Page 42 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Laura held him close, her tears dampening his hair, not from sorrow but from the raw force of what they had shared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“The stores will hold through winter if we ration as I’ve said,” he declared, his voice deep and unyielding.
Bradley stood at the head of the council table, hands braced against the wood, his broad shoulders squared with command.
“Each crofter will bring their measure of grain to the castle for fair division, and nay one, nay one, will go hungry under me watch.” His eyes swept the room, meeting each man’s gaze until every head bowed in agreement.
“Aye, Laird,” murmured Duncan, the eldest among them, his tone deferential. “Yer plan’s a wise one. The village is mending fast since the raids, thanks to yer hand.” Bradley gave a curt nod, though he did not miss the tremor in Duncan’s voice, a mix of respect and fear that clung to most men when speaking to him.
He turned to the others, his expression firm. “We’ll rebuild the mill before the frost sets in. The smith’s forge will be movedcloser to the shore, where there’s enough wind to keep it through winter. I’ll have nay laziness this season. The clan must work as one if we’re to succeed.”
A murmur of assent rippled around the table, though no one dared to challenge or question his directives.
Caleb, with more courage, or perhaps less sense, cleared his throat. “And what of the heir, me Laird?” he asked, his voice steady though his hands fidgeted in his lap. “The clan’s laws still bind ye to produce one within two years of the union. ’Tis said the line of leadership must nae falter.” The words hung in the air like a spark near dry tinder.
Bradley’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as silence fell. The fire crackled, its glow dancing across his sharp features.
“Are ye suggestin’ I’ve forgotten me duty, Caleb?” he asked quietly, the softness of his tone more dangerous than a shout. “Or are ye simply fond of testin’ yer luck?”
Caleb swallowed hard, his face paling. “Nay, me Laird. Forgive me tongue, I meant nay disrespect. Only… only that the people look to the future, aye? And without an heir, other clans may take it as a way to usurp yer position as there is nay heir to claim it.” His voice faltered as Bradley’s stare bore into him, the air thick with tension.
Bradley stood up and stepped closer, his boots echoing against the stone floor. “The people will have their future,” he said, his voice low, each word deliberate. “And ye’ll have naught to fearabout bloodlines. I can assure ye the Lady and I will give the clan a strong heir.” He held Caleb’s gaze a moment longer before the man bowed his head in apology, his courage snuffed like a candle in the wind.
Satisfied, Bradley turned back, his tone brisk once more. “See that the supplies are distributed as ordered. I’ll need reports from each steward. And remind the men, nay huntin’ in the forest beyond the ridge. The wolves have been restless of late.”
The men nodded in agreement.
“The council is adjourned,” he said, his tone clipped and final. “Unless there’s another matter at hand.”
Caleb cleared his throat, the sound hesitant and thin. “Aye… there is one more matter, if ye’d permit it.” His fingers twisted the brim of his cap, and his eyes flicked toward the hearth as though it might shield him from Bradley’s stare. Bradley’s brows drew together, a flicker of irritation sparking in his eyes.
“Speak up, then,” he said curtly, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I’ve nay patience for mumbled words and wasted time.” His voice held the weight of authority, and the men seated nearest to Caleb subtly leaned back, eager to distance themselves from what was coming.
Caleb swallowed hard before answering. “It’s a letter. Come from Lady Ophelia McCormack… yer maither.” The name alone seemed to hang in the air like a curse. “She requests… shepleads, rather, to have her exile lifted. She wishes to return to the castle.” His words trailed off, and the chamber fell silent.
Bradley’s entire body went still. The only sound was the steady crackle of the fire behind him, its warmth suddenly feeling sharp and stinging.
“A letter, ye say?” he murmured, though the calmness in his tone was more dangerous than any shout. “Let me see it.”
Caleb hesitated before fumbling with his satchel and drawing out a sealed parchment. His hand trembled as he extended it toward the Laird. Bradley took it without looking at him, his fingers brushing the familiar crest pressed into the red wax. For a moment, he stared at it, his jaw tight, then turned and walked to the hearth.
Without opening it, he tossed the letter into the flames. The parchment curled and blackened instantly, the seal melting into a pool of crimson wax that hissed as it fell. Bradley stood there, watching it burn, his eyes reflecting the fire’s glow. He did not flinch, did not move, until the last scrap of paper had turned to ash.
When he spoke again, his voice was low, hard as steel. “Write to her,” he said, still facing the hearth. “Tell her the request is denied. Tell her never to ask again.” Each word was deliberate, carved from the anger twisting inside him. “If she values her peace, she’ll stay far from McCormack lands for the rest of her days.”
Caleb bowed his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Aye, it will be done.”
None of the men dared to meet Bradley’s eyes. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. They all knew better than to speak of the woman who had birthed their laird yet betrayed him so cruelly.
Bradley turned from the fire, his expression carved in stone. He said nothing more as he strode from the council chamber, the heavy door creaking open and slamming shut behind him. His boots struck hard against the flagstones as he walked the corridor, each step echoing with the fury he refused to voice.
How dare she ask such a thing? After all she had brought, after the betrayal, the blood, and the shame she had left in her wake.
His hands curled into fists as he strode past the long tapestries lining the hall, his pulse hammering beneath his skin.
He could still see her face as she had been the last time he saw her, her tears, her pleading, her false words of love. She had chosen her violent husband over her own son, and for that, she had been cast out. There was no forgiveness left in him, no room for sentiment. Whatever part of him had once been her child had burned away long ago, just as her letter had turned to ash in the fire.
