A Highlander's Hope: A MacKendimen Clan Novella

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “Damn!” he said as he entered quickly and pushed the door closed behind him. “I was hoping to find ye yet asleep under the covers.” He rubbed his massive hands together and blew on them. “The air is much colder today. And it feels like snow is approaching.”

  “The water will be ready soon, and I will make some hot tea—a concoction that Moira favors—that will warm ye from the inside out,” she offered.

  Standing up after checking the not-boiling water, she pushed her hair out of her face and back over her shoulders. The silence alerted her first. He stood by the door, not moving now, just staring at her.

  “Come here, lass,” he said in a soft voice.

  Robena walked to where he stood, and he opened his arms to her. Embracing her, he leaned his chin on her head and rubbed down over her back. She may have sighed aloud at the comfort of it. When he laughed, the rumble of it spreading out through his chest so she could feel it next to her face, she understood she had sighed loud enough for him to hear.

  “I canna help it, Iain. Ye are a warm man on a cold morning,” she admitted. When she would have stepped away, he held her close.

  “I needed to speak to Rob,” he said. “Or I would not have risked freezing my bollocks off outside.”

  “Dinna risk yer bollocks, Iain,” she said, laughing then.

  Now he let her free and she went over to the hearth. After moving the pot for the tea closer to the flames to warm, she went to get the crushed betony leaves from the shelves. He was behind her, reaching over her head to get the jar down for her.

  Over the next short while, this give-and-take continued as he wordlessly helped her make the tea, stir the porridge, and ready the bowls and cups to break their fast. If truth be told, this was one of her most treasured things about the time they spent together. On mornings like this one, and the ones like this that they’d shared over the last five years, she could almost pretend that their life was something different than it was.

  As they moved around each other, sharing gentle touches as they carried out the menial and usual tasks of the morning, Robena could almost let herself believe they were man and wife rather than a man and his whore. The revelation of last night was nowhere to be found between them now. They fell back into the comfortable pattern that had developed during his longer visits, and the morning meal passed in companionable ease.

  “I have been helping Moira out several mornings a week, Iain. Would ye like to come with me?” She watched as he considered her words. “Or we can stay here, if ye’d rather?”

  “Although I did see Pol at the miller’s, I have not seen her yet. Do ye think she would mind me stomping into her cottage?” He retrieved her cloak, dropped it on her shoulders, and then got his.

  “Ye have to see her lasses. They seem to grow inches every week.”

  He met her gaze and she recognized the wariness there. As though he was worried over her reaction to bairns. ’Twas one reason she did not reveal the truth to very many people. They treated her differently once they knew. Now, though, Iain opened the door and waited for her to pass.

  The walk to Moira’s cottage, a much larger one that sat on the edge of the village, took a short time, but they may have been rushed along by the cold winds that began to swirl along the paths and roads. Winter was here, and as Iain had said, snow was coming soon. Iain reached out and took hold of her hand to steady her steps along the ground that was hardened and slippery from the frost. Another moment that filled with a dreamlike feel of a normal life wove around her, just as their heated breaths spun over their heads before dissipating in the cold.

  Moira opened the door before they could knock, and bade them to come in. As always, the scents inside Moira’s cottage rushed over Robena as she entered. Racks of dried and drying herbs and plants hung over their heads, though Iain came close to knocking into them as he walked.

  “Come in! Come in and warm yerselves,” Moira said. Iain leaned down to enter through the doorway that was shorter than him. “Move nearer the fire, where it is warm.”

  Iain released her hand and followed her across the cottage to the hearth. In the far corner sat large tables next to a hearth that dwarfed her own. Moira lived and worked here—blending and concocting brews and tisanes and poultices and more from the herbs and plants she grew in the large garden outside, or sought in the countryside around the village. So accomplished was she as a healer that Moira was permitted to send to other villages and even a monastery for the ingredients she needed, but did not or could not cultivate herself.

  Over the last month or so, as the harvesting reached its peak, Moira had asked for Robena’s help and Robena had gladly given it. Spending time working and learning at the woman’s side was fascinating to her. Though only a few years separated her age from Moira’s, the woman’s knowledge and experience were vastly different. The woman never stopped moving, doing, and making, and Robena trailed behind or alongside her as she worked. In that time, she’d learned to make a decent tea with several different leaves, to properly bind up a mixture of herbs for cooking various stews and soups, and when to move certain drying plants away from the fire so they were not too brittle. Without thinking, she did that now, seeing the color of a few of them nearest the hearth and recognizing they were done.

  “My thanks,” Moira said. “I had not gotten to those yet.” The woman used her skirt over her hand to pull a large pot away from the fire as she spoke. “Can ye feel the change in the air? Snow will be here within a day or two.” Using the dipper, she filled two cups with a steaming brew and then offered it to her and Iain. “Here. This will warm ye.”

  Robena inhaled the aroma before sipping the liquid. Not the usual flavor, she glanced over her cup at Moira. “Not betony?”

  “Nay, nay,” Moira said with an enigmatic smile. “Something different this time.” The healer leaned her hips back against the edge of the nearest table and nodded at them. “Iain, ’tis good to see ye. How do ye fare?”

  “I am well,” Iain said with a smile. God Almighty, but the man was handsome! And he was a puzzle to her even now, after five years of seeing to his needs.

  As she watched, enjoying the hot tea and observing him, she was struck by the way he was so unperturbed, no matter to whom he spoke. Robena had seen him with Struan when other nobles were present, and she’d watched him here in the village over the years since he began visiting Rob, and not once had he seemed ill at ease. He laughed easily, often, and well, as Moira told him about her lasses and their antics.

  What shocked her, though, was when he put his cup down, still in conversation with Moira, and lifted Robena’s cloak from her shoulders and tossed it on a bench. These small gestures, ones that existed between a man and a woman, threatened her control. She could almost believe . . .

  “Robena?” She blinked and found the two staring at her. “Do ye mind, then?” he asked.

  “Mind?”

  “I am going to Pol’s smithy to lend a hand there,” he explained. He needed not ask her permission for anything, and yet he was.

  “Ye ken how men are, Robena,” Moira said with a laugh. “Too much time listening to the tales of women and they break out in hives,” she teased.

  “If ye wish, Iain,” she said, nodding. “Of course. Do as ye want.”

  His gaze narrowed as though studying her, and the corner of his appealing mouth lifted and he smiled. He took but a step towards the door before coming back to stand in front of her. The kiss, quick and sweet, surprised her. He was out the door before she could take a breath.

  “Well then,” Moira whispered as she moved along the table.

  “What do ye mean by that?” she asked, touching her fingers to her lips and then dropping her hand as Moira met her gaze.

  “Things are going well between the two of ye?” The words were both a statement and a question.

  “Iain is a pleasant man,” she said. The description sounded tepid even to her ears, and Moira’s nod and raised brow informed Robena that her attempt to min
imize his action was unsuccessful. “He is no burden to serve.”

  “Of all the ways to describe that man,” Moira began, “pleasant is not the word I would use.” Moira walked towards her now, and Robena was tempted to step away. “Something is different this time,” she said. “Should he not be in the keep or with Rob?”

  “He is avoiding Struan,” Robena explained. “The laird is attempting to match his cousin Gunna and Iain.”

  “Ah, I ken no man who would want to marry that one,” Moira said. She took Robena’s cup and filled it once more. “So he runs to yer side.”

  “He runs away from Struan,” she corrected. She did not want Moira making assumptions that were not true. “And he pays me well enough that he can run to my side or my bed or away from them as he pleases.” She must keep things in their places. She must not look at him as anything but a customer—a man who was paying very well for her time and attentions. He was only that.

  “Just so.”

  Two words, uttered quietly, and yet they challenged so much. She looked away, pretending to examine the bunches of herbs above them, so she would not see understanding in Moira’s very clear, very knowing eyes. The woman was not only a gifted healer, but also a gifted seer. Stories of her otherworldly insight were whispered through the clan. Though she’d never witnessed such a thing, Robena could easily believe it of Moira.

  Moira let it go, handing her a basket of dried herbs and such, and Robena began following Moira’s instructions. When she reached the bottom of the basket and a tidy pile lay next to it, Robena finally said what was on her mind.

  “He kens, Moira.”

  “What does he ken?”

  “All of it, I think,” she said, staring at the flames in the hearth. “I told him I couldna bear children, and then he sought out Rob this morn.” She shrugged. “From the look in his eyes, the pity there, he kens all of it.”

  “Ye think he pities ye, Robena? When ye look in his eyes, that’s what ye see there?” Moira asked. The woman stood in front of her, forcing Robena to look at her. Robena glanced up and nodded.

  “Aye.”

  “Then ye do not ken men as I would think a woman who has whored as long as ye have would.” Robena gasped, for Moira had never called her that. No matter what the woman had seen or heard, or what injuries she had tended, Moira had never called her a whore. “That man has a care for ye. That man looks on ye, not with pity, but with wanting and needing and caring.”

  “Nay.” Robena shook her head, trying to deny it to herself, too. “Nay. He canna.” She clasped her hands together, feeling the thing that kept her in control, the line that separated those long-ago dreams from the life she lived, start to weaken. “I am just his whore.”

  “Ye are trying to fool yerself, Robena. A man cares not if his whore canna have bairns or how it happened. He only worries if she canna give him pleasure or if he canna take it on her.”

  “Ye dinna understand, Moira,” she said. What Moira said was dangerous. If she allowed that Iain was more than just a man who paid for her, it would open up the dark, desperate need within her for more. More than lying beneath a man. More than waiting for him to arrive and waiting for him to leave.

  “I think I do,” Moira whispered as she took Robena’s hands in her own. “Ye have made a place for yerself here for years and not permitted yerself to want or need more. But ’tis not working, is it?”

  Whatever she would have said, however she would have denied Moira’s word of truth, was stopped by the door bursting open. Pol was carrying Jean in his arms, and she babbled as she wrapped her father’s hair around her fingers. It was the sight of Iain carrying the younger one, Caitlin, in his arms and smiling at her, that tore Robena apart.

  “They are hungry . . . again!” Pol said as he put his daughter down and took the other from Iain. “And ready to come home,” he explained. He strode to Moira and kissed her. “As I am, but I have too many tasks to see to.”

  When Iain’s gaze met hers, Robena feared for everything. Her well-ordered life, her identity, and her beliefs were all in grave danger from this man. Overwhelmed by fear, she simply walked out and away from them. From him.

  “Robena?” She heard his voice but did not stop. “Lass?”

  She ran then, realizing for the first time that he was the only man who would call his whore ‘lass’. Heedless of her direction, she stumbled along the paths and into the woods, just knowing she needed to be away. When she stopped, her sides ached from the exertion and her lungs burned from the coldness of the air she breathed. Leaning over, hands on her thighs, she dragged in deep breaths. It took minutes or longer for her to become aware of the place to which she’d run.

  This was the place where her life had been taken from her. All it took was one glance at the large rock in this clearing to know.

  They’d dragged her here from her cottage, for there was not enough room for all of them there. Here, they could do as they wanted, far enough from the nearest cottages so that they did not draw attention. And they had done as they wanted, with a brutality she’d never experienced or seen. Having several men at once was something she’d done before, but then, the goal of those men had been pleasure, and lots of it. That night, the night of Alesander and Anice’s wedding, those men had not desired pleasure. They’d wanted to hurt her and carry out some need of their leader for retribution.

  And she had gotten both in full measure, as Struan’s son had planned. It had gone on for hours before they’d dragged her back and left her in front of her cottage, torn and beaten and bleeding and . . . damaged. After that night, she’d changed too, for she knew there was nothing else for her but the life of a whore.

  With a final look around, she accepted the memories for what they were now—a reminder that her path remained clear. She might fill her empty hours with interests and pursuits, but she was what she would always be—a whore. The crunching behind her made her turn quickly.

  Iain stood there, staring at her.

  Did he know the details of what had happened? Had Moira revealed more to him than Rob? Robena knew Rob felt guilty over what had happened to her, and blamed himself somehow. His half-brother was the guilty one, though, and the only one to blame. And every day, God forgive her, she prayed that he yet burned in hell.

  “I thought ye might need this if ye plan to stay outside,” he said quietly as he held out her cloak. He was not wearing his. When she did not speak or move, he continued. “Moira said she would appreciate yer help for a few hours, if ye can spare it.”

  The urge to run gathered within her. It would be the right thing to do now. Run away from this man who threatened everything she had settled in her life. Run away from the growing need within her for more. But if she did, who would she be? Could she continue to simply whore for a living? Would she ever be able to ignore the longing for a family and a man of her own? Taking a breath, she gathered herself back in and gained control over the dangerous desires and nodded to him.

  “With yer permission, I will,” she said, once more the whore whose customer decided what she could or would do with her time.

  Something flashed in his gaze, before he gave his permission with a curt nod. He waited there as she passed, handing her the cloak, which she tossed over her own shoulders as she walked by him.

  It was simpler this way. To be what she knew she was, rather than to want something she could not have. By the time she reached Moira’s cottage, the despair had been pushed back to where it belonged, and she was the same old Robena that everyone expected her to be.

  * * *

  Iain had watched her for some time before she came back to herself from whatever she was remembering or seeing here. Her eyes were haunted and she shivered several times, though he doubted the cold was what caused it. As he waited, he realized what this place must be.

  Moira must have known, for she’d given him directions on how to get here, explaining that Robena often found her way here. But why? Why return to the place where such a monstrous t
hing had happened? He shifted his weight and crushed some branches on the ground there, drawing her gaze.

  For a moment, he wanted to look away from the anguish and horror he saw there, but Iain would not. He would not pity or lessen what she had survived by giving her anything but his strength. He’d trained men and seen them near their breaking point. Kindness was the last thing they needed, and it was the last thing she needed right now.

  He told her what Moira had said and held out her cloak, fighting the urge to take her in his arms and banish whatever demons haunted her now. Iain forced his hands to his side as she took her cloak and walked away.

  The cold surrounded him but it did not stop his blood from boiling in his veins. If he could dig up Alesander MacKendimen and kill him again, slowly and painfully, he would. If he could find out the names of the men who had attacked Robena on his behalf and torture them as they’d tortured her, he would. The scream that bubbled up from inside him and echoed out over this clearing and through the woods was filled with his fury and frustration that he could do neither.

  He could do nothing to avenge the wrong to this woman. He could do nothing to punish those responsible. Iain understood that Rob would have done it if he could have. Now he truly comprehended Rob’s dilemma in this.

  Iain would do the same thing his friend had done—give her a choice—and not try to bend her to his will or force her to accept him.

  He would indeed offer her marriage as one of the options, but the other, the much harder one for him, would be to change nothing between them. It would be a struggle to let a woman like her—a vibrant, intelligent, witty, loving woman—get away, but if that was what she truly wanted, he would let her go.

  Iain knew now that he loved her enough to do just that.

  Instead of following her back to Moira’s, he headed to the smithy to work out some of the fruitless anger he felt on her behalf. Pol took one look at him and put him to work without another word. After several hours of lifting and carrying and helping the much-younger blacksmith in his labors, Iain was exhausted and hungry and appeased. Well, as appeased as a man could be when he wanted to kill an already-dead man and his accomplices. Wearing himself out this way would have to do.