Campbell's Redemption Read online

  Campbell’s Redemption is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Cullen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101964903

  Cover design: Carrie Divine

  Cover photographs: Hot Damn Stock (couple), BackgroundStor (Mariusz Krukowski)/Depositphotos.com (background)

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Sharon Cullen

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  BORDER OF CAMPBELL AND SUTHERLAND LAND

  JULY 1746

  Cait Campbell stood outside her front door, hands folded calmly in front of her, but her heart was thundering as heavily and quickly as the hoofbeats pounding their way toward her.

  Black Cat wound around Cait’s legs, peeking out from beneath the skirts to check the dark lane leading to the cottage.

  Two horses were riding toward Cait as if the demons of hell were chasing them.

  Luckily, Brice Sutherland had departed not a half hour ago, after leaving Scottish fugitives who were on the run from the English who were hunting them. They were now hiding under the floor of her cottage.

  The horses rounded the turn, and her shoulders dipped in relief to see that the riders weren’t English redcoats. Highland warriors were bowed low over the necks of their straining mounts. One wore the kilt of the Campbell clan, his long dark hair flying behind him, the muted blue and green of his kilt flapping in the wind. The other…

  Cait drew in a sharp breath and released an even sharper curse. The other wore a long leather coat that fluttered behind him, revealing buff breeches and a white shirt.

  Iain Campbell, leader of her clan.

  Cait squared her shoulders, clutched her fingers together, and tried to appear serene despite the fact that her heart was hammering.

  The horses slid to a halt in front of her, tossing their heavy heads and snorting their displeasure.

  Iain slid off his mount and tossed the reins over the saddle. Cait flicked a glance at his partner, who was pale as the moonlight, with a thin layer of sweat beading his brow as he labored to breathe.

  Iain helped Adair Campbell, commander of the Campbell warriors and apparently injured, off the horse. “We need your help,” Iain said in the clipped tones that blended Lowland Scots and northern English.

  Adair was leaning forward, his arm protecting his middle. She could see from the blood staining his shirt that he’d been either shot or stabbed.

  She was reluctant to let these two into her home. It was well known that she was not a friend of the Campbell, and if he discovered the fugitives hiding under the floor, she would expose Sutherland’s secret underground movement to whisk the most wanted of Scotland’s fugitives out of the country, thereby putting her life in danger and ruining any chance of the fugitives escaping.

  But what choice did she have? She was the local healer, and as such, her door was always open to those in need. It would seem churlish and raise suspicion to turn them away.

  But dear Lord, why tonight? Why couldn’t Adair have gotten hurt tomorrow night, when her cottage would be empty?

  “Follow me.” She turned on her heel, not bothering to wait and see if they obeyed. As she walked through her small sitting room, she quickly glanced to the corner. The shadows concealed the small padded chair that perched over the secret door leading to the steps beneath her cottage where seven Scotsmen, running from the blades of the English, were hiding. Eventually, if all went well, they would secretly board a ship to take them to Canada, a place safe from the brutality of the English, where they would have a second chance at life.

  Campbell paused in the doorway, Adair’s arm draped over his shoulder. Dark, assessing eyes took in her small cottage. She turned her back to Iain and reached into a cabinet for supplies. Her house wasn’t as grand as the one she and John had lived in three years ago, when John was Campbell’s commander. Iain would be noting that for sure, and she steeled herself against the bitterness that swept through her. Not because she was living in a far humbler abode but because she was so much alone, her husband and daughter lying beside each other in cold graves.

  She pushed away the wave of grief. It was always like this when she was forced to face Iain Campbell. The grief and anger returned, even though it had been four years since he had come to tell her that her husband was dead.

  She flipped her hand toward one of two straight-backed chairs pushed up against her small kitchen table. “Put him there.”

  There was much shuffling behind her and finally a grunt of pain as Adair dropped into the chair. He slumped forward, one arm still hugging his middle. Campbell stood behind him, bracing him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “We were attacked by rievers while patrolling the perimeter.”

  Their gazes locked, memories bouncing between them. This scenario was all too familiar to the two of them, and Cait hated that. Different kitchen. Different house. Same basic scene.

  Her husband, John, and Campbell had been out patrolling when they were attacked by enemies. Only John ended up dead.

  She tore her gaze from Campbell’s. “Dagger, dirk, bayonet, or pistol ball?” she asked, ignoring the quaver in her voice.

  “Pistol ball.”

  Bloody hell. This would be no quick fix and might require that Adair stay the night.

  She knelt in front of Adair. He was a big man. Muscular. A warrior. Just like her John and every Campbell commander before them. But Adair was dark to John’s light. He’d been promoted into the position after John’s death. She’d not had much contact with him because she had moved away from the big house occupied by Campbell.

  Adair was looking at her with surprisingly bright blue eyes. His face had lost all color, and drops of sweat dotted his brow.

  “Ye’ll have to pull yer arm away,” she said.

  He gritted his teeth and moved his arm in slow, jerky movements.

  Cait had seen a lot of wounds in her time as a healer. This was not one of the worst she’d seen, but neither was it minor. The midsection of his shirt was soaked in bright red blood, as was the arm that had been protecting the wound.

  “I’ll need more light.” A lantern ap
peared at her side, and she lifted it to get a better look. “The shirt is stuck to the wound.”

  She glanced up at Iain, who was watching her with dark, impenetrable eyes. His expression never revealed his thoughts, which was always disconcerting to her. John had said that he buried his emotions, but Cait wasn’t certain the man possessed any emotions.

  “I’ll need water. Warm is best. There’s a ewer on the counter. Place it by the fire to warm it.”

  To her surprise, the great clan leader immediately did as she instructed.

  “We’ll need to move ye,” she said to Adair. “Ye’ll need to be lying down for this.”

  Adair tried to rise but fell back on the chair with a groan. Cait shoved her shoulder under his arm, taking his hand and draping it across her back. “On the count of three, we’ll rise. One…two…” Adair tensed. “Three.”

  She braced herself to take Adair’s full weight, rising slowly so as not to jar him. She got him standing, but he was swaying precariously, and she wasn’t certain she could keep him standing if he decided to fall.

  “Ye’ll need a bed. Can ye manage the stairs?”

  “Aye.”

  “Let’s go, then.” She’d patched up enough warriors to know not to baby them. Besides, it wasn’t in her nature to baby her patients. Being honest about what she was doing and direct in her approach worked much better.

  They made it two steps before Adair’s legs gave out. She tucked her shoulder more snugly under his arm and propelled him forward. After another two steps, Campbell was on Adair’s other side, and Cait was glad for the help.

  “We’re going upstairs,” she said. Thoughts of getting them out of here quickly were long gone; now she needed to get the two warriors away from the fugitives beneath their feet as quickly as possible. Her plan was to fix Adair and send Campbell home. Any noise Adair might hear could be marked up to deliriousness from a fever or the effects of the concoction she was about to give him.

  With Campbell’s help, they made it up the stairs and to her bedroom, where Adair very ungracefully fell back on the bed with a moan. Cait pulled up his shirt, mindful of the threads that had fused to the wound.

  “I’ll fetch the water,” Campbell said, and disappeared back down the steps.

  The wound wasn’t as bad as she had thought. The ball was not buried too deep, and she could dig it out.

  Campbell reappeared with the water, and Cait began to cleanse the wound. “There are cups on the shelves in the kitchen. On the top shelf is a bottle of whiskey, next to that is the honey. I’ll need all three.”

  When Campbell didn’t move, she looked up to find him watching her, one corner of his lips slightly crooked up.

  “Well? What are ye waiting for?”

  Campbell disappeared down the steps again, and Cait bit back a grin to think that she had the upper hand with this man. No doubt Campbell wasn’t used to being commanded—especially by her—but he was taking it admirably well. John would have shaken his head at her mettle, but he also would have grinned with her.

  Campbell returned with the supplies she’d requested.

  “Pour the whiskey and make him drink it.”

  “Nay,” Adair said.

  “Aye,” Cait said. “This will be painful, and ye’ll need it.”

  “Nay.” Adair turned his pain-drenched glare to Campbell. “I won’t befuddle my mind.”

  “Do as she says,” Campbell said to him, and managed to get Adair to drink enough that his head was lolling to the side and his eyes were drifting closed by the time Cait started fishing for the ball in his gut.

  “His tolerance is normally much better than that,” Campbell said.

  “The loss of blood decreases the tolerance. Bring the light this way.”

  Immediately, Campbell raised the light, and Cait had hold of the ball after only two tries.

  Campbell continued to hold the light while she smeared honey over the wound and stitched it closed.

  “Why honey?” Campbell asked.

  “It stops the wound from putrefying.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He didn’t sound like he disbelieved her, just was curious.

  “I learned it from a woman in my village.” She sat back and ran the back of her hand across her brow. “Finished.”

  “You did well,” Campbell said.

  She stood and stretched her aching back. “He’ll rest comfortably for a few hours. I’ll sit with him through the night. Ye can go home now and get some rest.”

  “I can’t have you nursing my commander all alone.” He grinned, but she shook her head.

  “Ye need to leave, Iain. I do no’ want ye here.”

  Chapter 2

  Cait Campbell stared at Iain Campbell with snapping green eyes and a mutinous jaw thrust forward. She didn’t like him.

  In fact, she despised him.

  It wasn’t a surprise. He’d known for years. From the moment he had to tell her that John was dead, she’d despised him.

  When he was around her, he despised himself, and although it made him a coward, it was one of the reasons he stayed away from her. He’d never admit out loud that the guilt of John Campbell’s death still hung heavily on his heart. He kept his guilt to himself.

  But when Adair was wounded in a short skirmish with the damn raiders who had been stealing Campbell cattle, Iain hadn’t thought twice about where to bring him. Cait was known throughout the area for her healing ways. For certain she hadn’t been pleased to see him, but she’d reluctantly helped, as he’d known she would. But even he was a bit surprised that she was so unceremoniously tossing him out of her home.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’ll stay.” He was her chief, after all. He had the right.

  “Nay.” She lifted her chin, those icy green eyes piercing him. “This is my home, and ye are no’ welcome.”

  There were few places in Scotland where he was welcome, and normally, he didn’t mind. But tonight he minded.

  “I’m not leaving my commander alone.”

  Her back went rigid. “Ye don’t trust me with him?”

  He waved his hand in the air. “Of course I do. You’re the best healer in these parts. Trust has nothing to do with it.”

  “Ye can come back in the morning. Naught will happen tonight but that he’ll sleep and I’ll check his wound in a few hours.”

  Iain looked around the small but tidy room for a chair to sit in and wasn’t surprised to find none. The room consisted of a bed big enough for one person—one short person—a bureau, and a washstand. A few small carpets were scattered about the dust-free plank floor.

  “I’ll just bring a chair up from the kitchen—”

  “No.”

  He sighed and looked at her. “Cait—”

  “Ye’re no’ staying.” Her eyes glistened, and he wasn’t a fool to think the unshed tears were of sadness. She was angry. Maybe he should have confronted this anger long ago, but he was a coward in a lot of ways when it came to Cait Campbell.

  “I’ll sleep in the barn, where I’ll be close in case you need me.”

  “There is no’ one scenario that I can think of that would make me need ye.”

  He tilted his head and felt amusement ripple through him. “Nevertheless—”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Nevertheless, ye’re staying.” She blew a piece of red hair out of her eyes and glared at him.

  “I am.”

  She considered him for a long time while he stood waiting and watching. It felt as if his heart had a small tear in it, a place that burned with regret and grief for things that had happened long ago that he could never change or make right.

  John had been his best friend, the only man Iain trusted implicitly. John’s death had left a hole inside of Iain for a time, but eventually, that hole had healed. Or at least that was what he told himself. Seeing Cait made him think twice on that. It was strange seeing her without John. Strange and sad.

  “Very well,” she said, her shoulders sud
denly drooping as if large hands had pushed them down. “But ye’ll bunk in the barn.”

  “If you’ll allow me to bring up a chair…”

  She shot him a dark look. “The barn.”

  —

  Slightly amused and slightly confused, Iain settled into the barn’s hayloft, listening to the soft lowing of the milking cow and the rustling of his and Adair’s horses as they munched on well-deserved oats. He wasn’t surprised to discover that the barn was very clean and well kept. He remembered that about her, that she was fastidious and cleanly. He wondered who helped her with the chores. Did she bring in her own firewood? Chop it herself? Muck the stalls? Strangely enough, he could picture her doing all of that and didn’t like the image of her relying only on herself, all alone at the edge of Campbell land.

  He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the moonbeams filtering through the slatted ceiling while his mind wandered back to that fateful night—a place he rarely let his thoughts go.

  They’d been riding across Campbell land, he and John, having come from the far northern border to check on cattle and visit the few tenants who lived out that way. He remembered it being a fair day, the sun shining, clouds absent. The pistol shot came from nowhere, the sound reverberating through the trees, silencing the birds, making the small animals in the underbrush scurry away.

  His mount had shied, and it had taken some effort to bring it under control. Cursing, Iain had looked around wildly for the shooter, thinking it was a hunter gone astray. It was a few moments before he realized that John was no longer seated on his mount but lying on the hard-packed dirt, gurgling with his last breaths.

  Iain had dropped down beside him, realizing immediately that there was no hope for his friend. The pistol ball had pierced his throat.