Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bradley steadied her, but as he did, the edge of her nightdress slipped across her shoulder, revealing a faint scar along her back.
His gaze darkened, and his hand rose almost of its own accord, tracing the jagged line with the pad of his finger.
Fury flared within him, hot and sharp, though he kept his voice low.
“Where did ye get this, lass?” Bradley asked, his words more of a growl than a question.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the scar, anger rising like a storm. He couldnae believe she bore such a mark upon her fair skin. His heart hammered, torn between protectiveness and rage.
Laura stiffened at his touch, her cheeks pale though her voice remained soft.
“It was me faither,” she whispered, her eyes averted. “He did it to me long ago. It was a punishment, one I’ll nae forget.”
Bradley’s grip on her shoulders tightened, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Yer faither?” He repeated, disbelief dripping from his tongue. “He dared mark ye, his own blood? By God, Laura, I’ll see him pay for this.”
“Nay, Bradley,” she said quickly, her hand fluttering to his arm as if to soothe him. “I daenae wish harm upon him. He’ll face his judgment in the afterlife. I’ve already made peace with that.” Her eyes shone with earnestness, though her lips trembled.
Bradley’s nostrils flared as he shook his head. “Peace? Ye speak of peace when he scarred ye like this? When he cast ye from a horse to the ground like ye were naught but dirt beneath his feet? Nay, lass, I already vowed I’d punish him for that cruelty, but now there’s nay escapin’ it.”
Her breath caught, and she pressed against him, trying to reason. “Bradley, I beg ye, daenae go down this road. Vengeance will only bring more pain. Let it rest, let it fade with the years gone by.” Her tone carried desperation, but her plea couldn’t pierce the iron resolve forming in his chest.
Bradley looked at her, his eyes burning with a promise.
“I’ll nae let a man, even yer faither, walk free after hurtin’ ye this way.
Ye’re mine now, Laura, and I’ll see to it that nay one touches ye with cruelty again.
His reckoning is comin’, and nay word ye speak will change it. ” His voice was low, dark as thunder.
Laura’s face softened, but her words grew weaker as she whispered, “Please, husband… let it be.” Her shoulders slumped, knowing her protests might fall on deaf ears. She searched his face, hoping for even the slightest bend in his will. Yet she found none.
Bradley turned from her then, his muscles taut as he forced himself to release her.
“Rest, lass,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Sleep while ye can. I’ve much to consider.” The command carried the weight of his fury, though his hand lingered briefly on her arm before he let go.
He strode toward the door, his boots striking hard against the floor. Behind him, Laura called, her voice laced with worry.
“Bradley! Wait, daenae leave like this!” her plea followed him into the hall, sharp with fear and sorrow.
But Bradley drowned it out, his steps resolute as his anger burned brighter with each passing moment.
He could still feel the scar beneath his fingertips, the proof of her father’s cruelty seared into his mind.
The thought of it festered like poison, feeding the dark promise he had spoken aloud.
He would have his reckoning, and no protest from his wife could turn him from it.
Bradley moved through the castle like a storm, his cloak whipping behind him and his boots ringing on the stone as if he sought to shake the keep itself awake.
Each step hammered the memory of the scar into his mind, the pale line he had traced upon Laura’s back that would refuse to leave him in peace.
Rage tightened his chest until his vision narrowed, and he found himself muttering oaths under his breath at the thought of a man who would harm his own bairn and keep walking free.
A man who harmed his own daughter like that, he thought, had no right to live untroubled; such cruelty deserved a reckoning swift and certain.
He rounded the corridor toward the western wing without pausing, the torches throwing long shadows that he did not notice, and came at last to the narrow door of Alan’s chambers.
The wood creaked as he pushed it open with a force that made the latch groan, and the room smelled of leather and oil and the faint tang of metal where weapons were kept.
Alan lay half-awake on a pallet, his hair tousled, a half-empty mug on the low table beside him, and he blinked up at the rough figure filling his doorway.
Bradley’s jaw was set like iron as he stepped inside, the urgency of his wrath lending him speed he had seldom shown.
“Alan,” Bradley said, his voice all hard command, “sit up and listen to me.”
He did not wait for him to rise before he continued, each word sharp as a blade.
“I want ye to watch Ethan Gilmour, aye, the man who calls himself Laura’s faither, and learn his habits, his comings and goings, and every man who keeps him company.” Bradley’s tone left no room for argument; it was an order shaped from a man who would have no delay in justice.
Alan swung his legs off the pallet and rose, rubbing sleep from his eyes yet already alert to the gravity in Bradley’s voice.
“Aye, Laird, ye ken I’ll do as ye bid,” he replied, the loyalty in his words steady as his stance.
He swung his boots on and reached for his cloak, fingers already finding the straps as he prepared to move. “Tell me what ye need to ken, and I’ll come back with answers.”
Bradley stepped closer, the heat in his chest coiling tighter with each beat, and he fixed Alan with a look that brooked no misreading.
“I want to ken where he sleeps, who visits his hearth, which roads he walks, and whether he sleeps with a sword near his hand,” he said, his voice low and dark as the loch at midnight.
He pictured in his mind the man who had thrown a young girl from a horse as punishment, the cruelty of that memory stoking a white-hot resolve within him.
“Nay one can harm me wife and get away with it,” he finished, each word a vow forged in fire.
Alan’s face hardened with the seriousness of the task, the easy grin gone from his mouth, replaced by the sober expression of a man who knew how to keep secrets and gather them.
“I hear ye, Laird,” he said, and there was no question in his tone; the duty was accepted as if it were a blade passed into his hand.
“I’ll slip to the mainland by night if I must, watchin’ from the shadows, and I’ll report back with what I find.
” He gave a curt nod, a guard’s promise sealed without flourish.
Bradley paused a heartbeat, watching Alan’s silhouette against the flicker of the lamp, letting the steadiness in the man’s eyes calm the tempest that roared inside him for a moment.
He thought of Laura asleep in their bedchamber, of the tremor in her voice when she spoke of forgiveness, and of the scar he had traced like a brand upon his own resolve.
The surge of possessiveness that had first risen as protectiveness now bore a colder edge; he would see justice, not merely make a show of vengeance.
He would plan, gather facts, and then set the reckoning in motion with a hand both sure and clean.
“Mind ye, nay rashness. Do this in secret, Ethan must nae ken,” Bradley said finally, though the words came out rougher than he intended, a tether thrown to steady Alan’s zeal.
Alan acknowledged that with a short, solemn grunt. Bradley’s mind already began to map out the next moves, who might be moved to help, what men could be trusted, and how the castle’s own resources might be used without alarming the wrong ears.
Alan moved to the door, cloak gathered, boots set for leaving, and he paused for one last look back.
“I’ll go ready me supplies now, Laird. Ye’ll have yer answers soon,” he said, the promise a quiet thing, deliberate and unyielding.
Bradley watched him go, the corridor swallowing the man’s figure as the latch clicked softly closed behind him, and for a moment the Laird stood alone with the echo of his vow.
Alone in the quiet, Bradley let the fury settle into cold purpose.
Ethan Gilmour wouldnae slip from me reach, and nay man who harmed me wife will escape the shape of me justice.
Bradley strode into his study, the candlelight flickering across the aged maps that lined the wide oak table. His eyes narrowed as he traced the borders of Ethan Gilmour’s lands with his calloused finger, each ridge and valley a mark of power and greed.
Rage bubbled anew in his chest, the image of Laura’s scar seared in his mind. He muttered under his breath, swearing that no man who dared lay a hand on her would sleep soundly again.
The maps blurred for a moment as he clenched the table’s edge, knuckles white with fury. He imagined the years Laura must have borne such cruelty in silence, and it gnawed at him like a relentless wolf. His jaw tightened. The thought of Ethan living free under his roof was unbearable.
“Nay one can harm me wife and keep their land, their life, or their pride,” he growled into the quiet chamber.
When at last his temper settled into a simmering fire, Bradley left the study and walked back toward the bedchamber.
The castle corridors lay silent, the torches casting long shadows across the stone walls.
Each step echoed with the weight of his thoughts, of vengeance and justice.
He had made up his mind, Ethan Gilmour would pay, and pay dearly.
As he entered the bedchamber, the sight of Laura’s slumber drew him still.
She lay nestled among the furs, her hair spilling across the pillow like silk.
Her face, softened in rest, was free of worry, and for a fleeting moment, he felt peace.
Bradley’s chest tightened, realizing just how much she had come to mean to him, though he dared not speak it aloud.
He crossed the room with quiet steps, unwilling to wake her.
His hand lingered near her face, tempted to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, but he held back.
She was his wife, yet so distant still, a bond forged by duty and stained by the shadows of her past. Desire and restraint warred within him, but he would not let temptation win.
With a heavy breath, Bradley turned from the bed and moved toward the hearth.
He unrolled his thick bedroll, layering it with soft furs and heavy pillows granted to him as laird.
The warmth of the fire licked across his skin as he spread them out, fashioning for himself a place of rest. Though it was the floor, it bore none of the hardship, for the furs made it nearly as fine as a bed.
He lowered himself onto the makeshift bedding, feeling the strain of the day finally weigh down upon his shoulders.
His eyes strayed once more to Laura, her quiet breathing steady and calm.
Though every part of him longed to be beside her, he knew his own strength was not without limits.
Better the floor than surrendering to temptation and breaking the fragile trust between them.
Bradley lay back, folding one arm beneath his head as the fire crackled low.
The council’s expectations pressed upon him; the demand for an heir whispered in every corner of the hall.
He knew he could not move Laura to her own chamber, lest rumors brew and tongues wag.
But tonight, he would guard her from the shadows, his silent vow stronger than the weight of stone above them.