A Highlander's Woman

by Aileen Adams

  He sighed, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “All I can do is watch her whenever I can and discipline her when she does not abide by my rules, and hope she’s not half as devilish as we were.”

  “Daughters are less trouble to raise, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Between the pair of us, I believe that to be an outright lie told by people who know there would be no bairns left in the world if we knew the truth of the matter.”

  Padraig chuckled at his brother’s wry tone while watching Fiona as he imagined a hawk would track a hare. He could not be as relaxed with his child as Rodric appeared, he simply could not. Fiona was not his heir, not his daughter, yet it took a great deal of resistance to avoid dismounting and marching to where she danced, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to safety.

  If she were his, he’d wish to build a tall wall around her and keep away anything and everything which might cause her even a moment’s displeasure. Perhaps it was for the best, then, that he had no children.

  Though this could not be the case for much longer.

  “I hear you’ve set about searching for these thieves who accosted Moira and Margaret yesterday,” Rodric murmured. “A good thing, that. Though I must say, I’ve seen nothing outside the ordinary.”

  His blood stirred once again at the reminder of what had taken place on his land. “For the life of me, I canna understand who would do it.”

  “Thieves are thieves,” Rodric shrugged. “I saw more than my share of them in my travels. Och, but we could tell ye tales of them. ‘Twas thieves who kidnapped Moira, as well, and nearly killed Fergus.”

  “Of course. I had all but forgotten that.” Had Moira not been as brave as she was, burning Fergus’s wound closed, he would have died.

  “They care not whose land on which they linger. They bear allegiance to no clan and care for nothing but themselves,” Rodric snarled, spitting on the ground to show how little he thought of such men. “Taking that which does not belong to them. A good thing ‘twas Moira they came across, then, or the outcome might have been far different.”

  “Strange, that,” Padraig murmured, lost in thought as he stared out over the river.

  “What is strange?”

  “She not only fought for her own sake, but she fought off whoever had attacked Margaret. Margaret remained silent about the affair, offering not a word of explanation. It simply strikes me as being strange that she was so reticent.”

  Rodric nodded, brow furrowed. “I canna imagine ‘tis easy for a lass to speak of such things, especially one unaccustomed to rough Highland life. I’ve heard word that she came of age in a noble house in England.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true.”

  “While she may well have heard of the evils of such men, it’s likely that she had not seen them for herself.”

  He wanted to believe this, as it made sense and required little further thought on the matter. Yet it simply did not ring true. Something pulled at the back of his mind, some question to which he could not give voice.

  What if the two of them had fought each other instead of outsiders?

  It could not be possible. Moira was far too skilled a fighter to be bested by a wee thing such as Margaret. He had seen what Moira was capable of—if they had truly fought, Margaret would not have escaped with a few bruises and a bloody lip.

  Yet he could not avoid returning to the question again and again, no matter how unthinkable a notion it was. Even though Moira had never been anything but a bright, cheerful, helpful member of the household, even though she’d never raised her voice in anger to anyone but Fergus—who deserved it, no doubt—he could not help but wonder if Margaret had stirred her to anger somehow.

  Or if Moira had been the one to stir Margaret.

  Caitlin appeared from behind the house, wee Gavina on her hip. “Fiona! Come!”

  Fiona’s growl could be heard from where Padraig sat. “Och, Ma…”

  “You’ll be needing your dinner soon enough, and then you’ll be heading up to rest,” Caitlin informed her in a tone which meant she’d have no disagreement. “We must start out for the house now.”

  Fiona dragged her feet through the tall grass which lined the riverbank, and Padraig could not help but notice a twinge of disappointment. He’d so hoped she would enjoy living in the keep with him and the rest of the family. He had even talked himself into believing it would be a good test of what life would be with children of his own in the house.

  She did not enjoy it. That much was clear.

  Rodric took note of his frown. “Dinna take it to heart,” he advised. “Bairns will do as they do. Once the house is finished and she has no reason to spend her nights in the keep, I promise ye the lass will be pleading with me to ride her over to ye. They simply wish to be elsewhere.”

  “I know it,” Padraig assured him. It was foolish to take a child’s whims to heart, though it could not be helped when he did so wish to please his niece.

  It seemed he could not please anyone as of late.

  “Och, lassie!” he called out. “Will ye ride with me, then?”

  Fiona’s eyes lit up as he’d known they would. “On your saddle?” she asked, as though she did not believe it.”

  “Aye, where else? I shall ride behind ye—dinna think I’m so daft as I’d allow Ivarr to run off with ye?”

  She giggled as Rodric lifted her up, with Padraig taking her by the waist and settling her before him. Her eyes went wide and perfectly round as she took in the world from such a height.

  “Ivarr is quite large,” he agreed. “And quite swift, as ye know. How fast do ye think he could run us to the keep?”

  “Very fast!” she giggled, clapping her hands.

  “All right then, lassie. Ye shall have your wish.” He winked at Caitlin, one arm secure around the child’s waist, and they took off at a gallop.

  “Faster! Faster!” Fiona squealed, shouting with delight when they crossed through the shallow part of the river and sent water up in all directions.

  “Hold on, then!” he shouted, coaxing the horse into a run which he could still easily manage. They ran across the fields, both of them laughing in delight. It was easy to laugh when the child was with him, easy to see the world through her young, new eyes.

  Would that men and women would not forget what it was to see the world in such a way.

  They arrived at the house well in advance of Rodric and Caitlin, with Fiona’s eyes shining, her cheeks glowing.

  “Again!” she cried out, clapping her hands, bouncing up and down as though to spur the horse into motion.

  “Och, lass, we must give Ivarr the chance to rest,” he reminded her. “Ye grow tired after running and playing, do ye not? The same is true for him. We must always remember to care for our animals, or else they might be injured.”

  Margaret came from the chicken coop, a basket of eggs over one arm. “You’ve been riding,” she observed with a smile he knew was only for Fiona. Her eyes never met his.

  “Aye, we were flying in the air! Uncle Pad knows everything in the world about horses!” Her eyes shone with hero worship as she gazed up at him.

  Margaret’s eyes held no such light. “Yes,” she murmured. “He knows everything about horses.”

  “Perhaps Margaret ought to take ye in to wash before ye have dinner,” Padraig suggested, dismounting before helping Fiona from the saddle. Anything was better than her cold, dismissive attitude.

  He asked himself while watching the two of them walk into the keep together just why he’d been so concerned over Margaret’s well-being when she could not bother herself to look at him.

  12

  Margaret had not seen Andershire since Sorcha and Moira discovered her. Three weeks had passed since that day, and if she had her way she would never have set eyes upon the place again.

  She had even feigned a headache the day Caitlin and Alana rode out together in hopes of purchasing fabric for new kirtles. She’d given them a bit of the money Padraig had paid her and as
ked for something becoming. If anyone had thought twice about her reticence, they had not spoken to her of it.

  But there’d been no way to avoid the festival if she wished to avoid question and suspicion. It seemed the entire household would go—the entire clan, even, men coming from their homes and farms with wives and children in carts pulled by teams of workhorses. There was a sense of joy in all of them, waving as they did while they traveled the road running just past the east side of the house.

  Margaret rode on horseback beside a cart which held several of the girls who worked in the kitchen and bedchambers. Their giggling and gossip was enough to make her head ache, but she strove to maintain a smile and a pleasant manner.

  The thought of what the Mothers would have made of this frivolity turned her smile grim. Oh, how they would have spoken out against this. A waste of time which might be spent in the pursuit of something noble. A waste of resources, certainly, as those on their way to the village would more than likely spend their hard-earned pence in the tavern, the inn, at any one of the market stalls which had been built especially for the occasion.

  She could not help but share their opinion.

  Even so, as another gale of laughter erupted from the cart beside her, she asked herself if something which made people truly happy was entirely a waste.

  The sun had not yet risen, the long ride to Andershire making it necessary to leave quite early if one wished to arrive by mid-morning. The road was fairly packed with horses and carts, neighbors calling out to one another as more and more joined in.

  For so early in the morning, everyone was in high spirits.

  “Padraig! Will ye be participating in the feats of strength?” one of the girls in the cart called out.

  Margaret stiffened. It might have been the tone in which the question was posed, one of teasing and playfulness. Who thought they could speak to the laird in such a way? She wished to have a word with this girl, to remind her that Padraig was the laird and not some stable boy for her to trifle with.

  Then again, it was none of her concern.

  Like as not, she’d stiffened and sat up straighter because the question meant he was somewhere nearby. She still had not spoken to him any more than was absolutely necessary since the incident in the study.

  Though with each passing day, she lost sight of what had started their fight. Was it her fault? Was it his? She thought it was his and would have wagered he thought it was hers.

  This was so new to her. Being with people, living alongside them. While she’d lived alongside her sisters, excessive personal contact was punished. Such contact meant one losing sight of goals—training, service, dedication to the Order.

  She’d never learned how to live as others did. Certainly, she’d been trained to blend in with them, to pretend she was as they were, but only for a short time. Several days at most. She would then disappear.

  As such, it was wise to remain distant from those around her. It would be folly to allow anyone the chance to remember the woman who’d disappeared after a sudden death.

  Padraig drew near, riding on the other side of the cart. She asked herself whether he was merely being pleasant with the girls or if there was something hidden in his manner.

  For their part, the girls all but clawed at each other for the opportunity to speak with him. Margaret asked herself why there was a tightness in her chest, why her hands clenched around the reins as she longed to clench them around the throats of the girls.

  This was new. It seemed there was no end to the new emotions she’d discovered. How did others live with such a mixture of unpleasantness boiling in their stomachs all their days?

  He caught her eye and fell back behind the cart, then fell in step behind her. “Are ye going to spend the rest of your life not speaking to me unless ye absolutely must?” he murmured, loud enough for only her to hear.

  She considered this very seriously. Perhaps avoiding him was best for them both, seeing as how she wanted nothing more just then than to pummel him. Had he no sense, smiling at the girls that way when they were daft over him?

  “You did well to remind me of the nature of our knowing each other,” she replied instead, careful to choose her words before speaking them. “You are the man who pays me, shelters me, feeds me. We need speak of nothing more than your needs and the needs of your household, if I might be of use elsewhere.”

  “I dinna wish for it to be this way.”

  “You seemed to.”

  He grumbled to himself, and she wished she could see his face. She would have liked to see his face, just for the chance to see how her words twisted him. “I was angry with ye. I was wrong to be angry, I had no cause to be.”

  It came out as a grunt, barely reaching her ears, but it was enough. “All right, then. So long as you know you were wrong. You… you hurt me,” she whispered.

  “I didna wish to. Ye must believe it.”

  “I do,” she admitted.

  Oh, if anyone overheard them, but there was far too much talking and laughing all around for a quiet conversation to be heard. So she hoped.

  “Well, then,” he said, drawing up beside her. “We can be friends. I knew ye were not so hardheaded as to refuse to hear an apology.”

  “Hardheaded?” she hissed.

  If he truly knew her, he would know how dangerous she was when her voice fell to a whisper as it had.

  She glanced ahead to the cart where the girls had returned to their laughter and whispers. “You would do better to talk with them. They seem as though they want to hear what you have to say today.”

  She trotted off, past the cart and well toward the front of the group. He had too much pride to follow, which she’d known before she did it. He was a man, through and through, and there were traits which all of them shared.

  “Have ye never been to a festival?”

  Margaret turned away from dancers to find Moira smiling at her. She wore a crown of wildflowers, the same as many of the other women.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  Moira laughed, not unkindly. “You look as though you have not the first idea what to think.”

  “That is not far from the mark,” she laughed, nervous and flustered and overwhelmed all at once.

  “Worry not. I won’t tell the others.” Moira winked, then jerked her head in the direction of the square in which dancers still twirled and wove in and out between each other’s linked arms. “Would you wish to try the dancing?”

  Margaret laughed, shaking her head. “No, no, I’ve never.”

  “You have never danced?”

  Margaret winced. “I have. But. Never like this, and never in front of so many people!” She had learned many dances and was graceful and skilled in all of them, but there would be no way of explaining this. “I would be too embarrassed.”

  “All right, then. You might at least come with me.” Moira took Margaret by the wrist and led her through the crowd. It was then that Margaret noticed the bow and quiver strapped to Moira’s back.

  “Where are we going?”

  Moira grinned over her shoulder. “There are always contests and the like. You know, feats of strength and skill. I wish to shoot along with the men and best all of them.”

  Was it possible for a woman to be this bold? And to treat her so warmly after Margaret had nearly dispatched with her in the woods? They’d never spoken of it, never so much as exchanging a cross look. Moira had not changed toward her at all.

  In fact, she seemed warmer and more forthcoming than she had before. As though there was new respect between them. Margaret could admit she felt a greater respect toward Moira, knowing how skilled and disciplined she was, but for Moira to feel the same? It seemed as though it ought not to be, yet the proof was there.

  A row of men stood facing a row of targets painted on burlap grain sacks. When Fergus caught sight of Moira fighting her way through the crowd, he waved. “Make haste, lass! They’re about to begin!” He saved a place for her at the end of the line
and kissed the top of her head before stepping aside with Margaret, the two of them watching as she prepared.

  Fergus all but burst with pride in his wife and she’d not yet taken her shot. “You do not mind her being the only woman among the men?” Margaret asked, cupping her hands around her mouth that she might be heard over the roar of the crowd when the contest began.

  “Nay! Not at all,” he insisted, shaking his head with a laugh. “It makes me all the prouder to know my wife can best the men.”

  “And you think she will?”

  “Och, I know it,” he grinned. “Just watch and see.”

  She did watch. She watched as one man after another pulled back on the string of his bow and let the bolt fly. Most of them were quite good, striking near the center of the target. One of them managed to land nearly dead in the center, making Margaret groan in dismay.

  “Dinna lose faith,” Fergus assured her, staring at his wife all the while with an intensity which Margaret nearly felt ashamed of witnessing. He adored her, it was clear to see, and Margaret’s smile was bittersweet as she considered her chances of a man ever looking at her that way.

  They were slim, if they existed at all.

  Yet Moira had found a man for her, one who was proud of what made her different. Perhaps there was still hope…

  Nonsense. Do not lie to yourself.

  Margaret chewed her lip, glad to know there were none who might read her troubled thoughts. Fortunately enough, it was Moira’s turn at her target.

  “Moira! Show them!” Margaret cried out, nails digging into her palms. She was fit to burst with excitement she’d never known. This was why everyone was behaving so strangely, then. This thrill, this joy. Even if Moira did not win, she would still have known what it was to cheer for someone she was beginning to grow quite fond of. That would be enough.

  Though it would be better if she won.

  Moira raised her arms, leveling the bow. She drew back the bolt and exhaled.