Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The courtyard bustled with life that morning, servants carrying baskets of vegetables, and the clang of steel echoing from the yard where young lads trained.
Bradley strode across the cobbles, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Laura near the well, her hair catching the sunlight. He approached her, his steps steady, and softened his voice when he reached her side.
“How are ye on this day, lass?” he asked, though the words felt strange on his tongue.
Laura did not so much as glance at him, her chin lifting with quiet defiance.
Without a word, she turned on her heel, skirts swishing, and walked away toward the archway.
Bradley’s jaw tightened, and a shadow of frustration flickered in his dark eyes.
He stood rooted for a moment, fighting the urge to call after her, but pride kept him silent.
Alan came striding across the yard, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He clapped a firm hand on Bradley’s shoulder, shaking his head with amusement.
“Women are a puzzle to all men, Laird. Even the wisest monk cannae make sense of them.” His chuckle carried, though he quickly sobered when he saw the grim line of Bradley’s mouth.
Bradley growled low in his throat, his gaze fixed on the archway Laura had vanished through.
“The lass is angry with me, Alan, and I’ve nay clue how to mend it. I’ve fought battles and cut down foes twice me size, but this…” He shook his head, muttering darkly. “This is a war I daenae ken how to fight.”
Alan smirked faintly, rocking back on his heels. “Then, mayhap ye daenae fight it at all. Ye could buy her a gift; women like such things, or so I’ve heard. Flowers, jewels, or a trinket to show ye care.” He lifted his brows as if daring the Laird to argue.
Bradley turned his head, his stare sharp as a blade. “A gift? Alan, I’ve given her this castle, this clan, this island itself. She’s Lady McCormack, mistress of all ye see. What more could she want?” His tone held both disbelief and a hint of pride.
Alan only shrugged, unfazed by Bradley’s thunder. “Sometimes what they want isnae gold nor land. Perhaps ye should ask me sister. Cora kens more about a woman’s heart than both of us put together.” His grin flashed again, quick as lightning.
Bradley muttered a curse under his breath, though he knew Alan was right.
Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the keep, his cloak whipping behind him.
He did not like the thought of humbling himself before Cora, but desperation outweighed pride.
His boots rang against the stone as he sought her out.
Inside the castle, he found her in a side chamber, folding linens with steady hands. Cora’s face was serene, though her sharp eyes flicked up as soon as Bradley darkened the doorway. He cleared his throat, feeling the weight of his own request.
“I could use yer help, lass,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Cora tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Now that’s a rare thing to hear from ye, Laird. What manner of trouble brings ye to me?” She set down a folded sheet and rested her hands on her hips. Her curiosity was plain, though not unkind.
Bradley stepped farther in, his shadow stretching across the floor.
“The Lady McCormack’s mad at me. I’d like to ease her temper, but I daenae ken how. I thought perhaps a gift would do, but I cannae fathom what she might like.” His shoulders squared, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
Cora gave a soft laugh, shaking her head as though all men were the same. “Marriage is nae easy, Laird. Ye cannae expect her to warm to ye without thought or care. As for a gift, aye, I ken just the thing.” She reached for another linen, smoothing it flat before folding.
Bradley’s brows furrowed, his dark eyes fixed on her.
“Tell me, then. What could I give her that she doesnae already have?” His tone was edged with impatience, though beneath it lay genuine concern. He hated the thought of failing his wife, even in small things.
Cora sighed, her expression softening. “Laura came to this castle with naught but a plain dress on her back. The gowns she wears now are ones I salvaged from ladies long gone, patched and mended as best I could. Winter’s near, and she’s in need of proper clothin’.
Dresses made just for her, fine wool and fur to keep her warm.
” Her words were spoken with calm certainty.
For a moment, Bradley said nothing, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. His mind flashed to Laura, her grace and quiet dignity, bearing her patched gowns without complaint. He clenched his jaw, ashamed he had not seen it himself.
“Saints take me, I should’ve thought of it sooner,” he muttered.
Cora’s eyes softened further, her tone almost kind.
“Ye’re a warrior, Laird, nae a seamstress.
Ye think of swords and castles, nae thread and cloth.
But ken this: small things matter more to a woman’s heart than grand halls or mighty titles.
See to it, and she’ll see ye in a new light. That ye care for her comfort.”
Bradley inclined his head, a rare gesture of respect. “I thank ye, Cora. Ye’ve more wisdom than I’d cared to admit. I’ll see it done.” His voice rumbled with determination, the decision already burning within him.
Turning on his heel, Bradley strode from the chamber, his mind filled with plans.
He would summon the best cloth merchants, the seamstress, and demand the richest wool, and have gowns made fit for his Lady.
Nothing patched or borrowed, only what was hers alone.
He would see her clothed as the Lady she truly was.
As he walked, his thoughts tangled with both frustration and hope.
Laura’s defiance maddened him, yet her fire drew him closer, binding him in ways he dared not name.
A gift would not solve all between them, but it was a start, a token of the care he could not speak aloud.
In his heart, he vowed that she would never again want for anything under his roof.
He sent for the seamstress at once, his tone leaving no room for delay.
When the woman arrived, she curtsied low, her arms burdened with cloth samples and measuring cords. Bradley’s voice carried through the hall with the weight of command.
“Fetch Lady McCormack,” he ordered the servant nearest him. His gaze flickered toward the door, anticipation mixed with the storm that always came with Laura.
Moments later, Laura swept in, her steps quick, her chin tilted high in defiance. Her eyes blazed as they fixed on him, fury shimmering brighter than the firelight. She folded her arms across her chest.
“What is the meanin’ of this, Bradley?” she demanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
Bradley’s lips curved in the faintest smile, though his tone remained steady.
“Ye’ll be fitted for new dresses, lass. The seamstress is here to see to it.” His eyes traveled over her, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw. “Daenae think to fight me on this, Laura. ’Tis already decided.”
Laura’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she took a step closer, her voice rising. “New dresses? Have ye lost yer senses? I’ve got five already, and they serve me well enough.” She glanced at the seamstress, who hovered nearby, muttering to herself as she sorted her cloth.
The seamstress moved in with her measuring cord, muttering, “Och, fine shoulders… aye, a deep green would suit… and fur trimmings, perhaps.”
She circled Laura like a hawk, her fingers quick and efficient.
Bradley’s gaze never left his wife, his voice firm and unyielding. “Five gowns are nae enough, lass, nae for the Lady of this clan.”
Laura tried to turn away from the measuring cord, her voice filled with outrage. “I daenae need finery to play the part. I’m fine as I am.” Her eyes locked on his, defiance burning strong. “Why must ye press me with what I didnae ask for?”
Bradley rose from his chair, towering over her, his shadow long in the firelight.
“Because I’ll nae have ye shiverin’ in the snows when winter comes.
Ye’ll have fine gowns, fur cloaks, boots, and gloves enough to keep ye warm.
” His voice rumbled like thunder, filled with determination.
“Whether ye like it or nae, lass, ye’ll have what befits ye. ”
The seamstress ignored their quarrel, measuring Laura’s waist and jotting down notes. “Och, fur at the collar, aye, and perhaps wool… good clasps, mayhap.” She mumbled to herself as if caught in a trance of cloth and design.
Laura turned her head sharply, her voice edged with frustration. “Why must ye always decide what’s best for me? Am I nae woman enough to take care of me own needs?” Her eyes glistened, though pride kept her from showing weakness. “I never asked for this.”
Bradley’s hand curled into a fist at his side, though his voice softened just enough to cut through the fire.
“Aye, ye didnae ask, but I’ll see to it, regardless. Ye’re Lady McCormack, and ye’ll be dressed as such. I’ll nae have the clan whisper ye’re clad like a servant when ye’re queen of all ye see.” His eyes locked on hers, daring her to argue further.
The seamstress stepped back at last, her work finished, and gave a quick curtsy.
“The garments will be ready within a sennight, me Laird. Cloaks and gowns both, and boots by the cobbler to match.” She gathered her things swiftly, casting a wary glance between husband and wife. “I’ll see to it at once.”
Bradley gave her a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “See that ye do, and waste nay time.” His voice carried a weight of command that left no doubt she’d hurry. As the seamstress slipped from the room, silence stretched heavy in her wake.
He looked at Laura; she stood stiff as stone, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her hands fisted at her sides, fury still simmering in her gaze.
She turned away from him, muttering under her breath, “Ye’ll smother me with all this overbearin’.” Her shoulders trembled with the effort of holding herself together.
Bradley stepped closer, though he kept his voice low and rough.
“I’ll protect ye, Laura, even from the cold itself.
That’s me duty as yer husband, and more than that, me choice.
” His eyes burned with a mix of pride and something deeper, something he refused to name.
“Ye’ll have all ye need, whether ye fight me or nae. ”
Laura turned her face to him then, her lips pressed tight, her anger still sharp but tempered by a flicker of confusion.
She searched his eyes, trying to pierce through the storm she always found there.
Her breath caught, but she forced her chin higher.
“I’ll nae thank ye for what I daenae want,” she whispered.
Bradley’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, then hardened again, the mask sliding back into place. He folded his arms across his chest, standing immovable as stone.
“Then keep yer thanks, lass. I daenae need them. What I need is to see ye safe, warm, and dressed as the Lady ye are.”
Bradley’s eyes narrowed as Laura swept out of the chamber.
His chest burned as he watched her leave, the fire of her anger striking deeper than any blade.
He couldn’t let her walk away, not with such distance lying heavy between them.
His strides were long and determined, and when he reached her, he caught her arm and pulled her close, his breath already quickened with unspoken need.
“Ye’ll nae walk away from me, lass,” he growled low, his grip firm though not cruel.
Laura’s chin lifted, her gaze flashing with fury. “This willnae be enough, Bradley. Ye can drag me to seamstresses, dress me in fine garments, but it willnae wash away the truth. Ye followed me faither to harm him, and I cannae forgive it.”
With his jaw clenched, the accusation struck him harder than steel. “Why, Laura? Why are ye so mad at me for it? That man hurt ye, shamed ye, left ye with scars nay husband would wish upon his wife.”
Her eyes softened only for a moment, then hardened again like tempered glass.
“Because I am a woman of God, Bradley. I cannae stand by such deeds, nay matter who the man may be. I would never take joy in violence, even against the one who raised me so cruelly.”
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, bitter and sharp. “Ye didnae mind when I cut down the bandits that ransacked our clan’s village. Nay, ye looked at me with pride in yer eyes that day.”
Laura’s lips pressed together, her hands trembling slightly in his hold. “I understood then, because ye were protectin’ the folk, keepin’ yer people safe. That was nae for yerself, it was for them, for the clan. But this…” she shook her head, voice breaking, “this is for vengeance for past deeds.”
Bradley leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek, his voice heavy with the weight of his vow. “And this time, Laura, I am protectin’ me wife. Ye, lass. I’ll face the devil himself if it means nay harm will ever touch ye again.”
Her cheeks flushed pink, her chest rising as if the air had grown thin between them. “I was already safe, Bradley. Safe from the moment I came into yer castle.” Her eyes glistened, unyielding even as her voice wavered. “But ye daenae see it, do ye? I never needed blood spilled to prove it.”
The words struck him like a blade through the gut. His hand loosened on her arm, his heart twisting with a strange, unbearable ache.
Safe with me? I, the man who murdered his own faither, who had left men in the dust with his blade?
His head shook as though he could deny it, though the truth pressed heavily on his soul.
He released her and turned sharply, his back to her as if her very gaze burned through his flesh. His palm pressed against the cold stone wall, his shoulders tight with shame. A hollow emptiness spread through him, darker than the night sky over the moors.
“God help me, lass,” he whispered hoarsely, though the words were more to himself than to her. “How can ye feel safe with a monster such as me? A man who has done such horrors?”
Laura’s silence behind him cut deeper than any answer she could give. He dared not turn to face her, dared not let her see the torment twisting inside him. She was pure, untouched by the shadows that haunted him. She was a saint, and saints had no place standing at the side of devils.
His hand trembled as it pressed harder against the wall, as though he could anchor himself there.
The air around him felt colder without her touch, his chest hollow without her warmth pressed close.
Desire still burned through his veins, but it was poisoned now, tainted with the knowledge of what he truly was.
I daenae deserve her. Nay, I never have.