Cait tilted her head and studied him. “Yer list of enemies is quite long.”
He grunted as he finished his stew and placed it on the table next to Adair’s. He didn’t need her telling him that his list of enemies was long. His cattle were disappearing at an alarming rate, and no matter how many men he put on patrol, he couldn’t catch the bastards.
It didn’t help that his men were stretched thin—having either perished at Culloden or using their particular talents for Graham’s special mission. A few weeks ago Graham, the oldest and most respected clan chief, had gathered twelve clan chiefs in a secret meeting. Just the fact that they were together could have had them all arrested by the English. But they had come because every last one of them believed in Scotland and wanted to help their people. Graham’s idea was simple. He wanted men patrolling the roads of Scotland to protect their people from the bands of English soldiers roaming the countryside and wreaking havoc.
Rumor had it that after the Battle of Culloden, where the Scottish were summarily and embarrassingly defeated by the English, the Duke of Cumberland had ordered his English soldiers to kill any Scotsman they thought might be a threat, by means of dirks, daggers, or bayonets only. A brutal way to die, to be sure, and not the way for the English to endear themselves to the Scots.
Iain had been surprised that he’d been invited to the meeting, and the eleven other chiefs were just as surprised. But something had to be done. The English were running rampant through the countryside, killing men, raping women and children. Someone needed to protect the weak and defenseless.
“So ye think the cattle thief is MacGregor?” Cait asked.
“Probably,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is exactly something the MacGregor would do. He’s been a pain in my backside for years.”
The MacGregors and Campbells had been at odds for two generations, ever since Iain’s grandfather had offered the MacGregor chief sanctuary and then killed him in his sleep. It didn’t matter to the current MacGregor chief that Iain and his father had nothing to do with the murder. MacGregor continued to carry on the tradition of holding a grudge, forcing Iain to defend himself and his people at every turn. Scotsmen could be damn stubborn, and feuds lasted for generations. MacGregor was the perfect example. The country was falling apart, but to MacGregor, it was more important to be a thorn in Iain’s side than put the feud aside to fight a common enemy.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s ridiculous that Wallace MacGregor is still fixated on that old feud. The man is daft. Now more than ever, we need to band together and fight the English, no’ each other. I wish he wasn’t so hardheaded. Stealing cattle,” she muttered more to herself.
“I didn’t realize you were so emotional about this old feud,” Iain said, amused at her vehemence.
She shrugged. “I just think there are far more important things that we all should be working on together instead of fretting over a feud that happened over forty years ago.”
“I’m sure the fact that most Highlanders believe me a traitor has something to do with it.” Did she believe the talk of the other chiefs? Did she think him a traitor? Did it matter?
“So ye think other chiefs might be involved in the droving?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” But he wished like hell that he did know, because he was weary of losing cattle and worried about feeding his people during the coming winter.
Adair had drifted off during their conversation, and Cait leaned forward to touch the back of her hand to his flushed forehead. “Just as I thought. He’s running a fever.”
“Nay.” Adair, not as fast asleep as Iain had thought, cracked his eyes open and glared at Cait.
“Aye,” she said firmly.
“I want to go home,” Adair mumbled.
“No’ with a fever. Besides, that wound needs more healing.”
He struggled to sit up and Cait scowled at him.
“We’ve taken advantage of yer hospitality for too long,” Adair said.
“What? Ye don’t like the accommodations? Am I treating ye poorly?”
“Nay, but I’m taking yer bed and forcing ye to sleep on the settee—”
“Ye’ll stay, and that’s the final word. Now, the Campbell on the other hand—” She turned to Iain and he straightened, feeling he was about to be chastised. “There’s no reason for ye to stay. As ye can see, Adair is no’ going anywhere until I say so.”
Ever since he’d darkened her doorstep she’d been trying to get him to leave, and he’d stubbornly dug in his heels, insisting on staying when he was well aware that Adair would be fine without him. She didn’t like him, but her insistence that he leave was frustrating. And his own determination to stay was bewildering.
“We’ll revisit this in the morning,” Iain said. “If Adair doesn’t worsen, then I will leave and send someone to fetch him when you tell me he’s well enough to travel.”
Cait pursed her lips and looked like she was going to argue but then nodded and picked up their dishes.
“Rest,” she commanded Adair. “I’ll be back in a bit to change yer bandages.”
—
An hour later, Cait sat down in the comfortable chair in her sitting room and grabbed her bag of sewing. She’d checked on Adair and found that he still had a fever, but it hadn’t worsened, and he was both exhausted and angry that he was exhausted. She wasn’t willing to let him go home yet. She’d seen too many warriors claim they were well only to succumb to their injuries a few days later because they hadn’t given themselves enough time to heal.
