Highland Warrior, McCollum, Heather [carter reed .TXT] 📗

His arm moved around her shoulders, and he pulled her gently into his side. “There is no shame in grief. Tears let the poison of sadness out. Otherwise, it will fester inside, making ye act unwise.”

She turned her eyes up to him. Strength and hurt warred in the lines of his face. “Do you let your tears out, Joshua, Horseman of War?”

Joshua inhaled. “My emotion bleeds out of me in rage more often, but if my brothers or sister were taken away, struck down by illness or a blade, I would surely weep. To refuse to do so would harm me even more.” He nodded, glancing behind them. “But I understand. I, too, hide my rage and sorrow if possible.” He pulled her into him, both arms circling her. She settled her face against his chest and let him hold her. “Ye need to let them out, Kára. I will carry your tears to my grave.”

Joshua Sinclair was strength and acceptance. He asked nothing of her but stood there letting her grieve without judgment. She relaxed into him and felt the hotness of her tears flow freely out against him. He did not stroke her but held her as if he were a boulder for her to cling to while a river flowed viciously around her, wanting to sweep her away in the current. Her arms dropped to wrap around his waist, the faces of her mother, father, and sister rising up behind her squeezed eyes, pushing the tears out.

He stood there without comment. He did not try to fix the unfixable or soothe when he knew the sorrow must come out. Joshua Sinclair was safe, apart from her world, someone who did not look on her as an example. He was not someone who needed her to be strong. For long moments, she wept, letting the venom flow out from her until the tension in her shoulders and arms ebbed.

When she opened her eyes against his soaked tunic, the sun was down. How long had he held her? She stepped back, and he kept his hands on her upper arms as she wiped her damp cheeks. Perhaps he worried she would step backward off the cliff or that the wind would carry her away. Sometimes she felt like it would if she did not always fight to remain rooted to the land.

“We should go to the fires,” she said with a big inhale. The music had started in the background, a merry tune to lift the spirits of the living as they remembered the spirits of the dead.

She gazed up into his face. It was as strong as ever, the fire casting splashes of light against it with the shadows. “I think we could both use a nip of whisky,” he said, his brows raising in question.

She smiled. “Aye.” She glanced away from him toward the dark blue sky over the sea. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. Melding them together. She looked at it for a moment. It was intimate. In some ways more so than when they’d rolled around in her den tupping.

She almost pulled her hand away but then stopped. Instead, she slid her hand farther into place and curled her fingers inward, so their palms were warm against each other. They walked together toward the fires.

Chapter Twelve

“A kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the

dead ever be brought back to life.”

Sun Tzu – The Art of War

Normally, Samhain was a raucous festival, but with the recent abduction of their leader, Erik, and the many deaths over the past year, the smiles were subdued. No one danced, although many swayed and drank from tankards. But their eyes turned often to the night falling across the landscape outside the circle of the three bonfires, as if to see wolves sneaking up on them, wolves in the uniforms of men, riding for the Stuarts.

They moved to the fires where one of the elders, Corey Muir, organized the line of children to walk between for their blessing. “First the babes with their mothers,” he called. “Then the children. Hold hands,” he said, pointing to the line of lads and lasses. “Aye, like that,” he said, smiling encouragingly. “Follow the one in front of you.”

Joshua watched the lines weave around the three fires, Pastor John praying nearby. Next came the young lasses. “I better go through,” Kára said, stepping away from him. He watched her pale gold hair as it lay in waves over her back like moonlit water on a windblown loch. She caught up with some other women, about ten in all, as they walked through. Overall, he counted about twenty women and about thirty-five men. Even if the women fought, leaving the mothers of bairns and elderly at home, they would still be slaughtered by Robert’s men if he led them to attack.

I could teach them how to break through the defenses I taught the Stuarts. Joshua ran both hands down his face. Bloody hell. He’d trained one group and now he was considering how to train another to get around the first. He truly was an apocalyptic Horseman of foking War.

I should have stayed in Caithness. He could be helping his brother, Cain, rule the three clans under Sinclair in peace. Leave Orkney. He could travel back with Pastor John, ensuring his safety.

It had been his plan all along, to adventure in other places, using his talents and knowledge of war to help people. But so far all he had done was create more misery in the world. He should leave now. In the morning. But Kára… She’d trusted him enough to let him see her tears. Could he abandon her?

He exhaled long. “Fok,” he murmured.

“Not as jolly as your Samhain back home?” Calder asked from behind.

Joshua glanced back at him. “Ye have