A Highlander's Scars (Highland Heartbeats Book 11)
Page 19
He looked out the window, over Donnan’s shoulder. “It was not me, what I did on the road. With those men. Would that I had never met them. I needed to survive, and they needed another man in their group. It worked well at first. But I could not stop thinking about the people we left behind. Fenella said something about that, did she not?”
Donnan could not remember, but it sounded like the sort of thing she would say.
“Had I not met ye, I dinna know where I would be now. Or what would have happened here. This was for the best, I suppose. All of it.”
“Aye. Ye gave him peace.”
“I gave us both peace.”
They turned their heads in unison, both of them looking over the bed to where their father slept.
Only to find that he no longer slept.
He had stopped breathing without their knowing it.
Donnan placed his hand over his father’s—it was already growing cold, and closed his eyes. He was at rest, at last.
Ewan called down to Aleck, whose stricken face spoke of the long friendship he’d shared with Clyde. Edward, too, shook with sorrow, while Cook wept as she had earlier in the day.
Though their presence was a comfort, it was Fenella he wanted. Fenella he needed. She waited outside the door, her arms opening to him when he joined her.
He allowed her to soothe him, as he needed soothing. He needed it most terribly.
When Aleck stepped into the corridor and saw them together, he smiled in spite of his red-rimmed eyes. “I understand there is somethin’ ye wish to discuss with me, young Donnan.”
Donnan smiled in return.
Life went on, and this was what his father wanted. What had granted him happiness and relief in his final hours.
“Aye,” he confirmed with a long look at his beloved Fenella. “There is, indeed.”
Epilogue
When she was nothing more than a wee lass, Fenella’s greatest dream was of her wedding day.
She had been to a wedding once. A cousin who married into Clan MacGregor. Her greedy eyes had taken in the crowns of flowers the bride and her sisters had worn in their hair, the silken gown embroidered with gold vines and leaves. The handsome young man who was to be her cousin’s husband, his proud smile as he looked upon his bride.
The love in both their eyes.
She had gone over these memories time and again until they had worn down, faded as a flower faded after it had been picked and admired for too long.
When that happened, she created a wedding of her own. Her groom would be as handsome, her gown as lovely. There would be smiles and laughter and a feast, music, and dancing. All of it.
All for her.
Naturally, the groom in these dreams were always the same person.
Never had she truly believed her dreams would come true.
She had hoped with all her heart, but she had never truly believed it.
Even as her father took her arm, she asked herself whether this was truly happening.
Was the cluster of white heather in her hand truly hers?
The blue gown she wore, made just for her? The silk shone like a lustrous pearl, the gold embroidery she had worked on with her own two hands, sparkled. It reminded her of the gown she’d worn the night of Padraig’s feast, when Donnan had all but forgotten his name at the sight of her.
No other type gown would do.
Caitlin beamed at her as she walked toward the church in the village between her childhood home and Donnan’s. A sleeping bairn rested in her arms, another lovely little girl, while Fiona waved from her father’s arms. Fenella smiled and waved her fingers in response.
Most of the village was there to celebrate, along with Donnan’s Clan Anderson friends. Her Anderson friends. They were hers now.
She no longer had to live alone, in her dreams. She had friends, a family. Donnan had given her that.
Ewan stood just behind Donnan, wearing the same boyish grin he’d worn for much of his life. He had proven himself to her time and again, to be certain, doing everything he could to prove himself a decent man.
There were still times when he drove her to distraction with his jesting and such, but she could give as good as she got.
She thought he liked her better for it.
Donnan stood at the church doors, beneath the spire and the clanging bell within it. The bell which told the village and everyone who heard its echo that this was her wedding day.
He wore a new tunic of sage green, new boots, but that did not mean nearly as much as his ear-to-ear smile. There he was, standing in the sight of the entire village, and he was smiling. She never would have imagined him capable of it before then.
And neither would he, she knew.
Yet when they had discussed the wedding, and the fact that the vows would be exchanged outside the church doors in the sight of everyone, he had not hesitated for an instant.
He wished for everyone to pay witness to their joy.
And they, in turn, wished joy upon the new bride and groom. Donnan was somewhat of a hero among the villagers, having been the man who struck down Angus Cameron and freed the innocent people he had locked away.
While he had at times claimed the villagers created stories about his “ruined” face, as he had described it, they now wove stories of his bravery and goodness. He was all but a legend by then, someone who had single-handedly slain the Cameron soldiers and claimed freedom for all Highlanders.
Och, how he cringed and winced when such tales found his ears. He was as yet unaccustomed to praise, and certainly to acceptance.
She would see to it that he grew comfortable in his place as a beloved hero.
She would do everything in her power every day, for the rest of her life, to heal his wounds and leave love behind. Life had given them a second—no, a third—chance, and she would not allow it to go to waste.
Not when she had almost lost him twice.
He was just as handsome to her as he had ever been, but never more so than when he took her hand in his own once she reached his side.
“Lovely,” he mouthed, his eyes drinking in the sight of her.
“As are ye,” she mouthed in return, pulling a chuckle from him. But he was lovely, if a man could be. He seemed to shine.
How different was this man from the one who would not venture out of doors without a hood covering his head and face.
How different was she, as well. A lass who’d only wished to make her father proud, to make him glad to have a daughter rather than a son.
He was proud of her today, had been proud since he’d heard of her bravery. It had not seemed like bravery at the time.
“I have always been proud of ye,” he’d told her that night in Donnan’s kitchen, as Clyde Ross had breathed his last on the second floor. “If I were not proud to have ye for a daughter, I would not have lamented the thought of ye marrying a Cameron. I would not have allowed ye to be so choosy with your husband. Ye would not even have had a choice, lass.”
Would that she had known that always, rather than questioning herself and her father’s feelings on the matter.
She smiled up at the man who would soon be her husband.
If she had not questioned her father’s feelings—thinking he was not proud of her, that she did not matter as a mere woman—she would not have taken the chance of striking out for Cameron land.
She would never have seen Donnan.
They would not be standing side-by-side in front of a priest that very day, pledging to love each other and no one else for the rest of their days.
It had all gone as it was meant to from the moment she’d first set eyes upon him when they were children. Donnan and herself.
Always.
I hope you enjoyed A Highlander’s Scars!
Next in the series... A Highlander’s Woman.
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Copyright © 2018 by Aileen Adams
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