A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  “Can this Janet be trusted?” she asked of a sudden.

  Iona’s expression reflected her confusion—after all, she had not been speaking of Janet. It was Tyra whose thoughts had traveled in this direction. “Naturally. Why do you ask?”

  “Because she cannot know of what transpired here. No one can know. Not for now. Not until I speak with Dougal on it.”

  A mixture of emotions passed over Iona’s face all at once. “You care a great deal for him.” It was not a question.

  “I do not,” Tyra scoffed. “I am concerned for him, but it is not the same as what you imagine.”

  “Isn’t it?” Now it was Iona’s turn to move her head about, to endeavor to meet Tyra’s gaze. “You care a great deal for whether he is punished for what he’s done to you. That much is clear.”

  “Why should I not care? He has been good to me. As good as he can be. And he was dreadfully sorry for the accident, I know. He has not abused nor threatened me. And I feel…” Shyness stole her voice.

  “Feel what?”

  “Sorry for him,” she admitted. “I feel sorry for him, for he is alone. Everyone has deserted him. He has a good heart—he provides for Enid’s needs, when others left her behind to fend for herself. She is a kind, lovely person, and he sees to her safety. He possesses a great deal of goodness, I know, though he endeavors to conceal it.”

  “You are in love with him.”

  The very words all but sent her leaping from the bed. Love? Love! “What gives you that notion?” she gasped before laughing faintly with disbelief. “Of all the ideas!”

  “I know love when I see it,” Iona insisted. “You might lie to others. You might even lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to one who knows you so well. No matter what we speak of, you come back to him. His safety, whether I shall speak of this to Colin. Whether Janet can be trusted. And when you speak of this goodness which you are so certain he possesses, your face fairly shines. I hear it in your voice. You love him.”

  How could she? How could anyone love a man such as Dougal Craig? “He is rough and brutish at times,” she protested. “Determined to frustrate me. Determined to argue.”

  A man who all but fell to pieces when he’d believed himself at fault for her fainting spell.

  A man who’d flown to her side when she’d expressed the slightest discomfort.

  A man capable of deep affection.

  “I suppose I’ve grown fond of him,” she admitted. “But it does not matter.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because I am beneath him. I am a servant. He owns so much land, he is so wealthy. I ought to be at work in the kitchen. It is all I am fit to do.”

  “Does he feel this way?” Iona whispered.

  “I could not say.”

  “There you have it.”

  “No, it is not that simple.”

  “It is.” The firm nod with which Iona accompanied this was nothing new to Tyra. She’d seen it more than enough times to know it meant there was no argument to be made.

  This did not change Tyra’s mind in the least. She was beneath the man for whom she’d come to care, and nothing in the world would make a difference.

  13

  “She assures me there is no need to worry.” Tyra favored Dougal with a smile as she kneaded the dough which Enid had prepared. “She will not speak of it to Colin. You found me, I took ill, and I have been recovering here. I was too ill to tell you who I was or how I came to be here, and you did not think to speak to Colin of it when you met.”

  “He will not believe this.”

  “What does it matter, truly?”

  How could she smile so? How could she sound so lighthearted? “Do ye not understand what might come of this? And could ye cease that endless kneading when I am trying to speak to ye?” His voice echoed in the cavernous kitchen, and he cursed himself for losing control of his temper.

  Tyra merely sighed, wiping her hands on the apron Enid had provided. The lass had made a quick recovery—whether the presence of her old friend had to do with it, he could not say, but she did seem to have come around soon after Iona’s appearance. Even the healer, when she’d arrived, had provided little in the way of explanation for the sudden illness and swift recovery.

  He waved a hand in her direction. “Is it wise for ye to be working so? Should ye rest? Ye ought to rest.”

  “I do not need to rest. I feel well.” When he lowered his brow, she laughed gaily. “Truly! The spells come upon me suddenly, and they pass just as suddenly. I feel rather weak and fatigued for a short time, but soon after I feel perfectly well. That is the way of it now.”

  He could not believe it. Not when she had been so ill, so frail. Yes, the color had returned to her cheeks, the light to her eyes. She laughed as freely as the happiest child as she and Enid worked together in the kitchen, trying in their own way to converse and understand each other.

  She was even capable of kneading dough, though it had scarcely been more than three weeks since she’d been shot. She did not work nearly so hard with her left arm, surely, but she was able to move it and did not express pain when she did. He supposed this was a sign of her healing.

  Why did she insist on pushing herself so? This was what he could not understand. “Ye are not my servant. I dinna wish for ye to work in the kitchen,” he grumbled, eyeing the flour-dusted table upon which she handled the dough. “Whatever gave ye the notion that I wished for this to be so?”

  The lass straightened her spine, lifting her chin before speaking. “I do not do this for you, Dougal Craig, but for myself. I have spent most of my life in service and am unaccustomed to sitting idle for days at a time. I must do something to feel useful. Besides, Enid is fine company, and I enjoy our time together a great deal.”

  Enid smiled broadly, nodding, having read the lass’s lips. “Indeed,” he muttered, unswayed. It was not supposed to be this way at all. First, he’d shot the woman. Now, she recovered from a fainting spell yet refused to take care of herself, putting herself to work in his kitchen. To anyone looking in from the outside, it would appear he’d dreadfully mistreated her.

  “As I said,” Tyra continued, turning the dough with her right hand, “There is no threat of danger from Colin Ramsey. I know Iona. I trust her with my life. And I know how stubborn and willful she can be once she decides to be. She will not allow anything to come of it.”

  This did not satisfy him. Nothing aside from strict assurance that the lass was safe and protected and healthy would be satisfactory.

  She was not safe with him. This much, he knew. He would never make a fitting companion, a man in his position. Ever watchful, waiting for the English to catch up to him. Waiting to be taken away in shackles, to be taken to London where his head might roll as his cousin’s had.

  How could he continue to have her with him when it seemed nothing but tragedy could come of it?

  “Ye are half-English, are ye not?” he asked.

  Her brows shot up in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

  “Ye are. I recall ye saying as much once, while we took supper.”

  “What of it?” She looked down at the dough, now pushing it about in a rather sullen manner.

  “I dinna hold it against ye, dinna misunderstand me,” he insisted. “I, too, am half-English by birth. Ye must know how dangerous it is for anyone of English blood in this region. In all of Scotland, to be sure. Ye were safer on your island.”

  “I am aware of this,” she whispered, going still, her gaze directed at the table.

  Could he manage this? It seemed he could not bring himself to speak the words which he knew ought to be spoken for the lass’s benefit. “Perhaps… nay, there is no perhaps about it.” He set his jaw, determined. This had to be done. “Perhaps ye ought to leave the region. Perhaps sail for another shore, or at least find your way to Edinburgh or Glasgow. Somewhere better settled, where ye might be protected against any who might take offense to your English blood.”

  She raised her head sl
owly, confusion etched across her face. She was so lovely. How could he go the rest of his days without gazing upon her? How had he lived this long without her?

  How cruel, finding what had been missing from his life, knowing there could never be anything between them.

  “You wish for me to go?” she whispered. Was her chin trembling?

  “I dinna wish for it.”

  “Why do you suggest it, then?”

  “This is for the best for ye,” he insisted. “Sentiment against the English is strong, and ye shall be in need of a protector. Even Iona cannot protect ye. Nor would Colin Ramsey wish to involve himself in such protection. He has enough to keep him awake at night. Ye would be merely one more concern. Ye must have protection, and ye cannot find it here.”

  Yes, her chin trembled now. Why?

  “I am offering ye anything ye might need,” he reminded her, since it was clear she did not understand. “Whatever it takes, so long as ye are safe and provided for. I have the gold for this, so that is not a concern.”

  Had she forgotten how to speak? She simply stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “I have given this a great deal of thought since ye became ill,” he insisted. “It is not for the best, having ye here with me. I was selfish to keep ye here for so long. It is time now to concern myself with what is best for ye, not for myself.”

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “You believe this is best for me?”

  “I do. Ye need safety—”

  “Yes, yes,” she snapped, nodding. “Yes, I will be safer away from you. You have made it clear. I am in need of protection, and Iona cannot offer it.”

  “That is true. I knew ye would understand.”

  “I understand.” She untied her apron, her movements sharp and jerking, muttering under her breath all the while. “I understand you wish to send me away. For my own benefit, because there is no one here willing or able to protect me.” Before he had a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts, she threw the apron at him and stormed out of the kitchen.

  “Wait! Tyra!” But she did not so much as flinch. He watched her go, his heart sinking even as frustration rose in his chest. Of all women, he’d believed her to be sensible enough to understand this was for the best. What did he have to do to please her?

  He took a seat at the table, holding Tyra’s crumpled apron in his lap. What was wrong with what he’d offered? Certainly, he’d spent a great deal of time considering the choices for a lass in Tyra’s position. There were not many, but much of that had to do with her having no money.

  He’d solved that problem. He would give her whatever she needed and more on top of that, so long as it meant her comfort and safety.

  No matter how deep his misery at the thought of being without her. No matter how it pained him to imagine no longer waking in the morning with the promise of seeing her. No matter how the sound of her laughter in the kitchen warmed his heart and gave him a sense of purpose.

  Her happiness. Her health, her safety. This was his purpose now. When she was no longer with him, that purpose would no longer exist. He would return to the life he’d always known.

  And that would be enough, for it always had been.

  He looked up to find Enid watching him from across the room. When she did not look away, he lifted his shoulders. “What did I say to upset her?” he asked. “I wished for the best. For her sake, not for my own.”

  She tipped her head to the side, eyes narrowing. You do not understand, she gestured.

  “What? What do I not understand?”

  She cares for you.

  He snorted, shaking his head. “Nay, she does not.”

  She does. You are sending her away. It hurts her.

  Was that true? How could it be? “She is better without me,” he insisted. “I am nothing but a danger to her. She would be better off elsewhere.”

  Enid sighed, pointing to him. What of yourself? Would you be better?

  He laughed—bitter, sharp, but Enid could not hear that. “I am better on my own. I have always known it.” Indeed, he’d never been anything but a curse to any he’d loved. He’d made his father unhappy, had embarrassed and shamed him. He’d been a stain on his family’s name.

  Solitude was the only manner in which he could spend his life, for it was all he knew now. And he preferred it that way—no questions, no expectations. No chance of hurting anyone as he’d just hurt Tyra without intending to.

  She would see in time. This was for the best. For both of them.

  14

  How could she have been so wrong? And how could Dougal be so blind?

  That was simple. He did not care for her, and as such could not understand why she wanted only one person to protect her: him.

  He could not see it this way. He wished to be rid of her, to make his life simpler. He believed money was all she wanted from him.

  Would that it were that simple.

  How could she have allowed this to happen? Well, she knew better now than to allow her heart to rule her head. If he felt nothing for her, she felt nothing for him. The matter was as simple as that.

  She walked behind the house, muttering and snapping and growling, calling him the names she’d wished to call him while in the kitchen. Accusing him as she’d wished to do. For being blind, thoughtless, to say nothing of his believing himself a great hero for offering her gold which she knew he possessed a great deal of. It would mean nothing for a man in his position to hand her a bag of gold and send her on her way. Yet he believed himself to be a generous, heroic figure.

  He expected gratitude. The fool. To think, she’d come to care for such a fool. What did that make her? Was she a fool, as well?

  “No longer,” she spat, the pressure in her chest and behind her eyes now almost too much to bear. “He is not worthy of my affection.”

  She picked up a rock and threw it hard, taking pleasure in how far she managed to send it. If only Dougal were in the rock’s path. Perhaps she could hurt him as he’d hurt her, the thoughtless beast. He was little better than his dogs in that regard. Little wonder he got along so well with them, being of the same mind.

  Another thrown rock, then another. It was growing late, darkness already settling in. Tyra turned in a slow circle, gazing up at the sky. Clouds rolled in from the west, dark and ominous. A storm?

  The clouds merely reflected the way she felt inside. Never had she known pain such as this. A shot to the shoulder was nothing when compared to the feeling of a boulder pressing on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She walked with her head down, arms wrapped about her, wishing she’d never set foot upon this cursed land.

  Iona had been closer to the truth than she could have imagined. For Tyra did not merely care for the man whose head she would gladly pummel now.

  She’d fallen in love with him.

  “You fool,” she whimpered, dashing a hand across her face to brush away a tear. She hated herself for that tear. For a great many things.

  Was her life so empty? Was she so lonely that she’d allowed herself to fall in love with a man who would not, could not love her in return? How pitiful!

  No longer. She would not beg him to love her. She would not accept his gold, either. If he did not wish to have her with him, she would remove herself from his house. It was as simple as that. Certainly, she would not be indebted to him for the rest of her days.

  If he did not want her, she did not want him. Nor did she want anything of his.

  This seemed the best decision, and by the time she’d come to it, she’d gone far from the house. Toward the very foothills she’d been climbing when Dougal had found her. If only she hadn’t lost her way.

  A bolt of lightning cut through the clouds, lighting all around her as brightly as if it were midday. Spots flashed before her eyes long afterward, and she blinked them back with a racing heart. The storm was upon her, indeed, the wind now picking up and swirling her skirts around her.

  She ought to have turned back before now,
that much was clear, but she had been too deep in thought to care much for the weather. Now, she gathered her skirts in her hands to keep them as still as she could before turning and running for the house.

  Only… where was the house? How far had she gone?

  “Och,” she called out, her voice lost in the wind. A big, heavy raindrop hit her head. Another. Soon, it was nearly impossible to see, thanks to the curtains of rain sweeping over the moors and plastering her hair against her face.

  She wiped it away, blinking back the water rolling down her face, looking in all directions. If the foothills were behind her, she ought to walk straight ahead. She would find the house soon enough.

  Would she? If there were no candles in the windows, she might never see it thanks to the extreme darkness which had fallen over the land, the rain which made it nearly impossible to see more than a few paces in front of her.

  Thunder cracked through the air, making the ground shake beneath her feet. She pressed her hands to her ears but it did nothing to soften the deafening roar. Her feet slipped on the now sodden ground, bringing her to her knees.

  “Dougal!” she cried, but there was no one to hear. She could scarcely hear herself, the storm far too violent. The wind tore leaves from distant trees and sent them swirling, making it even more difficult to see what was around her.

  Perhaps she ought to wait here until it passed. But there was no shelter, nothing to protect her, and there was no telling what else the wind might have picked up and carried. It was nearly strong enough to throw her to the ground again when she struggled to her feet.

  She fought on, determined to reach the house, to stand strong against the storm. She was no weak, trembling thing. If Iona had taught her anything, it was strength. How to stand tall against the storm.

  Each step was a struggle, however, and the wind insisted upon blowing her back, causing her to lose any progress she’d made. Once again she fell to her knees, and once again she considered remaining there.