Page 30 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
“And the storehouse?” he asked, his tone sharp. “I gave the order for it to be filled to the rafters—grain, dried meat, wool, all they’d need for the winter. Did ye see it done, Alan?” He turned his dark gaze on the younger man, demanding nothing less than the truth.
Alan straightened, nodding firmly. “Aye, Laird, it’s stocked as ye commanded. We’ve barrels of oats, salted fish, and casks of ale enough to last. Wool blankets from the keep have been sent, and the women have spun more besides. Come, I’ll show ye.”
The two men dismounted, leading their horses by the reins as Alan guided Bradley toward the large timbered storehouse. The scent of grain and dried herbs greeted them as Alan heaved open the heavy door. Inside, neat rows of sacks, barrels, and crates filled the space, each stacked with care. Bradley stepped in, his hand brushing over a sack of flour, the weight beneath his palm satisfying.
Bradley’s mouth curved faintly, a rare glimpse of approval. “Good,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “These folk will ken their Laird does nae forget his word. They’ll eat, they’ll beclothed, and nay bandit alive will rob them again.” His hand clenched into a fist, his vow etched into the air as sure as steel.
Outside, villagers paused in their work as the two men stepped back into the sunlit square. A few bowed their heads in reverence, their eyes lingering on Bradley with quiet gratitude.
One elder woman clutched her shawl and called out, “Where is Lady McCormack, Laird? We had hoped to see her with ye.” Her voice wavered with respect, yet held a yearning tone.
Another villager, a young man stacking wood, added, “Aye, the Lady’s words gave us strength when the fields lay black. She’s a kind soul, that one. When will she come to us again?”
His question hung heavy, and others nearby nodded in agreement, murmuring her name like a prayer.
Bradley stood silent for a long moment, the villagers’ questions echoing through him. He thought of Laura, her gentle words and soft touch, how she had comforted those broken folk when even he had not known what to say. In their eyes, she was near saintly, a woman of grace and mercy, untouched by the darkness that haunted him. Pride welled within him, fierce and unyielding, that she bore his name and stood as Lady of these lands.
“Yer Lady McCormack will come in a few days to bless the new well. I promise ye that,” he said loudly for all to hear.
A cheer erupted around the village. Children dashed from one to another with the same words, “Lady McCormack will come!”
A slow breath escaped his lips, and his voice softened just enough for Alan to hear.
“She means more to them than I ever could’ve guessed,” he admitted.
His gaze swept the village once more, seeing the evidence of her influence in every hopeful smile. “Laura… she gives them somethin’ I cannae, hope without fear, light without shadow. Saints preserve me, but I’ve wed a woman stronger than she kens.”
Alan glanced at him, surprise flickering in his young eyes, “Aye, and all could see that the day ye wed her.”
Bradley straightened, his expression hardening once more into the mask of command. “Go see the blacksmith.”
Alan nodded and walked away.
Bradley turned to tend to his horse. Yet deep within, he carried the thought of Laura like a fire he dared not quench.
She is a pure light. I am dark as the night, and I daenae deserve her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The courtyard bustled with life that morning, servants carrying baskets of vegetables, and the clang of steel echoing from the yard where young lads trained.
Bradley strode across the cobbles, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Laura near the well, her hair catching the sunlight. He approached her, his steps steady, and softened his voice when he reached her side.
“How are ye on this day, lass?” he asked, though the words felt strange on his tongue.
Laura did not so much as glance at him, her chin lifting with quiet defiance. Without a word, she turned on her heel, skirts swishing, and walked away toward the archway. Bradley’s jaw tightened, and a shadow of frustration flickered in his dark eyes. He stood rooted for a moment, fighting the urge to call after her, but pride kept him silent.
Alan came striding across the yard, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He clapped a firm hand on Bradley’s shoulder, shaking his head with amusement.
“Women are a puzzle to all men, Laird. Even the wisest monk cannae make sense of them.” His chuckle carried, though he quickly sobered when he saw the grim line of Bradley’s mouth.
Bradley growled low in his throat, his gaze fixed on the archway Laura had vanished through.
“The lass is angry with me, Alan, and I’ve nay clue how to mend it. I’ve fought battles and cut down foes twice me size, but this…” He shook his head, muttering darkly. “This is a war I daenae ken how to fight.”
Alan smirked faintly, rocking back on his heels. “Then, mayhap ye daenae fight it at all. Ye could buy her a gift; women like such things, or so I’ve heard. Flowers, jewels, or a trinket to show ye care.” He lifted his brows as if daring the Laird to argue.
Bradley turned his head, his stare sharp as a blade. “A gift? Alan, I’ve given her this castle, this clan, this island itself. She’s Lady McCormack, mistress of all ye see. What more could she want?” His tone held both disbelief and a hint of pride.
