by Aileen Adams
Moira’s eyes fluttered open, then darted back and forth as she accustomed herself to her surroundings. Anne understood this feeling well, naturally, as a truly dreadful dream was never an easy thing to wake from. Often there was a period of breathless moments when a body froze in shock, still caught between the dream and reality.
When she recognized Anne, she burst into tears and buried her face in Anne’s shoulder. Owen woke, of course, and was quick to fly to his sister’s side. “What is it, Moira?” he asked in a sleepy voice.
“Mam…” It was the only clear word the bairn sobbed. “Mam…”
“Mam?” Owen’s chin quivered.
Och, nay, Anne lamented. Two crying bairns.
“It was nothing but a dream,” Anne whispered, rocking Moira while stroking Owen’s hair. “Nothing more.”
“I dinna wish it to be a dream,” Owen whimpered just before two fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “I wish for Mam to be here. And Da. I want them back.”
Soon, there were three weeping, orphaned children in that room. Anne may no longer have been a child, but she felt the loss of her parents as acutely as she had when the loss occurred. She had spent many a night weeping in her bed, longing for them, wondering what she’d done to cause their loss.
She understood, years later, that their death had not been her doing. As a lass of only thirteen, with a brother not much younger than Owen and Moira, she’d been far too overwhelmed and overwrought to do anything but cry herself to sleep.
“Come,” she murmured, easing both of them back until their heads touched their pillows. “Rest, now. Ye must sleep if ye wish to feel well.”
“Why will they never come back to us?” Owen asked, his voice thick and a cough threatening to make itself known. He was still in no condition to upset himself so—neither of them were.
Anne kissed his forehead. “Because that is the way of it, my dear. My da and mam went away as well, to God. Is that what ye learned of it? That they went to be with God?”
Moira nodded. Her sobs had quieted to soft whimpering and the occasional hitching breath. “Aye. People told us so.”
“They were correct.” Anne settled in beside her, on the edge of the bed, the two of them small enough that she could extend her arm about them both at once. “Your mother and father will wait for ye. They watch over ye, as well, and it pleases them that ye are such a good lass and laddie, and that ye give your Uncle Drew little trouble and make him very happy.”
“We do?” Moira asked. This seemed more important to her then than any talk of her parents.
“Aye, dear. Of course. Ye make him happier than he was before ye came, I am certain. He loves ye very much. But I am afraid your mam and da will not come back. I was so sad when I learned my parents could never come back. I know how it feels.”
“Do ye still miss them?” Owen whispered, his eyelids heavy.
“Och, I do,” she whispered in reply, stroking his smooth cheek. “Every day.”
“I dreamed she was with us,” Moira smiled, her voice turning soft and drowsy. “It was lovely. But she had to go, and I wanted her to stay, and I asked her to stay and cried and pulled on her hand…”
“Shh…” Anne kissed her forehead, crooning softly. “Rest now. It was only a dream, and she loves ye and is watching over ye. I promise.”
She rested her head on her folded arm, still holding the pair of them with the other. She watched as they fell asleep again, their furrowed brows smoothing, the uneasy lines of their pursed mouths easing.
Owen stirred one last time, struggling his way out of the sleep which pulled him under the surface just long enough to whisper one last thing. “I love ye, Anne.”
She smiled, even as her eyes filled with tears of regret, shame, guilt. “And I love ye, Owen.”
And she did. She loved them both so dearly, the wee things. She knew what it meant to be in the world with no mother, no father. Nothing but memories and dreams which would never come to be because once a person was dead and gone there was no bringing them back.
No matter how many tears were shed over them.
For children so young, they had already lost so much. And they loved her. They trusted her. They fell asleep in her arms, both of them, knowing she would not bring them harm. They could rest easy with her beside them, warding off further nightmares. Loving them.
And if they woke again, they trusted she would be there to dry their tears.
While she had been mere moments from leaving them forever. What was she thinking? What was any of it about?
They needed her, and, God help her, she needed them. They would haunt her forever if she left now, knowing as she did how fresh the pain of losing one’s parents and security and everything they had ever known. Coming to a new home, with strangers and new rules and the struggle to learn how to please.
There had been no pleasing Malcolm. There had never been any pleasing him. These two were fortunate that they’d come to a happy home, with friends who cared for them and an uncle who had been beside himself during their illness. The man had been nearly inconsolable at times, try as he had to pretend otherwise.
She could not bring to mind the image of Malcolm ever caring so much.
Even with so much love and affection around her, however, there would be no making up for a long time the loss of yet another person they’d come to love.
She had waited far longer than she ought to. It was too late now. For all of them
A single tear leaked out from beneath her lowered lashes when she closed her eyes.
Sleep was not far behind.
21
Sweet silence filled the house upon Drew’s awakening, and he smiled to himself at the lack of coughing or wheezing or calls for Anne.
He suspected Anne would feel the same, as she had barely slept in days. She had given the twins every last ounce of strength in her possession and had proven herself to him as she did so.
He suspected she could not have cared less whether he was impressed with her, however. Even that made him like her more, in spite of the reservations he’d held toward her in the beginning.
It seemed years had passed since then, though it had been less than a fortnight since they’d met. Never would he have imagined her caring for the twins. Loving them, even.
He might have been wrong about that. He might have been imagining what he wished to imagine. He did not believe so, however, for no one would devote themselves wholeheartedly to the state of another if it was not love that made it so.
The fact that she loved them as he did served to soften his feelings for her even further.
It was not until he sat up in bed and touched bare feet to cold floor that he came fully to his senses and recalled how daft it was to think of her as anything other than who and what she was.
She was a thief. She had stolen from them, no matter why she’d done it.
Rufus would not forgive this, and neither could he. To do so would only lead to greater complication.
He got up and went about splashing water from the bedside basin on his cheeks, which further roused him and guided his thoughts on a more natural course. It was possible for two people to love the same thing and still remain two separate people. Loving the twins did not make him and Anne anything other than strangers who happened to have something in common.
He had all but set his mind to this as he shrugged into his tunic and stepped into his trews. The lass was a fine caregiver, and he was grateful for what she had done, but there was nothing more between them. There could never be.
Dawn had broken by the time he stepped from his bedchamber into the main room, where the hearth was dark and cold. He supposed there could be nothing lost by allowing Anne time to sleep a bit longer. He lit the fire, building it up with wood from the pile beside, then started a pot of porridge and filled the kettle for tea.
As he performed these small tasks, he reminded himself that it was not for her sake. He cared nothing for whether this would please her. The fac
t that her smiling face came to mind time and again meant nothing.
What did it matter that he wished to return the favor she’d paid him by nursing his niece and nephew? He was not a cold-hearted brute. He understood what it meant to owe a body for what they’d done, and he had never been above granting credit when and where it was due.
With the porridge simmering and the tea steeping, he decided it was time to wake her, if not the bairns. She would need food as much as she needed rest, for she had not eaten as she should have, either.
Neither had he, for that matter. He had been too concerned over the twins.
Not a sound came from the closed-off bedchamber, and he took his time of opening the door lest he wake all three inside.
At first, when he spied the empty tick at the foot of the bed, his heart leapt into his throat and threatened to escape through his mouth when it fell open. Of course, she had left during the night. She had run when all of them were at their most vulnerable and least suspicious.
She’d taken advantage of him. He might have known she would. In fact, he had known! He’d known all along, had he not? He’d managed to make himself forget. Nothing more.
What a fool she’d made out of him. He would have her hide for this.
Only then, after already imagining every terrible thing he wished to bring down upon her head, did his gaze rise to the bed. Where she slept with her arm about the twins, who were also sleeping soundly.
Only then did his heart settle into its accustomed place.
Only then did he release the breath he’d been holding.
What had taken place to lead her there? It seemed almost cruel to wake her, seeing as how she had spent part of the night sharing a bed with two kicking bairns. Perhaps they had both felt poorly and asked her to join them, that she might sing them to sleep.
As Bridget had for him.
She was not Bridget. Whatever it took, he had to remind himself and make it stick. She was not Bridget. She would never be their mam, either, no matter how fond of her they had become.
Anne’s eyes opened. Then, she blinked slowly as she woke. He couldn’t help but smile a bit as she returned to herself.
She looked at the twins, and a faint smile crossed her lips. She then raised her arm, moving slowly so as not to wake them. She had yet to take notice of him, and he remained as still as possible to keep it that way for a while.
In this state, still half in slumber and unaware of his presence, she might as well have been a bairn herself. She looked young, innocent—perhaps worn out in spite of having slept, but natural and fresh just the same.
And the look in her eye, the warmth and tenderness, and affection as she studied the sleeping twins, was best of all.
If not perhaps unsettling for the way it warmed him inside.
The kettle’s whistle startled him—and her—for she jumped a bit and instantly looked to the door. Where he stood.
“Och, forgive me,” he breathed before making a hasty escape to the hearth. He removed the kettle from the fire and cursed himself for having lingered so long in the doorway. He ought not have watched her. Either wake the lass or leave her to sleep. Nothing in-between.
Now she knew he had been watching, but what difference did it make? It was not as though he made a habit of it, and the entire experience had lasted no longer than a half-minute. Perhaps less.
He hardly believed she would care how little time he’d spent watching her awaken, but he could defend himself in his own mind.
“Good morning to ye,” she murmured behind him. Water splashed in the bucket by the hearth, where she had drawn a ladle full. He glanced over his shoulder to find her drinking, some of the water running down her chin in her eagerness.
“And to ye,” he replied. “I, ah, wished to wake ye that ye might break your fast. Ye have not eaten as ye should while nursing the bairns.”
“Thank ye.” She sat at the table with a bowl of porridge and a mug of tea. “Thank ye for fixing tea, as well. I understand how much work there is to be done.”
He called up the nerve to face he. After all, she was only a lass and a thief, at that. Sitting across from her with his own tea, he asked, “What made ye share the bed with the twins last night? Were they uneasy?”
She nodded, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. “Moira had a dream of her mother, which upset her. She woke Owen with her tears, and soon they were both weeping and in need of comfort.”
He sighed. “Should that happen again, ye might wake me, instead. Ye ought not be bothered with such matters.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “How can ye say such a thing? Ye asked me to stay and care for them, which I have done. How could I turn away from them when they needed me?”
“I did not mean it in such a way.”
“They needed…” She looked about the room as if searching for the proper word.
“A woman,” he offered with a wry smile. “They needed a woman to comfort them. Not a man.”
“They missed their mam,” she whispered. “It might not have been the same had I not been the one with them.”
“I ken,” he nodded. He wished he did not detest the notion so strongly. Any lass but her. She was all wrong.
They would never know why, as young as they were. Bairns saw through many things, but they would not understand what she’d done.
There were moments when he questioned whether he understood.
“Have ye…” Once again, she searched for the word she had in mind.
He supposed this had more to do with weariness than anything else. She was worn down to the bone, anyone could see it. Her eyes appeared larger than ever in her pale, drawn face.
The lass needed rest, and Drew could hardly believe it mattered to him one way or another if she ever enjoyed any.
“Have I what?” he prompted when moments passed with her unspoken question still hanging between them.
“Have ye ever considered marrying?”
Unfortunately for him and the table, he had just drained his mug of the last drop of tea when she asked it. Once he heard her and understood the meaning of the words she’d strung together, his throat closed and immediately rejected what he’d just taken in.
He sputtered, tea shooting from his mouth and even from his nose. Helpless laughter bubbled up in his chest and erupted from him before he could help himself.
“Wh-what—” he gasped as he fumbled at cleaning up his mess.
“I didna think it was such a terrible question,” she grumbled.
He took note of the way she remained still, watching him clean up after himself rather than offering to assist him. She watched with a doleful eye instead, her lips a thin slash across her face.
“It was not terrible,” he chuckled, still lost in the humor of the moment. “Of all the questions ye might have asked, lass, that took me most by surprise.”
“How so? Why were ye so surprised, then?”
He shrugged. “Because I have never considered such a thing. Not ever.” He took his mug to the bucket to rinse. “And I dinna think a lass has ever once asked me if I had.”
“I cannot imagine why,” was her tart reply.
“For once, I canna argue with ye. I am not an easy man to live with, and I canna imagine I would wish to wed a lass daft enough to believe otherwise.” He looked over his shoulder. “What made ye ask such a silly question?”
“For their sake, of course,” she hissed. “I canna understand how ye are so blind. I merely wished to know if ye had considered marrying, that they might have a mam—even if she would not be their true mam.”
He stopped laughing. “I see.”
“Now I have my answer,” she muttered, finishing her meal in a great rush and standing abruptly enough to nearly knock back her chair.
“What has ye so worked up?” he asked, gaping at her as she hurried about the room.
“Nothing. Do ye not have worked to be done?”
“Aye…” Yet he remained in place, eyeing her warily.
“Are ye certain I said nothing to upset ye?”
“How could ye possibly have upset me?” She blew a stray curl away from in front of her face as she set about washing up. “Go on, then, before ye begin braying like a jackass once again and wake the bairns this time.”
His mouth fell open, and he supposed he ought to have delivered a stinging retort—a jackass, now truly, yet his mind went as clear as a blanket of freshly fallen snow when he searched for something to say.
There was no recourse but to leave, as she instructed, and ask himself why she lived at such extremes.
22
When the giant man came lumbering toward the house, Anne was certain she had now seen everything.
He had come to her attention before, for how could she avoid seeing him? The man was the size of a barn, so large she wondered how his legs held him up.
Yet they did, pushing his body forward as he approached while she drew water. The crank was a tricky thing, refusing to budge at times, no matter how much she strained. Her hands ached, her arms throbbed.
“Allow me,” the giant said in a deep, rumbling voice. When she stepped away from the well, he took the crank in one massive hand and turned it with no more difficulty than a child playing with a toy.
Had she not already heard the bairns speak of Clyde with affection, she might have been terribly frightened—frozen to the spot, in fact. His was a face that had seen many fights, with a scar running down one side and many smaller, thinner scars like a spider’s web along the back of his bald head. He was fearsome, to be sure, the sort she would not wish to run into while on a raid.
Yet he smiled as he took the bucket from its hook, and his smile was that of a man with a warm, pleasant nature. “Where shall I leave it?” he asked.
She lost her voice for a moment, still awed at the sheer size of him. His hands could easily have crushed her skull. “Erm. That is. Ye dinna need to do the carrying.”
“Nonsense.” Without waiting for her response, he carried the sloshing bucket to the house and inside. What was there to do but follow as he nearly doubled over to fit through the doorway?
