“No, I was not afraid.” His body stiffened, a burst of savage energy vibrating through the room. “I longed for them to take me. But I had a job to do.” Sighing, he came back to himself, his fury spent as quickly as it'd come.

“No, Ree, I wasn't afraid they'd take me. I was afraid for the others. They'd hundreds of lads in the camp by then, all well guarded.”

His eyes went distant, lost to some horrific reverie.

She was hesitant to speak for fear he might stop talking altogether, but even more so, she feared letting him sink too deeply into the pain of his memories. Finally, she asked, “What happened?”

“What happened,” he repeated, his tone flat. “Well, there was no help for it, of course. They were as good as slaves already. And so I went back to report.”

His words began to lag, and she reached for his hand in encouragement. Seeming bolstered by the gesture, he sighed deeply and continued, “I'd been told to keep to the trench road, through a place called Pirie Wood. But something told me to leave the path. Sure enough, I found an old barn. At first I congratulated myself on my great good luck.”

He shot her a self-mocking smirk. “The honorable scout would return with word of refuge. A roof overhead for our wounded… Fool. Do you ken what I found instead, Ree?”

She shook her head mutely, mesmerized and yet utterly terrified by how his tale might unfold.

“'Twas a damned barn full of Irish.”

Her eyes went wide with disbelief. “Irish?”

“Aye, 'tis true. Did you know the soldiers travel with their families? The men had gone off to skirmish, and damned if I didn't open the barn door to the sight of a dozen women and their bairns.”

“Good Lord,” she exclaimed, her voice finding strength. “They bring their babes into battle?”

“They bring them all.” He turned to face her on the bed, and the cold steadiness of his gaze chilled her. “And these women, they'd heard tell Cromwell was rounding up all the boys.”

“Oh… “ Marjorie couldn't imagine such terror. The last days of the wars had been distant to her, living in Aberdeen with her uncle. What would it be to squat with your children in a barn, praying to God to keep them safe and alive?

“They were mad with terror. Some of the boys were babes yet, and too young to be taken. But there were a handful of older lads… “

Marjorie held her breath. She'd thought she wanted his stories, but she didn't know anymore that she could hear them. What had she asked him to tell her? What had she asked of him, to remember it in the retelling?

He watched her. Curled on his side in the darkness, he looked so alone, nervous even, and in need of reassurance. Who had reassured him after Aidan? And then who'd been there for him after his mother had died, so shortly after?

He'd turned his back on Marjorie before, but she was there now, and the only thing she wanted was to share his burden. She could be the brave one, this time, for him. “Tell me, Cormac. You can tell me.” He nodded, and she imagined she saw his shoulders ease. “There were a few lads. They were… I don't know… nine?

Ten? About the same age Aidan had been.”

“Of course you'd want to help them.”

“It's true.” He nodded, replaying the memory in his mind. “But I think what really got me was that they were about the same age as my younger brother.”

“Declan,” she exclaimed. “Where was Declan, all that time? With you and Gregor at war, who was home to mind him?”

“Declan was home to mind Declan. Why do you think the villagers call us a pack of demons?” He cocked his mouth into a humorless smile. “Deck didn't get to foster away like other boys. He didn't have a mother to teach him manners and whatnot.”

“He hasn't seemed to suffer for it,” she said, recalling the odd manner in which Declan always seemed to be lost in thought. “I think he's quite bright, actually.”

“Aye, between my sisters and whatever books he could get his hands on, Deck's done just fine by himself. But you see why the sight of these boys touched me so. I couldn't see them taken.” It was obvious to her. “You couldn't allow it.”

“No, Ree. I couldn't. The pain of Aidan… it was too fresh.”

“And so you fought,” she concluded.

“Not at first. At first, I ran. I took the boys and hid them in the gorse.”

“It was a brave thing to do.”

“It was a fool thing to do.” He scrubbed at his face, as if he wished he could wipe his mind free of the memory.

“I should've taken them all.”

“All the women and children?” She sat up, astounded at the ridiculous notion. His plaid slipped down her chest, and she folded it back under her arms. “You couldn't have taken a barn full of Irish with you through the woods.”

“Aye, well, in any event, I didn't. I came back, and they'd been slaughtered.”

“Oh, dear God,” she blurted. He'd stated it so simply, was watching her so warily. Was this his great confession? Did he think this would frighten her from him? “Oh, Cormac.”

“Every last mother, every last babe, killed. Except for a few of the… “ He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving his head cradled in both hands. “I think a few of the older girls were missing. I can only imagine what came of them.”

“Maybe they got away.”

“And maybe I'll be the next Stuart king.” He looked at her, his eyes empty of emotion.

She knew better, though. His gaze might appear blank, but the flatness in his eyes stanched unbearable emotion.

He'd seen so much with those eyes, it broke her heart. A lad of fourteen had no business bearing such tragedy and such responsibility on his shoulders.

“What happened to the boys you'd hidden in the gorse?” They still hadn't gotten to the topic of his scars, and she dreaded his reply.

“The boys,” he said, his tone gone icy. “Well, I went back, of course. Straightaway. Some of Cromwell's men had found them; they were there still, rounding the Irish lads up, meaning to truss them like a drove of cattle. I lost my mind then. I'd taken the soldiers by surprise and managed to kill a few of them.” He tried to look away, but she slid her hand around his neck, the taut column of it hot under her palm.

He held her gaze, unspeakable sadness darkening his features. “I should've let them just have the boys. Maybe they'd be alive today. But the lads saw my fight, and fancying themselves men, they joined me. They were cut down, every last one.”

She cleared her throat, desperate for her voice not to crack. She would be strong for him. “And your arm?”

“Ah, yes, my arm.” He held it up, examining it in the moonlight. “I got this defending a lad. I was just a scout, you see. Thankfully I had a sword, but there was no shield to hand. I did the best I could, but my arm got in the way. Grazed by a redcoat blade.” He flexed his fist.

She took his hand and, with a kiss to the broad span of his palm, turned his arm to study the scars. “It's a stroke of luck that it wasn't sheared straight through.”

He grimaced. “Luck. My life seems to have been luck and more luck. Or perhaps it's that I'm bad luck for the ones I come near.”

“You can't say that, Cormac.”

He only shrugged.

“Where did you go after it all happened? What did you do?”

“Do? You wish to know what I did next? I ran, Ree. It was chaos. I saw the boys lying dead, I saw the soldiers'

ropes, and then I saw a path through the trees.” Words picking up pace, his story barreled on, unstoppable now. “I ran and ran. Because I didn't want to be taken. I'd thought I did. I thought I'd wanted to die. But you see, I didn't. I was too selfish. In that instant, all I wanted was to live, to be free. And it felt like a betrayal. Like I'd betrayed Aidan.”

“But you were only fourteen. Your brother never would've wanted you to suffer his fate.”

“We'll never know, aye?”

“No, Cormac. I know. Aidan loved you. He'd never have wanted you to be kidnapped or killed merely out of your own guilt.” The notion was preposterous. She slid closer to him on the bed, needing to convince Cormac, to make him see. “It was an impossible situation,” she insisted. “You were a child, against a troop of redcoats. You might as well have found a barn full of Irish, dead already. There was naught you could've done.”

“No,” he said, sounding wrung out. He'd been holding his story in for so long, the loosing of it had rendered him completely emotionally spent. “I should be dead. Those boys, at least, should be alive.”

“As forced laborers on a distant continent somewhere?”

“They could've been with Aidan,” he muttered. He shut his eyes, and only then did she see the exhaustion that had smudged them black.

She watched as sleep pulled him under, hoping it was dreamless, praying he'd exorcised his tale. It had devastated her, but rather than wanting to push it — and him — away as he'd feared she might, Marjorie wanted only to share his pain, to convince him, to absolve him.

She curled closer, longing to hold him tight. There was no shutting her out now.

Cormac had thought this was the thing that'd drive her away. Little did he know. His confession was what would bind her fast to him forever.

Chapter 24

This dream, again. Cormac's hips ground forward, his body searching for release. Marjorie's daydream hand circled him more firmly, moved with more intent. In the place between sleep and reality, he was only this: only wanting, and this hard, aching knot between his legs.

The sweetest of dreams.

An alarm sounded in a corner of his mind, how fragile this sleep. He moved slowly, carefully, holding on to his slumber. This fantasy of her hand on him was too erotic, too sweet a pleasure to forgo.