He turned his thoughts away from her pink cheeks. “I don’t want to believe it, but I think so.”
“Ye’ve made many enemies over the years. Do any of them despise ye so much they’d burn yer crops?”
The activity of the makeshift hospital swirled around them, but for Iain it was as if they were all alone. Such a strange sensation, this unexpected pull toward her.
“Do ye have everything ye need?” he asked.
“I brought my own salves, and the women have been providing bandages and extra sets of hands. Gavin has helped as well.”
“Gretchen is the housekeeper. Just let her know if you need anything. I need to get back to the field.”
She pulled at his sleeve and frowned down at his arm. “Ye’re hurt.”
He was surprised to see that his shirt had a burn hole in it, with a long strip of angry pink skin showing through the hole. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” She tugged on his sleeve to have him follow her, but he dug his heels in. “I need to dress the burn.”
“There’s no time. I have to get back to the field.”
She took a firmer hold on his sleeve and dragged him across the room. To his chagrin, he followed her.
“Ye leave that to fester and ye’ll have worse problems.” She pushed him onto a small bench that he felt sure he’d never seen before. “Roll yer sleeve up,” she commanded.
He complied, smiling inwardly as he did so. He enjoyed it when she became dictatorial. It amused him when so few things these days were amusing.
On her knees, she bent her head over his arm. Her red hair caught the light of the dozens of candles, streaking the fiery orange with gold. He half wondered if it would singe his fingers if he touched it. He leaned forward slightly and sniffed, wondering what she smelled like, but all he could smell was the pungent aroma of the salve she was smearing on his burn and the stink of the smoke that he felt sure would never leave his nostrils.
She wrapped his arm in a clean white bandage, then rolled his singed sleeve down. “Ye’re now free to return to the field, but please be careful.”
“Why, Cait, I’d almost think you were worried about my welfare.”
—
Cait stood at her small kitchen counter and kneaded her bread dough while she looked out her window at the peaceful view of the woods. Her horse, rarely ridden, was in the paddock, happily munching on grass after the frantic ride last night. A few chickens pecked about in the dirt. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping in the trees.
She was making four loaves of bread because Iain, Adair, and Gavin had eaten all of her bread over the past few days, and she suspected that she would get a group of hungry fugitives tonight.
The house was quiet. Black Cat was asleep on the floor in a patch of sunlight. Adair had left earlier in the day after Cait finally gave up and told him he could return to the big house but commanded him to rest.
She was alone, trying not to think of the last time she’d made bread while watching Iain chop wood. Occasionally, she found herself listening for Adair upstairs. But both men were gone, and that was all a good thing. She didn’t have to worry about Iain being present when Halloway appeared at her door, or feel guilty for turning Sutherland’s fugitives away.
Things were as they should be.
Well, almost.
She was going up to the big house later to check on the wounded, which meant she had to see Campbell, and she really didn’t want to face him again.
He troubled her on a deeper level. She didn’t like that he’d shaken up her safe world. She was doing her bit to help Scotland, and she definitely didn’t want Campbell sticking his nose into her activities.
She had no idea what side he was on. He spent a large amount of time with the English. He knew the Duke of Cumberland, the man who’d led the battle that had killed so many of her brethren. While other chiefs were fighting to keep their clans together and trying to stay out of the path of the English, Campbell didn’t seem worried about any of that.
And yet he had the unwavering loyalty of Adair, who had fought at Culloden on the side of the Scots and who didn’t like the English. And Cait couldn’t ignore that her John had been just as unwavering in his dedication to Campbell and just as supportive of the Scottish cause against the English. She’d always thought of Campbell as cold, but she’d seen the grief in his eyes when they’d spoken of John’s death.
She was beginning to doubt her long-held beliefs, and the anger she’d held so tightly was slowly melting. Suddenly, she remembered what John had always told her when she’d questioned his loyalty to Campbell: “Caitie, lass, things aren’t always what they seem to be.”
—
Silently, Cait stood by the door as Sutherland led a ragged group of people inside.
