by Bree Wolf
Duncan inclined his head to her, a deep smile coming to his lips. “Good night,” he whispered gently before he stepped away and then turned around.
As his gaze fell on Moira, his features hardened, and in that moment, he reminded her of his nephew. Like Ian, his eyes were narrowed and full of suspicion. Hatred showed in the tension gripping his shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, Moira thought he would strike her.
But he simply walked by her, not uttering a single word.
Swallowing, Moira stared after him before her aunt called to her. “Come inside,” Fiona hissed, grabbing a hold of Moira’s arm and pulling her into the small cottage. She flung the door shut behind them, her hands on her hips as she stared at Moira in disapproval. “What were ye thinking? Are ye out of yer mind? D’ye not know the whispers that have started anew today?”
Although Moira understood her aunt’s agitation, she could not in good conscience bow her head in shame. After all, she had done nothing wrong. Not today. “I saved his life. In my dreams, I saw him lying on the side of the bank, his cheeks pale and his eyes lifeless.” Blinking back tears, Moira swallowed, and her jaw hardened. “What should I have done? Tell me, please. What should I have done?”
Shock rested on her aunt’s features as she stared at her, her eyes wide and her lips trembling as Moira’s words sank in. “Ye saw the boy come to harm?”
Moira nodded. “I dunna know what people are whispering, but I didna attack the lad.” She sighed. “I tried to keep my distance−I always do because I know how people see me−but then I was too far away. I ran and…” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “I dunna regret it.” Meeting her aunt’s gaze, Moira drew back her shoulders. “He’s alive because of me. I was right to act. No matter what they may say, I did nothing wrong. Not today.”
Pressing her lips together, Fiona nodded, her cheeks pale and her eyes filled with tears. “Aye, ye did right, Lass. Ye did right.” Then she swallowed and gestured toward the kitchen. “Come. Ye look like ye could use some food between yer teeth.”
Nodding, Moira watched as her aunt brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Thank ye,” she said, gratitude warming her chest. Fiona’s words were not an embrace, but they did ease the ache in Moira’s heart, and for that, Moira was grateful.
That night, she slept without interruption. Her eyes remained closed and sightless. Her dreams chose to grant her a reprieve, not invading her heart and mind and forcing her to act. Every now and then, days or even weeks passed without an image of the future rising before her eyes, and for that too Moira was grateful.
In these moments, she felt less alone, less odd and almost, almost like one of many. A member of the clan. Someone who did not stand out. Someone who belonged. Or at least someone who could belong.
One day.
Still, she knew that her dreams would return as they always had.
Autumn turned to winter, and with the cold came a new warmth as people huddled together indoors, often gathered around the large fireplace in the great hall as the elders told stories about times past. They whispered of brave Highland warriors fighting for their cause, of daring lasses who stood to protect their homes, of the Old Ones who bestowed their gifts on those they deemed worthy.
A murmur went through the crowd at these words, and Moira could feel more than one set of eyes turn to her. Her skin crawled as she kept her head down, her back pressing into the wall behind her. Panic swept through her, and she realised she had been foolish to join them, to think she could partake in their gathering. Was this the moment? Had it finally come? Would they turn on her now?
As her heart beat frantically in her chest, Moira gritted her teeth, bracing herself for hands that seized her.
But they never came.
Swallowing, she lifted her head and found the attention of those in the great hall not focused on her, but instead on the old white-haired woman seated in front of the fireplace. Her soft voice rang loud and clear as she spoke of the many wonders the world held, wonders that included gifts like Moira’s.
Again, murmurs echoed to Moira’s ears, but now she realised that there was no hostility in them. Instead, they rang with awe and enchantment. She saw smiling faces and glowing eyes as the young and old listened to the stories that had been told in the MacDrummond clan for generations.
Entranced, Moira watched those around her, wondering in that moment if it had solely been her betrayal that had turned the tide on how people perceived the gifts of old. Would they have been this distrustful if she had not betrayed her own clan? Had this indeed been her doing?
Moira sighed, and her heart grew heavy when she realised she had no right to be here, to disrupt this peaceful moment.
Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip to keep at bay the tears that threatened, Moira quietly stepped back in order to retreat from the gathering. However, the moment she turned to go, her gaze fell on silver-grey eyes that looked back into hers as though they knew the turmoil in her heart.
Moira froze as she found Cormag looking at her from across the large hall. His gaze was slightly narrowed, yet, fixed on hers in a way she had never noticed before. It was as though they were the only two people in the hall, and she felt his presence all the way to her toes.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and she blinked her eyes frantically to chase away the tears that rose. How long had it been since another had looked at her? Truly looked at her? And seen her?
Too long.
Moira swallowed, unable to avert her eyes, and yet, she knew she ought to for Cormag MacDrummond was no more than a stranger. A man she hardly knew. A man she rarely spoke to. A man who nonetheless seemed to see to the very core of her.
There was something in those hooded grey eyes that spoke of a knowledge he could not possess as though he could see into her heart and know how she felt. Always had she wondered why he had believed her when she had asked him to send Garrett to Gretna Green. Aye, he had given a reasonable explanation, and still, Moira was certain that he had in fact believed her.
But why?
He knew nothing about her, nothing beyond the whispers that circulated around her betrayal. Then why did she feel as though he was on her side? Was she mistaken? Was it simply wishful thinking? A deep desire to not feel all alone?
Or was there a spark of truth in it?
As he looked at her, Moira felt the chill leave her body, slowly replaced by a warmth she had not felt in a long time. She felt her being strive toward him, her feet almost twitching with the need to move, to carry her across the hall and to his side.
Cormag’s gaze held something almost tortured as though he too felt overwhelmed by something he had no control over. Something that urged him in a direction he did not wish to explore. Something that worked against his will.
Moira swallowed as disappointment swept into her heart. Whether he truly felt something or not, it was clear that he did not wish to feel it.
Not for her.
For anyone else, but not for her.
Hardening her heart, Moira forced her gaze from his and then fled the hall with as much dignity as she could. She knew she had no right to ask for his heart, but neither would she allow herself to break into a thousand pieces because he rejected her.
No, she would stand tall. After all, she was a Brunwood.
Or had been.
Once.
6
A Laird’s Duty
With a deep sigh, Cormag sank into his chair, his head throbbing from the voices that still echoed in his mind. Harsh and loud and filled with disdain and pride, the runaways’ families had argued for weeks on end before reaching an agreement. Never would Cormag forget the hatred that had stood in their eyes, their children standing in the middle, desperately begging their parents to be allowed to love one another.
It had been a torment on Cormag’s heart as well, and he felt deeply grateful that Garrett had been there to mediate, to shoulder most of the burden. Cormag knew that alone he would have lost his mind, unable to
shut out all the emotions that had come at him from all sides, his mind unable to remain detached and reasonable.
Without Garrett, he would have indeed been lost.
Still, Cormag knew that he had done wrong by his friend. Every day, he saw Garrett’s longing to go after his wife. Time had done nothing to loosen her hold on him, and Cormag knew that the guilt he felt over detaining him was justified. If he had let his friend go, allowing him to search for his wife, would Garrett have found her by now? Would they already be happy again?
Cormag had considered consulting Moira on the matter. Still, he had not dared approach her for whenever she was near, he still felt utterly unhinged. His heart beat as though it wished to jump from his chest, and his skin crawled with the need to feel her touch. The day they had met in the corridor months ago, he had barely been able to keep himself from reaching for her. From drawing her into his arms.
He had linked his hands behind his back. Still, when she had turned to go, he had been unable to stop himself. He had touched her. He had placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her warmth through the fabric of her dress.
Cormag had known that if he wished to remain in control of himself, he would need to keep his distance.
So, he had.
And it had been agonisingly painful.
A few days ago, their eyes had met across the great hall when old Grannie Brown had told stories by a roaring fire, her whispered words drawing young and old to her side. Often, the old woman was confused, forgot the names of those around her as well as her own. However, occasionally, her mind was clear, and she remembered the great stories told by their clan, enchanting everyone who came to listen.
Cormag had sensed Moira nearby. That he could still do, even if he could not tell what lived in her heart. Although he had cautioned himself, his gaze had sought hers, and when her deep blue eyes had looked back into his, he had been unable to look away.
Like a fly caught in a spider’s web, he had been unable to move. He had stood and stared, and his heart had warmed at the longing he had seen in her eyes. Did she feel something for him? He could not be certain, and it riled him that he did not know.
With everyone else, he could tell. He knew what lived in their hearts better than they did. He knew. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. But when it came to Moira, he could only guess. He saw the warmth in her eyes, the slight hitch in her throat as she drew in a quivering breath, the way her hands trembled, the way the colour of her cheeks deepened.
He saw all that, and yet, he did not know.
Shaking his head, Cormag sat back in his chair. Had he lost the ability to interpret the facial expression of others? The way they moved and spoke? Had he been relying too much on his gift and thus forgotten how to read another’s heart without it?
Anger and frustration flared, and Cormag brought his fists down hard on his desk, sending parchments tumbling to the ground. He knew he was losing control, and that only stoked his anger. He surged to his feet and began pacing the length of the room, running his hands through his hair, trying his best to regain his balance. When that did no good, he rushed to the window, bracing his hands on the sill and looked out at the snow-covered hills surrounding his ancient home. He did his best to focus his breathing, and slowly, ever so slowly, Cormag felt his heartbeat calm.
Strangely, the emotions that had surged in his chest felt familiar, and Cormag knew that he had encountered them before.
Not in himself, but in another.
Once he had sufficiently calmed himself, his thoughts travelled backwards, trying to find the moment when he had felt that same longing followed by anger and frustration. Many similar emotions met him on his search, but it was not until he turned his attention to his childhood friend Finn that he knew he had found what he had sought.
More than once, Cormag had sensed these emotions in his old friend, seen his eyes grow hard and his lips press into a thin line as he had stared across the room…at Emma Stewart.
The young woman had a beautiful and kind face, and if Cormag was not thoroughly mistaken, her dark brown eyes often lingered on his old friend. She too seemed to draw in a steadying breath whenever their paths crossed, and yet, it seemed they both did their utmost to pretend that it was not so.
Cormag chuckled and hung his head when he realised how blind he had been.
While he had used his gift in matters pertaining to the clan, he had never considered using it for matters of the heart. Of course, he had felt the emotions of those around him, but he had never thought to dwell on them. Always had he sought to rid himself of them as quickly as possible. Partly because they overwhelmed him, but also because he did not think he had the right to know their hearts as he did.
Now, for the first time, he wondered if he had received this gift because he was meant to…interfere. Was that not what Moira did? She did not simply see what the future held, but she also acted upon the dreams that found her. Ought he do the same?
That thought stayed with Cormag in the coming days as he carefully watched Finn and Emma, for the first time willing to feel what they felt in order to understand the bond that connected them.
Christmas drew near, and the once green hills were covered in deep snow as an icy wind blew across the land. Garrett grew more and more restless now that the situation with the runaways was finally resolved, their joy a small reward for his efforts. Still, Cormag counselled him not to rush off as the deep snow made travel almost impossible, and with Garrett’s head not where it ought to be, he feared that his friend might come to harm.
Two days before the Yuletide feast, Cormag and his friends followed an old tradition of handing out logs to the people of their clan. It was a promise, a reminder that no one was ever alone, that they would stand together, one able to depend on the other especially in times of need.
While Ian sulked as he often did these days, Garrett was driven by an eagerness Cormag understood only too well. Finn, too, seemed miserable, and Cormag sensed the same war within him that had waged in his own heart more than once since Moira had first come to Seann Dachaigh Tower.
Finn was in love with Emma, but he did not dare hope that she returned his emotions. Oddly enough, Cormag realised that Emma felt the very same way. Only Finn did not know.
Sighing, Cormag wondered what he ought to do.
For years, he had seen the two avoid each other like the plague. It was clear that something had happened, something that stood between them, and he suspected that whatever it was it had caused Finn to run off to Clan MacKinnear for a time, hoping that distance might heal his heart.
Clearly, it had been a futile wish.
Cormag remembered the day Moira had tackled little Robbie to the ground. He himself had stood up on the wall-walk, watching her as he did more often than he liked to admit. He had seen the tension in the way she had moved. He had seen the way she had watched the children, not with ease, but as though she knew something was about to happen.
And she had, had she not?
At first, Cormag had been confused regarding her motivation. But later, as the whole clan had been abuzz with what had happened that day, he had heard Blair speak of a root little Robbie had found. She had cautioned all the children, telling them how Moira had warned her.
Ian had been furious, but Cormag had been able to calm him down, making him see that Moira had indeed saved the child. Still, doubt had remained in Ian’s eyes.
Moira had interfered.
Likely, she had seen the child come to harm, and she had stepped in to prevent it. Watching Garrett and Finn converse as they trudged through the snow from house to house, Cormag wondered if he ought to speak to his old friend. After all, Moira had spoken to him on Garrett’s behalf, urging him to send him down a path that would lead him to the woman meant to be by his side. Ought he not do the same for Finn?
Slowly, he drew closer to where Garrett and Finn were speaking to one another, hoping the opportunity would present itself for him to say something.
&nb
sp; Garrett laughed at Finn, shaking his head. “Ye can say what ye wish, Finn, but no one glares at another like that without deep emotions. The lass must’ve truly gotten to ye. Why else would ye care what she does or who she marries?”
Cormag paused, surprised to hear that Garrett had interpreted the situation the same way. Perhaps there truly was another way to know another’s heart, but unfortunately, Cormag had all but forgotten how to use it.
“Aye, I can see verra well that she means nothing to ye,” Garrett continued to mock Finn, who began to feel increasingly uncomfortable, his unease drifting into Cormag’s heart as well. “A bit of advice, dunna wait too long. One of these days, ye willna succeed in turning away a suitor and then she’ll be lost to ye. Why do ye think I married Claudia right then and there on the spot? She’s a fierce woman, beautiful and strong and so…so verra alive. I knew another man might snatch her up in an instant, and so I claimed her as my own as fast as I could. No matter where she is, I will find her and remind her that she’s mine…as I am hers.” He clasped a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Ye’d be wise to do the same…if indeed ye care for her.” Then Garrett hurried away, grabbing another log from the cart to placate Ian, who looked increasingly annoyed with their delay.
Despite Garrett’s words, Cormag felt the need to do his part, to help his friend reach for the woman he loved. “Ye’d do well to heed his advice,” he said, and Finn spun around, clearly unaware that Cormag had drawn near.
“How long have ye been there?” he asked panting, a bit of red coming to his cheeks.
“Not long,” Cormag replied, sensing Finn’s unease. For a moment, he merely watched him, wondering why his friend had allowed years to pass without speaking his mind, without addressing the woman he so obviously cared for. And yet, Cormag understood. “What does she mean to ye?”
The muscles in Finn’s jaw tensed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to answer. Still, Cormag felt the deep longing that lived in Finn’s chest as though it was his own. “I see,” he mumbled, frustrated with the way the heart often made one stumble even though one’s path was so clearly laid in front of one’s feet.
