A Highlander's Woman

by Aileen Adams

  Even in the midst of this confusing news, a small glimmer of satisfaction shone. He silently cursed himself for his weakness. “What did Moira say?”

  Fergus shifted in his chair, which told Padraig there was even more to the tale. Before anything further was spoke, he poured a cup of ale for himself and one for Fergus. Margaret had left it there for him that morning, as she always did.

  When he finished drinking, Fergus replied, “She confessed that the thieves in the woods were not thieves at all. That the two of them had fought each other.”

  “What?” Padraig rose, though he knew not what he ought to do. Question Moira further? Condemn Margaret and send her on her way?

  “Now, now.” Fergus held up his hands in a placating gesture. “She told me it ended well, that they are friends. She pressed Margaret for information about herself, where she came from. Curiosity, but something else. As it turns out, when she and Sorcha found Margaret in the village, she was fighting off an attack from three men and availed herself quite nicely.”

  Padraig sank down into his chair, momentarily weak with confusion. “Did the lass fight for a living?” he wondered aloud.

  “I’d had the same thought, I confess. When I asked Moira if she’d found out anything else about Margaret, she said she had not. I admit I dinna know if this is the truth. Moira is a fiercely protective lass. She will hold a secret if she believes the person she’s holding it for is in need of her assistance—even if it means holding it from me. Perhaps it has to do with all the time she spent on her own, taking care of herself. She recognizes when a person is alone in the world and in need of a friend.”

  Padraig stopped short of waving this off as pure rubbish. The people living under his roof were lying to him. That was what mattered.

  “I would like to speak to Moira about this.”

  “Nay, please,” Fergus pleaded, leaning forward. “I only tell ye this because I trusted ye not to react badly. You’ve always been reasonable.”

  “I didna think I was being lied to before now.”

  “I would not call it lying.”

  “What would ye call it? Imagine this had nothing to do with your wife and tell me what ye would call it then.”

  Fergus ran his hands through his hair, groaning in frustration. “I would call it someone being afraid to tell ye about herself. I know not why, but there is more to Margaret than meets the eye. Moira insisted she trusts her.”

  “After they fought?”

  “After they fought,” Fergus confirmed. “She trusts her a great deal, and ye saw how well they got on during the festival. They might as well be sisters, the pair of them.”

  Padraig grunted when he remembered seeing them together, and not just at the festival. Always speaking in hushed tones, arm-in-arm.

  To think, he had encouraged her to grow closer to the women of the house.

  “Padraig. I trust Moira. I would trust her with my life, and until now I would wager ye would, too.”

  He could not lie. “Aye. I would.”

  “She would never allow the clan to be endangered if she felt there was anything she could do to stop it. Ye know this.”

  He wanted to know it. He needed to. Otherwise, what else did he have to believe in?

  14

  “Then, he pulled the cart that one final step. I thought I would fall dead then and there. My heart all but burst.” A storm of giggles followed this.

  Giggles in which Margaret did not join.

  For the love of the gods, three days had passed, and the girls were still talking about the festival.

  All that kept Margaret from screaming at them to find another topic to behave like fools over was knowing they would think her strange for doing so. Why did she care when no one else seemed to? For Margaret was certainly not the only member of the household to cringe on hearing the same stories told day after day.

  In fact, everyone seemed quite pleased to revisit the events of the festival, especially when they pertained to the good showing the Andersons made for themselves.

  When the time came that someone wished to praise Moira for her shooting, she never failed to breathlessly recount the moment when the men knew they were in the presence of a truly great archer. How proud she’d been of her new friend then—and still was.

  Why could the girls not speak of that, then? Why did they insist upon giggling and sighing over Padraig?

  And then she wondered, why did it matter so?

  She caught herself making a sound which sounded not unlike a growl when a pair of the giggling lasses passed her with a basket full of dry linens just outside the keep. She and Moira were on their way to the woods for more dandelion roots—not a task meant for two, certainly, but the company was pleasant.

  How strange to think she enjoyed being in the company of another, when so much of her life up to that point had been spent alone. She’d preferred to travel alone, to work alone. No matter how skilled her partner, the truth had remained—she was inevitably the more skilled, the faster and sharper. A partner had only slowed her down.

  Now, she welcomed the company and the extra pair of hands to make the work go faster.

  It did her a world of good to sink to her knees in the soft soil and work the earth with her fingers. She took out some of her frustration on the dandelion roots.

  “Do not tear the roots from the stems if you can help it,” Moira murmured.

  “I know what it is I’m doing,” Margaret replied through clenched teeth.

  “You seem bothered. What is the matter?”

  Margaret stopped short of giving a sharp response, then snorted in bitter laughter. “Me. I am the matter.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She gave up her task for the moment, sitting back on her heels with a sigh. “I do not know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never behaved like this before.”

  “How?”

  “I cannot describe it. I feel… angry. All the time. At least, when I hear the girls talking. I’ve wanted to scream at them for days.”

  She was certain Moira would laugh, but she was wrong. Instead, Moira asked, “What are they talking about when you feel this way?”

  “The festival, mostly. Even before then, I could not help but want to wring the necks of some of them. You must understand, the way I learned as I grew up… I was never angry like this, all of my feelings either had to be ignored or were used to help me fight better. Be stronger. I do not know what to do with these feelings. I don’t even know where they come from.”

  Moira busied herself with plucking the flowers from the soil, shaking them gently to loosen as much dirt from them as possible before placing them in the basket. It seemed there was no end to them. “When I feel jealous, I punch my pillows and pretend they’re a person.”

  “Jealous?”

  Moira glanced up. “Jealous. Do not tell me you’ve never heard of jealousy.”

  Margaret scowled. “I have, of course. Why would I be jealous? I cannot remember a time in my life when I was.”

  Moira shrugged. “It seems you are now. Quite a bit.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Och, my dear.” She gave up on the dandelions, for the time being, sitting on her heels as Margaret did. “There is nothing the matter with you. You feel jealous of the girls in the house who enjoy whispering about Padraig, dreaming about him. He is unmarried and quite nice looking, and he made a great legend of himself at the festival. There is no surprise in their attention toward him. It disturbs you to know they think of him that way, and that they might even think he finds them bonny. It could be that he does.”

  Bile rose in her throat, hot and bitter. “I care not what he thinks.”

  “Are you certain of it? Because it sounds to me as though you do—not that I blame you,” she was quick to add when Margaret gave her a withering look. “Padraig is a good man. A good laird. Smart and wise. Not terrible to look at.”

  “You said that before.”

  “It bears repeating,” Moira ch
uckled.

  Margaret shook her head—then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. This is all very new to me. I know not how to behave. I know not what to think. I am at a loss.”

  “It isn’t as bad as that.”

  “But it is,” Margaret insisted, hands clenched in her lap. “What am I to do? He wishes to wed the daughter of a laird. One who will bring honor to the clan and make it stronger. I could do neither of those things.”

  There was so much she did not wish to say, could not say. So many reasons why Padraig would never want her if he truly knew her. The blood on her hands, blood which would never wash away. The sharp, carefully honed instinct for fighting and killing when she felt threatened. When he knew of these things, of what she’d done and how very different she was from other women, he would regret ever having set eyes upon her.

  “Perhaps you ought to allow Padraig to make his mind up, rather than deciding for him.”

  “I could not take that chance,” Margaret whispered, shaking her head. “He would hate me. You’ve no idea how much.”

  “I do not hate you.”

  “You’re different. You’re my friend, not my…” Margaret hid her face behind her hands. “I’m all a mess.”

  Moira chuckled, leaning in to pat Margaret’s shoulder. “No. You’re simply in love, and you know not what to do. That makes you just the same as nearly everybody who has ever loved. I promise you that.”

  “Did you ever feel this confusion?” Margaret clenched her hands, pressing them to her stomach. “As though there was a knot here that kept growing tighter?”

  “Och, yes,” Moira laughed. “I would not go back to those times, I grant you, but I did. I believe Fergus did as well. Did you know our marriage was first arranged by our fathers?”

  “No!”

  “We rebelled against the idea. I ran away from the men tasked with bringing me to the laird of the MacDougals. Fergus found me. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t, simply because I believed he’d wanted the match as much as his father did. We spent too much time fighting and mistaking each other. When I look back on it, it’s a wonder to me that we ever could have been so foolish.”

  “What stopped you from being so foolish?”

  Moira’s smile was soft, thoughtful. “When I thought I was going to lose him forever. Such moments clear away everything that is not true or does not matter. They make everything clear. Watching him, as he nearly bled to death, knowing his life was in my hands…”

  She looked away, passing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Nothing else mattered.”

  Margaret’s heart went out to her. What a dreadful thing it must have been.

  They continued with their work, neither of them mentioning Moira’s tears. Margaret knew she would rather pretend they’d never happened.

  They walked to the house together, and Moira was all smiles when she caught sight of her brothers grooming a pair of geldings. “Och, where have the pair of you been, then?” she asked, hands on hips. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”

  “We were working, unlike ye,” one of them called back.

  Margaret recognized this one as Jamie, who had a sharper tongue than his brother, Iain.

  “Best be certain you go inside and have something to eat,” Moira ordered. Margaret bit back a smile at the motherly tone she took with the lads.

  To think, she would be without them if Padraig had not been generous enough to pay for their release from their father. The thought of a father sending his sons away for a sum was in itself unthinkable to her, though she had seen much worse in her years of travel. That the man had never met Padraig and knew not to whom he sent them was an even greater mystery to her.

  Yet they were happy, healthy young lads who took pride in their work, and many young men of their age could not say the same. All due to Padraig’s generosity.

  Was it true? Was she in love with him?

  Women in love tended to see love around them, she reasoned. This would explain why Moira believed she loved Padraig. She wished to see it. That was all.

  Wasn’t it?

  Margaret found herself wandering the halls in a daze, troubled and questioning everything she believed to be true. If only she had some experience with these matters, she might be able to understand.

  Yet another thing the Mothers had stolen from her.

  She’d come to see it that way over the weeks with the clan. Her life had been stolen. She had never had a choice of who she wished to be, what she wished to do. There had never been a chance to decide, as she’d never known such decisions existed.

  Yet when the Reid lads came along with Moira and Fergus to live among the clan, that was their choice. And when they’d arrived, Padraig had given them a choice of working with the horses, with the livestock, or learning the smithy’s trade.

  If they wished to be married one day, the choice was there. Fine-looking boys, they would certainly catch the eyes of the young women in the house when they came of age. They might train to fight and patrol the lands as some of the men did.

  Margaret, meanwhile, was past the age of twenty and had not learned any of the skills she needed to live in the world. Certainly, she could have gone anywhere and fit in for a time. No matter the language or accent, she might have made her way.

  When it came to living, truly living and getting along and making herself useful without drawing her dagger when asked too many questions? This was another matter entirely.

  She hated them for that. All of them. Mother Cressida and the rest. Hated their deception, the way they’d twisted her and her “sisters.” She wished she could go to the abbey and free all of them, show them there was another life. Something better. Something which did not involve poisons, daggers, lies.

  And the sense that they were beyond such base, animal emotions as love.

  Yet this could never be. They would dispatch with her in the time it took to complete a thought. She was a traitor. She put them in danger. They valued their safety above all else, even above the lives of the women they’d trained.

  Women who called them Mother.

  She passed a window which looked out into the courtyard, and her eyes found Padraig instantly. It seemed she was always looking for him, her eyes seeking him out the way certain flowers turned toward the sun.

  He might as well have been the sun just then, standing in the courtyard with Rodric and the others, laughing. They surrounded him, and he seemed to tower above them. Her imagination, naturally, but she could not help what she saw.

  Any more than she could help taking note of a pair of kitchen girls who sauntered past, both of them looking at him and smiling in a sly, beckoning manner.

  The gall! The indecency!

  Though he smiled in return, which made it all the worse.

  Pain in her palms alerted her to the fact that she’d dug her nails in until the skin broke. What of it? She could control physical pain.

  She could not control Padraig, however, which caused her much greater pain indeed.

  15

  Of all of Padraig’s training sessions, this had to be the one he enjoyed most.

  Working alone.

  There were times when he simply could not think for all of the voices surrounding him, and training was no exception. While the advice and guidance of those better skilled than he was, of course, welcome—he was not a foolish man and knew too well how much guidance he still required—there were times, such as then, when he wished to be on his own.

  Perhaps it had to do with the chatter of the household lasses, which he could now admit at least to himself was becoming tiresome. He’d never wished more fervently for something of importance to happen.

  So long as it was important but not a threat to the clan.

  He swung his sword in a crisscrossing motion, working out stiffness in his shoulders which tended to build up after hours spent hunched over figures. Thanks to the bountiful harvest they’d enjoyed, there would not only be more than enough grain for winter, but the grain
they sold would provide enough to keep all occupants of Clan Anderson’s land safe and warm during the long, cold months.

  For he had already seen the hairy worms which inched along the pine branches, and their hair was thicker than ever. Such signs and symbols were what a man depended upon to tell him what to expect. There had to be a reason the farmers sat up and paid attention when such signs came their way. Because they more often than not foretold of that which would come to pass.

  And Padraig believed it was always better to be prepared than to find oneself in the middle of an endless winter with not enough good for the household.

  His most fervent hope, which he reflected upon as he turned and swung his sword in a wide arc, was that Rodric and Caitlin decided to spend the winter in the keep. Yes, they wished to settle in their new home—it would be finished in a matter of days—but he disliked the thought of them being far from him with nothing but fields of snow between them.

  ‘Twas not so far from spring to autumn, but winter turned even the most pleasant ride into a struggle. If one of the bairns took ill during a storm, there would be none to care for them unless Rodric took his life into his hands and rode to the keep for help.

  He would do it, too. Padraig knew this.

  He turned in a circle, slicing the air with his blade, first downward before bringing it back up over his shoulder.

  And nearly hitting the woman who had somehow appeared behind him without making a sound.

  “Careful, there,” Margaret said, startling him.

  He turned in time to see her straighten from the crouch she’d fallen into, likely to avoid having her head split in two.

  “What are ye about, lass?” he demanded. “I might have killed ye!”

  “I did not know you were unaware of my approach,” she explained with a grimace. “Forgive me.”