The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  But when he tried to straighten, she clung to him and opened her eyes.

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  SHE STARED OUT THE window, watching the rain fall. Some of it, made savage by the wind, was pushed inside the chamber. She thought it must be morning, the sky gray not only with the rain but with the dawn. Yet, she couldn’t say if it were the next morning, or two days later.

  Snippets of conversations returned to her, things said over the past day, maybe two, whispered around her while they thought her insensible. She let the words invade her, thought she should not be allowed the luxury of pushing them away, not after what she’d done.

  “She will lose the babe,” Glenna had said softly at some point.

  “But she will live?” Iain’s voice.

  “Of course she will.”

  And later, “The healer says she should have passed the fetus by now.” Artair.

  “If she does not...?”

  “Then there is danger to the lass.”

  Iain: “You tell that bluidy healer that she’d better fix this, fix this now!”

  “Shh,” from Glenna. “Go on then, Iain. All that rage will help no one.”

  “I willna leave her. She begged me no’ to leave her.”

  Artair had suggested, “Then sit with her, but say nothing. Just be there with her, for her.”

  And so he had. She’d woken several times, had wondered if that healer had given her something that made staying awake so tremendously difficult. But Iain had been there each time, had sat beside her, had held her hand, had brushed her hair away from her face.

  And when labor had come, though by her reckoning she couldn’t have been more than eighteen weeks along, Iain had stayed with her, reassuring her, holding her as her tiny child was delivered into the world. She’d passed out or had slept again immediately after, had woken now, bathed and cleaned she thought, and without a bairn to hold.

  Iain sat in a chair beside the bed with his head and arms on the mattress near her thighs while he slept. Her hand was held by his, trapped under his head, his fingers warm and solid around hers.

  After a while, the rain quieted, and Iain roused.

  He looked at first to be consumed with guilt that he had slept at all. His features quickly softened though, showing only compassion, and plenty of it, and Maggie protested not at all when he climbed onto the narrow mattress with her. He laid down next to her but did not touch her save to place his hand on her hip. Maggie sighed, rather than wept, and turned onto her side, tugging Iain’s hand around her waist as she fit herself against him. She closed her eyes and was swept back in time to those days in the caves when he’d lain so close to her.

  Whatever small bit of hope for happiness she’d allowed herself to know since coming to Berriedale, and it was not a regular thing she permitted, might have gone with her babe, she thought sorrowfully.

  BY MID-AFTERNOON, MAGGIE had insisted that she might only sleep more, that Iain should leave her, thanking him with a smile though not any words for having stayed with her. She did sleep, fitfully at first, and then soundly with the help of whatever had been introduced to the tea she’d been given around the time of the noon meal.

  When next she woke, Artair sat next to her, having moved the lone chair back to its usual spot by the hearth.

  Iain’s beautiful face, over the last however many hours had shown so much torture and fury, for her pain, for her loss, for things he could not control. Glenna had yet been gentle and kind, but ever pragmatic, telling her that she might continue to bleed for many days, mayhap weeks, but that there would be other bairns.

  But Artair, with his soft ways and eyes that could convey so much, brought Maggie to tears, for all the sympathy she found in his gaze. No other emotion colored his gray eyes, just a mournfulness that she was suffering.

  He let her cry, gave her no words that would only be trite at this time, would mean nothing to her, just moved to the side of the bed and held her hand while she wept.

  After a very long time, and when she’d calmed herself, Maggie said, “I didn’t want the babe and now it’s gone.”

  Artair shook his head where it was dropped low against his chest. “You had nothing to do with that, Maggie. There are a million reasons why a bairn won’t grow fully to life. That is not your doing. That is God’s will.”

  “But...but what if He took the babe because He knew I wouldn’t be able to love it?”

  “You are a very intelligent lass, Maggie Bryce, and so you ken very well that is not how He works.” She said nothing to this, only bowed her head yet more. Artair persisted, “It wasn’t the right time for you or this babe. You can have no guilt at all for knowing this or believing this.”

  She nodded, comforted to some small degree even as she wasn’t quite sure she believed it.

  “And lass,” Artair continued, “I think I ken you at least well enough that I can say unequivocally that you would not ever withhold love.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  MAGGIE WOKE AT SOME point to find Iain pressed against her back and his arm around her midsection once again. Night had fallen once more. She did not move immediately, only closed her eyes again and felt him. At some time during the day or evening she’d given a bit of time to thinking this tragedy would have been vastly different if she’d been still at Blackhouse. There would have been none to comfort her, none to share her grief. She might yet have been down in the cells, mayhap would have gone with her babe, having none to see that she lived.

  Rekindling this thought now opened her eyes, to her circumstance. She was now, here at Berriedale, surrounded by good people, very dear people.

  She slid her hand over Iain’s arm. Amazing, she thought, that his touch disturbed her not at all, only brought her peace.

  He said something in response to her touch, words whispered into her hair. Maggie looked over her shoulder, about to ask him to repeat it as she’d not understood. His eyes were closed, and his forehead beaded with perspiration. He mumbled more, his tone disgruntled and Maggie understood he was in the midst of another nightmare, the memory of the first one she’d witnessed slamming into her with swift and startling recollection. She’d not thought about that first instance ever again after the event, until just this moment.

  “Iain,” she called over her shoulder with some sternness, intent on jarring him away from his demons.

  This only increased his agitation. He continued to rave in his sleep, his lip curled with a great displeasure, not with fear as it had been during his night terror in the caves.

  Maggie swiveled on the mattress, turning completely around toward him.

  “Bluidy bollocks,” he cursed. “Get up! Get up, Lach!”

  “Iain!” Maggie cried. She laid her hand against his cheek. Softly, “Iain.”

  He growled yet more. With remarkable speed for one who slept, his hand snaked out and enclosed her neck, his thumb on one side and the four fingers on the other. He squeezed, widening Maggie’s eyes.

  “Iain, stop!” She wasn’t frantic, as he wasn’t applying great pressure, and ran her hand over his cheek, sliding her fingers into the short hair near his ears. “It’s Maggie. Come back to me.” She placed her other hand over the one wrapped with such menace around her neck.

  He moved his mouth with great anger, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” she argued against his resistance. “Come back to me.”

  He went still. All the lines eased upon his forehead.

  “Iain, it’s Maggie Bryce.”

  Opening his eyes, he used several seconds to clarify the situation, his dark eyes adjusting to the dim firelight. And when he did, his eyes widened with horror and he mouthed a blush-inducing curse.

  Maggie was quick to settle this new distress, her fingers gently peeling his away from her neck. “It’s all right.”

  “Jesu, lass...”

  “’Twas only a dream.”

  “Did I hurt you? Ah, bluidy...I’m—”

  “You didn’t.�
� He was just as fretful as he’d been in the dream, for fear of what he might have done to her. “It’s finished. You didn’t hurt me.”

  “If I’d—”

  “You would never harm me.” She absolutely knew this to be true.

  “But when I’m...dreaming, I’m no’ in control.”

  Maggie snuggled against his chest, laid her head just at his shoulder. She wasn’t frightened and needed him to be reassured of this. “Do you have these nightmares often?”

  He didn’t answer for several long seconds. “More often than I’d like to admit. I dinna recall them all, only ken that I wake drenched in sweat quite often.”

  “You had one in the caves.”

  He went still. “Did I?”

  She nodded against him. Hesitantly, not sure if he wished to speak of it, she asked, “Are these—your nightmares—related to your scars?”

  She felt his chin move against the top of her head before he answered.

  “Aye.”

  She didn’t press for more, but after a moment he offered in a quiet voice “Back in ’98, I was part of a group taken as prisoners by the English.” He went very rigid against her. “Seven months. They...they weren’t kind.”

  “Who is Lach?”

  “Lachlan Maitland. He was with me.”

  “Does he...do you think he has night terrors as well?”

  “I dinna ken. His...trauma is visible all the time.”

  “How so?”

  “He canna hide his scars. They cover half his face.” Quiet, and then, “He has no choice but to deal with it at all times. Least mine, I can hide.”

  Maggie wondered, “Which do you think is better?”

  A short, humorless laugh rumbled against her.

  “Aye now, there’s a good question.”

  Maggie moved her arm across his chest and laid her hand against his bare neck.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie Bryce.”

  “That is unnecessary.”

  “I should go—”

  Maggie shook her head against him. “Please don’t.”

  “I dinna want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  He was tense yet, unconvinced, afeared still that he might bring harm to her.

  “I sleep much better in your arms,” she said softly, waiting, watching the rising and falling of his chest.

  The arm under and around her tightened. “Aye, Maggie Bryce.”

  IAIN THOUGHT THAT MAGGIE should stay abed for many days, weeks if needed, to recover from her loss. His mother thought otherwise, said lying about was the last thing Maggie needed. Iain had been surprised when Artair concurred with a softly given, “She is young and healthy now, and her body will heal right quick. Industry will see to the healing of her spirit.”

  He adopted this strategy for himself as well, as once he’d taken leave of Maggie to depart her chambers after two days, he’d thrown himself into one project after another. Into whatever might help him lose the image of that perfectly formed little human coming into and going out of the world so quickly. The only blessing at the time had been Maggie’s incoherency, that certain herbs and medicines had been administered to keep her from becoming too fretful, for witnessing firsthand this tragedy with any clarity that might keep the memory. Yet, her distress, and her absolute solemnness since, was killing him.

  But he’d returned to her often and had stayed with her throughout the nights, being mostly wakeful, so afraid he might hurt her if he slept and dreamed again. Few words were exchanged and yet he thought so much had been said.

  He was not completely surprised then to find her in the hall on the fourth morning. He’d left her asleep this morn, and she hadn’t been in attendance for the morning meal, but she sat now at the family’s table, with Artair and those ledgers. Their heads were once again bent together, Artair nodding at whatever she said.

  He’d come from the kitchens, having returned from the beach, that he watched them quietly for several minutes, trying to gauge the entire atmosphere around them. However, since he was nearly behind them, at the corner of the room near the corridor, this was impossible. They didn’t seem to be working, the quill sat untouched on the table, and yet the hum of their muted chat was constant.

  When Artair stood and patted Maggie’s shoulder, leaving her, Iain backed into the darkened corridor and waited for his steward. He didn’t think he’d ever been able to surprise his steward, or lie to him, as in pretending he was just coming down to the hall himself. So he only waited.

  Indeed, Artair was not startled by his presence. He folded his arms into his sleeves as was his way and looked up at his chief.

  “What were you talking with Maggie Bryce about?”

  Artair raised a brow at his complete lack of subtlety and Iain mumbled something about the scene appearing rather serious.

  “Lad, you understand that other people sometimes seek my counsel, aye?” A bare hint of mischief shone in his gray eyes.

  “Aye,” Iain acknowledged with his own grin and with some understanding that Artair’s uncommonly lighthearted mood might suggest that Maggie was in good spirits as well. “Just curious.” He shrugged then, with some dismissiveness. “None of my affair.”

  “But of course it is,” Artair countered. “You are laird. You said yourself, she’s one of our own now.”

  At this, Ian raised an expectant brow to his steward, who confounded him then by actually smiling and saying, “But I’ll keep her confidence, as she begged. If it were not of a personal nature or if it needed your attention, you would be advised.”

  Iain frowned at this. “But she’s...is she...is everything all right? I mean... as right as can be?”

  His steward’s smile, which Iain could honestly say he saw infrequently, remained. “The lass is well, determined to move on.”

  This appeased Iain only minimally.

  Artair moved around Iain but stopped and turned and said, almost as an afterthought, “You were right about her, by the by.”

  Iain set his hand onto the hilt of his sword and faced Artair again. “About?”

  “Of course you never actually said, this lass is important, but I sensed she was. To you. To others.” He chuckled, further baffling Iain with this unprecedented show of good humor. “I cannot put my finger on it, exactly, but Maggie Bryce is...a very special person. I’m very proud of you, lad, for what you’ve done for her.”

  This put Iain in mind of Maggie’s first night at Berriedale, when he’d wanted Artair’s approval, thought it was a significant thing to be had.

  With one more nod, Artair continued on his way. Iain strode toward the hall, found Maggie where the steward had left her, the quill now in hand as she labored over figures on the pages.

  Iain stood before the table.

  Maggie lifted her face and smiled at him, her eyes magnificently clear. It was not large, the smile, nor brimming with any true joy, but he thought right now that she was pleased to see him.

  “You are...well? Well enough to be away from your chambers?”

  Maggie inclined her head. “Iain, your mother and Artair are right. It does me no good to remain abed. I-I need to get back to where I was.” When Iain lifted a brow at this statement, she clarified, “Ideally, I’d like to go back further, before I was married, before...everything. I need to find that girl again.”

  He was taken for a moment by the sound of his name on her lips, by her own admission that she hadn’t been that girl in quite a while.

  “It’s a good plan,” he said, “to find her.”

  With a wee rueful smile, she said, “I hope she wasn’t left in those caves. That was the last place I saw her.”

  “Nae, lass. She’s here.”

  “I am weary of melancholy and tired of sorrow. Artair says there are ways to grieve that should not consume the entire body and mind.”

  Iain tried a smile on her. “So he gave you the speech?”

  Maggie answered in kind, her lips curving again slightly. “I think so. We must
visit and review our sorrows, but they should not control or consume or condemn us. He’s right, though. However would we survive—truly live—if we are burdened with all that cannot be undone?”

  “But grieve you must, Maggie Bryce, in your own way, however it makes sense to you.”

  “I will,” she said. Thoughtfully, she added, “He is a very good man. I don’t think I’ve ever met a better soul than Artair.”

  “And yet here I am,” a voice called from behind them.

  Maggie lifted her gaze and Iain turned to find Archie striding in through the open door from the yard. His perfectly timed quip was delivered in his usual gruff style that it required several seconds before either Maggie or Iain understood that he was jesting. He stood with his arms spread wide, waiting with some expectancy for them to acknowledge what he perceived as perfect timing.

  Iain shook his head. Maggie smiled and set down the quill and closed the ledger.

  Archie ambled over to the table. “Aye, lass, it’s good to see you up and about.”

  “Thank you Arch,” she said, “and for your visit yesterday.”

  “But we’ll no be leaping head first into too much labor,” Archie said, waving dismissively at the papers and ink and quill on the table. “It’ll keep.”

  Iain didn’t know what was happening around here. First Artair with his near-constant grinning earlier, and now Archie, of the sour moods, being solicitous and—Jesu, was he smiling inside that thick beard?

  “So I’ve come to take you away, lass,” Arch said. “The seas are calm and straight, and shining like the sun off my own sword, and I’ll be taking you out on the boat.”

  Her eyes lit up, her lips parted. Iain wished he had thought of it, so delighted was her response, tempered only by her switching her gaze from Archie to him, seeking permission it seemed.

  “Aye, lass, you should,” he instructed, just as he caught sight of his steward, hovering near the corridor, a missive in his hand, his gaze intent upon Iain.

  Archie beckoned her forward. “C’mon now, sun won’t wait for us.”