Page 23 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
“Nay one can harm me wife and keep their land, their life, or their pride,” he growled into the quiet chamber.
When at last his temper settled into a simmering fire, Bradley left the study and walked back toward the bedchamber. The castle corridors lay silent, the torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. Each step echoed with the weight of his thoughts, of vengeance and justice. He had made up his mind, Ethan Gilmour would pay, and pay dearly.
As he entered the bedchamber, the sight of Laura’s slumber drew him still. She lay nestled among the furs, her hair spilling across the pillow like silk. Her face, softened in rest, was free of worry, and for a fleeting moment, he felt peace. Bradley’s chest tightened, realizing just how much she had come to mean to him, though he dared not speak it aloud.
He crossed the room with quiet steps, unwilling to wake her. His hand lingered near her face, tempted to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, but he held back. She was his wife, yet so distant still, a bond forged by duty and stained by the shadows of her past. Desire and restraint warred within him, but he would not let temptation win.
With a heavy breath, Bradley turned from the bed and moved toward the hearth. He unrolled his thick bedroll, layering it with soft furs and heavy pillows granted to him as laird. The warmth of the fire licked across his skin as he spread them out,fashioning for himself a place of rest. Though it was the floor, it bore none of the hardship, for the furs made it nearly as fine as a bed.
He lowered himself onto the makeshift bedding, feeling the strain of the day finally weigh down upon his shoulders. His eyes strayed once more to Laura, her quiet breathing steady and calm. Though every part of him longed to be beside her, he knew his own strength was not without limits. Better the floor than surrendering to temptation and breaking the fragile trust between them.
Bradley lay back, folding one arm beneath his head as the fire crackled low. The council’s expectations pressed upon him; the demand for an heir whispered in every corner of the hall. He knew he could not move Laura to her own chamber, lest rumors brew and tongues wag. But tonight, he would guard her from the shadows, his silent vow stronger than the weight of stone above them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The morning air carried a constant rhythm of the wind. The tide rolled in with foaming waves that crashed against jagged black rocks, sending white mist into the air. The sand was coarse beneath Laura’s slippers, a mix of pale grit and scattered shells that glimmered like tiny pearls.
Laura walked beside Cora, the woman’s stride sure and steady even as the gusts tugged at their cloaks. The cliffs loomed high above them, dotted with tufts of hardy grass that clung to the stones like stubborn life. It was a place both wild and beautiful, far removed from the gentler gardens she had once known.
Cora tilted her head, her dark eyes squinting against the wind. “How are ye findin’ McCormack castle, lass?” she asked, her voice carrying above the crash of the waves.
Laura looked down at the waves as they pulled back, leaving ribbons of foam that curled along the shore.
“I find it… challengin’, Cora,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “I ken I am Lady McCormack now, yet I feel as though I’ve nae place still. Surely there must be more for me to do than simply sit idle.”
Cora gave a small laugh, though not unkind. “Ye’ve only just come, child. It takes time to weave yerself into the threads of a clan.” She brushed her cloak tighter about her shoulders as the wind kissed her cheeks. “But ye’ll find yer way, I’ve nay doubt.”
Laura pressed her lips together, her thoughts heavy. The title of Lady felt like both a gift and a burden, binding her to a role she did not yet understand. She longed for purpose, for a way to prove her worth beyond being Bradley’s wife. Yet the castle felt vast and watchful, and she was but a stranger wandering its halls.
The sound of uneven footsteps behind them drew Laura’s attention. Turning, she saw an elderly woman approaching, her figure stooped and her hair wild as tangled seaweed. Her eyes glimmered with a strange brightness, sharp yet unfocused, and she carried herself with the air of one who belonged more to the wind than the earth. The woman’s cloak flapped about her as though it, too, were half-mad.
Laura offered a tentative smile, dipping her head in greeting. “Good day, madam,” she said, her tone gentle. “Do ye need any help? Ye seem a bit weary from the walk.” Her words felt polite, but her chest tightened at the intensity of the woman’s gaze.
The woman’s lips curled into a knowing smile.
“Nay lass, ye’ll soon be fulfillin’ yer duty,” she said, her voice low and rasping like dry reeds. “Aye, ye’ll bear the McCormack heir soon enough. The blood of the Laird will flow through ye, and the clan will rejoice.” Her words rang with eerie certainty, chilling Laura more than the wind.
Laura flushed hot beneath her cloak, her cheeks burning as though the woman had stripped her secrets bare.
“I… I beg yer pardon?” she stammered, her hands twisting together. “That’s nae… that’s nae somethin’ ye should speak of so boldly.” Her eyes darted to Cora, hoping for an explanation.
The woman only cackled softly, her laugh thin and unsettling as she turned away. She shuffled down the shore, her figure soon swallowed by the mist that clung to the rocks. Laura let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her heart still racing.
Cora shook her head with a faint sigh, her expression somewhere between pity and fondness.
“Pay her little mind, Laura. That was Eidith, the castle’s old healer. She’s touched, aye, but she speaks truth often enough to make folk uneasy.”
Laura blinked, her brow furrowing. “Eidith? She seemed… strange indeed. Yet there was somethin’ in her eyes that made me feel she kent more than she should.” Her words trembled with both curiosity and discomfort.
“Aye, lass,” Cora said, glancing down the shore where the old woman had vanished. “She was once sharp as a blade, the finest healer the clan had. But after many wounds and years of hardship, her mind wandered away from her. Some call her a witch, others call her mad, but all agree she sees deeper than most.”
Laura’s lips parted slightly as she took in Cora’s words. “Then why let her roam so, if she is half-mad? Surely, she needs care, or shelter?” Her gaze lingered on the mist where Eidith had disappeared, the woman’s words echoing still in her mind.
Cora gave her a steady look, her eyes softening. “Because Bradley protects her. He has a soft spot for the woman, for she tended him as a lad. When his faither would’ve cast her out, Bradley hid her, kept her safe when nay one else would.” Her voice carried a note of pride as she spoke of the Laird.
Laura felt her heart twist, warmth blooming where only confusion had been before. “That was kind of him,” she whispered, her thoughts turning over the image of Bradley shielding a fragile, broken woman. “I hadnae thought him capable of such tenderness. He hides it well behind his scowl.” Her words were half-confession, half-wonder.
Cora chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “Aye, that he does. The man’s a broodin’ storm on most days, yet beneath it he carries a heart. Few see it, but when ye do, lass, ye’ll ken it’s truer than most.” She patted Laura’s arm gently, as if to anchor her in that truth.
