Page 17 of Reviving Her Highland Spirit

“Aye, Rufus. I hear ye.”

* * *

Rufus had brewed up some tea in expectation of Callum’s visit. Callum had no idea what it was. It tasted bitter and unpleasant as if it had been well over-steeped. It probably had, really.

The inside of the cottage was no better than the outside. The cottage was made up of only one room, with a curtain bisecting the space into a bedroom and a living space. The “bedroom” was little more than a corner of the room, large enough to contain the pile of blankets on a straw mattress that served as Rufus’ bed. Old cottages like this were very primitive and were mostly abandoned out here in the woods after their inhabitants had gone to the open spaces and into the villages to live.

Not Rufus, though. Callum had heard the story over and over again. He could almost see the scene in his head. James McAlister, looming above a younger, cringing Rufus, telling him to leave on pain of death. A lifetime of exile and a dead mother. That was what Rufus had left keep McAlister with, that and the clothes on his back.

When he was younger, Callum had shivered to hear the story. Rufus had told it every night, and Callum had had nightmares about James McAlister. He’d been a little disappointed to find that the subject of his nightmares was a handsome middle-aged man with a clever wife, aging gracefully and doting on his children.

He’s still a monster, though. He still deserves to be punished.

The tea was steeping in a cauldron propped over the fire. There were only two seats in the whole place, both wobbly, creaky stools. The darker wood stool was always Callum’s, and Rufus gestured for him to sit.

Callum sat down carefully, trying not to spill his hot, bitter tea on himself. There was a hint of fennel in this tea. Callum hated fennel. He tried not to care that Rufus hadn’t bothered to remember. He had to remind himself that Rufus had more important things on his mind.

Rufus took his time speaking. He was a quiet man, as far as Callum could tell. He rarely smiled. Had he ever smiled? There was a long scar running from the edge of his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, making a little nick in his upper lip. The scar was mostly covered by a patchy growth of a red beard. Callum had grown his beard when he was old enough, in an attempt to copy the man he came to consider a father.

Not that he’d ever actually called Rufus father, though. When he tried - and he had tried, when he was young - Rufus had only smiled and corrected him.

But that didn’t bother him. Callum knew that deep down - even if he didn’t say it - Rufus looked at Callum as a son, just as much as Callum looked at Rufus as a father.

Yes, Callum believed that. Even if Rufus never hinted at that, Callum just knew that was how he felt.

Callum wrapped his fingers around the steaming, chipped mug and cleared his throat. He immediately regretted that. He was used to the chatter and laughter of the keep now, and couldn’t properly appreciate Rufus’ silence anymore.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

“I see ye are already infected by the impatience of the McAlisters,” Rufus said coolly, pouring a generous ladleful of tea for himself.

“I’m sorry,” Callum said humbly. “It’s very noisy there.”

“Aye, I’m sure. So, what news?”

Callum swallowed. “Not much news yet.”

Rufus raised a gingery eyebrow. He had dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were as bright and focused as always. “No news? None at all? Ye have been at keep McAlister for months, and nothing?”

“It’s going tae take time for them tae trust me, Rufus. I’m just a stable boy. If I were a groom, maybe I could do more. They barely even talk tae me about their gossip. It’s infuriating. I need more time, Rufus.”

Rufus pressed his lips together. “I’ve wasted enough time, Callum. A lifetime, in fact. Have ye forgotten what the McAlisters did tae me? Tae us?”

Callum stared down at the cloudy green depths of his tea. “No, Rufus, of course not.”

Rufus sighed, raking a hand through his thinning red hair, and sank down onto the stool opposite Callum. He was painfully thin, Callum noticed. The wrapped cloth of food that Callum had brought sat untouched on the hearth. It wasn’t much - just a pie, a leg of chicken, and a few jam tarts. But Callum knew what Rufus ate. He’d eaten it too when they lived out here. Berries, mushrooms, whatever animals they could trap in the forest - mostly rabbits - and whatever vegetables they could steal from farms close enough to walk to.

It was a starvation diet. Rufus always said that it didn’t matter, that it was good to stay hungry. They needed to stay focused on their goal. On their revenge.

“James McAlister killed my mother,” Rufus said quietly. “Right in front of me. She was murdered, just like your father. Ye remember that, don’t ye, Callum?”

Callum closed his eyes, remembering his father’s white, dead face in front of him. Memories at five years old were supposed to be vague and blurry, but this one was as crisp and vivid as ever, as if he were seeing it right before his eyes.

“Aye,” he murmured. “I remember.”

“They ruined me, Callum. Threw me out of my keep, out of my lands, and forbade me to return. It was my birthright, that my mother won for me. Sometimes I wish that he’d just killed me,” Rufus gave a short, mirthless laugh. He glanced sideways, looking into the meager flames. Somehow, fire hardly seemed to give off enough warmth in the cottage. Callum had never noticed that, not until he went to the keep.

That is because they have great, greedy fires in their fireplaces, he told himself sternly. Don’t lose focus.