She nodded, relieved to have something to do. She guided Donaldson’s horse into her paddock, finding it strange that she was taking care of his beast after she’d just killed him. Soon she found herself back in the cottage, looking around, feeling lost, and hurting all over.
Her mind was curiously blank, and the panic she should be feeling wasn’t there. She vaguely wondered what Rory was doing, but her mind couldn’t hold that thought for long before it floated away.
She didn’t want to hope, but she couldn’t help herself. What if Rory was right? Could she get away with killing an English soldier? Could she live with herself, knowing what she had done?
It was evening when Black Cat alerted her that someone was approaching. It had to be Rory. He hadn’t returned and she was becoming nervous. She peered out of the front window, and her heart did a little flip to see Iain riding up. She’d been anticipating and dreading this moment and stood in the middle of her sitting room, waiting for him. She’d come up with and discarded so many stories of what she could tell him. In the end she knew she couldn’t lie to him; she also knew that telling him would seal her fate.
He strode in. “Cait!” he called. He stopped short and stared at her, the light in his eyes fading to fury. “My God.”
Tears ran down her face, burning her cuts, her body shaking as she tried to hold in her sobs. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed him until she saw him.
“Who did this to you?”
Her lip trembled and she bit it, forgetting that it was cut. Pain shot through her face and she winced.
He approached her slowly, his gaze landing on every bruise, every cut. Gently, he lifted her hands and turned the palms up to look at the shredded skin. Tenderly, he kissed each palm. The look in his eyes was anything but gentle.
“Who did this?” he asked again.
“Donaldson.”
He stood there for a moment as if digesting that information. “I will kill him.”
“I already did.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
Her tears came faster. A sob escaped and she held out her arms. He quickly gathered her in and she collapsed against him, sobbing silently, well aware that there were four men in her cellar who could hear.
He rubbed her back, holding her firmly but not tightly enough to hurt. It felt so good to lean in to his strength and cry. She wasn’t sure what she was crying the most about—killing a man or the loss of the life she could have had with Iain.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
He pulled away enough to look down on her and wiped at her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “What are you apologizing for?”
“I killed a man,” she whispered. “An English soldier. They’re going to take me away.”
“No, they won’t. I won’t allow it.”
“Ye can’t stop it.” Iain might think he was above reproach with the English, but this was beyond his sphere of influence. The feeling of doom that had been building inside her blossomed. “I’m so sorry. I truly wanted us to have a life together.”
“Hush,” he said. “Stop talking like that. We’ll have our life together.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed even though it pained her raw palm. “Ikilledan English soldier.”
“He attacked you. You were defending yourself.”
“Ye think that matters to them? Ye have no idea what the English are really like.”
He searched her face but didn’t argue. “Tell me what happened.”
She told him as best she could, in disjointed sentences, between hiccups and tears. The more she talked, the more the mask fell across his features. His eyes darkened, and even though his touch was tender, his body was wound tight.
A soft knock on the door had both of them jumping. Cait put a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Their gazes locked. She was shaking so hard that she was sure her knees were knocking.
“I won’t let them take you,” he said fiercely.
There was another knock, followed by three quick raps.
