A Highlander's Woman (Highland Heartbeats Book 12)

by Aileen Adams

  “Do ye not trust your men?” Rodric asked, his voice low. He would take it as an insult, Padraig knew, as it was he who’d been training and testing their warriors since he’d returned home.

  “Of course, I trust them.” Padraig flashed an easy smile which melted away some of his brother’s misgivings. “But I canna ask of them what I’m not willing to do for myself. Would ye be able to sit idly back and watch through the window as dozens of men went off to fight for Clan Anderson, knowing you had to stay behind?”

  He looked from his brother to Fergus, then to Brice, then Quinn. None of them could meet his gaze, while told him how right he was. Not that he’d needed their agreement, as he knew all of them well enough to be certain of their tendencies.

  They’d all want to fight, down to a man, and each of them would’ve felt like less of a man for having others do the fighting for them.

  “All right, all right.” Brice slid from the wall, shaking his head. “Och, I feel I’m going to regret this.”

  “Perhaps it ought not be ye,” Padraig murmured, glancing at Rodric.

  “Aye, the healer said—”

  “The healer knows nothing about me, thank ye for your concern,” Brice muttered under his breath as he chose a sword with which to practice combat. He chose one from the collection sitting up against the wall, testing its heft and balance. “Besides, t’was my left shoulder got injured, not the right.”

  “Even so—” Fergus, his brother, began.

  Brice cut him off with a sharp look. “I’ll take this sword to the side of yer head, lad, and dinna think I wouldn’t do it. ‘Tis a sad day, indeed, when a man’s friends peck at him like hens.”

  “Do ye think we sound like hens?” Quinn smirked, looking around as though asking a serious question.

  “Enough,” Brice snarled. “Or ye won’t be so bonny by the time I’m through with ye. We’ll see if your wife doesn’t reconsider inviting ye into her bed.”

  “Good thing it’s not my face that interests her when it comes time for bed,” Quinn boasted with a roguish wink.

  The men laughed, even Brice—in spite of his foul humor of the moment, he was in fact, the easiest to get along with of them all, with a talent for maintaining a smile and offering a wry observation even in the most serious situations.

  Padraig’s laughter was not as loud or hearty as the rest, for he was the only man among them without a woman to call his own. It bothered him little. In fact, he only thought seriously of women when it came to the matter of an heir.

  Not that women held no charm for him. Far from it. He knew Sorcha would have removed his hands with one swift blow of her carving knife if ever he deigned place a finger on any of her lasses, the ones who ran the household for him and his clan. This didn’t mean he refrained from feasting his eyes on them from time to time, always using discretion and always sure to avoid embarrassing them.

  A fine thing when a laird couldn’t find himself a woman.

  He simply had no time for it. At first, in the months after his older brother Alan’s demise, he’d worked through the night on many more than one occasion in an effort to undo any damage his brother had managed. Alan had a talent for mucking things up, to put it lightly, and in spite of Padraig’s best efforts, had undermined him in many matters.

  Amusing, seeing as how Alan had routinely admitted knowing nothing of the finer points of being the laird. He’d understood nothing but fighting, using his might to bring others to their knees. He’d believed this the true way to lead—after all, what need was there to employ diplomacy when one could simply crush their rival?

  As a result, those early days had been a living nightmare of correspondence, promises made, misunderstandings cleared up. The most pressing concern had been that of the feud with Clan McAllister, which he’d only managed to resolve after endless hours of talks and negotiations.

  Who could blame him for caring nothing about finding a wife when he had the clan’s future hanging over his head?

  But time had passed. Caitlin and Rodric had been wed for over three springs. Closer to four, and Caitlin had already born his brother two daughters in that time.

  Padraig had ruled Clan Anderson all those years. There was little excuse for not having yet found a wife.

  As such, when the men fell into conversation about their women—or, more regularly, talk of wives and women in general—Padraig had the sense of standing outside, looking in. He could chuckle and even make jest of the men when their women were feeling out-of-sorts toward them, but he had nothing to offer in the way of advice.

  He could not laugh knowingly as the rest of the men had just then.

  There was little time to dwell, as Brice had found a sword he felt was worthy and picked up one of the wooden training shields. “All right, then,” he growled, only half-serious and perhaps less than that, “on with it. Show me what you’ve learned these last weeks, great warrior of Clan Anderson.”

  Padraig cast a warning look his way. “I would not be overconfident if I were ye, Brice MacDougal. If your wife catches ye fighting out here, it won’t be my sword you’ll have to worry over.”

  “We’ll keep it between ourselves, then,” Brice winked, backing away from his would-be opponent and falling into a fighting stance, his right leg behind his left, body held at an angle sideways to Padraig.

  Padraig did the same, standing sideways with his weight balanced on his right foot, ready to spring forward when the time came to strike.

  Brice met his gaze, a twinkle in his eye belying the might sword he hefted. “Aye?”

  “Aye.” With that, metal clashed against metal and wood as Padraig put his training to use on a good and proper partner, for once.

  Though it was nothing but a test, nothing but practice, his blood rose as it had that day on the road to Ben Nevis. The thrill of testing another man’s will, another’s stamina and skill against his own.

  “Get ‘im, Pad!” Rodric called out through cupped hands, and Padraig wished silently that his brother wouldn’t call him by his childhood nickname in front of the others.

  It was merely done to get under his skin, and he knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle with grace.

  Brice fell back two steps, three, his sword clashing against Padraig’s before making an advance. His strides were sure, his blows hard enough to reverberate through Padraig’s sword and up his arm. He gritted his teeth when the two long, razor-sharp blades crossed each other, both men straining for control.

  He remembered a tactic his brother had shown him and used his shield to slice upward, breaking the swords apart and throwing Brice off-balance.

  “That’s showing him!” Fergus cheered.

  “Whose… side… are… you… on?” Brice grunted with each mighty swing, sending laughter into the air from the wall.

  Then, another sound pierced the air. And it was not laughter.

  “Brice MacDougal, just what is it ye think you’re doing out there?”

  Like guilty lads caught with their hands in the sweets, both Brice and Padraig dropped their swords as quickly as though they burned to the touch. If they’d pointed at each other and begun shouting the other’s name, claiming “He did it,” the scene would have been complete.

  Only it was not Alana MacDougal who came charging from the house, red-faced, with clenched fists swinging menacingly at her sides. That would have been dreadful, but not deadly, for Brice could smooth things over or—better still for all involved—take Alana aside while the rest slipped away unscathed.

  No, this was Sorcha, and she was furious. “How many times did the healer have to instruct ye not to overwork that shoulder?” she demanded as she marched their way.

  “I wasna—”

  Sorcha’s forefinger shook in his face. “Dinna talk back to me, Brice. It’s a good thing your wife didn’t see what I just saw, or she’d be ready to take a slice of your flesh for having behaved so childishly.”

  Not many things could force Brice to back
down without so much as a blow being struck, but this was one of them. For a woman who’d never raised children of her own, Sorcha McMannis was every bit as stern and unshakeable as one who’d overseen a dozen bairns or more.

  Many was the time Padraig thought she looked upon them as bairns, grown men though they were.

  “And ye!” She whirled on Padraig next, who fought back a grin even as her eyes snapped and blazed.

  “Now, Sorcha, I take full responsibility.”

  “Ye ought to, as ye are laird!” she shouted. “If Brice was left unable to use his arm because he’d been fighting with ye in the training yard, what would that mean? One of your best men and fiercest fighters.”

  “Och, Sorcha, thank ye—”

  “You shut yer mouth!” she warned Brice. “I’ll have none of it. Just because I see ye for the strong fighter ye are doesn’t mean I’ve warmed to ye, because I haven’t. Now all of ye, wash up and get inside before your dinner spoils.”

  Padraig had the distinct impression that the head of his household would have made a goof laird, had she not been born a woman.

  After the midday meal, Padraig waved Rodric away from the table. This was the time of day when he normally retired to his study that he might look over any correspondence and balance the ledgers, and he sometimes asked his brother to join him in order to discuss any clan business unfit to be addressed at the dinner table.

  Today, he had another topic in mind.

  When they reached the small room just off the great hall from which they’d come, he handed Rodric a rolled-up piece of parchment.

  “What is this, then?” Rodric unrolled it with one curious brow raised.

  “You’ll see when ye read it.” Padraig took his seat behind the desk, hands folded atop it, waiting to hear whether his brother felt him completely daft.

  He wasn’t certain he didn’t find himself completely daft.

  “What does this mean?” Rodric muttered, reading it again. “Ye plan to look for a bride?”

  “Aye. I intend to send copies of that message to the lairds of the five nearest clans, excluding the Duncans and Camerons for obvious reasons.” The Duncans had no daughters of marriageable age, and no one in his right mind would wed a Cameron.

  Not only that, but the only Cameron daughter of whom Padraig had ever been aware went mad when Jake Duncan jilted her, eventually falling to her death after trying to murder the Duncan women in revenge.

  Rodric’s brows knitted, which Padraig took as a sign of disagreement. “Since when are ye looking for a bride?”

  “Since I’ve sat in this chair for as long as you’ve been wed to Caitlin and I still have no heir.”

  Rodric nodded, rubbing a hand over the top of his dark head. They’d inherited the same dark hair, though the bits of red running through Rodric’s were more pronounced in Padraig. Alan, on the other hand, had been red as flame since the day he was born.

  Those who did not believe coloring affected temperament had never met their family.

  “No one is forcing ye to make a decision,” Rodric reminded him, taking a chair after handing back the parchment. “I dinna see why there’s a need to do this just yet.”

  “I need an heir. Ye do realize that’s one of my foremost duties as head of the clan, do ye not?”

  “I do, but I canna see arranging it in such a manner.”

  “Ye don’t have to see. Ye were able to wed for love, as ye dinna have the responsibility I do.” Rarely did Padraig experience a flare of jealousy. It was simply not part of his nature. But in that instance, in that very moment, jealousy flared hot and bright in his chest. His brother had been able to wed the woman with whom he was meant to live the rest of his days and had been since childhood.

  Padraig had no such good fortune. He had to think about something other than his affection.

  “I understand,” Rodric murmured. “You’re right, of course. We aren’t in the same situation, and I ought not judge ye harshly for the decision ye made. If this is what ye feel is right, by all means. I wish nothing but the best for ye.”

  “But ye dinna agree.”

  “I only wish for ye to… och, damn it all.” Rodric looked away, out the window over Padraig’s shoulder, out to where they’d been training only that morning. “I wish for ye to find what I found, is all.”

  “I’m certain my children will bring me happiness, even if I never feel for my wife the way ye feel for yours,” Padraig assured him. He loved bairns, especially the nieces his brother had provided. Cheeky, clever Fiona was the light of his life. There was no doubt he’d feel the same about his own heirs.

  “I’m certain, as well,” Rodric smiled, rising. “Now, if ye dinna mind and there’s nothing else to discuss, I promised Caitlin a ride out to the old house before it’s torn down.”

  Padraig offered a smile. “How does Sorcha feel about it, do ye think? Perhaps that was part of the rage she flew into earlier.”

  “Nay, she flew into a rage because she enjoys nothing more than cutting all of us down to size,” Rodric laughed—but he soon grew somber. “Caitlin said she thought she heard Sorcha weeping softly in the corner of the kitchen. But ‘twas she who had the idea of tearing the house down that we might build a larger one. I told her time and again that we ought to build onto it, though Gavin McMannis was not much of a builder. A good man, but not much of a builder.”

  Sorcha’s husband had built their little house before their wedding, and she’d given it to Caitlin and Rodric upon taking up household duties for Padraig. With two bairns running about the place—a home which had only ever held two—they were becoming cramped. And Rodric had a point about Gavin’s skill, for the walls were beginning to crumble.

  Heaven forfend, one of them fell onto the children as they played.

  Padraig sighed. “Even so, though she knows it’s for the best, I imagine it’s difficult for her. She was on her way into the village with Moira, they spoke of taking a room at the inn and coming back on the morrow.”

  “She simply needs to get out of the house for a spell. No one deserves it more than she.”

  Padraig could not disagree.

  Once he was alone again, he looked over the letter he’d written and rewritten until the words blurred before his eyes, informing the lairds of the neighboring clans that he was in search of a wife. No, he did not wish to copy and send it out.

  He simply did not see another way.

  3

  It took seven days to reach the abbey in Aberdeen. Home, the only home Margaret had ever known.

  Rather, the only home she remembered.

  The journey had not been an easy one. Physical discomfort was never a concern, as she’d learned to control pain. The others in the sisterhood had, as well. It was perhaps the first skill hammered into their heads, the skill from which all others flowed. Once a person could control how they reacted to pain—freezing, sweating, crouching in the same place sometimes for hours at a stretch—they could do anything.

  Hundreds of ice baths, hours spent walking on their knees over rough stone floors, days spent without water or food while performing backbreaking work under the blazing sun.

  All of it in service of learning to overcome the body’s weakness.

  No, the discomfort was not from her traveling arrangements, sparse as they were. Violent storms had delayed travel across the North Sea for three days, days which she’d spent rising and falling as the ship rocked with the waves, each passing minute placing her one minute nearer her ruination.

  Though she’d dreaded returning to the abbey and facing Mother Cressida or one of the other Mothers, there had been no other choice. Women of the Order did not run from their failures. They faced them head-on.

  Except she’d never failed. Not once. There was no navigating this turn of events, as she had nothing to base her actions upon.

  It was that dread, the knowledge of what could be waiting for her, which made the journey a misery. Her stomach tightened against her will when she brought
the mare to the bridge which crossed the River Don, the abbey just on the other side.

  While an imposing structure, to be sure, it was not of itself, exceptional. It might attract the admiration of a passing rider but easily faded into the back of one’s memory upon leaving it behind.

  Exactly the rationale behind it.

  Walls so treacherous that only the most skilled climber could manage them rose high enough that Margaret craned her neck to see the top when standing at the bottom. The builders had used every type and size stone imaginable, perhaps bringing them in from far away, and their irregular shape and varying smoothness made for difficulty in finding a handhold. A sharp stone might cut one’s palm, a smooth one might provide no purchase.

  Climbing the inside of those walls was another skill she and her sisters had no choice but to master. Thick, white scars crisscrossed the insides of her palms as a result of this.

  From a distance, only the spires at either end of the long, rectangular building inside the walls were visible. Everything which went on inside was secret, utterly hidden from the outside world.

  Those outsiders likely believed an order of cloistered nuns resided inside—or, perhaps, that the abbey was haunted. Outsiders could afford to believe the stories which helped them make sense of the world, of life.

  There were no such comforts for her, nor for any of the women inside the abbey. They knew the world for what it was, truly. How ruthless, how cruel.

  How deadly.

  Was she riding to her death along the bridge, down the path which ran past the impenetrable walls?

  Rather than continuing down the path which would after a short ride bring her to the wider, more heavily traveled road beyond, she veered right and guided the horse through the thick, close-growing trees which ran along the base of the eastern-facing wall.

  In that wall was a door half-covered by vines and branches, concealing it from even those foolish enough to travel the wall’s length. No telling what lived inside the woods which surrounded the abbey, or so the legend went. A legend her predecessors had most likely begun to ward off daft lads who fancied themselves brave enough to explore.