‘Nothing so simple. We will head back to the shop and purchase some petticoats as a start. Callum will be your slave, trust me. Take your time and throw him a bone now and then, a touch here, a kiss there. He will soon swallow his pride and come running back.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Callum stared at the flames licking up the chimney in the great hall. He was on fire with anger and bitterness, and, worst of all, desire. He nursed a whisky in his hand, feeling Tara’s dark eyes on him.
‘I see they have made great inroads into planting wheat in the upper fields,’ she offered into the void of silence between then.
‘Aye. We make good progress there at least,’ he replied, and the silence thickened.
These last few days, his wife always seemed to be watching him, seeking him out for advice about some minor issue or other. He would always rush away before his bitterness got the better of him. How he hated Tara’s pity, for he was sure that was her reason for seeking his company and counsel. She felt guilty for hurting his feelings and wanted to make amends, but he could not swallow his pride enough to heal the breach. And he did not want to give in to his desire and take her to bed, for she was sure to let him. If he did, he would just face more humiliation.
Tara gave him a timid smile, and Callum’s heart softened a little. He almost rose to go over to her when Greaves rushed in, all breathless urgency.
‘Laird, an attack. Up at Scathell.’
‘When?’
‘A rider just came in like the furies. A barn is ablaze, and a herd of sheep killed, shot or sliced and left for dead, and there’s worse.’
‘What man? Spit it out.’
‘We’ve lost a clansman, Laird, and two were injured.’
Callum paced in a fury. ‘Damn these fiends. Rally the men at once. And Greaves, tell them to arm themselves to the hilt. I am not resting until these men are dealt with.’
Callum rushed off to his chamber and strapped on his claymore. He already had his dirk as it never left his belt. He took up two loaded muskets and stuck them in his belt as thunder rumbled against Raigmoor’s walls. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky had darkened.
‘Must you go yourself? Can you not send the men?’ Tara stood in the doorway, all softness and concern.
‘These men have invaded, murdered, thieved on my land. They have taken from me and pillaged what I hold dear. They will take no more,’ he shouted.
Tara flinched but stood firm. ‘Send the others, fetch help from our neighbours, but do not go off alone.’
‘I am not alone. I have my clansmen. And I need no help to stamp out these vermin. I have brought them out into the open, and now they have made a mistake, been too bold. So when I will catch them, there will be no mercy.’
‘Do you mean to do violence this night, Callum?’ she said, and her wide-eyed innocence just fuelled his frustration.
‘I will not roll over for these bastards and cower behind Raigmoor’s walls. And aye, violence will be done, and blood will spill this night. It is not wise to be soft with these people, for they will eat you alive. You do not understand, being from the south.’
‘I understand that it is not wise to act in haste. This villainy tonight could be a trap to draw you in.’
‘If we wait to summon aid, the bastards will be long gone by the time it comes. I am done with being patient. It is time to take the fight to them.’
Tara blocked his path as he tried to rush out. ‘I do not want you to throw your life away, Callum.’
‘I’m sure you can find a way to live without me if I do,’ he said bitterly. ‘Now get out of my way.’
***
The smoke plume from the burning barn rose into the sky behind them. Its acrid tang assaulted Callum’s nostrils even though he had ridden several miles past Scathell Farm, following the trail of men who had brought death and destruction to the green, steep-sided valley. The ten clansmen behind him were good riders, their sturdy highland ponies clinging to the grassy slopes like goats. The wind was at their backs, and outrage spurred them on.
The bloodied corpse of a clansman with his wife and children weeping over him had hardened Callum’s determination. He would not stop until the men responsible were dead. He could sense they were close, and a shouted command from the trees up ahead, not quite taken by the wind, gave them away. Callum did not pause. He kicked his horse and galloped full pelt into the trees.
He burst into a small clearing where some men were gathered on foot, resting their horses. He guessed their number at six. One was pissing against a tree while shouting orders over his shoulder, and another was bloodied and tying a bandage around his upper arm.
Callum’s horse crashed in on them, and they had no time to react or get back on their horses. He cut down the injured man in one sweep of his claymore, and the others scattered in all directions. Callum gave chase to the man who had been pissing, but he was fast, speeding through the ferns and fallen branches that littered the forest floor.
Callum’s prey began to tire just as lightning illuminated the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder. Then the heavens opened, and torrential rain began to fall, soaking everything. The forest became deafening as the downpour worsened, overlaid with the clang of swords behind him, and the light was sucked from the day by the storm.