Page 61 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Her words were tender, meant to comfort, but they only deepened the ache in Laura’s chest.
Laura looked toward the window, where the gray dusk pressed softly against the glass.
“Then I’ll carry their kindness with me,” she whispered. “That will be enough.”
She reached for the bread, breaking it into smaller pieces before nibbling at one absently. “If only kindness could mend what’s broken.”
Cora said nothing more. She moved toward the door, smoothing her apron.
“I’ll leave ye to rest, me Lady,” she said softly. “Eat what ye can. Ye’ll need yer strength for the journey.” Her voice wavered just slightly, betraying her affection.
When the door closed once more, the room fell silent save for the faint hiss of the fire. Laura set down her spoon and drew in a trembling breath. Her eyes drifted again toward the wardrobe, behind which her gowns hung untouched.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she spoke to the garments, the room, or the man whose memory clung to every stone of the castle.
The shadows deepened, and the candlelight flickered across her face, softening the sorrow etched there.
Tomorrow would bring its own trials, but tonight, just tonight, she allowed herself a moment of stillness and to nourish the bairn inside her. And though her heart remained bruised, a fragile thread of strength began to weave itself anew.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Laura couldn’t sleep no matter how she tried. The bed felt far too big, the silence pressing upon her ears like a weight. She tossed and turned, the linen sheets cold where Bradley’s warmth once lingered. The fire in the hearth had burned down to mere embers, casting a faint orange glow across the stone walls of the chamber.
From the floor came a soft whine, followed by the scratching of tiny paws. Laura turned her head and saw Angus, the wee puppy, standing at the side of the bed with his tail wagging pitifully.
“Och, Angus,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Are ye hungry, lad? Or is it just that ye daenae like the cold either?”
She reached down, scooping him into her arms, and his little tongue brushed against her chin. For a moment, the loneliness in her chest eased.
“Aye, I ken,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his fur. “We’re both lost souls this night, are we nae?” She set him upon the bed, then rose to fetch her shawl, wrapping the soft wool over her thin nightshift.
The air outside the bed was icy, and she shivered as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. She slipped her slippers on and held the puppy close against her chest.
“Come then,” she said quietly. “Let’s find ye somethin’ to eat.” The corridor outside was still and dim, lit only by the flickering torches that hung along the walls.
As she walked through the castle’s sleeping halls, her footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstones. The tapestries that lined the corridors, depicting battles, stags, and the proud McCormack crest, watched her with silent eyes.
She descended the stone staircase to the kitchens, feeling as though she were the only soul alive in the vast keep.
When she reached the great kitchen, the air was cooler still, but it smelled faintly of baked bread and smoke. The hearth had been banked low, with only a red glow remaining under the ashes.
She stirred it back to life with the poker, coaxing a few flames to dance once more. Angus wagged his tail eagerly as she rummaged through the pantry shelves.
“Let’s see what we can find for ye, little one,” she said softly, pulling out a small crock of milk and a heel of brown bread.
The puppy’s nose twitched as she tore a piece for him and set it on a wooden trencher.
“There ye go, laddie.” She smiled faintly as he began to eat, his tail wagging with contentment.
She cut a wedge of cheese for herself and placed it beside a small oatcake, the familiar simplicity of the meal bringing her a measure of comfort. Pouring a little milk into a mug, she sat at the long table near the fire, watching the flames grow stronger. The cheese was sharp on her tongue, and the bread dry, but she didn’t mind. The warmth of the fire, the quiet, and Angus’s happy crunching soothed her troubled thoughts.
She broke a bit of oatcake and dipped it in honey from a small clay pot. The sweetness filled her mouth, though her heart still felt heavy.
“Bradley should be here,” she murmured to herself, staring into the fire. “He should be here, nae away from me.”
The puppy looked up at her, tilting his head as if he understood her sorrow.
Laura sighed and leaned back, resting her chin in her hand.
