Page 43 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
Bradley reached the end of the corridor and paused before the tall windows overlooking the courtyard below.
He pressed a hand to the cool stone beside the frame, exhaling slowly through gritted teeth.
“Ye’ll never set foot here again,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with quiet venom. “Nae while I draw breath.”
With that vow heavy in his chest, he turned and walked on, his rage coiled tight but controlled. Outside, the wind howled around the towers, carrying away the last traces of warmth from the hall and the final remnants of a mother’s false love he no longer wanted.
Bradley entered the great hall and paced back and forth.
He stopped and grabbed a tankard. His hand clutched the spout of a cask of ale and poured a generous amount. He drank from it as if it might wash away the storm brewing in his chest. His jaw worked tight, the muscles in his shoulders straining beneath his tunic as he muttered curses under his breath.
“Blasted woman,” he growled, slamming the tankard down upon the long oak table so hard that ale sloshed over the rim.
“She dares to write to me after all she’s done.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again, the weight of his anger filling the room like a gathering tempest.
Cora entered quietly, carrying a wooden bucket and a rag to wash the tables. Her brow furrowed when she saw the Laird’s dark mood.
“Och, what’s got ye stompin’ about like a bull with a thorn in his hoof?” she asked, setting down her bucket. Her voice was cautious but kind, the way one might approach a wounded animal.
Bradley turned sharply toward her, his eyes flashing. “It’s me blasted maither,” he said, his voice low and rough. “The woman doesnae ken her place. She’s sent a letter beggin’ to return to the castle, as if I’ve forgotten the hell she gave me.” His hand clenched at his side, the veins standing out on his arm.
Cora straightened, her expression softening with understanding. “Aye, that cannae have been an easy thing for ye,” she said gently. “But ye’re the Laird now, Bradley. The word of the land is yers, nae hers. Whatever she was before, that time’s past.”
He stared at the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes like molten gold. “Aye,” he muttered. “I ken it. But every time her name’s spoken, I can feel the man I could become if I’m nae careful.” He turned toward her, his voice lowering, heavy with something that wasn’t just anger. “I’ve a duty to provide an heir, Cora. A son who’ll carry the name after me. But I fear… with time, I’ll turn into the same kind of man me faither was.”
Cora wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer, her expression earnest. “Ye’re nothin’ like yer faither,” she said firmly. “That man ruled with cruelty and fear. Ye rule with strength and heart. Aye, ye’ve a temper, Bradley, but it’s nae born of wickedness, it’s born of pain ye never asked for.”
Bradley’s jaw worked as he looked away, his throat tightening. “Pain’s in the blood, Cora,” he murmured. “It passes down with the name. Sometimes I see me faither’s shadow in me own reflection.”
Cora shook her head. “Nay, me Laird. Shadows fade when light touches them, and that light’s yer lady wife.” A faint smile curved her lips. “Laura’s the kind of woman that tempers fire, nae feeds it. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll make a fine faither one day, and she’ll be a kind, gentle maither. The two of ye will raise a bairn who’ll never ken the pain ye did.”
For a moment, Bradley said nothing. His anger slowly ebbed, replaced by a quiet ache in his chest. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “Ye’ve a sharp way of telling the truth, Cora,” he muttered.
She gave a small laugh. “Aye, someone’s got to tell ye when ye’re actin’ daft.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and rough but genuine. “Careful now. But perhaps ye’re right.” He looked toward the hearth again, the flames calmer now, just as he was. “Thank ye, lass. For speakin’ sense when I cannae find it meself.”
Cora dipped her head respectfully, though there was warmth in her eyes. “’Tis what I’m here for.” She picked up her rag once more and began to wipe the table, humming under her breath.
Bradley stood for a long while after, the firelight flickering over his thoughtful face. He could only hope the blood of hisfather didn’t define him after all, but he did not truly believe it completely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Laura breathed in the crisp air. The morning mist hung low as she walked with Cora along the worn path. Angus trotted ahead, his tail swaying proudly, his nose pressed to the earth. They continued across the bridge to the mainland.
“It’s a bonnie mornin’, is it nae, me Lady?” Cora said, her tone light as she brushed a strand of hair from her brow.
Laura smiled softly, her cheeks flushed pink from the chill. “Aye, it is beautiful. I’ve grown to love this place, Cora. I can finally see meself settlin’ here, truly. I daenae feel like an outsider anymore.”
Cora chuckled and gave a teasing glance. “Oh, does a certain Laird have anythin’ to do with that sudden change of heart?”
Laura’s face warmed deeper than the morning sun could manage. “Och, Cora, ye’ll make me blush. But aye… I supposeBradley has somethin’ to do with it. He’s been kind, more than I ever expected. I’m happy… content, even.”
Cora grinned and adjusted her shawl as they walked. “I’ve seen the change in ye, lass. Ye’ve got a glow about ye now. The kind that only comes when a woman’s heart is settled. And when her husband looks at her, as if she’s the sun risin’ over his fields.”
Laura laughed softly, brushing her gloved hands together. “Ye always ken how to make me flustered. But it’s true, I feel somethin’ deep here, a peace I didnae think I’d ever ken. The folk, the land… it’s become me home.”
“Aye,” Cora said with a satisfied nod. “That’s the way of it. Takes time, but these lands have a way of sinkin’ into the soul. Ye’ll never shake it now.”
