Page 41 of Falling for Her Highland Steward
They were shoved into a storeroom barely bigger than a horse’s stall in a stable. It had a tiny window high up on the wall, through which moonlight shone, and it smelled of ginger, cinnamon, and other exotic spices.
Caillen thought privately that there were worse places to be alone with Erin, but now was not the time to speak about such things. They had to get out. He thought of throwing his weight at the door, but there was not enough room for him to run and gain momentum, and there was no light to show if there was anything inside the cupboard to help him.
Erin was trembling again as she thought of Stephen. He would wake in the morning and think he had abandoned her, and Michael would not encourage him to think any differently. Why had she trusted him? She must be a very poor judge of character.
“I know Mrs. Ballantyne will help us,” Caillen whispered, sounding more confident than he felt as he sat down on the hard wooden floor. Erin sank down beside him.
“I only wish she could have freed Stephen.” She sighed and sniffed. “Damn! I am not going to start weeping again!”
Caillen put his arm around her. “Cry as much as you like,” he told her. “My shoulder is yours for as long as you need it.”
“I will not be using it tonight.” Erin’s voice had a steely ring to it. “No more weeping.”
In the wee hours of the night, Erin and Caillen heard a key turning in the lock, but as they stepped out, they could only make out a dim, shadowy shape hurrying away from them into the house. Mistress Ballantyne had kept her promise.
“Do you know where you are going?” Erin whispered to Caillen.
“I do. Follow me.” He took her hand and began to stride confidently up the corridor. Erin knew that she would never have found her way out alone, so she followed him blindly until they emerged in the stable block, where their horses were standing waiting for them, already saddled.
“She looks like the devil incarnate,” Caillen whispered, “but Mistress Ballantyne is really a saint.”
The man who opened the stout farm door was still blinking sleep from his eyes. He was a shorter, older version of Caillen, and he was just about to swear at them for jerking him out of his slumber when he stopped abruptly. He gaped at him incredulously, then blinked and croaked: “Cal?”
“Aye, Da, it’s me,” Caillen answered, before he stepped forward and pulled his father into his arms, embracing him tightly. “Glad tae see me?”
Malcolm Johnstone was hugging his son so firmly with his eyes screwed shut that he did not even notice Erin. When Caillen let him go, he cupped his son’s face in his hands, tears running freely down his cheeks. “Where have ye been?” he asked, shaking his head as he looked into Caillen’s eyes.
“It’s a vera long story, Da,” Caillen replied, smiling. “And I will tell ye as soon as I can, but can we come in and have a wee drink o’ ale?”
Malcolm laughed, then opened the door to let them both in. “I am forgettin’ my manners,” he said, smiling at Erin. “I am Malcolm Johnstone, Caillen’s father.”
“Erin McCaskill.” She reached out for the man’s hand and found it to be as hard and gritty as Caillen’s was—a farmer’s hand. The eyes looking into hers were Caillen’s too; deep warm brown with laughter lines fanning out from the corners.
“Son,” Malcolm said in disbelief as they sat down at the rough farm table together. “I cannae believe ye are here. It has been years. I thought ye were deid.”
“I’m sorry, Da.” Caillen shook his head. “I have been a bad son. Ever since I left the farm, I have been tryin’ tae better myself, but I forgot about the farm an’ the family I left behind. I wilnae blame ye if ye never want tae see me again.”
“I will always want tae see ye, Son.” Malcolm’s voice was tender. “But dinnae leave it sae long the next time. Now, tell me a’ yer news.”
Caillen laughed. “Where dae I start, Da?” he said. “Ye know my friend Michael?”
“Aye!” Malcolm’s benevolent face suddenly looked grim. “That tyke! He said he would pay me tae let ye go an’ gie me a wee sum every quarter after that. He did—for two quarters—then I never heard fae him again! If I ever see that swine, I will flatten his nose a’ over his face for him!”
“I am sorry!” Caillen was shocked. “Da, I had no idea!”
“Have ye seen him?” Malcolm asked angrily.
“Aye, a’ the time,” Caillen replied. “But I need tae tell ye the whole story.”
“Believe me, Master Johnstone,” Erin said grimly, “whatever you have heard or experienced, he is twice as bad. He is evil through and through.”
When tears began to run down her face again, Caillen put his arms around Erin. “Everything will be fine, Erin,” he said soothingly.
“I wish I could believe you,” she replied, as she buried her face in his chest.
“Why are ye so upset, lass?” Malcolm asked, obviously troubled by Erin’s distress. He fetched a blanket from a chair beside the fireplace and draped it over them.
“As I told ye, Da, it is a long tale,” Caillen replied. He took one last sip of his ale, then began to speak. He had finished two glasses of ale before he finished his story. Malcolm had only interrupted twice to clarify one or two points, but otherwise, he had stayed silent, listening carefully to everything that Caillen was saying.
