Page 1 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
CHAPTER ONE
“By God, Bradley,” Richard barked, his tone dripping with disdain. “I wish I had more sons, for one like ye is naught but a curse upon me,” he said, sneering.
Bradley sat in his father’s study, the heavy oak table between them cluttered with maps and scrolls. The fire snapped in the hearth, though its warmth did little to soften the cold in Richard McCormack’s eyes. The Laird leaned forward, his fists pressing into the wood as his voice thundered through the chamber. Bradley kept his gaze low, his shoulders squared, bracing for the storm that had become all too familiar.
“Every task ye touch turns to ash, and I’ll nae see this clan ruined by yer weakness. What did I do to deserve such a son?”
Bradley swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as the words struck him like blows. He felt the urge to defend himself rise within, yet he forced it down, knowing his father would twist it into further fault. He shifted slightly in the chair, his hands gripping thearms to steady himself. Silence stretched, and still he bore the weight of his father’s fury.
“Mark me, lad, I’d sooner see me own brother take the title when I’m gone than watch ye fail as laird. Better a man with fire in his veins than a son with naught but air. Ye shame the McCormack name every day ye draw breath.”
Bradley dared not look at his father; instead, his gaze drifted slowly to his mother.
Ophelia, Lady McCormack, sat in the corner, her frame delicate against the carved chair, her eyes shadowed with sorrow. She said nothing, her hands folded tightly in her lap, as though she held her heart together by sheer will. Bradley searched her face for comfort but found only stoic indifference. Her lips pressed thin, a prison of their own.
He wished she would speak, hoped she would rise against Richard’s cruelty, but he knew she would not. She had endured the Laird’s temper for decades, bending to it until her spirit bore the cracks.
Richard slammed a fist upon the table, rattling the inkpots and sending dust from the shelves.
“Say something, boy! Are ye so empty that ye’ve nay tongue left? Have ye naught to defend yerself with?” his voice rose, shaking the very rafters of the old study.
Bradley turned his head toward the hearth, the flames blurring as his vision stung. “What would ye have me say, Faither? That I am the man ye wish I were? I cannae change what I am, nay matter the lash of yer tongue.” His voice was quiet, a calm against the storm, though the words cost him dearly.
Richard sneered, his lip curling as though the sight of his son disgusted him. “Always so meek, so yieldin’.”
“Ye’ll never lead men with that spirit. Better I’d drowned ye at birth than raise a son who cannae carry the name with pride.” Richard’s fury boiled over as he snatched the iron fire poker from beside the hearth. The metal glowed faintly at its tip, and he swung it toward Bradley with wild intent. Bradley jerked back, the heat searing close to his arm, the smell of singed fabric sharp in the air. A surge of rage flared within him, snapping the restraint he had carried all his life.
Bradley’s hand went to his belt, drawing the dirk with a swift motion. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its edge a whisper of deadly promise. His chest heaved as he faced his father, his voice low but edged with years of pent-up anger. For once, he would not bow. As the poker came down again, Bradley blocked it with the dirk.
Bradley saw his mother stand in fright and back away into a corner, but she said nothing.
“Ye’ll strike me like a dog, will ye?” Bradley spat, his voice trembling with fury. “I’m yer son, nae a beast to be burned!”His grip tightened on the dirk as he stood his ground. His eyes burned with a fire to match his father’s.
Richard sneered, swinging the poker across Bradley’s shoulder with a crack. “Aye, ye are a beast, but a weak one!” he roared. “I should have known ye’d turn out naught but a coward.” His blows came heavy, each one meant to crush.
Bradley staggered from the strike, pain radiating down his arm. Still, he lunged forward, steel flashing as he parried with desperate strength. “Ye call me coward, yet ye’d beat a man in his own home like a tyrant!” he growled. His breath came ragged, but his spirit surged hot with defiance.
Richard roared and thrust the poker toward Bradley’s chest, the iron clanging against the dirk’s edge. Sparks flew as metal met metal, the sound harsh in the confined chamber. “Ye’ll never be Laird!” Richard bellowed, his spit flying. “Better me bloodline die than pass to ye!”
Bradley snarled, pressing back against the force with all his strength. “If I’m naught to ye, then why keep me at all?” he said. “I’ll nae be yer whippin’ post any longer, Faither!” the words ripped free, bitter with years of silence broken.
With a sudden surge, Bradley twisted, the dirk sliding beneath his father’s guard. The blade drove into Richard’s side, the resistance sharp and sickening. Richard’s eyes widened in shock, his roar breaking into a guttural cry. Bradley stood frozen, his chest heaving, his hand still pressed to the hilt.
His chest heaved as he staggered back from his father’s fallen form. Richard lay on the rug, his lifeblood spreading dark and heavy across the woven threads. For a long moment, Ophelia sat still as stone, her face unreadable.
Then, with a sudden cry, her voice ringing out sharp, she flew to the door and opened it.
“Guards! Guards, to me!” Ophelia screamed, her hands wringing, though her eyes held no tears. “Yer Laird lies slain by his own son! Take this murderer and cast him in irons!” her voice cracked, echoing through the chamber with desperate command.
McCormack guards stormed into the study, steel clattering at their sides. Their eyes darted from the dead laird to Bradley, who still gripped the dirk, its edge stained crimson. Confusion clouded their faces, for none dared move without knowing their course. The silence pressed as heavily as the smoke from the hearth.
Bradley drew himself upright, his breath steadying though his heart thundered in his chest. He cast the dirk aside, letting it clatter to the floor, and raised his hands in full view. His gaze swept over the guards, fierce and unyielding. He knew that this moment would decide his fate.
“Aye,” Bradley said, his voice clear, carrying the weight of truth. “I’ve slain me faither this day. I bear nay shame in speakin’ it plain. He sought me ruin, and I met his fury with me blade.”
The guards shifted uneasily, their hands resting on their hilts.
Ophelia’s voice rose again, sharp with fury. “Daenae listen to him! He’s naught but a traitor to his blood. He deserves death for this sin!” her cry carried no command, only venom. Bradley knew his mother hated him, but he still didn’t expect her to order his death.
