A Highlander's Woman (Highland Heartbeats Book 12)

by Aileen Adams

  “Word of Padraig,” Margaret croaked. Her throat was rather dry. She swallowed and tried again. “How is he? Has he awoken?”

  “I do not know,” Moira admitted, “but I shall find out.”

  “I dinna believe we ought to be here,” Fergus said, taking her by the arm. “This is for Rodric to manage, as he is Padraig’s brother.”

  “Oh, to the devil with your nonsense,” Moira spat. “This is merely good sense. These women brought Padraig from the wood, when they did not need to do so. If they had intended for him to die, they would have left him there. I have every intention of speaking to Rodric myself and telling him what he ought to hear.”

  “Moira…” Margaret whispered, shaking her head. Just how much would she tell him?

  “Fear not,” Moira replied, meeting her eyes in the near-darkness. Only the torch’s light told Margaret of the sincerity shining from the other side of the wooden poles. “I shall speak to him, and he shall listen.”

  She stormed away, muttering and swearing under her breath, with Fergus muttering more than a few oaths of his own as he followed.

  When they were again alone, Gabriella chuckled very near Margaret’s head, just on the other side of the wall. “My, my. She reminds me of one of us.”

  “You do not know how right you are,” Margaret replied with a chuckle of her own.

  23

  What a terrible pain in his head.

  This was the first thing Padraig noted upon reaching the surface of a deep, dark loch which he’d struggled to swim out of. Some unseen threat at the bottom had pulled him down, down, no matter how he’d struggled. Finally, there was light, there was sound. He had made it.

  Only to become aware of terrible pain.

  He flinched when something touched the back of his head. “Och, you’re awake, then.” A quiet, gentle voice. “Remain still, please, while I apply the poultice.”

  Poultice? Why? He squeezed his eyes tightly closed when fingers touched him, every brush against his head an agony. He was certain his skull would split in two. Surely no one could live through this.

  “You can sit up if you feel strong enough to do so, though I believe you would do better to rest a while.”

  He could not have raised himself into a sitting position if forced to do so. Something had drained every bit of his strength. He might as well have been a bairn, helpless and at the mercy of those around him.

  He opened his eyes once the poultice was in place and found his brother staring at him from the side of the bed. “Dinna speak,” he murmured. “Ye must rest. Ye lost quite a lot of blood.”

  This explained his lack of strength, though it did not tell him why he had. His brow furrowed as he strained to remember what took place.

  Rodric must have understood this. “Ye were struck on the head, out in the woods.”

  His eyes closed again when it returned to him. Of course. The woods.

  “I am just relieved ye are with us still,” Rodric continued. “Everyone will be. Ye gave us quite a fright, I must admit.”

  This was good to hear, and Padraig appreciated it, but none of it was what he needed to hear. He swallowed, then ran his tongue over parched lips. “Where… is she?” he breathed. Even the barest whisper was a struggle.

  “She?”

  Padraig opened his eyes, staring at his brother. “Margaret.”

  Rodric glanced up at whoever stood on the other side of the bed, behind Padraig. This was not what he expected. He knew what it meant when people exchanged looks such as that, and when they avoided answering questions.

  His heart sank, his throat clenched. How would he live without her? She’d gone, of course, if she had even survived the attack from the pair in the woods.

  Rather than ask after her again—he could not stand it, not with blinding pain tearing his head to pieces—he allowed Alana to pour a bitter tincture down his throat. So she’d been the one to apply the poultice. It made sense, of course, her working as she did with the healer.

  “This will help you sleep,” she promised.

  Sleep. Yes. He wished to sleep. While sleeping, he would not remember what he’d lost.

  Then again, could a man lose what he’d never had? Margaret had not truly been his. She’d never wished to be. She’d agreed with him that nothing could come of their being involved with each other. It had been a mere distraction, something pleasant.

  After all, she had been willing to run away from him…

  When he awoke again, the amber sunlight outside the window of his bedchamber had turned to the blackest night. No moon, clouds covering the sky, a light rain falling. He heard it dripping from the eaves, in front of the open window.

  The pain had subsided quite a bit, though he attributed this to the tincture. No doubt it would come roaring back once the effects wore off. Considering the agony he’d been in on first waking, he would gladly drink more of Alana’s potion.

  There were times when pride was simply folly. He was not too proud to admit his pain—pain of the body, at any rate.

  The deeper pain, however. He would not admit to that. It was something he’d likely carry with him always. Losing her.

  How was it possible for him to love her when they had shared nothing real? She had lied to him, no doubt. Those women in the woods, the one who had attacked him and the other whose face he had not seen, they were part of her life which she’d never shared. How much else had she seen unfit to tell him?

  If she had never trusted him, if there was so much he would never know, how could he still love her?

  He knew not—but this did not change the fact that he did. He loved her terribly, no matter who she was.

  Not that it mattered. She was gone. Either dead or run away. In the end, it was all the same. He would have to find a way to carry on.

  Rodric was asleep in a chair near the bed. Padraig wondered if he’d ever left the room. When he cleared his throat, his brother stirred.

  “Are ye in need of anything?” Rodric asked, stretching out the undoubtedly tight muscles of his neck and back.

  “Water, please.” Rodric handed him a cup, and he drank deeply, relishing the cool water as it flowed down his dry throat.

  “I suspect ye shall need to rest for days,” Rodric mused as he took the empty cup and replaced it on the bedside table. “And if ye give anyone difficulty over it, you’ll have all of us to answer to.”

  Padraig nodded as much as the bandages on the back of his head would allow, which was not much. He could not help but wonder how deep the wound ran, how wide. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “No more than a day in all. Ye were brought to us before dawn. ‘Tis not yet midnight.”

  “Brought to ye? By whom?”

  Though he and Rodric were years apart in age and had not done much of their coming up together, he knew full well what it meant when his brother’s eyes darted away. “What are ye not telling me? I demand to know what happened, all of it.”

  Anything Rodric might have said was lost when Sorcha appeared, opening the door just enough to peer inside. “Thank the gods,” she declared. “I shall bring a tray with broth for ye.”

  “Broth?” he asked, his stomach making a noise in response. He wanted a full meal after having not eaten in a day. Sorcha would, of course, argue the point and have her way. He did not possess strength enough to fight her.

  He turned back to Rodric, who had still given no answer. “Well? I wish to know. What happened? How did I get to the house? Who brought me here?”

  “He’s awake?” The question echoed through the corridor only a moment prior to the door bursting open. “My apologies, Padraig, truly, but I need to speak with you.”

  “Moira?” This was all exceeding strange. Perhaps he’d not woken up yet after all and was merely dreaming everything.

  “Moira, might there not be a better time in which to speak with Padraig?” Rodric asked, facing her from the other side of the bed.

  Moira stood at his right, and the way
in which she folded her arms over her chest told him she would not be put off.

  “There is no better time, as I have waited long enough. As have the two women you’ve locked in the pens.”

  Padraig startled. “Women? Whom have ye locked away?”

  Rodric bristled. “I did not wish to speak to ye of it yet, not like this.”

  “When were you going to?” Moira demanded. “When they’d starved to death? Which, in case you were wondering, will not happen as I ensured they were given food.”

  “Who?” Padraig barked.

  “Margaret and the woman with her.”

  “They brought ye to the house,” Rodric explained. “I did not wish to tell ye about it in this way.”

  “Ye did not wish…?” Padraig fell silent, torn between unspeakable relief and growing rage. “Ye locked her away? For having brought me home instead of leaving me to die? Ye thought this was reason to lock her underground?”

  “Exactly my thoughts,” Moira agreed.

  “Forgive me if my first concern was for your well-being,” Rodric snapped, “but I didna wish to deal with her until I knew ye were alive and yourself. Ye dinna know how much blood ye lost, or how grim things appeared when ye first came to us.”

  “But now? Now that I already woke earlier? She has been there all day?” Rodric attempted to push himself up, out of bed, but both Rodric and Moira stopped him.

  “She is well as can be expected,” Moira assured him. “She was in a fearsome fight by the looks of it, but she and the stranger are well.”

  “Was the stranger white-haired? Or, rather, blonde?”

  Moira shook her head, looking to Rodric. “She is of dark hair, dark eyes.”

  “Then she is not the one who struck me,” he insisted. “The one who struck me, she wished to harm Margaret. Kill her, perhaps. The other never spoke. I never saw her face. But the one whose hair looked silver in the moonlight…” He shuddered when her face came to mind, when her cold voice and even colder eyes glared at him from the depth of his memory.

  “Ye are certain she was the one who struck ye, then?” Rodric asked. “This silver-haired woman?”

  “Certain,” he nodded. “There can be no other explanation.”

  “Did she tell ye what she was doing there in the woods?” Rodric asked.

  “What difference could that make?” Moira hissed.

  “I dinna recall asking ye,” he snapped.

  “Enough of this.” Padraig turned to her, asking himself if he ought to question her in front of his brother and deciding nothing worse could come of it. “Who is she, truly? She would not tell me, but Fergus spoke to me and led me to believe ye knew something. That ye trusted her, but ye would not reveal anything further.”

  Moira’s face fell. “She would not wish for me to tell you. She ought to be the one to tell you herself.”

  “She would not. I asked again and again, but she would tell me nothing. She was frightened, that much I knew for certain. I believe it was of the woman who struck me.”

  “I must admit, I know little. Only that she is… different. Like me, but more so. I learned to fight that I might defend myself. That I might provide for my brothers and myself. Margaret is a skilled fighter. Trained, even.”

  “Trained?” Rodric asked, raising a brow.

  “It sounds strange, I know,” she admitted. “We scuffled in the woods. Oh, Padraig, forgive me.”

  “Forgive ye for what?”

  “There were no thieves,” she admitted, hanging her head. “We fought. What you saw of us, our faces, we did to each other. She was frightened then, too, though that fright meant she might have killed me. I thought she was about to. But she did not, when she could easily have done so. I trust her because of that.”

  “Because she nearly killed ye?” Rodric snorted, disbelieving.

  “Because she did not when she could have,” Moira retorted. “When Sorcha and I found her in the village, she was dressed as a lad. The way she is now. Hiding. Afraid. I suppose we know now who frightened her so.”

  “I knew of your fighting,” Padraig admitted. “Dinna take it up with your husband, as he does not deserve your ire. I suppose he saw how close I was becoming with Margaret and felt I ought to know what she was truly about. I could not have known all of it, but none of us did.”

  He looked from one of them to the other. They both wanted what was best for the clan and for him—the way they believed he ought to go about things, however…

  “I wish to see her,” Padraig decided. “Now.”

  When Rodric frowned, he stared him down.

  He was laird, after all. Younger brother or no.

  24

  Footsteps roused Margaret from sleep. Once again, she knew not when she had succumbed or how long it had been since she’d done so.

  Moira had seen to there being food delivered to the pens. A relief, that, as the grave discomfort of the pen was at least slightly lessened by a full stomach. While she’d hardly possessed the desire to eat—not knowing of Padraig’s health left her stomach in knots, tightening all the while—it was of great importance that she keep her strength.

  There was no telling what she might be forced to do. Whether she might have to escape. For if Padraig died, there was no reason to remain.

  If Padraig died, Rodric might wish to kill her. There would be no one to speak of her innocence. Moira might rail against him, but this was a matter of family. Pride. Clan loyalty. If he had his way, she would most certainly be marked for death.

  If Padraig died.

  As far as she knew, he might be coming to deliver the news of his brother’s death at that very moment. It could be Rodric who approached. Angry, grief-stricken, wishing for nothing so much as revenge against they who’d killed his brother.

  She braced herself for what was to come.

  It was Rodric, after all—but with him was Moira, whose victorious smile gave her hope. She had not felt hope in so long. “What have you come for?” she dared ask.

  “He wishes to see ye,” Moira announced. “He is well, or he will be, and he wishes to see ye.”

  Margaret sprang to her feet in spite of the stiffness in her bones, sore muscles crying out in protest. It mattered not. He was well, and he wished to see her.

  Although… just because he wished to see her did not mean he looked favorably upon her. He might very well wish to see her head placed upon a sharpened pole for bringing such danger to him, his clan.

  Even so, he was alive. This was still worth her relief.

  “What of…” She stepped out of the pen when Rodric opened the door and looked over her shoulder to where Gabriella waited.

  “We shall determine what is to be done after you’ve spoken to Padraig,” Rodric murmured.

  Gabriella merely nodded, assuring her silently that all would be well.

  Margaret wished she shared that confidence. It was perfectly likely that Padraig would not care to grant mercy to one he might well consider an attacker.

  She could convince him—perhaps. If he looked favorably upon her.

  Moira seemed to believe this was a positive occurrence as the three of them walked from the pens up the stairs and into the moonless night. Rain fell on her hair, her face, and she was glad for it. It revived her somewhat.

  “Ye ought to wash before seeing him,” Moira decided, wincing when she took in Margaret’s face.

  “I had not thought of it,” she admitted. “Does it look…?”

  “Ye look as though ye were in quite a fight,” Rodric observed in a tight voice. “Ye fought with the blond-haired woman, I suppose.”

  “I did. How did you know of her?”

  “We found her tonight. After Padraig described her. In the woods.”

  “Gabriella killed her,” she confessed. “To save me—and, I suppose, Padraig. Arabella wished to kill him as well, and would have if given a chance. Please, ye must release her. She would not harm anyone here.”

  “One thing at a time, I beg ye,” Rod
ric replied. “This is quite a lot to take in at once.”

  She held her tongue, allowing Moira to lead her to her bedchamber so she might wash her face and hands. The water in the basin was filthy and blood-tinged when she finished.

  “I knew ye were one of us,” Moira confided with a smile and a squeeze of her hand as she showed Margaret the way to Padraig’s bedchamber.

  One of them. Would that she might be. It was all in Padraig’s hands, after all. He might choose to reject her. He might well have summoned her in order to do just that.

  Moira stopped at the closed door, then stepped aside. “Ye will wish to be alone, I imagine.”

  Margaret looked at her, suddenly frightened. Alone? Did she wish to be alone with him? She might have wished to be so—had, in fact, wished to be alone with him prior to hearing of the arrival of her sisters in Andershire.

  Now, she was uncertain.

  But more than anything, she wished to see him. She’d been certain of never seeing him again, after all, had questioned whether he would live.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” Moira assured her when she did not move straightaway, then pressed a hand to her back and gave a gentle push.

  Margaret stumbled into the bedchamber, her eyes already having adjusted to the darkness of the corridor and thus quickly taking in the sight of Padraig seated against pillows, alive and awake and staring at her.

  “You’re awake,” she whispered, uncertain whether to laugh or weep in relief.

  “You seem surprised.” There was nothing in his tone or expression to reveal what he thought of her.

  While Moira might have insisted there was nothing to fear, Margaret questioned whether this was true.

  “Relieved. When I last saw you, you were in… grave condition. I feared for you.”

  “Perhaps if ye had trusted me, been honest with me, none of this would have come about. I might have been prepared for anyone, anything.”

  “You would not have been prepared for them.”

  Her words fell hard, perhaps harder than she intended, for he winced.