Page 49 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
“Aye,” he replied, keeping his eyes ahead. “Too long.”
They crossed the rolling hills in silence, the mist rising from the moor as the sun began to climb higher. The wind tugged at her hair, and she found herself leaning closer, finding comfort in his warmth. She could feel the tension in his body begin to easethe farther they rode, as though the open land itself worked to soothe the unrest in him.
When the rooftops of the village came into view, Laura could already hear the hum of excitement. Children ran through the lanes, their laughter echoing, and villagers began to gather near the newly restored well at the square’s center. As the horse drew closer, cheers rang out.
“Lady McCormack!” voices called. “Saint McCormack herself!”
Laura’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she ducked her head shyly. “Saint McCormack?” She whispered to Bradley, her voice filled with disbelief.
He chuckled softly, a sound she hadn’t heard from him in days. “Aye, that’s what they call ye, lass. The people see what I see—a kind soul, pure of heart.”
“Oh, Bradley,” she murmured, looking up at him, her heart swelling. “Ye ken I’m nae a saint.”
“Mayhap nae,” he said, his eyes meeting hers briefly. “But ye’ve a spirit that mends hearts, Laura. Mine included.”
Her lips parted slightly, a rush of emotion welling in her chest. “Ye mean that?”
He nodded once, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do. Ye’ve done what nay one else ever could; ye’ve brought smiles to this torn village again.”
As they reached the square, the villagers surrounded them with smiles and greetings. Laura dismounted carefully, helped down by Bradley’s steady hand.
The priest began the ceremony, blessing the well with holy water while the villagers bowed their heads. Laura stood beside Bradley, her hand brushing his lightly, a silent connection sparking between them.
Laura stepped forward to the edge of the well, the chatter of the villagers falling to a hush behind her. The morning sun caught in her hair, and the air seemed to still as she grasped the rope with both hands.
“Aye then,” she said softly, lowering the wooden bucket into the cool darkness below. “Let this be the first draw of the new well, blessed by the hands of the folk who’ll drink from it.”
The bucket hit the water with a soft splash, and she began to pull it up, her arms straining slightly against the weight.
“Careful now, me Lady,” one of the old men called with a grin. “Ye daenae want the first blessin’ spillin’ back into the hole.”
Laura laughed lightly, her cheeks flushed. “Nae, I’d never waste a drop meant for good hearts,” she replied, steadying the bucket as it reached the top.
She took a deep breath and then lifted her face toward the sky. “By the grace of God and the saints, may this well never run dry,” she said firmly. “May it quench thirst, wash sorrow, and bring peace to every soul who drinks from it.”
The crowd cheered and praised God. Laura turned to Bradley, and he nodded his head in encouragement.
After the prayers, a small girl with golden curls ran forward and handed Laura a bundle of flowers. “For ye, me Lady,” the girl said shyly. “Ma said ye’re the reason we’ve got hope again.”
Laura knelt down and smiled, taking the flowers gently. “Thank ye, lass. Ye tell yer ma I’m just glad to be among such good folk.”
The villagers cheered again, and Laura looked up to see Bradley watching her, his expression soft, almost reverent. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she saw the man she loved without the shadow of anger or pride clouding his eyes.
When the ceremony ended, they lingered a moment longer, speaking with the villagers and sharing smiles. Bradley placed a hand at the small of her back as they made their way back to the horse, the gesture firm but tender.
“Ye did well,” he said quietly. “The people adore ye, and they’ve a good reason. I found ye at an abbey, lass, and it seems holiness has followed ye since.”
Laura laughed lightly, her eyes shining. “If kindness is holiness, then it’s the same that lives in ye, Bradley. Ye just didnae see it yet.”
He gave a low hum, not arguing for once. “Mayhap ye’re right,” he murmured as he helped her back onto the horse. “But I ken this, without ye, this land would feel empty.”
As they began the ride back to the castle, Laura leaned into him once more, the steady rhythm of the horse beneath them mirroring the quiet peace between them. The sun broke through the clouds then, casting golden light over the hills, and for the first time in many days, Laura felt as though everything—him, her, the land—was finally beginning to heal.
The following morning, Laura woke with a start, her stomach twisting like the sea in a storm. She barely had time to grab the wooden bucket by the bedside before she was bent over it, her body trembling as she emptied her stomach. The sound echoed softly in the quiet chamber, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying hearth. When she finally sat back, pale and breathless, she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand and groaned softly.
“Saints above,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her brow. “I must’ve eaten somethin’ spoiled last night.” She took in the early morning light slipping through the drapes, painting the chambergold. The scent of fresh rushes and faint lavender clung to the air, but her stomach turned again at the smell.
There was a knock at the door. “It’s Cora.”
