Page 29 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
His thumb brushed her wrist, his grip tightening as if he feared letting go. “Ye’re wrong, lass,” he whispered, his voice roughwith something raw and desperate. “I’ll fight every battle, and I’ll break every enemy, even if it tears me apart.”
The words hung heavy between them, filling the chamber with tension and unspoken truths. Bradley released her slowly, his chest heaving as he turned away, his fists clenching at his sides. He wouldn’t relent, no matter what she begged of him. Ethan Gilmour’s reckoning was only beginning.
“Ye belong to me, and I protect what is mine,” he groaned.
Laura’s eyes burned with fury; her words were sharp as a blade. “I belong to meself, Bradley, nae to ye,” she snapped, her voice trembling with anger.
She turned on her heel, skirts swishing against the stone floor as she stormed out of the study. The heavy door slammed behind her, leaving silence in its wake.
Bradley stood frozen, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The defiance in her gaze had pierced through his chest, stirring both rage and something far more dangerous. He had expected her tears, her submission, but instead, she had struck him with her fire. A grim smile tugged at his lips, though his jaw ached from holding it so tight.
In the corner, Alan shifted uncomfortably, his mouth parted as if to speak, but no words came. The young man’s eyes darted between the closed door and Bradley, as though he feared the Laird might unleash his temper.
Yet Bradley did not roar nor strike the table, though the temptation ran deep in his blood. Instead, he released a low breath and rolled his shoulders.
“Aye, lad,” Bradley muttered, his voice rough with restraint. “I could use a drink.” He strode toward the cabinet against the wall, pulling free a bottle of dark whisky and two cups. Setting them down with a heavy clink, he filled each glass and slid one toward Alan.
“Come sit, ye’ve earned it.”
Alan hesitated, still stunned by Laura’s outburst, but obeyed the command. He took the seat across from Bradley, his fingers curling round the glass, though he did not drink at once. Bradley lifted his cup and swallowed deeply, the burn a welcome distraction from the chaos in his chest. For a moment, the room carried only the crackle of the hearth and the faint clink of glass.
Bradley leaned back, watching Alan over the rim of his cup.
“Tell me, lad. How fares the village that was raided? I’ve nae had word since last week.” His tone steadied, cool and commanding, as though conversation could dull the storm still raging in his head.
Alan straightened, glad for the change of subject. “The rebuildin’ is goin’ well, Laird,” he replied with quiet pride. “The men have set new beams for the smithy, and the women have taken to mendin’ the straw for the roof of the cottages. There’s still much to do, but they’ve spirit enough to see it through.”
Bradley gave a single nod, swirling the liquid in his cup. “That pleases me. They’ve suffered enough, those folk. Let it be known that they’ll have all they need from the keep. Stone, timber, grain.”
His words carried weight, sharp and certain, though his mind still drifted to the echo of Laura’s defiance.
Alan’s lips curved faintly, encouraged by the Laird’s commitment. “I was thinkin’ to ride out there meself today, see it with me own eyes,” he added. “There’s talk of a new well bein’ dug, and the folk asked for yer blessin’ upon it.” His voice carried quiet eagerness, eager to serve and to see the fruits of their labor.
Bradley leaned forward, resting one arm upon the table.
“Let us go then. Let them ken their Laird has nae forgotten them, nor will he ever.”
His voice hardened, carrying the weight of oath and iron. “And if there be a whisper of bandits lurkin’ near, I’ll see the devils cut down to the last.”
Alan nodded firmly, finishing his drink with a determined swallow.
Bradley rose slowly, stretching his broad frame, and walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard. His gaze swept the grounds, though his mind strayed to Laura’s words, echoing louder than any battle cry.
“Aye,” he muttered under his breath, his tone dark and edged. “They all belong to me, whether they ken it yet or nae.”
In the courtyard, Bradley and Alan mounted their horses and set off down the worn road leading to the village. Hooves struck the dirt in a steady rhythm, carrying them over rolling hills dusted with the green of new growth. The smell of fresh earth and pine carried on the wind, mingling with the faint smoke of hearth fires in the distance. Bradley rode tall in the saddle, his dark cloak snapping behind him, while Alan kept pace at his side.
When they crested the final rise, the village came into view, alive with the bustle of labor and recovery. Roofs once blackened by flame now shone with fresh thatch, while men balanced on beams, hammering them into place.
Women carried baskets of seed, their skirts brushing the soil as they moved across the fields. Children laughed in the lanes, dragging sticks in the dirt, their spirits lighter than the scars of the raid.
Bradley slowed his horse, letting his gaze sweep over the progress with a keen eye. He remembered too well the day they had found this place smoldering, its people broken and terrified. Now, though bruised, the village was mending, and its folk stood taller for it. A low sense of pride stirred in his chest, though his expression remained hard as stone.
Alan gestured toward the smithy, where sparks flew from an anvil.
“They’ve rebuilt the forge, Laird. Smith Malcom’s back at work, and he swears he’ll have tools ready for every farmer by the week’s end. The cottages at the west end have been mended, too, and the storehouse roof has been patched.” His voice held an edge of pride, as if the villagers’ triumph was his own.
Bradley gave a grunt of approval, his eyes narrowing as he studied the thatch lines.
