Page 33 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
I daenae deserve her. Nay, I never have.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Laura’s brows knit together as she watched her husband stiffen, the openness she had glimpsed in him moments ago shuttering away behind a wall of stone.
His shoulders hunched as if bearing some invisible weight, and when he turned from her, it felt like the warmth vanished. Her hand lifted slightly, as though she might reach for him, but he spoke before she could take a step closer. His voice was low and rough, carrying the ache of a man retreating into himself.
“I’m goin’, lass,” Bradley muttered, his back still to her. “There’s work that needs me hand, and I’ll nae linger here longer.”
Laura blinked, her heart squeezing tight at the sudden distance between them. “Bradley, daenae close off now. Ye were speakin’ to me, truly speakin’, and I could see the man beneath all yer shadows. Why would ye hide yerself away again?”
He turned then, his face dark and brooding, eyes clouded as if some storm raged behind them.
“Because ye daenae ken, Laura,” he said sharply, though the pain beneath his words was plain. “The struggle I carry, the burden that gnaws at me each day. Best ye leave it where it lies.”
Her lips parted in protest, her hands trembling at her sides. “I only wish to understand ye. Must ye shut me out every time the truth comes close? Ye wound me more with silence than ye ever could with words.”
But Bradley only pressed his lips tight, his jaw set like iron. Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber, his boots striking heavy against the floor until the sound faded into nothingness.
Laura stood alone, her heart aching as the door closed behind him. She did not chase after him, though every part of her longed to.
That night, she sat before the hearth in their chamber, brushing her hair with long, steady strokes, hoping to continue their conversation. The firelight flickered against the mirror, but her eyes kept straying toward the door, waiting for him to enter. She told herself he would come soon, that his brooding never lasted long. Yet as the flames died low, the door remained shut.
Hidin’ from me, or hidin’ from yourself?
With a sigh, Laura slipped beneath the blankets, her gaze still fixed on the space where his bedroll often lay. Sleep claimed her only after her prayers had been whispered, though unease lingered in her chest. The night pressed on, long and restless, filled with shadows that felt heavier without Bradley near.
When she woke, the moonlight spilled cold through the window, and the chamber was silent but for her own breathing. Her eyes darted to the floor, but his bedroll was gone, untouched since the eve before. A hollow ache spread through her as she realized he had not come at all. She lay awake until dawn, her thoughts troubled, and wondered where her husband had disappeared into the dark.
“Ye cannae avoid me forever.”
Later that day, Laura walked through the garden of McCormack Castle. It lay nestled between stone walls that kept out the biting winds. Beds of heather and lavender spread in neat rows, their colors rich against the dark soil, while roses climbed the trellises with blooms of crimson and pale blush.
Bees hummed lazily about, drunk on the nectar of late summer, and the fountain at the garden’s heart gurgled soft and steady. It was a place of quiet beauty, made all the more serene by the distant cry of gulls circling above the cliffs.
Laura walked slowly along the gravel path, her fingers brushing the blossoms as though the touch alone might soothe her restless mind.
“Lass, may I walk with ye a while?” Cora approached.
“Of course, Cora. I always welcome yer company,” Laura replied.
They walked quietly. Beside her, Cora carried a small basket of linens she had been mending, her step light and her eyes warm with curiosity. The woman’s presence always brought comfort, yet Laura could not rid herself of the weight that pressed heavily on her chest. She paused near the fountain, the cool spray misting her face, and sighed.
Cora tilted her head, studying her in silence for a moment before speaking. “Ye’re troubled, me Lady. I can see it plain as day, even among all these fair blooms. What weighs on yer heart so heavy that ye cannae smile?”
Laura’s lips trembled with a faint curve, but her voice carried her unease. “It’s the Laird, Cora. One moment, he speaks like a brute, ordering me as though I’m naught but his possession, and the next he shields me from the chill of the water as if I were the most fragile of creatures. I cannae make sense of him.”
Cora gave a soft chuckle, though her eyes were kind. “Ah, the Laird has ever been that way. His heart is buried deep beneath duty and steel, and often his words come out rougher than he means. Daenae take it too hard, me Lady.”
Laura frowned, pulling at a rose petal until it fell into her hand. “But last eve, he said he wished to protect me. He spoke with such fire, as if nay one should harm me again. Yet when I told him I already felt safe with him, he turned from me as though I’d struck him. Why would a man retreat when his wife says such a thing?”
Cora lowered her basket and perched upon the edge of the fountain, her gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps he fears what those words stir in him. He has ever been wed to his work, to the clan, to the sword at his side. Feelings daenae come easy to a man who’s carried such burdens.”
“I should feel glad then, should I nae? If he avoids me, it means I’ve nay longer to wrestle with this…this war inside meself. The less he comes close, the less I must fight me own longin’.”
Cora’s brow arched with quiet knowing. “Ye speak of it like a battle, yet I can hear the ache in yer voice. Perhaps ye care for him more than ye’d like to admit, aye?”
Laura shook her head quickly, though her cheeks flushed despite herself.
