Page 11 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Laura’s breath caught as though the air had been torn from her lungs. Her fingers trembled as she clutched her gown, the blood draining from her face. Only last night, she had seen the man deal cards and pour whisky with a wry grin instead of forcing her into her wifely duty, yet he had taken his own father’s life. Her heart raced with unease, her dread of Bradley darkening into certainty.
Cora’s eyes fell, and she wrung her hands before continuing. “And afterward, he had his own maither exiled, me Lady. She called for him to be punished, and he cast her out without mercy. She wanders the mainland now, far from her kin and her home.”
Laura felt her knees weaken beneath her, though she steadied herself with sheer will. The words rang cruelly in her ears, harsher than the bitterest winter wind.
How could the same man who watched me drunkenly stumble through a hand of cards be the monster who had nay mercy for his own blood?
The thought twisted within her, sharp and unrelenting.
Her lips parted, and her thoughts turned inward with dreadful weight.
If Bradley can kill his faither without pause, what fate awaits me as his wife? If he can exile his own maither, what coldness will he reserve for a bride he scarcely kens?
Laura’s chest tightened, and she knew she could not let Cora see the storm brewing in her soul.
“I feel light-headed,” Laura whispered unsteadily. “Will ye take me back to me chambers?”
Cora’s face softened, though her eyes still carried sorrow. “Aye, me Lady. Come along with me. Ye’ve heard enough for one day.”
Laura followed, her steps heavy with dread as they made their way back through the castle’s stone halls. Her mind spun, each thought darker than the last, until the familiar chamber doors loomed ahead. Within the walls meant to be her refuge, she felt more of a prisoner than ever. And she knew, deep within, that her fear of Bradley McCormack had only just begun to take root.
Is this isle to become me sanctuary, or me prison?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bradley paced the length of his study, his boots striking the polished stone floor with a steady rhythm. Heavy oak shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers, scrolls, and tomes worn from years of use. A great hearth glowed faintly at one end, casting warmth into the chamber despite the chill of the autumn air. A broad desk stood near the window, its surface strewn with parchment, quills, and the half-drained bottle of whisky he had abandoned.
The tall window overlooked the courtyard, where the clansmen moved about their daily tasks. From here, Bradley could see every man, woman, and child that lived under his name and banner. He preferred it so, for his rule required watchfulness, and trust was a currency he had learned long ago never to spend lightly. His gaze was sharp, following each movement below as though their actions might betray some secret intention.
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the first study, the one where his father’s life had ended by his own hand. That room had been sealed since that day, the door barred and the key castinto the loch, for he wouldn’t stomach setting foot in it again. The memory of the blood upon the flagstones and the fury in his father’s eyes haunted him too deeply. That room was a tomb now, cursed by what had been done there.
So, he had chosen this new room as his study, fitted with glass windows wide enough to command his view. Here, he could hold dominion yet keep the shadows of the past from clawing at his spirit. A study of power, not of death. But no matter how far he tried to flee the old chamber, the memory of his father’s fall clung to him still, like a ghost he couldn’t banish.
A sharp knock echoed against the heavy oak door of the study, pulling Bradley from his thoughts. He halted mid-stride and turned toward the sound, his voice carrying its usual clipped command.
“Enter,” he called, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. The door swung open, and Alan, his man-at-arms, strode in with easy confidence.
Alan bowed his head slightly in respect. “Laird, there’s been a bandit raid on one of the villages to the north,” he reported. “A few homes burned, some sheep were driven off, and the folk were left shakin’ in fear.” His words were steady, but his eyes glinted, eager for the action that such tidings promised.
Bradley’s jaw tightened as he listened, his mind already weighing what must be done. He moved toward the desk, his fingers tapping against the wood as he thought.
“Prepare two horses for the morn,” he said at last, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll be ridin’ with me bride to the village, and we’ll see with our own eyes what the folk are needin’.”
Alan blinked, the grin fading into a frown of disbelief. “With yer bride?” he repeated, as though uncertain he had heard right. “Ye mean to take Lady Laura yerself?” his tone carried a flicker of doubt, though it was tempered by respect.
“Aye,” Bradley answered, his eyes sharp as he turned from the desk. “She is the Lady of this clan now, and it’s time the folk see her standin’ beside me. They’ll ken strength better when it’s shown as one, nae whispered through shadows.” His words were firm, brooking no argument.
Alan shifted, scratching at his jaw, hesitation clear in his stance. “Would ye nae prefer I ride along as well, Laird?” he asked cautiously. “It’s me duty as a man-at-arms to guard ye both, especially with bandits roamin’ so near.” He paused, searching Bradley’s expression for any sign of agreement.
Bradley’s brows arched, and a dark glint lit his eyes. “And why would I be needin’ that, Alan?” he asked, his tone more challenge than question. “Have ye so little faith in me sword that ye think me unable to guard me own wife?”
Alan held his ground, though his smirk returned faintly, masking the seriousness of his concern. “It’s nae yer skill I doubt, Laird,” he replied. “But bandits are a slippery lot, and a blade strikes truer when another watches yer back. That’s all I meant.”
Bradley stepped closer, his presence looming with the quiet weight of command. “If I cannae keep me own bride safe, I daenae deserve the lairdship I claimed. The folk must see me protectin’ her, nae hidin’ behind another’s sword.”
Alan exhaled slowly, bowing his head in reluctant concession. “As ye say, Laird,” he murmured. “I’ll see the horses ready come the morn. But if ye change yer mind, ye ken I’ll be ready to ride.” His tone softened slightly, carrying the loyalty that had never once wavered.
Bradley’s stern expression eased, if only a fraction, as he gave a curt nod. “Yer loyalty’s never been in question, Alan,” he said. “But this matter’s mine to carry, and I’ll nae be sharin’ it. Now go and make sure the mounts are fit for the road.”
