Page 60 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
For a time, she stayed there, hidden, trembling, letting her heart bleed out in silence. Then, with a deep breath, she wiped the tears from her face and straightened her shoulders. She composed herself, running her hands over her cheeks once more. Her eyes, though red from weeping, shone with a fragile resolve. “Nay more tears,” she murmured under her breath. “If I’m to go, I’ll go with me head held high and nae let the people ken how I suffer.”
Then she passed through the great doors and into the echoing halls of the castle. The torches flickered along the stone walls, lighting her path as she made her way inside. Her heart was heavy, but her stride was sure. Whatever came next, be it sorrow or reconciliation, she would face it with the strength that only heartbreak could teach.
Laura entered her bedchamber with slow, heavy steps, her hand brushing the carved wooden doorframe as though to steady herself. The air felt colder than before, though the hearth still burned low with the last of the morning’s fire.
Cora was still there, bent over a chest, carefully folding gowns and linen. The sound of fabric rustling filled the silence untilCora turned, her expression softening when she saw Laura’s face.
“Ye should eat somethin’, me Lady,” Cora said gently, straightening with a hand upon her hip. “Ye’ve barely touched a morsel since this mornin’.” Her voice carried the tone of motherly insistence Laura had long grown used to.
But Laura only shook her head, her lips parting with a sigh.
“I’ve nay appetite, Cora,” she murmured, moving to sit upon the edge of the bed. Her gaze drifted to the open chest, half-filled with her belongings. “What use is food when me heart feels as hollow as this room will soon be?” the words came out broken, her throat tight with the effort of keeping her composure.
Cora’s brow furrowed as she crossed her arms. “Aye, but the bairn shouldnae suffer for yer heartache,” she said firmly. “Ye must eat. It’s nae just yerself ye’re carin’ for now.” Her tone softened as she stepped closer, resting a comforting hand upon Laura’s shoulder.
Laura closed her eyes and nodded faintly, her lashes brushing her cheeks like trembling wings.
“Aye, ye’re right,” she whispered. “Go on then, fetch somethin’ from the kitchens. I’ll take what I can, and if ye can, bring somethin’ for Angus as well,” she said, looking down at the pup.
“Of course. I’ll return soon.”
As the door shut softly behind her maid, Laura rose and turned toward the bed. The soft candlelight glowed upon the spread of gowns laid carefully across it, each one a memory stitched into fabric. There was the pale blue gown with the silver thread that Bradley had said matched the sky; the soft green silk he’d insisted she wear to supper the night they’d laughed until tears had come. And the crimson velvet, his favorite, because he’d once said it made her look like fire come to life.
Her throat tightened as her fingers brushed over the delicate embroidery, tracing the threads as if touching fragments of a dream. But that dream was gone now, torn apart by pride and silence.
“Nay,” she whispered, shaking her head, her eyes glistening. “I’ll nae take these with me.” One by one, she lifted the gowns and carried them back to the wardrobe, her movements deliberate, almost reverent.
The scent of lavender sachets lingered among the garments as she closed the wardrobe doors with finality.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye—a woman pale and weary, yet holding fast to what little dignity she had left.
“I’ll leave behind all he’s given me,” she murmured, voice low. “If I must start anew, it shall be with naught but me own strength.” She sank into the chair by the hearth, her hands resting upon her stomach as if to reassure the life within.
The latch clicked softly, and Cora returned, balancing a tray that sent forth a rich, comforting aroma.
“Here we are, lass,” she said cheerfully, setting it upon the small table near the window.
“Cook’s made ye a fine meal.” The tray held two lamb steaks, a steaming bowl of stew thick with barley and carrots, a hunk of crusty brown bread, and a wedge of soft cheese. A mug of warm milk sat beside it.
Laura’s stomach stirred faintly at the smell, though her heart was not in it.
She rose and moved toward the table, sitting quietly as Cora poured the milk into a small cup for her and a small bowl for Angus, who was also pleased to get a lamb steak and carried it to the fire to eat.
“Ye’ll feel better after a bite,” Cora said kindly, handing her a spoon. “There’s comfort in a warm meal, even when the world feels cold.” Her eyes flicked toward the now-empty bed. “What happened to all yer fine dresses, me Lady?”
Laura looked up from the stew, her expression calm but resolute. “I’ve put them away,” she said softly. “I’ll nae be takin’ any gown the Laird had made for me. They remind me too much of him.” Her voice quivered at the edges, but she forced herself to meet Cora’s gaze. “The Abbey’s full of nuns, and they dress modestly. I’ll do the same.”
Cora’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but she said nothing at first. The crackle of the fire filled the space between them, gentle and steady. Finally, she nodded, her voice warm with understanding.
“Aye, lass, I ken what ye mean. Ye’re seekin’ peace, and there’s nay shame in that. Sometimes it takes leavin’ behind the grand things to find what truly matters.”
Laura stirred her stew slowly, her spoon clinking softly against the bowl.
“Peace,” she echoed with a faint, wistful smile. “It feels like a word I’ve nae known in a long while.” She took a small bite, letting the warmth spread through her chest, though her appetite remained faint. “Maybe I’ll find it yet, away from here, away from all this pain.”
Cora moved quietly around the room, folding the last of the linens and setting them neatly in the chest.
“The castle will miss ye, ye ken,” she said after a moment. “The folk have grown fond of ye. Ye’ve brought a gentleness to this place, like spring sunlight after a long frost.”
