, she began to believe that Margaret was the only one who was. She had six brothers, aged sixteen down to six, yet only one of them looked anything like her father. Yet, if they were not his, how had they come to be with him? She could not recall her mother carrying any of them but knew the shapeless, ragged gown her mother always wore would have hidden it from her. It was possible her mother had borne each of them at night with only their father to help. Yet, after having aided her mother in the birth of Margaret, Bethoc doubted that. Surely her mother would have said something if the boys were not hers?
Bethoc abruptly stopped, unable to take another step as her mind was flooded by ideas, each one more bizarre than the first. Each one impossible to prove unless her father suddenly felt a need to confess. Yet she could not shake the sudden suspicion that the man she called Father had stolen those babies and brought them to her mother to care for. But why?
Six hard workers, six boys instead of the useless girls he always accused her mother of having. Bethoc stared out over the water. How would her father know her mother could only bear girls? Had there been others and, if so, where were they? Then Bethoc heard her mother’s last words as clearly as if the woman stood at her side. “Watch over Margaret. Never leave her. Promise me.”
She clasped one sturdy little leg that was dangling at her side. Her mother had been so insistent, so fierce in her demand that Bethoc had sworn to do as asked. As she struggled with these new, terrifying thoughts, she caught sight of something at the water’s edge. She squinted as she tried to bring it into clear view and a plump little arm stuck out from beside her head, finger pointing.
“Mon,” Margaret said. “Mon.”
Releasing Margaret’s leg, Bethoc cautiously began to go down to the riverbank.Monwas one of the three words Margaret could say and the closer she got to the riverbank, the more certain she was that Margaret was right. The only doubt she had was whether the man was alive or dead.
It was not easy with a child strapped to her back and a bag of supplies at her side, but Bethoc hitched up her skirts, crouched down, and slowly pulled the man the rest of the way out of the water. He groaned when she turned him onto his back and she breathed a sigh of relief. Using one of Margaret’s changing cloths while silently praying the child would not need it, she lightly bathed the dirt from his face. Bethoc found herself staring at a very handsome man. An instant later he opened his eyes and stared back. Those eyes were washed out, pain stealing the color from them, but she could still see a strong hint of green.
She also smelled no taint on him. She was not sure what his smell was but it was pleasant and she relaxed. It was a silly thing to be able to do, smell some unknown scent on a person, but it had served her well over the years so she just accepted it. She still wondered why her father had recoiled from it though.
“Who are ye?” he asked.
“Bethoc Matheson. And ye?”
“Sir Callum MacMillan of Whytemont. There were some men . . .” he began as he quickly looked around. Worried that he had drawn her into his trouble.
“No one is here, sir. Just me and Margaret.”
“Margaret?”
“Mon! Mon!”
Bethoc sighed and patted her sister’s leg. “Aye, Margaret, ’tis a mon.”
“Ah, a bonnie wee lass. Greetings, wee Margaret.”
Bethoc sought to remain steady as Margaret bounced on her back. “Can ye be moved, sir?”
Callum struggled up until he was seated and slowly shook his head. “Leg is broken. Left one.”
