A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  He would certainly not speak of it when she asked, and ask she had. They’d begun taking meals together now that she was better able to walk about the house, and while their time together was not unpleasant, Dougal refused to answer direct questions.

  He was a skilled conversationalist, much to her dismay. He knew just how to hold his tongue, to answer a question without truly answering. He even knew how to sound pleasant while he did it rather than demanding she cease her endless questioning. In fact, he was ever the gentleman, never so much as accusing her of being too curious.

  Yet he would not be swayed. He was kind, but steadfast in his refusal to give her the answers she craved.

  Though he spoke of a great many things which fascinated her, just the same. His travels. The people he’d met, the things he’d seen. Even fights which he’d witnessed—the man had a way of adding humor to nearly anything. Once, he’d gone so far as to act out both men involved in a tavern brawl, right down to their shambling steps and slurred speech, the way they wildly swung their fists only to miss their targets. She’d laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

  And it had pleased him, she could tell.

  After days of this, she found herself quite eager to see him when he returned from his daily doings. Enid—the cook she’d observed—normally had supper prepared by then, and the three of them would sit together and have a pleasant evening.

  Though only two of them would converse. It was not anger or bitterness which had caused old Enid to ignore Tyra’s presence in the kitchen that first day. It was the fact that the woman was deaf and dumb.

  “She was cook as far back as when I was a lad,” Dougal had explained while eating barley soup and hot, fresh bread one evening. “When the others of the household left, she did not. Upon my return I found her living here, alone.”

  “How dreadful for her,” Tyra had murmured with a sidelong glance at the woman, who she knew could read lips. Certainly, she must know, for how else did she know how to react to Dougal’s words? Her replies came in the form of hand gestures and facial expressions with which Dougal was well-acquainted.

  Enid moved her hands about now, having understood Tyra and wishing to explain. “She says it was not as dreadful as that,” he’d said. “For she never hears anything, even when the house is filled with people.”

  Regardless, Tyra could not help but feel for the woman. Why had she been left behind? Did no one think to urge her to join them? Did no one care for her at all? What did they believe would befall a deaf, dumb woman on her own, wandering about an otherwise empty house?

  It was on that particular evening that Tyra understood what she must do if she wished to understand the many mysteries of this old, empty house. She must learn to communicate with Enid, to understand her gestures. Enid would explain everything, even if Dougal would not.

  Just why it was so important she understand the man and his history was beyond Tyra’s comprehension. Why did it matter at all? Why, when it was clear he barely tolerated her presence beneath his roof? He was so good to allow her to stay rather than exposing Iona and herself to ridicule, questions, and worse from the villagers.

  What little she’d seen of them did not speak well of their acceptance and kindness.

  She was a burden to him, she knew, yet he treated her kindly. Only on occasion did they argue, and normally it was she who started their cross words after becoming frustrated with Dougal’s refusal to share himself honestly.

  Why had he gone away? What had compelled him to return? Why did a man so rough in his manners take pains to accommodate an old woman? Perhaps Tyra gave him too much credit, but it seemed he could have brought on a younger, stronger woman who might take charge of other household responsibilities—after all, there were not many people to cook for.

  Why did he light up when it came time to tell a story? He changed before Tyra’s eyes whenever this occurred, and it occurred frequently. The lines across his broad forehead and at the corners of his green eyes would soften, as would the nearly constant downward tilt of the corners of his mouth. As if he were forgetting something which nearly always weighed heavily upon him.

  What could that be? The question kept Tyra up long into the night, left her sitting by the window which gave her clear view of the moors beyond Dougal’s lands now that she’d washed it. She’d stare out that window, wondering about the man who she sometimes saw walking great distances with his dogs by his side.

  She would watch him do this until he was little more than a speck on the horizon. She would watch, and she would wonder.

  It was wrong of her to think so much on him, especially when she longed to see Iona again. To return to her life, the way life had always been. Pleasant days, happy days. Peaceful. She and Iona were to have started a new life here in the highlands.

  Granted, they’d both been concerned upon learning they would come to this place. Neither had any true knowledge of the highlands or their people. Nothing more than legends and tales of rough, vicious men with poor manners and a thirst for blood and drink. Tales of violence and danger and cruelty. Yet they would have each other, and Iona was well provided for thanks to her uncle’s estate. They had not despaired entirely.

  This was nothing like what they’d imagined. It would have been easier to bear, had Tyra known when her captivity would come to an end, but there was no end in sight after a fortnight.

  At least Iona was aware of her presence, of her safety. Dougal had assured her he’d spoken to Iona and explained what had taken place. It brought her a measure of peace, knowing her dearest friend would not worry herself into illness.

  But that did not make up for the sense of hanging in midair, with nowhere for her to place her feet and steady herself. No notion of when she would be able to leave, no means to continue her life, to create something of her own in this strange, new world.

  No word from Dougal as to when it would be safe for her to leave.

  Which was why the notion of escape teased at the corners of her mind whenever he was out of the house. When she’d watch him grow smaller and smaller until she could no longer make out the shape of him. He would be too far to know she’d gone, and she would surely place a great deal of distance between him and herself by the time he’d discovered her missing—he rarely returned before supper.

  How far did his lands extend? How far would she need to travel? Now that her shoulder had begun to heal—the sling which Dougal had fashioned went a long way toward assisting with this—she was fairly confident that she’d be able to travel quickly.

  Where? In which direction should she go? How long would it take before she found Iona?

  And what if some terrible thing befell her? A wild animal, a sudden storm? Or the murderers and cutthroats she’d heard of? If she left, would she merely trade one calamity for another?

  As unhappy as Tyra was, being all but held prisoner—even if this was for her own good, and for Iona’s, she still felt like a prisoner—she was comfortable. Cared for. The company she kept grew more pleasant with each passing day.

  Why the impulse to escape, then? Because she felt she owed it to Iona? Because a caged animal naturally wished to be free?

  Or was it because, deep down in her heart, she knew she’d already become too comfortable? Too fond of Enid?

  Too fond of Dougal?

  9

  The lass would not cease with her endless questions. After a fortnight in his presence, her curiosity would not be silenced. What had he done to deserve this torment, when already his soul was tormented enough?

  Dougal gritted his teeth, his gaze turned downward. Enid had prepared stewed rabbit. Hardly his favorite dish, but rabbit was plentiful and one made do with what one had on hand. He kept his mouth full, hoping Tyra would come to understand how unwilling he was to converse.

  How long would it be before she finally understood? Was she so determined to ignore his wishes? Only Enid’s watchful eye kept him from snarling at Tyra, for he knew the cook would take him to task fo
r it.

  While she was unable to speak, Enid had a way of making her feelings known. There was already one woman set on plaguing him morning and night. He did not need another.

  “How long has your family owned this land?” Tyra asked, leaning in slightly from across the table. “Has it always been Craig land?”

  He shrugged, moving bits of meat and vegetable around with a crust of bread. “I could not say, truly. There is no written record of precisely when the land came to be ours. Does it matter?”

  His tone was sullen. He knew this, and he did not bother himself to soften it. He normally did for her sake, but this was not the time to take such pains.

  Why was she so curious about his family?

  What would she think if he told her what he’d learned that very day? That Lord Balmerinoch, his cousin, had been beheaded in the Tower of London for conspiring against the crown?

  What would she think of his family then?

  Perhaps it would close her mouth, at least. He might be granted a moment’s peace, silence to help lessen the ache in his head.

  “I suppose it does not,” Tyra admitted with a soft sigh. “I was merely curious.”

  “Why?” He glanced up from his bowl. “Why curious?”

  There must have been something new in his voice, some edge which caused her rosy cheeks to pale. Some of the light left her eyes, as well. “I could not say.”

  “Then perhaps ye ought to hold your tongue and cease pestering me.” He pushed back from the table, his supper only half-eaten. “I must retire to my study.” To think. To plan.

  To worry.

  His dismay merely grew when the lass rose from her chair. “What are ye on about?” he growled. “Remain seated. Eat. Dinna starve yourself on my account.”

  “I have eaten my fill,” she offered in a soft voice, blue eyes wide and innocent. “I did not rise because of you.”

  “I see.” He turned away, unable to look upon her when she appeared crestfallen. He’d hurt her with his sullen attitude.

  That was for the best. He insisted upon this as he strode from the kitchen—they ate there, the three of them, as it seemed unnecessary to set a larger table. The lass needed to turn her thoughts away from him, away from his life. She seemed to have acquired the notion that he was some heroic figure, or worse, a tragic one.

  He would’ve thought she had better sense than that. Indeed, she’d struck him as a thoughtful sort, possessed of some intelligence. Keen minded. Why did she insist upon turning that mind toward him?

  Why would she not be convinced to cease thinking about him?

  “You are troubled.” It came as no surprise that she’d followed him, standing outside his study as he settled behind his desk. Small, even teeth dug into her lower lip. “I can see it plainly.”

  “Yet ye will not leave me be,” he pointed out, perhaps with a great deal more bitterness than he ought to.

  “I only wish to help you.”

  He blinked hard, staring at her. “Help me? Ye wish to help me?” For some reason, this struck him as the most amusing thing he’d heard in a great while. Laughter bubbled in his chest, and he did not bother to conceal it. “Ye believe ye are in any way able to help me?”

  The lass shrank somewhat, chewing her lip harder than ever. “If there is help to be given, yes.”

  “There is none.” He pounded the desk with his fist. “Ye cannot do anything for me. All ye seem to be good for is endless questioning, and I am not in the mood for answering questions.”

  “You never are.”

  “Yet ye never cease asking. Why? Why does it matter how long my family have owned this land? What does it matter why the household abandoned the place after my father died? Why? If I did not know better, I would take ye for a spy.”

  Her eyes went round, her skin paler than ever. So pale that even from across the room, Dougal could see the veins running beneath. “How could you say such a thing? Do you mean to hurt me?”

  “Do ye intend to drive me out of my wits? As if I do not have enough to concern me—” He brought himself up short, all but biting his tongue to hold back what threatened to pour forth. A difficult thing, to be sure, as the yearning to unburden himself was nearly too much to resist.

  How simple it would be to share all. To tell her of his doings, his history of financing the Jacobites in the region. Giving his family wealth over to those fighting for a free Scotland. Of his cousin, engaged in the same activities.

  Of the fact that his cousin had lost his head in London.

  Of the fact that the connection between them could not long be unknown. Surely, someone would wish to bring together the family, the friends of the men who’d been beheaded. They would wish to investigate, to question and demand and arrest and try and execute.

  It might be his neck on the block, and far sooner than Dougal had ever imagined.

  It would serve her right, too, if he unburdened himself and told all. He might even take perverse pleasure in watching her expression change to one of horror. He might snicker at her, throw back in her face the curiosity she so often expressed. It was better not to ask too many questions of someone who refused to share.

  For there had to be a reason for their reticence, did there not? He was trying to protect the lass, could she not understand that?

  She stood before him still, now inside the room with one hand upon the door’s latch. Would that she would step into the corridor and slam the door shut behind her.

  Yet he was not that fortunate. “Perhaps it would be best for me to know the manner of man in whose house I’ve been held captive,” she whispered with an edge of iron in her voice. Yes, there she was, the sharp-tongued lass he’d come to know and even respect.

  “Captive,” he snorted. “As if ye have been mistreated. As if I did not explain all to ye long before now. Why it is best ye remain.”

  “I am beginning to think I cannot trust you.”

  “Och, so she distrusts me.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he went about arranging papers on his desk if only to appear busy. “How ever will I sleep tonight, knowing this?”

  “You rarely sleep.”

  This stopped him, caused him to raise his head and look at her straight-on. “What was that?”

  It was her gaze which darted away now. “Tell me,” he demanded, rising. “What was that? I rarely sleep? And how would ye be aware of any such thing?”

  “There are times when I cannot sleep, either,” she sighed, looking at the floor. “I walk the corridors.”

  “In the dark?”

  “What of it?” She raised her head, defiance written in every line of her lovely visage. “I know my way now. And I’ve heard you these last several evenings. You walk the floor, murmuring to yourself. You sound angry, fearsome. Troubled.”

  “I must say, it surprises me ye have not knocked upon the door and demanded to know why,” he snickered.

  “Certain things are simply not done,” she sniffed, high and mighty. “I would not disturb you in your bedchamber.”

  “Perhaps I ought never to leave my bedchamber, then,” he snapped. “As it is the only room in the house where a man can think in peace. I never granted permission for ye to pester me in my study.”

  “So I am pestering you.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Because I wish to know the manner of man holding me—rather, allowing me to live beneath his roof?” she finished with a simpering smile. “Where is the crime in that? If you are involved in anything untoward, would it not be better that I know? That I be prepared?”

  “What gives ye—”

  She stomped her foot. “You will not answer my questions! Why do you think I would come to such a conclusion? You are troubled. You pace the floors at night, you walk for hours at a time during the day. You are short, curt, cold these last few days. What has changed so quickly?”

  She was correct, the sharp-witted lass. And observant. “Have ye ever imagined that this is who I truly am?” he suggested. “T
hat I attempted to be kind, that ye would not fuss or fight while healing from injury?”

  “From the wound you gave me,” she murmured, lifting a brow.

  “Ye know well what I meant,” he growled. “Must ye always have the final word?”

  Her mouth twitched, nostrils flaring. “No.”

  She found this amusing. For some reason, that was the realization which broke his resolve. He slammed both palms against the desk, making her jump and gasp. “Be gone with ye. I dinna wish to see ye again this night. Take your questions elsewhere. Perhaps you’d be better to share them with Enid—though you will receive no answer from her, either.”

  He expected her to lash out in return, to hurl any number of insulting words his way. To call him a fool, a beast, a wicked, heartless creature. He even braced himself for her tirade in the moments after shouting at her.

  As ever, she managed to surprise him.

  Her eyelids fluttered. Her mouth fell open, allowing the slightest of whimpers to escape before Tyra collapsed to the floor, sending several stacks of books scattering in all directions when she did.

  “Tyra!” He was by her side in an instant. What had occurred? What had he done, what had he said? What caused this?

  He lifted her halfway, cradling her limp body against his before tapping her cheeks as roughly as he dared in hopes of waking her. “Tyra. Tyra, ye must awaken now.” Yet she did not so much as flinch, even when he was less gentle.

  A thin pulse fluttered in her throat when he pressed two fingers against it. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. Was she ill all this time and did not tell him? Or was she simply unaware? Did it have to do with the shot to her shoulder? Was it some sort of delayed effect?

  He would receive no answers now, with her head lolling against his chest. “Damn it all,” he grunted before lifting her in his arms and standing. She had to be taken care of. She simply had to.

  Enid. She might know what needed to be done. With Tyra in his arms, he rushed to the kitchen. The cook was in the middle of scouring a kettle when he nudged her from behind. She gasped at the sight of the unconscious lass.