Page 31 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Alan only shrugged, unfazed by Bradley’s thunder. “Sometimes what they want isnae gold nor land. Perhaps ye should ask me sister. Cora kens more about a woman’s heart than both of us put together.” His grin flashed again, quick as lightning.
Bradley muttered a curse under his breath, though he knew Alan was right. Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the keep, his cloak whipping behind him. He did not like the thought of humbling himself before Cora, but desperation outweighed pride. His boots rang against the stone as he sought her out.
Inside the castle, he found her in a side chamber, folding linens with steady hands. Cora’s face was serene, though her sharp eyes flicked up as soon as Bradley darkened the doorway. He cleared his throat, feeling the weight of his own request.
“I could use yer help, lass,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Cora tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Now that’s a rare thing to hear from ye, Laird. What manner of trouble brings ye to me?” She set down a folded sheet and rested her hands on her hips. Her curiosity was plain, though not unkind.
Bradley stepped farther in, his shadow stretching across the floor.
“The Lady McCormack’s mad at me. I’d like to ease her temper, but I daenae ken how. I thought perhaps a gift would do, but I cannae fathom what she might like.” His shoulders squared, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
Cora gave a soft laugh, shaking her head as though all men were the same. “Marriage is nae easy, Laird. Ye cannae expect her to warm to ye without thought or care. As for a gift, aye, I kenjust the thing.” She reached for another linen, smoothing it flat before folding.
Bradley’s brows furrowed, his dark eyes fixed on her.
“Tell me, then. What could I give her that she doesnae already have?” His tone was edged with impatience, though beneath it lay genuine concern. He hated the thought of failing his wife, even in small things.
Cora sighed, her expression softening. “Laura came to this castle with naught but a plain dress on her back. The gowns she wears now are ones I salvaged from ladies long gone, patched and mended as best I could. Winter’s near, and she’s in need of proper clothin’. Dresses made just for her, fine wool and fur to keep her warm.” Her words were spoken with calm certainty.
For a moment, Bradley said nothing, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. His mind flashed to Laura, her grace and quiet dignity, bearing her patched gowns without complaint. He clenched his jaw, ashamed he had not seen it himself.
“Saints take me, I should’ve thought of it sooner,” he muttered.
Cora’s eyes softened further, her tone almost kind. “Ye’re a warrior, Laird, nae a seamstress. Ye think of swords and castles, nae thread and cloth. But ken this: small things matter more to a woman’s heart than grand halls or mighty titles. See to it, and she’ll see ye in a new light. That ye care for her comfort.”
Bradley inclined his head, a rare gesture of respect. “I thank ye, Cora. Ye’ve more wisdom than I’d cared to admit. I’ll see it done.” His voice rumbled with determination, the decision already burning within him.
Turning on his heel, Bradley strode from the chamber, his mind filled with plans. He would summon the best cloth merchants, the seamstress, and demand the richest wool, and have gowns made fit for his Lady. Nothing patched or borrowed, only what was hers alone. He would see her clothed as the Lady she truly was.
As he walked, his thoughts tangled with both frustration and hope. Laura’s defiance maddened him, yet her fire drew him closer, binding him in ways he dared not name. A gift would not solve all between them, but it was a start, a token of the care he could not speak aloud. In his heart, he vowed that she would never again want for anything under his roof.
He sent for the seamstress at once, his tone leaving no room for delay.
When the woman arrived, she curtsied low, her arms burdened with cloth samples and measuring cords. Bradley’s voice carried through the hall with the weight of command.
“Fetch Lady McCormack,” he ordered the servant nearest him. His gaze flickered toward the door, anticipation mixed with the storm that always came with Laura.
Moments later, Laura swept in, her steps quick, her chin tilted high in defiance. Her eyes blazed as they fixed on him, fury shimmering brighter than the firelight. She folded her arms across her chest.
“What is the meanin’ of this, Bradley?” she demanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
Bradley’s lips curved in the faintest smile, though his tone remained steady.
“Ye’ll be fitted for new dresses, lass. The seamstress is here to see to it.” His eyes traveled over her, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw. “Daenae think to fight me on this, Laura. ’Tis already decided.”
Laura’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she took a step closer, her voice rising. “New dresses? Have ye lost yer senses? I’ve got five already, and they serve me well enough.” She glanced at the seamstress, who hovered nearby, muttering to herself as she sorted her cloth.
The seamstress moved in with her measuring cord, muttering, “Och, fine shoulders… aye, a deep green would suit… and fur trimmings, perhaps.”
She circled Laura like a hawk, her fingers quick and efficient.
Bradley’s gaze never left his wife, his voice firm and unyielding. “Five gowns are nae enough, lass, nae for the Lady of this clan.”
Laura tried to turn away from the measuring cord, her voice filled with outrage. “I daenae need finery to play the part. I’m fine as I am.” Her eyes locked on his, defiance burning strong. “Why must ye press me with what I didnae ask for?”
Bradley rose from his chair, towering over her, his shadow long in the firelight. “Because I’ll nae have ye shiverin’ in the snows when winter comes. Ye’ll have fine gowns, fur cloaks, boots, and gloves enough to keep ye warm.” His voice rumbled like thunder, filled with determination. “Whether ye like it or nae, lass, ye’ll have what befits ye.”
