by Bree Wolf
Without so much as glancing in her direction, Alastair spurred on his horse as though he could not wait to rid himself of her. Her betrayal had indeed cut deep, and Moira tried to gain comfort from the fact that his hatred of her would not be so profound if he had not loved her as much as she loved him.
Seann Dachaigh Tower, home of their mother’s clan, was situated on a small rise, surrounded by Scotland’s rolling hills as well as a small village. Its grey stone walls stood strong, surrounding a fortified inner castle, with only a large front gate to grant entrance. To Moira, it looked like a prison from whence there would be no escape, and her breath caught in her throat when despair washed over her in a powerful, suffocating wave.
Birds called overhead, and the scent of pine and hazel trees drifted through the air. The breeze tugged on Moira’s blond tresses and brushed over her chilled skin raising goose bumps. Still, the mild hint of salt she detected brought her a small comfort, a reminder of home. The sky shone in a light blue, but Moira spotted dark clouds on the horizon.
A bad omen?
Wishing she could simply turn her mare around and ride away in the opposite direction, Moira paused atop a small slope, her blue eyes gazing down across the valley at the imposing structure that would be her home henceforth. Her fingers tightened on the reins, and she could feel her mare’s agitation as she no doubt picked up on the unease that coursed through Moira’s veins.
Noting her delay, Alastair pulled up his reins and turned his gelding around, thundering toward her. His eyes narrowed into slits, and a snarl curled up the corners of his mouth. “Ye willna dishonour this family further,” he growled. “I willna allow it, do ye hear?”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Moira nodded, then urged her mare onward, her gaze distant as she did not dare look at her brother. Was this how they were to part? Was this how she was to remember him?
When they finally reached the old structure, entering through the wide-open gate into the bustling courtyard, Alastair pulled up short and addressed a man carrying a bag of grain on his shoulder. A few words were exchanged before the man pointed him toward a small group of women standing near a well, chatting animatedly.
Moira dismounted; her fingers tightly curled around her mare’s reins as she glanced around the inner courtyard. Eyes watched her, narrowed and full of suspicion. She heard whispers and felt stares digging into the back of her skull.
They knew.
They knew of her. They knew her story.
They had known she would come.
And they did not like her.
In fact, they loathed her and wished her gone.
With all her heart, Moira wished she could do as they desired, but her hands were tied. In this, she had no choice.
Turning her head, Moira saw her brother striding back toward her, an older woman by his side. Her light brown hair had streaks of grey, and her face looked stern as her blue eyes swept over Moira in displeasure.
Stopping in front of her, Alastair turned to the woman by his side. “This is Aunt Fiona. She’s agreed to give ye shelter.” The tone in Alastair’s voice rang with disapproval, and he looked at their late mother’s older sister with a hint of apology as though he loathed burdening her with his dishonourable sister.
Fiona gave her a sharp nod. “I warn ye, Lass. Folks do not look kindly on those who betray their own kin. I suggest ye do as ye’re told and keep yer head down.” She sighed, her blue eyes gliding over Moira’s appearance, the niece she had not seen since she had been a wee bairn. “But first, ye’ll meet the laird.” She turned to go. “Come.”
Moira’s heart thudded to a halt when she turned back to look at her brother, only to see him walking away. In a few strides, he had crossed to where he had left his gelding, taken up the reins and swung himself into the saddle.
Panic swept through Moira as she stared at him. Her lower lip trembled, and tears ran freely down her face. Would he not even say goodbye to her?
Alastair’s face looked stoic as he stared straight ahead, eyes focused on the large opening in the wall. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and he kicked his horse’s flanks with more vigour than necessary. The gelding surged forward, shaking its large head, no doubt confused about his master’s unkind treatment.
Look at me! Moira pleaded silently as she watched her brother ride away. Please, look at me!
But he did not.
He rode on stoically.
Moira’s breath came fast as her vision began to blur before her eyes. Her knees buckled, and she groped blindly for something to hold on to, something to keep her upright as the world began to spin, threatening to throw her off her feet.
“Ye canna blame him, Lass,” Fiona grumbled beside her as she grasped Moira’s hands, pulling her around to face her. “He’s a proud man, and he loved ye dearly.” Fiona shook her head, her blue eyes sharp as she watched her niece. “Nay, ye canna blame him. He needs time. A lot of time. Perhaps more than he has.” Then she turned toward the castle’s keep pulling Moira with her.
Together, they crossed the courtyard, climbed the steps to the large oak door and then entered the great hall.
Moira saw very little of her surroundings as her heart ached within her chest. With each step she took, she had to fight the urge to sink to her knees as tears continued to stream down her face.
“Pull yerself together, Lass,” her aunt reprimanded her as she guided their feet down a long corridor that seemed to go on forever, leading them far away from the loud hustle bustle in the great hall. “Our laird is a kind man, but he willna take kindly to those who only weep for themselves.” She scoffed. “I dunno why he granted ye sanctuary when yer laird sent word of what ye’d done. Many argued against it, but he has a way of knowing things others do not.” Her aunt stopped, fixing Moira with her sharp blue eyes. “Dunna make him regret this small mercy, do ye hear me, Lass?”
Moira could only nod as she wiped the tears from her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that strangers would see her in this state of despair. Of course, she could not expect compassion, sympathy or even pity.
And yet, her heart ached for it.
On they continued down the corridor until they came to a lone door at the very end of it. There, Fiona stopped and lifted a hand to knock.
“Come in.”
The laird’s voice rang strong and commanding, but not unkind, and Moira wondered what kind of man he was. Clearly, he was held in high esteem by the people of his clan, and she had only ever heard Connor speak with great respect of Cormag MacDrummond.
Their clans had been close long ago but had drifted apart since Culloden and the destruction of the Highland clans. The years had been tough, and trust had been hard to come by. What would it be like to live among another clan as one who had betrayed her own kin? Would they lock her in her chamber as well? Afraid she would betray them, too?
Moira swallowed, and a cold chill ran down her back as she followed her aunt into the laird’s study.
Large with narrow windows, it was a simple room that held only the laird’s desk as well as a couple of chairs and cabinets. It was not designed for comfort, but for practicality, for handling the clan’s affairs.
Now, she too was a clan affair.
Straightening, Moira lifted her head, determined not to cower. As much as she felt like sinking to the ground, she would not give the MacDrummond laird the satisfaction. She would stand tall with her head held high. Aye, she would apologise and voice her regrets−as she had so many times before. She would accept the blame as it was rightfully hers. However, she would not allow him to frighten her, to force her to hide the pride that had always lived in her chest.
After all, she was of Clan Brunwood, a proud Highland clan, and even if her legs trembled with fear and her heart ached with loneliness, she would rather die than reveal her inner turmoil to a man who would no doubt look down on her with suspicion for the rest of her life.
As Moira followed her aunt and came to stand in front of the lair
d’s large desk, her eyes swept over his tall stature as he stood with his back to her, staring at the wall for all she knew. He was a large man with broad shoulders and raven-black hair, and for a thoroughly terrifying moment, he reminded Moira of Connor. Would her past haunt her wherever she went?
Perhaps she deserved it.
“I present to ye my niece,” her aunt spoke into the silence of the room, “Moira Brunwood. Her brother delivered her to me only moments ago.”
Moira glanced at her aunt, wondering about the need to explain what she heard in the older woman’s voice. Was Fiona afraid the laird would fault her somehow? Was she doing what she could to distance herself from her traitorous niece?
Moira sighed knowing she could not blame her aunt for what she did. Aye, it would have been nice to have someone on her side; however, she had to admit that she had not once thought about what her presence here at Seann Dachaigh Tower would mean for her aunt. How would it affect Fiona’s life? How would people treat her? Look upon her?
The laird’s broad shoulders rose and fell as he inhaled a long breath. Then he slowly turned around as though apprehensive to look upon her.
Moira gritted her teeth, feeling a surge of anger rise in her heart. Why on earth had he agreed to Connor’s request if he did not want her here? Why would he−?
The breath caught in Moira’s throat the moment Cormag MacDrummond’s charcoal grey eyes met hers. Of all the things she had expected to feel in that moment−shame, regret, guilt, even fear−she was completely unprepared for the sudden jolt that seemed to stop her heart and make it come alive at the same time. Warmth streamed into her chest as though the sun had risen after a long absence, and she felt the corners of her lips curl upward, unable to contain the exhilaration that had claimed her so unexpectedly.
Overwhelmed, Moira clasped her hands together, needing something to hold onto.
Never had she felt like this before.
Not even Connor had ever inspired such…such…
In that moment, Moira finally realised that she had never been in love with Connor Brunwood.
1
A Witch in their Midst
Seann Dachaigh Tower, Scottish Highlands, Summer 1808
Two Years Later
“I hope ye slept well,” Moira said as she poured a cup of tea for her aunt as well as for herself. Then she glanced out the window. “’Tis promising to be a beautiful day.”
Fiona grumbled something unintelligible under her breath as she took the cup from Moira’s hands.
Sighing, Moira sat down to sip her own tea. “I’ll probably head out to gather some more herbs later today.”
Again, Fiona grumbled something under her breath.
Although Moira had been allowed to live with her aunt−instead of being locked up in the castle’s dungeon−the two women spent very little time together. As she had initially suspected, her aunt was far from happy to be duty-bound to shelter her traitorous niece; a sentiment, Moira had come to understand more and more when she had realised how adversely her presence affected her aunt.
Widowed with two grown daughters married outside of the clan, Fiona MacDrummond was alone; still, the companionship of her close-knit clan had never allowed her to feel lonely. She loved to stop in the marketplace and chat with women she had known all her life, and her days were filled with people stopping by for advice or to issue an invitation to supper. Life had been good and comfortable for Fiona until the day her niece had come to live with her.
Moira knew that she was the reason her aunt’s friends no longer included her in the same carefree way they had before. Always did they cast worrisome glances at Moira if she was nearby, whispering on the quiet about her odd behaviour and shameful past.
Even after two years with Clan MacDrummond, two years without incident, nothing had changed.
Moira was still an outcast, a black mark on an otherwise spotless gown. While Fiona tried to be kind to her, some days were harder than others. People always regarded Moira with suspicion, and few dared speak to her directly. Either they ignored her or told her off harshly so that Moira spent most of her time alone. She too missed the company of others; however, she knew that she was fortunate to be allowed to live so freely, to come and go as she pleased. Unfortunately, though, that proved worrisome to some members of the clan, who were constantly eyeing her with suspicion, wondering if she might eventually turn against them as well.
So, Moira kept her distance, and every now and then, she thought to see a spark of gratitude in her aunt’s blue eyes.
It was all she could hope for these days.
With a basket slung around her arm, Moira walked across the meadows to the west of Seann Dachaigh Tower. Wildflowers were in bloom, and all around her bees buzzed with such vigour that it sounded like a waterfall was rushing nearby. Still, the small loch in the valley glistened peacefully in the sun; its calm surface only here and there disturbed as a fish rose to catch a bug.
Out of sheer boredom, Moira had begun to gather herbs trying to learn as much as she could about their healing abilities. Occasionally, she would steal into the large library located deep in the belly of the keep, trying to identify the many flowers she found. At first, it had been rather slow going; however, it had given her something meaningful to do, something to keep her mind occupied outside of her daily chores.
Her aunt sometimes suffered from severe headaches, and Moira was glad she was able to help her, to soothe the pain and see Fiona’s face relax when relief found her. It was only something small, but it gave Moira a purpose. More than that, it made her feel proud.
Of herself.
Of something she alone had accomplished.
It was a rare feeling, but one to be treasured.
Most days, Moira was at peace with her situation at Seann Dachaigh Tower. Of course, a part of her still hoped for acceptance while another felt her loneliness acutely. However, most days passed in a pleasant manner…especially if one did not dwell on them too much.
Sitting down in the shade of a grove of trees, Moira watched a group of children racing through the meadows, their cheerful voices painting a smile on her face. Their laughter was beautiful and melodious, and it spoke to something deep inside her, reminding her of the childhood she herself had once had.
With Connor.
With Alastair’s wife Deidre.
With her brother.
Moira swallowed, and as always, her throat closed as tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Two years had passed since she had last seen her brother, and in all that time, he had not once sent word. Every now and then, Moira wrote to him, apologising, vowing that she would never again do anything to cause him pain. She did it as much for herself as she did it for him, hoping that over time he would slowly come to believe her and no longer be burdened by her betrayal.
He deserved better.
He deserved to be happy.
To Moira’s relief, Deidre, her brother’s wife, was a woman with a wide-open heart and the ability to forgive. Long ago, she had set Moira’s mind at ease, promising she would find a way to reunite her with her brother, and no matter how soft-spoken and yielding little Deidre often seemed, the woman had an iron will and loved Alastair beyond hope.
No, she would not allow him to suffer for the remainder of his days.
A hesitant smile sneaked onto Moira’s face as she thought of her sister-in-law. One day, Deidre would find a way to break through Alastair’s pride and stubbornness. Moira was certain of it, and it gave her hope like nothing else.
Something to look forward to.
Something to hold onto.
Something.
A little blond-haired girl of no more than five years broke away from the small group of children racing around the meadow, chasing one another, and headed straight toward Moira, a smile on her beautiful little face. “Are ye out gathering more herbs?” she panted, trying to catch her breath.
Moira smiled, looking down at the full basket sitting beside
her in the grass. “Quite observant, little Blair.” She glanced behind the girl, noting the way her brother Niall was eyeing them with suspicion. “Go ahead and play now. The others are waiting for ye.”
Shrugging off Moira’s words, the girl sank down into the grass, her blue eyes looking up into Moira’s face with curiosity. “’Tis only my brother,” she remarked, scrunching up her little nose as she glanced over her shoulder at the scowl on Niall’s face. “I dunno why.”
Moira sighed, knowing full well that it was indeed Niall’s father, Ian MacDrummond, who’d instilled such hatred for Moira in his son. For a reason Moira could not name, the man detested her−beyond the familiar distrust and suspicion of the rest of Clan MacDrummond. He openly opposed her place in the clan and often tried to rally others against her. More than once, Moira had seen the man’s distorted face as he had glared at her, his hands balling into fists as though he wished to attack her. Deep down, Moira knew that it would not take much for Ian’s hatred to push him into acting against the decency and honour she knew he possessed.
“He’s only looking out for ye,” Moira counselled, enjoying the girl’s company despite the glare in Niall’s eyes as he continued to watch them. Blair was one of only a handful of clan’s people who met Moira with unadulterated kindness and without even the smallest hint of suspicion. It was a balm to Moira’s soul, and she would have loved to spend more time with the girl.
If it were not for Ian MacDrummond.
Blair tilted her head sideways, her blue eyes still as curious as before. “Are ye a witch?” she asked openly.
Moira chuckled, “What makes ye say so?”
Blair shrugged. “I’ve heard it whispered.” Her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Ye dunna look like a witch.”
“What does a witch look like?” Moira asked, knowing she ought to send the child on her way.
Blair’s gaze grew thoughtful. “I dunno. Are witches always bad?”
“I dunno.” Moira shrugged. “I’ve never met one. Have ye?”
The girl shook her little head. “People say ye did something bad. Is that true?”
