Page 53 of Scot of Deception
Bran was only putting into words what Blaine had feared this entire time. He would never be good enough for her parents. He had always known that, and yet he had ruined her without considering her future.
She would end up alone because of him—a woman with no husband, no children, no prospects. He had taken all that from her, and no matter what he did, he could never give it back.
Even if he loved Kathleen—and there was no doubt in hismind about that—he had failed to protect her from the one thing that had hurt her the most.
Himself.
“There is nay need tae be so harsh,” Laird Stewart said in a soothing voice that still managed to carry an air of authority. “Let us all take a moment tae calm ourselves an’ then we can see how tae proceed.”
“Would ye say this if it was yer daughter?” Bran asked, pinning Laird Stewart with his gaze. Blaine watched as Laird Stewart’s mouth snapped shut, his gaze sliding over to him for a brief moment before it returned to Bran. “Would ye? Would ye stand an’ watch if a guard had taken her innocence? Or would ye have already killed him fer it?”
Laird Stewart stood there, his expression grim as he considered Bran’s words. His silence was enough of an answer for everyone in the room, though.
“I thought so,” said Bran and with a decisive nod, he stomped over to the door and left the room without another word. Shaking her head, his wife followed close behind, and soon Blaine was left alone with the laird in the lingering remnants of this oppressive atmosphere.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Blaine didn’t even try to stand; he knew his legs wouldn’t carry him, not because of the beating he had taken, but rather because his guilt weighed so heavily on him. What kind of life awaited him now? How could he ever live with himself?
“Come, lad,” Laird Stewart said as he approached him, laying a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder. Blaine looked up at him, partly in surprise and partly in suspicion, shrugging off the hand.
“What?” he asked, the word coming out in a croak.
“Come. I’ll take ye tae the healer.”
Blaine had expected to be left there to fend for himself, but the laird turned out to be a merciful man. He should have expected it, after all Laird Stewart had been the one to try and calm Bran down.
Still in a daze, Blaine pushed himself up to his feet, but the moment he did, he realized the damage Bran had caused was more extensive than he had first thought. His vision swam and his temples pounded with every step he took, but Laird Stewart was right there next to him, helping him along the way.
The trek to the healer’s cottage was a long one, but even after the laird’s urging, Blaine refused to be carried there by guards. The two of them trudged through the corridors and then through the courtyard, walking down the path laboriously. The entire way there, nobles and servants alike stared at Blaine. Whispers spread behind them like a swarm as they passed, everyone speculating on what could have happened.
Neither Blaine nor Laird Stewart paid them any mind.
It seemed like hours later to Blaine when they made it to the small building at the very edges of the tidal islet on which the keep stood, right by the shore. Now, with the tide high, the water lapped at the jagged rocks and the green grass by the cottage’s western wall, giving them a sparkling sheen under the sun. It struck Blaine as odd, how his mind focused on those small details, how he was still capable of seeing them and absorbing them, but completely incapable of appreciating their beauty.
The door of the squat, stone building opened before the laird had the chance to knock. An old woman stood there, her skin tanned and wrinkled, her hands sporting sunspots and calluses from years of work. Her blue, rheumy eyes took one look at Blaine and she shook her head, gesturing at them both to come inside.
“A brawl, I take it?” the woman asked, and her voice sounded surprisingly youthful and melodic to Blaine’s ears. “I’ll never understand young lads.”
“Nae so young,” Blaine said, the movement of his lips splitting the cut that had just begun to heal.
“Ye’re all young tae me,” the woman said as she hobbled over to the large oak table that stood by a row of shelves. The cottage itself was small—nothing but a single room and an attic, which Blaine couldn’t believe was still in use, considering the woman would have to climb the rickety ladder. Herbs and flowers hung all around from strings, drying in the sun that filtered in through the windows. The air was fragrant, filled with their scent, but there was something underlying, something pungent, like most medicinal concoctions.
“Mrs. Moggach, dae ye think ye can take care o’ Blaine here?” Laird Stewart asked, and the old woman smiled at him as she began to gather small jars from the shelves.
“Have I ever left any o’ yer lads without care?” Mrs. Moggach asked.
“Never,” said Laird Stewart. “An’ there’s nae one better tae take care o’ ye than Mrs. Moggach, Blaine.”
Blaine glanced between the two of them warily, but neither of them seemed to have any bad intentions, much to his surprise. For all the laird appeared imposing and severe, whenhe spoke to his people—and even when he spoke to Blaine—he was a gentle man, one who inspired nothing but warmth and trust.
As the woman dragged Blaine to a chair, where he all but collapsed, his shoulders sagging, Laird Stewart pulled another chair from the table closer, so that they were facing each other. Blaine had an obstructed view of the man as Mrs. Moggach treated him, her hands steady and sturdy as they cleaned his wounds.
“Why are ye daein’ this?” Blaine asked him. He didn’t care if he sounded rude; he didn’t have much more to lose. He was more interested in the reason behind all this kindness.
Laird Stewart gave Blaine a small, wistful smile. “Because there is always nuance in every situation, an’ I’d rather hear what ye have tae say afore I make a judgment.”
That is probably why he is a beloved laird.
Blaine pushed himself to return the laird’s smile, though he was certain it lacked all the warmth his displayed. “I dinnae ken what there is tae say. Kathleen’s faither has every right tae despise me an’ so daes she. Despite of me feelings being true, I had nae right tae lie to her.”
