Page 3 of Bride of Fire
Everything here reminded him of Alicia, his innocent wife.
The wife he’d given a bairn.
A bairn who’d killed her.
Godit the midwife had said it wasn’t Morgan’s fault. But he knew better. If only he hadn’t taken Alicia to his bed, if only he hadn’t planted his seed in her, she’d be alive now.
It was wrong to blame the bairn. He knew that. But he couldn’t bear to hold his son. He hadn’t yet named him. He could hardly look at the child without being filled with bitter resentment.
So when, only three months after his wife’s death, Morgan received word he’d inherited his uncle’s faraway holding—the place where his father, Giric mac Leod, had spent his childhood—he didn’t hesitate for a moment.
He’d packed to flee the Highlands…forever.
He would have left his son behind as well. But his mother Hilaire tearfully insisted he take the bairn, along with two nurses to care for it. And his father gave him a score of servants for his household and a dozen warriors for his protection.
Morgan didn’t have the strength to argue. He hardly had the strength to place one foot in front of the other for the long journey to the Borders.
He only hoped, with every mile forward, his memory of Alicia would fade. Dwelling on the past was futile. He had to look to the future.
There would be time later to acquire the documents declaring him rightful Laird of Creagor.
For now, it was enough to know therewasa future for Morgan Mor mac Giric. Standing over his beloved Alicia’s coffin, he’d thought his life was over. His chest had felt as cold and empty as the grave. He’d wanted nothing more than to climb into that deep hole beside his wife.
Even now, his eyes welled up at the agonizing, indelible memories preceding her death.
The horrid screams.
The bloody bedlinens.
The squalling infant.
The midwife’s sorry face.
The sharp stab in his heart when Godit told him the bad tidings, wisely refusing to let him see the torn wreckage of his wife’s body.
Then later…the deep, dark, silent grave carved into the peat.
The soft sniffles of his clan.
The rough wooden box lowered into the earth.
The soil pressed carefully down over his young wife, reminding him of a crofter planting a tree.
Except this tree would never sprout.
It was dead.
Alicia wasdead.
Morgan clenched his jaw to stem the tide of his tears.
He should have known. The poor lass from sunny Catalonia had never been hale enough for the Highlands. Homesick and always cold, she’d spoken with longing about returning home. But he hadn’t listened. He’d been so sure she could grow to love his home and his clan.
He was wrong.
God, his throat ached.
His heart ached.
