by Bree Wolf
And it did not matter, did it?
Her hands trembled as Moira stepped forward. She could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes, and yet, she did not dare look away for this was her last day.
Her last day at Greystone Castle.
Her last day with her clan.
With her brother.
Bracing herself, Moira drew closer to where Alastair stood, her heart twisting painfully at the sight of his taut face. The way his eyes refused to meet hers almost brought her to her knees, and in that moment, all she wanted was to sink down and weep for the mistakes she had made, the illusions she had entertained. How had she not seen this coming? How could she have been so wrong?
Brushing a blond strand behind his right ear, Alastair stepped from the room, waiting for her to follow. He stood like a sentinel, eyes directed forward as though he did not even see her.
Or did not wish to.
For the first time in weeks, Moira stepped out into the corridor, the grey stones of the walls surrounding her as familiar to her as the back of her hand. Her whole life had taken place in this castle, and now it would have no place in her future. It was hard to believe, and a part of Moira felt as though this was no more than one of her dreams.
Dreams that showed her things that were not real but could be one day. They had been her downfall, and not a day passed that she did not curse the Fates for allowing her glimpses of a future that would now never be hers.
With her head bowed, Moira followed her brother down the back staircase. The day was still young, and only a dim glow of the autumn’s light reached inside the thick stone walls. A chill crawled up her arms, and she drew her shawl more tightly around herself.
All was silent as they stepped out into the courtyard and turned toward the stables. Fog lingered all around her, shrouding everything in a thick blanket, and the air smelled faintly of salt, whispering of the sea nearby.
Her eyes swept over the familiar courtyard where they had danced not too long ago, celebrating their laird’s happy marriage.
Connor’s marriage to an English lady.
With her lips pressed into a thin line, Moira picked up her step and hurried after her brother. Not even now could she think of Henrietta Brunwood, Connor’s wife, without feeling a stab to the heart. After all, it had been the slender, pale Englishwoman who had brought about Moira’s downfall. She had bewitched Connor, stolen his heart as well as his hand, so that he had no longer been able to see Moira.
A lone tear escaped and rolled down her cheek as Moira quickly reached up and brushed it away. There was no point in falling to pieces now. She had cried all the tears she had possessed for the loss of her future.
The future she had seen in her dreams.
The future she had been promised.
And although it was lost to her now, her dreams still stayed with her as though to taunt her.
Every now and then when sleep took her, she would travel to the moment that had urged her to act, to conspire against Henrietta, the moment that had led her down a path of betrayal.
Again, she would see herself standing atop a lush green hill, Connor by her side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as her head rested against his strong chest. Together, they gazed across the land, their eyes sweeping over the men and women and children of their clan, preparing for the Highland Games. Moira could see the Brunwood banner flapping in the strong breeze, and a smile would come to her lips.
Again, and again, she had seen this in her dreams. Dreams she knew to be a whisper of the future. It was a gift she had had since she had been a wee lass. A gift of the Old Ones. A gift she was to use to secure her clan’s future.
And so, Moira had acted.
She had taken steps to rid her cousin Connor of his new English wife, believing − no, knowing! −that she −Moira− was meant to lead their clan by his side, not Henrietta. After all, her dreams had told her so, and never once had her dreams been wrong.
Until now.
Stepping into the stables, Moira breathed in the warmth of the animals mingling with the strong scent of hay and manure. She watched her brother lead two horses from their boxes, their saddles in place and a few belongings tied behind them.
Alastair kept his gaze firmly fixed on the task at hand, never once even glancing in her direction. He was a seasoned hunter, trained in combat, and had the instincts of a warrior. He knew without looking where she was and what she was doing. He always had, and Moira had always felt special because of it.
She was his little sister, and he was her big brother.
At least, they had been.
Once.
“Goodbye, Moira.”
Spinning around, Moira stared at Connor standing only a few feet behind her, his bear-like stature blocking the door. He was tall and broad, but he moved with the same ease and precision as Alastair. His black hair and full beard gave him a somewhat darker countenance; however, Moira knew that Connor was a man full of laughter and mirth.
Only now, his eyes were hard, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he regarded her with the same sense of disbelief and disappointment she had seen in his gaze since he had learnt of her betrayal. Since he had realised that she had been the one to almost cost him his life. That she had been the one to threaten his wife.
A wife he loved with all his heart and soul.
Moira knew that now, but she had not known it then.
To her great dismay, fresh tears shot to her eyes, and she clenched her teeth, willing them to not show themselves. After all that had happened, all Moira had left was a small bit of pride, and she would fight to keep it. “I’m sorry,” she said nonetheless; her voice, however, was even and free of the deep regret she felt. “I swear I never meant for ye to be hurt…or her.” She swallowed. “I didna know what he had planned. I swear it.”
Swallowing, Connor nodded. His gaze momentarily slid to Alastair standing somewhere behind her, tending to the horses, before he drew closer, his dark eyes fixed on her face as though he hoped to read her thoughts. “I believe ye, Lass, as Old Angus made no secret of how he used ye for his cause.”
Moira drew in a shuddering breath at the memory of the hateful, old man who had seen Connor’s English wife as a threat to the clan, a threat that needed to be eliminated. He had gathered men and led them in an attack against Connor, thinking him weak for allowing the British to infiltrate their home.
And to her shame, Moira had believed his lies and aided him in his quest.
In the end, it had been Henrietta’s courage and Alastair’s loyalty that had saved Connor’s life. Moira still felt sick at the thought of how close he had come to dying that day.
And she would have been responsible.
“But ye betrayed me,” Connor told her. “Ye betrayed all of us. I understand how Angus could have done what he did.” He shook his head. “After the horrors of Culloden, he hasna been right in the head. But ye?”
Moira nodded. “I know. I canna believe it myself. All I can do now is apologise.”
“And make amends,” Connor told her, his eyes hard as they held hers. “Yer past is sealed. It canna be changed, but ye’re still the master of yer future.” Taking a step closer, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know ye’ve been misled and that ye’re sorry, but that isna enough. Ye need to find a way to lead a good life.” He sighed, “Ye know ye canna stay here.”
Swallowing, Moira nodded.
Connor glanced over her shoulder, his eyes no doubt meeting Alastair’s before he looked down at her once more. “For yer brother’s sake, I give ye this chance. Use it wisely for it shall be yer last.” Then he took a step back, and his hand slid from her shoulder. “Goodbye, Moira. May yer dreams not lead ye astray again.” Then he turned and walked away, severing the bond that had connected them since childhood. Their lives would now lead them down different paths, and Moira wondered if she would ever see him again.
As she followed Alastair out of the courtyard, feeling her mare’s strong flanks beneath her legs, Moira
drew in a deep breath. Her body shuddered with the weight of the moment that was finally upon her, a moment she had dreaded for the past weeks, and her eyes filled with tears.
And this time, she let them fall for her heart broke anew as they rode out of Greystone Castle, leaving behind a life, a family, a home.
Outcast.
Banished.
Exiled.
All these terms that had been coursing around in her mind these past few weeks spoke to one deep-seated fear: loneliness. Now, Moira was alone in the world with no one to care whether she lived or died. She would live among strangers, strangers who would no doubt look upon her with disgust and mistrust for her deeds had spread throughout the lands, even reaching the ears of those far away.
And Moira could not blame them. She had no defence, no justification, no excuse or explanation. Aye, she had been misled; still, the decision had been hers.
She had failed them as well as herself.
Glancing over her shoulder, Moira watched Greystone Castle vanish a little more with each step their horses surged forward, a heavy fog settling around its walls and upon its towers. It was as though the Old Ones, too, were punishing her, hiding those she loved from her view.
Always had Moira had the Sight, and now, she could not see.
Days passed in silence as they travelled onward across the land, and Moira’s heart grew heavier. Her limbs felt weak, and it was a struggle to pull herself into the saddle each morning. Her mind was numb, clouded with guilt and fear as well as another moment of loss she knew would come.
When they spotted Seann Dachaigh Tower, home of Clan MacDrummond, around midday on their fifth day since leaving Greystone Castle, Moira felt an icy fist grab her heart and squeeze it mercilessly. She shivered against the cold that swept through her body, gritting her teeth as she fought for control.
Without so much as glancing in her direction, Alastair spurred on his horse as though he could not wait to rid himself of her. Her betrayal had indeed cut deep, and Moira tried to gain comfort from the fact that his hatred of her would not be so profound if he had not loved her as much as she loved him.
Seann Dachaigh Tower, home of their mother’s clan, was situated on a small rise, surrounded by Scotland’s rolling hills as well as a small village. Its grey stone walls stood strong, surrounding a fortified inner castle, with only a large front gate to grant entrance. To Moira, it looked like a prison from whence there would be no escape, and her breath caught in her throat when despair washed over her in a powerful, suffocating wave.
Birds called overhead, and the scent of pine and hazel trees drifted through the air. The breeze tugged on Moira’s blond tresses and brushed over her chilled skin raising goose bumps. Still, the mild hint of salt she detected brought her a small comfort, a reminder of home. The sky shone in a light blue, but Moira spotted dark clouds on the horizon.
A bad omen?
Wishing she could simply turn her mare around and ride away in the opposite direction, Moira paused atop a small slope, her blue eyes gazing down across the valley at the imposing structure that would be her home henceforth. Her fingers tightened on the reins, and she could feel her mare’s agitation as she no doubt picked up on the unease that coursed through Moira’s veins.
Noting her delay, Alastair pulled up his reins and turned his gelding around, thundering toward her. His eyes narrowed into slits, and a snarl curled up the corners of his mouth. “Ye willna dishonour this family further,” he growled. “I willna allow it, do ye hear?”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Moira nodded, then urged her mare onward, her gaze distant as she did not dare look at her brother. Was this how they were to part? Was this how she was to remember him?
When they finally reached the old structure, entering through the wide-open gate into the bustling courtyard, Alastair pulled up short and addressed a man carrying a bag of grain on his shoulder. A few words were exchanged before the man pointed him toward a small group of women standing near a well, chatting animatedly.
Moira dismounted; her fingers tightly curled around her mare’s reins as she glanced around the inner courtyard. Eyes watched her, narrowed and full of suspicion. She heard whispers and felt stares digging into the back of her skull.
They knew.
They knew of her. They knew her story.
They had known she would come.
And they did not like her.
In fact, they loathed her and wished her gone.
With all her heart, Moira wished she could do as they desired, but her hands were tied. In this, she had no choice.
Turning her head, Moira saw her brother striding back toward her, an older woman by his side. Her light brown hair had streaks of grey, and her face looked stern as her blue eyes swept over Moira in displeasure.
Stopping in front of her, Alastair turned to the woman by his side. “This is Aunt Fiona. She’s agreed to give ye shelter.” The tone in Alastair’s voice rang with disapproval, and he looked at their late mother’s older sister with a hint of apology as though he loathed burdening her with his dishonourable sister.
Fiona gave her a sharp nod. “I warn ye, Lass. Folks do not look kindly on those who betray their own kin. I suggest ye do as ye’re told and keep yer head down.” She sighed, her blue eyes gliding over Moira’s appearance, the niece she had not seen since she had been a wee bairn. “But first, ye’ll meet the laird.” She turned to go. “Come.”
Moira’s heart thudded to a halt when she turned back to look at her brother, only to see him walking away. In a few strides, he had crossed to where he had left his gelding, taken up the reins and swung himself into the saddle.
Panic swept through Moira as she stared at him. Her lower lip trembled, and tears ran freely down her face. Would he not even say goodbye to her?
Alastair’s face looked stoic as he stared straight ahead, eyes focused on the large opening in the wall. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and he kicked his horse’s flanks with more vigour than necessary. The gelding surged forward, shaking its large head, no doubt confused about his master’s unkind treatment.
Look at me! Moira pleaded silently as she watched her brother ride away. Please, look at me!
But he did not.
He rode on stoically.
Moira’s breath came fast as her vision began to blur before her eyes. Her knees buckled, and she groped blindly for something to hold on to, something to keep her upright as the world began to spin, threatening to throw her off her feet.
“Ye canna blame him, Lass,” Fiona grumbled beside her as she grasped Moira’s hands, pulling her around to face her. “He’s a proud man, and he loved ye dearly.” Fiona shook her head, her blue eyes sharp as she watched her niece. “Nay, ye canna blame him. He needs time. A lot of time. Perhaps more than he has.” Then she turned toward the castle’s keep pulling Moira with her.
Together, they crossed the courtyard, climbed the steps to the large oak door and then entered the great hall.
Moira saw very little of her surroundings as her heart ached within her chest. With each step she took, she had to fight the urge to sink to her knees as tears continued to stream down her face.
“Pull yerself together, Lass,” her aunt reprimanded her as she guided their feet down a long corridor that seemed to go on forever, leading them far away from the loud hustle bustle in the great hall. “Our laird is a kind man, but he willna take kindly to those who only weep for themselves.” She scoffed. “I dunno why he granted ye sanctuary when yer laird sent word of what ye’d done. Many argued against it, but he has a way of knowing things others do not.” Her aunt stopped, fixing Moira with her sharp blue eyes. “Dunna make him regret this small mercy, do ye hear me, Lass?”
Moira could only nod as she wiped the tears from her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that strangers would see her in this state of despair. Of course, she could not expect compassion, sympathy or even pity.
And yet, her heart ached for it.
On they contin
ued down the corridor until they came to a lone door at the very end of it. There, Fiona stopped and lifted a hand to knock.
“Come in.”
The laird’s voice rang strong and commanding, but not unkind, and Moira wondered what kind of man he was. Clearly, he was held in high esteem by the people of his clan, and she had only ever heard Connor speak with great respect of Cormag MacDrummond.
Their clans had been close long ago but had drifted apart since Culloden and the destruction of the Highland clans. The years had been tough, and trust had been hard to come by. What would it be like to live among another clan as one who had betrayed her own kin? Would they lock her in her chamber as well? Afraid she would betray them, too?
Moira swallowed, and a cold chill ran down her back as she followed her aunt into the laird’s study.
Large with narrow windows, it was a simple room that held only the laird’s desk as well as a couple of chairs and cabinets. It was not designed for comfort, but for practicality, for handling the clan’s affairs.
Now, she too was a clan affair.
Straightening, Moira lifted her head, determined not to cower. As much as she felt like sinking to the ground, she would not give the MacDrummond laird the satisfaction. She would stand tall with her head held high. Aye, she would apologise and voice her regrets−as she had so many times before. She would accept the blame as it was rightfully hers. However, she would not allow him to frighten her, to force her to hide the pride that had always lived in her chest.
After all, she was of Clan Brunwood, a proud Highland clan, and even if her legs trembled with fear and her heart ached with loneliness, she would rather die than reveal her inner turmoil to a man who would no doubt look down on her with suspicion for the rest of her life.
As Moira followed her aunt and came to stand in front of the laird’s large desk, her eyes swept over his tall stature as he stood with his back to her, staring at the wall for all she knew. He was a large man with broad shoulders and raven-black hair, and for a thoroughly terrifying moment, he reminded Moira of Connor. Would her past haunt her wherever she went?
Perhaps she deserved it.