Page 13 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Laura’s eyes flashed as anger overtook the heat she had tried to deny. “Safety? Ye think me a helpless child? Ye daenae need to smother me to keep me from the ground. Aye, ye’re a brute, Bradley Knox, with nay thought for aught but yer own pride.”
Bradley’s expression darkened, his voice low and rough. “Better a brute than a weaklin’ who cannae protect what’s his. Ye’ll do well to mind that tongue afore it gets ye in worse trouble than lack of air.”
Laura’s hands clenched at her sides. He was cruel, arrogant, and colder than the winds that swept the isle. Yet the echo of his nearness lingered, and she despised herself for feeling it at all.
The horse carried them into the heart of the village. Laura’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell upon the devastation before her.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered.
Blackened timbers jutted like broken bones from the shells of houses, smoke still curling faintly from their ruins. The smell ofash and scorched earth hung heavy in the air, stinging her nose and filling her chest with dread.
Children with dirt-streaked faces huddled beside weeping mothers, their eyes wide with fear. A man limped past with his arm bound in a bloodied cloth, while another struggled to haul the charred frame of a cart from the road. Roofs had caved in, and doors hung splintered on twisted hinges, leaving nothing but shadows where families once gathered. Laura’s hands trembled, her heart sinking with each scene of misery.
Her gaze darted from one ruin to the next, struggling to take it all in. She could scarcely believe that such cruelty had descended upon these people. Smoke, despair, and pain clung to every stone of the village, and it seemed no corner had been spared.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as she whispered, “Saints preserve us… this is a devastatin’ sight.”
Laura dismounted quickly, her boots crunching on the ash-strewn ground. She glanced at Bradley, her dark eyes wide with worry.
“What’s happened here, Bradley?” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep steady.
“A bandit attack,” he said flatly, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the ruined village. “They came, took what they wished, burned what they could, left the folk with little more than fear.” His tone was as cold as the morning mist, yet his grip on the reins betrayed tension.
Laura didn’t wait for him to speak further. She hurried to the woman sitting on the ground, clutching her arm and moaning softly.
“Let me help ye,” Laura urged, offering her hands to lift the woman carefully.
Bradley watched silently as Laura bent over the injured villager, helping her to her feet.
“Has a healer seen them yet?” Laura asked quickly, scanning the villagers for signs of aid.
“Nay,” Bradley replied, his voice grim. “There’s nay healer at the castle, and nay one’s arrived from the other towns yet.” His eyes flicked to the surrounding ruins, lingering on a collapsed roof where someone might be trapped.
Laura’s jaw set, determination hardening in her chest. She moved from one injured villager to another, examining wounds, cleaning burns, and wrapping what she could with whatever cloth the villagers had on hand.
“Hold still, lad,” she murmured gently to a young boy with a gash on his forehead. “This’ll sting a wee bit, but it’ll help ye heal.”
She revealed quietly to Bradley as she worked, “I ken a bit of healin’, from the nuns and the missions we did in the villages nearby. They taught me how to care for wounds and sickness when nay one else could.” Her hands moved steadily, herknowledge of herbs, compresses, and simple salves guiding her movements.
Laura kept one eye on Bradley as he remained at her side, watching as she moved through the devastation. He said nothing, letting her work while he kept watch for any further danger.
Villagers began to look up at Laura with quiet awe, their pain softened somewhat by her care. She moved swiftly, checking every injured person she could find, her voice a mix of authority and comfort.
“Ye’ll be all right,” she said firmly to a man with a burned arm. “Ye just need patience, and healin’ will come.”
Bradley finally spoke, his voice low and reluctant. “Ye work fast… and wisely, Laura. Seems ye can turn yer hands to more than cards and letters.”
Laura didn’t pause, though a small smile flickered at his words. “I must do what I can,” she said, her tone resolute, eyes scanning for the next injured soul. “These folk need help, and I’ll nae sit idle while they suffer.”
The morning wore on, and Laura continued her ministrations, the villagers’ trust slowly building as they felt the weight of her care.
By the time the sun rose higher, Laura’s hands were sore, and her clothes streaked with dirt and ash, but the village had already begun to recover from the first shock.
Bradley moved closer to her side, offering water for her lips and a steady hand for her strength. “Ye’ve done well, lass,” he said, though his voice carried more weight than simple praise. “This day, ye’ve saved more than I could with steel alone.”
“Thank ye, Laird McCormack,” a man said to Bradley.
Bradley nodded and said, “This is Lady McCormack, me new bride.”
