Judith E. French by Shawnee Moon

the tremor from her step as she neared the gallows, knowing that she’d never see another morning ... that she’d never smell the blooming heather again ... that she’d never hear the deep voice of her grandfather this side of hell.
    The warder had offered her a priest and a chance to make confession for her sins. She’d refused. She’d not make a lie of her death by saying she was sorry she’d killed that dragoon in her father’s barn. She only wished she’d killed the three soldiers who had made sport of her on the way to prison. Now she would die with blood on her hands and hatred in her heart. There would be no heavenly gates opening for Cailin MacGreggor. Her stubborn will would see her serve an eternity in Satan’s kitchen.
    At least I’ll have company, she thought wryly. Johnnie had always said that heaven would be hard-put for saints and hell have standing room only. Truth was truth, and the MacGreggors were no better than the MacLeods. “A wee bit rough around the edges,” Johnnie had admitted, “cattle thieves and rebels all—but loyal to their families until the last stroke of eternity.”
    Loyalty meant taking revenge on those who wronged them, man or lass. And loyalty to Johnnie’s memory meant sending his murderer to his grave. “Mayhap I’ll come face to face with that accursed English blackguard in hell,” she murmured. Leaving him alive to walk free and boast of Johnnie’s death would be a duty unfulfilled. And she had always been a woman who liked to finish what she’d started.
    “No talking!” the warder snarled. He gave her a shove, and she whirled on him with such a black look that his Lowland curses died on his tongue and his pocked face paled.
    An oversized raven fluttered down to peck at scraps on the cobblestones directly in the path of the execution party. The bird’s black feathers gleamed ebony in the early light as it cocked its head and stared round-eyed at Cailin. One of the guards muttered “Witch” in English.
    The second crossed himself furtively. “’Tis her familiar,” he said in the same harsh language.
    Cailin smiled at their ignorance. It gave her some comfort to know that the guards were afraid of her. “Were I a witch, I’d show ye a trick or two,” she replied in perfect English. “Brave men ye be to fear a chained woman and a poor bird.”
    They’d not expected her to understand their words. Gaelic was the native tongue of most Highlanders, but she’d had the benefit of a formal education; Johnnie had seen to that. “Ye never know when your blood sire may call you to London,” he’d said with a wink. “It never hurts a lass to be smarter than the men around her.”
    Her blood sire. She almost laughed aloud. He’d showed little concern for her, once when he’d sent a silver christening cup and again when he’d sent her the amulet, and a final time when she’d received a sum of money from Edinburgh bankers on her wedding day. Cameron Stewart had never laid eyes on her since she’d been born. He’d not have known her if they’d shared a pew at Sunday Mass. If caring and love mattered, Johnnie MacLeod was her blood sire.
    She glanced back at the raven, wishing she had a scrap of bread to throw the bold creature. Or a scrap of bread for herself, she corrected silently. They’d not fed her that morning. She was going to her grave with an empty belly and cold stones under her feet.
    Others better than I have died this way, she thought. Maybe it was preferable to be one mourned over than one who must live out a life forever in mourning. Still, there was much left undone, and she bitterly regretted being unable to care for Jeanne and the others who depended on her. Her sister was too gentle, too sweet to survive in a Scotland ravaged by the likes of Cumberland’s army. Her pretty face and soft voice would only bring her to sorrow. And brave little Corey . . . How long would he wait and watch the road for her to come for him as she’d promised? He