A Year and a Day Read online

  A Year and a Day

  Second Edition

  By Stephanie Sterling

  A Year and a Day

  Copyright © 2012 by Stephanie Sterling.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For Julie, who didn’t think it was dumb.

  -S.

  Ewan Cameron was not expecting heaven to smell so much like bacon.

  Truth be told, Ewan Cameron was not expecting heaven at all, but when the MacLeod axed had fallen and he’d tumbled off his horse, the last words on his lips were a prayer. Apparently, it had done a bit of good.

  He was not writhing in a pit or burning in brimstone and fire. The temperature was warm, but pleasant, and he was lying very still. There weren’t any choirs of angels either. Finally, the approaching patter of footsteps convinced him that he just might be alive after all.

  He tried to turn his head, but couldn’t, and felt a flare of panic. It subsided when he heard a familiar voice:

  “Saints be praised!” The soft, clipped syllables of an Englishwoman caressed his ears, “Muira! He’s awake!”

  With effort, Ewan managed to part his lids, although the action cost him. A searing pain shot through his head from a sudden burst of light, and when the glare faded, his vision was oddly dim.

  Still, he didn’t let his lids slip closed again. His eyes appeared to be the only part of his body that he could control, and so he used them to focus on the source of the voice: Cait Everleigh. Raised much of her life in Engand, she was nothing more than one of the serving girls in the castle, but also a lifelong friend. Seeing Cait meant that he was home. That knowledge soothed away a portion of his pain.

  Cait settled beside him, perching on the edge of the mattress so that she could stretch across his broad frame. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but a cool cloth was pressed against his head, and then he felt a warm ooze spread over his skin as if she’d lifted a bandage.

  “Barely a trickle,” she spoke in a tone of plain relief. “Well it’s a good thing after all, Ewan Cameron, that your head is as thick as a wall!”

  Ewan blinked at the remark. He would have laughed if he could have spared the effort, but he could not. Thick as a wall indeed, he thought, although at the moment he was wishing he didn’t have a head at all. I’m sure that the lobsterbacks would be pleased to arrange it. The thought came, unbidden from the back of his mind. Then, a flood of memories came too.

  It was years since they’d gone raiding on the borders they shared with the MacCraes. Ewan’s sister, Muira, had married the young Laird Lachlan Macrae a half-dozen years before, bringing an end to their families’ feud. Still, it was a valuable training exercise-one that the younger men (many of them not so young as to have forgotten that they were raised to hate MacCraes) liked to embark upon with or without the blessings of their clans. Laird Cameron and Laird MacCrae had reached an understanding on the issue. As long as the looting and rustling didn’t fall too heavily on either side, the harmless pranking would be ignored. It had recommenced again with gusto on both sides. Deep within the highlands, the clans were insulated from the English threat. They were getting bored. Even Ewan couldn’t resist the temptation to go and have a little fun.

  He hadn’t been alone that night. His younger brother James had with him, along with Hamish and Donaid, the sons of the Laird. A few of their friends had tagged along as well as they rode through the night, finding as much use for tankards and wenches as they did for their pistols or dirks. They’d all been a touch more than drunk when they arrived back at the Gilkurn pass-the crossroads boundary between the clans. Towing a string of three fine cows and a bellowing drinking songs at the top of their lungs they hadn’t noticed anything out of place-at least, not until the first shot was fired.

  It hit Donaid square in the chest. Ewan’s horse reared back as warm blood splattered on beast and rider both. That was probably what had saved his life. He’d moved just a fraction out of range from the blade that was making for his skull, so it clipped him, rather than slicing through. He was knocked from the animal. He fell. The next thing he remembered was waking up again in his bed.

  “Jamie!” he moved his lips to shout his younger brother’s name, but sound refused to come. Noting his distress, Cait lifted a glass of water to his lips. “Jamie!” he managed to rasp at last.

  Cait bobbed her head, “Aye, your wee brother’s fine,” she answered.

  “D-Donaid?” he continued.

  This time, Cait didn’t answer.

  There were many other things that Ewan wanted to ask, but speaking only the two words had nearly wrung him out.

  “Sleep now,” Cait whispered. It was the same as if she’d spoken a spell. His lids felt heavier than before, and he felt sleep wrapping around him once again. “We’ll talk more when you’re able,” she promised, her voice chasing him into dreams. The world faded into darkness, and then he knew no more.

  Cait lingered at Ewan’s bedside until his breathing grew steady and deep. Then she rose again. There were other patients at the castle who required her attentions-although none were granted the service with quite so much honest zeal.

  Ewan was awake…The simple fact of seeing his eyes flutter open, of hearing his voice, was enough to earn a prayer of thanks. She’d nearly died when she’d seen him carried, stiff and bloody, through the gates. Ewan Cameron was what made her life worth living-although she kept that secret to herself.

  Cait thought it would be ungracious to lament her lot in life. She had a warm bed to sleep in and food enough to keep her belly full. She had kind friends and a clan that claimed her-despite her southern accent and English ways-any yet she’d never been able to stop the yearning for something more.

  She didn’t mind being a servant. It was in some ways better than she’d expected or deserved when she’d been presented at the castle door. Her mother was the old Laird’s daughter who’d run away when she was young. She’d discovered the hard way that an English officer’s promises didn’t hold when one moved South of Hadrian’s wall. Despite her sacrifice of family and reputation, Grainne Cameron had been left with nothing but a little daughter and a stack of debts. She abandoned them both in Plymouth and sailed south with a new lover to France. From that day forward, Cait had been forced to live by her wits.

  She’d been luckier than most. She hadn’t been on the streets for more than a week, and was hungry but not yet desperate, when a kindly sea captain had recognized the scrap of tartan that she wrapped around her hair. He’d sailed from Skye the year before and had heard a bit of the Cameron clan. A Scotsman himself-although a lowlander-he’d been moved by the plight of a little lassie left on her own. Employing her in the ship’s kitchens, he’d offered her passage to Scotland, and found a friend to see her all the way to the seat of her clan. She’d presented her story to the Laird. It had been accepted-and Cait finally found the only home she’d ever known.

  After a childhood drifting from boarding house to boarding house with her mother and her mother’s “friends”, life in the Scottish countryside had been idyllic. Cait loved the wide open spaces and the scent of heather on the air. She loved her tiny but comfortable room, and the sounds of the castle routine that went on morning, noon and night. Muira Cameron, the Laird’s niece, had been her first real friend. Muira’s brother, Ewan, had been her first-and only-love.

  How could she help but love him? She wondered. Looking back, her reasons were perfectly clear. He was strong, intelligent, dashing, handsome. That was only the beginning of an endless list. In simpl
e terms, Ewan was perfect. Cait couldn’t be convinced of anything else.

  Of course, she knew that there was no hope in all her daydreams. For one thing, she was far from the only woman in the clan who had noticed Ewan’s appeal. He was the nephew of the Laird, and a respected captain on his own. Cait was only an impoverished orphan, who couldn’t possibly aspire to such an exalted match. When they were younger, it hadn’t seemed to matter so much. They had flirted. Her heart had thrilled to each wink and every whisper that he addressed to her. She’d almost believed that she was wanted-but of course, it had all came to naught. Ewan concentrated on fighting, and Cait concentrated on work. That was simply how things were.

  When Muira left Castle Cameron, Cait’s status had immediately dropped. Deprived of the position of “companion” there was nowhere to go but down. She’d ended as a chamber maid. Although it was degrading, it was bearable because of him.

  Every afternoon, when all of her other tasks were done, Cait went to tidy Ewan’s room. Sometimes, he was there. Those were the most cherished moments of her day. In his chamber, she saw the Ewan that the lasses making eyes at supper, and the married ladies fishing for trouble, couldn’t imagine existed beneath the surface of his handsome skin. He told her about the battles he’d been in and about the castles that he’d seen. Cait told him about the cities in the South-about opera and theater, bustling street markets and other things that he’d only read about in books. He always seemed pleased to see her. Sometimes she had the impression that he had lingered in his room on purpose, waiting for her to come. Those feelings, whether or not they were even true, were enough. She knew that Ewan would never love her, but there no rule against loving him back!

  The second time that Ewan awoke, his mind was clearer. The room around him was dark, but he recognized it as his own. He also recognized the woman asleep beside him in a chair. Cait he thought, and a surge of warmth rushed through his heart. Sweet, loyal Cait-the maid who scrubbed his room…only, she was more than that as well. Ewan wasn’t sure how he would classify his relationship with the girl

  Not really a girl now, he thought, taking advantage of her slumber to study her face. She had to be twenty-five at least. She was well past her maiden bloom but was still far too lovely to be the old maid that she’d become. It was a pity, he thought, that she hadn’t had a family of her own. He’d expected some man in the castle to snap her up-for her brains and industry if not her beauty-but none of the lads had tried to court her.

  That was a shame, he thought privately, and then remembered that he had very little room to talk. He was still a bachelor at thirty-although, not for a want of potential partners. Plenty of ladies in the castle had campaigned for that position-but none had caught his eye. He hadn’t considered their appeals before, but suddenly something had changed.

  Ewan was mostly a man of action, but still devoted hours to daydreams and critical thought. Lying in his bed, unable to move, the specter of his own mortality loomed large.

  Ewan had been wounded in battle before, but never so badly that he thought he might die. As he’d faded into unconsciousness, his last thought hadn’t been for his soul. It had been for his child - his son who didn’t yet exist.

  Ewan had always intended to get married-but with the same sort of urgency he felt when contemplating death itself. He knew that it would happen someday, and he wasn’t precisely afraid, but he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. Now he saw his mistake. He might never have left the pass. If he hadn’t, then there would have been nothing left-no Cameron to carry on his name and to mourn him when he was gone. Lying in the soft dirt, expecting death’s embrace, it had seemed a terrible waste. He’d been given a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. He wanted to be a father before the year was out.

  The only problem was finding a mother.

  It might not be so easy.

  Ewan didn’t doubt his personal appeal. If anything, he was a wee bit vain, but that didn’t mean prospects for the immediate future were good. He hadn’t spoken with a healer, and he was no great judge of wounds, but the fact that he still couldn’t wriggle his limbs without a shooting pain did not bode well. He could be laid up for weeks. That meant his only female visitor was likely to be his aunt-or his sister and his niece if they dared the trip from Castle MacRae.

  Ewan snorted in annoyance. The action had the effect of rousing his nurse. He watched from the corner of his eyes as she blinked several times, and then yawned and stretched her arms. It was nearly half a minute before she noticed his stare. She immediately dropped her arms and her cheeks took on a fetching flush.

  “You’re awake again,” she murmured, her voice husky and thick with sleep. The sound had a very curious effect on his body, which somehow felt the words like a physical touch. “Are you hungry?” Cait continued, half-yawning again. “You’ve been three days without food.”

  Ewan stared at her and didn’t answer. A thought had just entered his mind. Cait could have his baby! It wasn’t as if she had any other prospects waiting in line. She was pretty and she was pleasant and had hips wide enough to bear a healthy son. His lips turned up on the ends when he realized the perfection of his plan. Cait had been there all along!

  “Ewan, are you hungry?” Cait repeated when he still didn’t answer at all.

  Forcing himself back to attention, he quickly bobbed his head.

  “I’ll just pop round to the kitchens then,” she announced and then stood to go. “I’ll fetch some broth. Can I do anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ewan answered brightly, “As a matter of fact you can.”

  “Oh?” Cait paused in the doorway and turned around, “And what is that?”

  “Cait,” he said slowly, carefully watching her face, “I’d like you to have my child.

  Cait forgot how to breathe. She stood stock still, staring at her master, waiting for him to laugh and declare his request a joke. She didn’t know how to react when he didn’t. The awful silence that followed his remark stretched out painfully. Her skin began to tingle and flush as she replayed the question in her mind. She’d daydreamed of hearing Ewan say those words since she was all of fourteen years old-but never anything like this!

  “What?” she finally choked out, but added before he could answer, “Ewan Cameron-you’ve been hit on the head!”

  She reached for the cool cloth that she’d left on his brow, intending to take it and go. Ewan caught her wrist. Obviously, he’d regained a bit of his strength-or else adrenaline was carrying him forward. His long, thick fingers closed tightly around her wrist. Despite her embarrassed fury, they left five aching points of heat where they touched her skin.

  “Hear me out!” he begged, still holding her fingers tight. Injured as he was, she could have easily escaped his grip. However, despite his raving, she was curious about what he had to say.

  Cait sighed heavily, emphasizing her displeasure, and then she settled down onto the edge of the bed. “Tell me then Captain Cameron, what’s got you so broody?”

  She said the words lightly; still half-hoping that he’d spoken in jest. She hadn’t expected a serious answer. She received one, however: “Cait-I almost died!”

  Cait bit her lip. That much was definitely true. She recalled the scene at the castle three days earlier when the first of the bodies had been brought home. It was Donaid, the Laird’s oldest boy. He’d been carried back by his own horse, his lifeless body tangled in the reigns. The alarm had gone up from the gates, and then spread through the castle like brushfire. She didn’t think that she’d ever forget the wail from Lady Cameron’s lips when she saw her firstborn son.

  A search party went out for the others. They found Jamie easily enough, still tarrying at a crofter’s cottage. At some point in the night he’d separated from the others to stay and trifle with a farmer’s daughter, completely oblivious to his kinsmen’s fate. Hamish had been brought home next in the back of a wagon with two of the other boys. Cait had spent a sleepless night wondering if
Ewan was gone forever-but they’d finally found him. He’d rolled out of the street and into a clump of bushes. It was probably the cover that had saved his life. The attackers hadn’t seen him, and had hurried on their way, and so he’d been brought back home battered but still alive.

  He’d looked so close to death. Cait’s heart had nearly broken when she saw him first. The weight of her regrets had been enough to squash it flat. She wished so desperately that she’d told him how she felt-that she loved him-even if it only made him laugh. Although she discovered that his mirth was not so desirable an emotion, now that he was awake.

  “Cait?” Ewan said and then nudged her arm, dragging her back from her daydreams.

  She blinked and focused once more on his face. “So, you want me to have your baby then, do you? Just like that?” she spat, amazed when her voice sounded even.

  “Well, you’ve not many other prospects, have you?” Ewan said in a disgustingly reasonable tone.

  Cait’s temper flared. Being insulted was one thing-Ewan was very sick-but being treated as though she ought to be pleased about it was something else. “No other prospects but to lie on my back?”

  Ewan looked momentarily stunned-whether it was in surprise at her outburst or finally realizing what he’d said she wasn’t sure. In either case he sputtered quickly, “Cait! Oh, Cait! That’s not what I meant at all!”

  “What did you mean?” Cait demanded. What could he mean, after all? Her heart soared and then twisted when he spoke again.

  “I’ll make you a fair offer, mind,” Ewan said, his own cheeks flushing a bit-making him look healthier than he had in days.

  Cait caught her breath again. Ewan wasn’t asking her to marry him!

  As if he had read her mind, her patient spoke quickly, “Of course, I’m not proposing to tie you down for life!”

  A pang sliced through her chest, but Cait managed to hold her composure. She pressed her lips downward into a grim line and then demanded, “What is it you are suggesting then, Ewan Cameron?”

  He took a breath, looking suddenly nervous, “A handfasting,” he replied. “We’ll do it the old way: a marriage for a year and a day. You give me a baby and I’ll see that you’re both looked after.”