Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Despite her words, Laura felt the solid wall of him behind her, every breath he drew brushing against her.
Her heart hammered, though she told herself it was from fear, not the heat curling where it shouldn’t.
She tilted her chin higher, determined to show no weakness.
Yet inside, her thoughts tangled, uncertain of the man who held her so close.
She sat stiffly in the saddle, the warmth of Bradley’s body pressed solid against her back.
His arms were strong and unyielding as they held the reins, and every breath he drew seemed to burn against her skin.
A strange heat stirred within her, rising no matter how fiercely she fought it.
She shifted in her seat, trying to create space, though the movement only pressed her closer into his hold.
“What’s crawlin’ under yer skin this morn?” he asked.
Her cheeks flushed, though the air was cool. “What’s wrong? Ye’re pressed against me hot as a forge. I can scarcely breathe with ye burnin’ at me back. I need air, Bradley, nae chains made of flesh.”
“Chains, ye call it? Ye’d be wise to remember those arms keep ye from fallin’, lass. I daenae hold ye for yer pleasure, but for yer safety.” His words cut like a blade, sharp and dismissive.
Laura’s eyes flashed as anger overtook the heat she had tried to deny. “Safety? Ye think me a helpless child? Ye daenae need to smother me to keep me from the ground. Aye, ye’re a brute, Bradley Knox, with nay thought for aught but yer own pride.”
Bradley’s expression darkened, his voice low and rough. “Better a brute than a weaklin’ who cannae protect what’s his. Ye’ll do well to mind that tongue afore it gets ye in worse trouble than lack of air.”
Laura’s hands clenched at her sides. He was cruel, arrogant, and colder than the winds that swept the isle. Yet the echo of his nearness lingered, and she despised herself for feeling it at all.
The horse carried them into the heart of the village. Laura’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell upon the devastation before her.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered.
Blackened timbers jutted like broken bones from the shells of houses, smoke still curling faintly from their ruins. The smell of ash and scorched earth hung heavy in the air, stinging her nose and filling her chest with dread.
Children with dirt-streaked faces huddled beside weeping mothers, their eyes wide with fear.
A man limped past with his arm bound in a bloodied cloth, while another struggled to haul the charred frame of a cart from the road.
Roofs had caved in, and doors hung splintered on twisted hinges, leaving nothing but shadows where families once gathered.
Laura’s hands trembled, her heart sinking with each scene of misery.
Her gaze darted from one ruin to the next, struggling to take it all in. She could scarcely believe that such cruelty had descended upon these people. Smoke, despair, and pain clung to every stone of the village, and it seemed no corner had been spared.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as she whispered, “Saints preserve us… this is a devastatin’ sight.”
Laura dismounted quickly, her boots crunching on the ash-strewn ground. She glanced at Bradley, her dark eyes wide with worry.
“What’s happened here, Bradley?” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep steady.
“A bandit attack,” he said flatly, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the ruined village. “They came, took what they wished, burned what they could, left the folk with little more than fear.” His tone was as cold as the morning mist, yet his grip on the reins betrayed tension.
Laura didn’t wait for him to speak further. She hurried to the woman sitting on the ground, clutching her arm and moaning softly.
“Let me help ye,” Laura urged, offering her hands to lift the woman carefully.
Bradley watched silently as Laura bent over the injured villager, helping her to her feet.
“Has a healer seen them yet?” Laura asked quickly, scanning the villagers for signs of aid.
“Nay,” Bradley replied, his voice grim. “There’s nay healer at the castle, and nay one’s arrived from the other towns yet.” His eyes flicked to the surrounding ruins, lingering on a collapsed roof where someone might be trapped.
Laura’s jaw set, determination hardening in her chest. She moved from one injured villager to another, examining wounds, cleaning burns, and wrapping what she could with whatever cloth the villagers had on hand.
“Hold still, lad,” she murmured gently to a young boy with a gash on his forehead. “This’ll sting a wee bit, but it’ll help ye heal.”
She revealed quietly to Bradley as she worked, “I ken a bit of healin’, from the nuns and the missions we did in the villages nearby.
They taught me how to care for wounds and sickness when nay one else could.
” Her hands moved steadily, her knowledge of herbs, compresses, and simple salves guiding her movements.
Laura kept one eye on Bradley as he remained at her side, watching as she moved through the devastation. He said nothing, letting her work while he kept watch for any further danger.
Villagers began to look up at Laura with quiet awe, their pain softened somewhat by her care. She moved swiftly, checking every injured person she could find, her voice a mix of authority and comfort.
“Ye’ll be all right,” she said firmly to a man with a burned arm. “Ye just need patience, and healin’ will come.”
Bradley finally spoke, his voice low and reluctant. “Ye work fast… and wisely, Laura. Seems ye can turn yer hands to more than cards and letters.”
Laura didn’t pause, though a small smile flickered at his words. “I must do what I can,” she said, her tone resolute, eyes scanning for the next injured soul. “These folk need help, and I’ll nae sit idle while they suffer.”
The morning wore on, and Laura continued her ministrations, the villagers’ trust slowly building as they felt the weight of her care.
By the time the sun rose higher, Laura’s hands were sore, and her clothes streaked with dirt and ash, but the village had already begun to recover from the first shock.
Bradley moved closer to her side, offering water for her lips and a steady hand for her strength. “Ye’ve done well, lass,” he said, though his voice carried more weight than simple praise. “This day, ye’ve saved more than I could with steel alone.”
“Thank ye, Laird McCormack,” a man said to Bradley.
Bradley nodded and said, “This is Lady McCormack, me new bride.”
She stiffened slightly as Bradley’s arm brushed hers, his hold steady and possessive.
The words “Lady McCormack” echoed in her mind, foreign and heavy with expectation.
She forced a polite nod, her lips tight, as she murmured, “I… thank ye for yer welcome, and me heart is heavy with what has happened here.”
A woman with a child in her arms curtsied deeply, her voice quivering.
“Bless ye, Lady McCormack. Yer kindness is a light in this darkness.” Laura felt a pang in her chest, a mix of shame and resolve, realizing that these people looked to her now as part of their protection and hope.
She straightened, lifting her chin, though her heart raced with unease at the weight of her new position.
Bradley spoke, “Ye need nae fear, nor dwell on the past. I’ll see that ye are cared for, and this village rebuilt,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
Laura watched him, noting how effortlessly he assumed authority, and she felt both admiration and fear stir inside her. This man, cruel and commanding, was now the center of her life and her duty.
She took a step forward, placing a hand lightly on Bradley’s arm, her voice firmer than she felt. “I will do what I can to help,” she said, glancing around at the broken homes and weary faces.
A hush fell over the villagers as they processed her words, and a few brave men nodded in respect. The reality settled in her chest: she was Lady McCormack, wife to this man, and bound to his name and clan.
Laura’s mind wandered to the quiet halls of the Abbey, the life she had chosen, or been forced from. She thought of Emilie and the vows of service and simplicity, now replaced by gilded halls, responsibilities, and the looming expectation of an heir.
A chill ran down her spine as the enormity of her new role pressed upon her. Yet, deep within, a spark of resolve ignited: she would meet her duties, even if it meant taming the brute she now called husband.
Bradley’s hand brushed hers, a subtle reminder of the authority he held.
He leaned close, his voice low, almost a growl. “Ye’ll learn, lass, that ye belong here, at me side.”
Laura’s stomach tightened, but she squared her shoulders, replying softly, “Aye… I’ll do what must be done, Laird.
” Her eyes met his, and though fear lingered, a strange steadiness took root; she was no longer just Laura of the Abbey; she was Lady McCormack, and the life she had fled was behind her.
The villagers began to murmur among themselves, their hope renewed by the presence of their new laird and his bride. Laura felt the weight of every gaze upon her, the silent expectations pressing like stones on her chest.
Yet, amidst the fear and uncertainty, a sliver of determination glimmered. She would face this life, face Bradley, and perhaps, somehow, find her own place within the storm.