Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Laura gazed out the window, her eyes following the soft roll of the hills and the glint of distant lochs.
The air outside looked so crisp and pure, untouched by sorrow, and she longed to breathe it in, to feel anything other than the ache that hollowed her chest. Her hand rested protectively over her stomach, a small and silent gesture of defiance, a promise that she would endure for the sake of the life within her.
But still, her thoughts circled back to him, to Bradley, the man who had opened up to her only to snatch it away.
Beside the carriage, Alan rode tall on his horse, his cloak fluttering faintly in the wind. Laura caught his glance, and on a sudden impulse, knocked gently against the glass. Alan slowed his horse a little, enough for her to open the small window and let the cold Highland air sweep through.
“Alan,” she called, her voice trembling just a little, “tell me, why did the Laird send me away? Ye’ve kent him longer than I. Surely ye must ken his reasonin’.”
Alan’s jaw tightened as he looked at her, the reins creaking in his hands.
“Me lady,” he said slowly, “I daenae ken the Laird’s full mind, but I reckon it’s nae for me to question it. His orders were firm, and I’ve never seen him look so… torn.”
“Torn?” she echoed, her eyes narrowing. “He looked cold and cruel when he cast me out, Alan. There was nay trace of tenderness in his eyes, only that blasted stubbornness of his.”
Alan exhaled heavily and rubbed his neck. “Aye, stubbornness he has in plenty. But tenderness, aye, I’ve seen it too, though he hides it like a wound he cannae bear to touch. Ye must believe me, Lady Laura, the Laird’s nae a heartless man. Whatever he’s doing, he thinks it’s for yer good.”
Laura shook her head sharply, “Och, if I must hear that one more time, I shall scream. For me own good? He’s sendin’ me off like some unwanted servant! How can that be good for me when me heart’s been torn from me chest?”
Alan looked away toward the misty moor, his voice quieter now. “It’s hard to ken what goes on in a man’s heart or mind, especially one like him. The Laird carries burdens from his youth, things few speak of aloud. His faither… well, he left scars ye cannae see.”
She frowned, her fingers tightening around the window frame. “Scars or nae, he has nay right to punish me for them. I’ve been nothin’ but kind to him, Alan. I stood by him. Does that count for naught?”
Alan met her gaze again; his eyes softened with sympathy. “Nay, me Lady. It counts for much. I’ve seen how ye changed him since ye came to the castle. He used to walk those halls like a ghost, haunted by his own shadow. Ye brought light back to the place, back to him.”
Tears welled in Laura’s eyes, though she blinked them away stubbornly. “Then why banish the light he found? Why send me away when I carry his bairn?”
Alan hesitated, his lips pressing into a grim line. “Maybe that’s the very reason, me Lady. Maybe he fears the weight of what it means to be a faither. His own da was… cruel. Ye’ve heard whispers, I’m sure.”
“Aye,” she murmured bitterly. “I’ve heard enough to ken the man was a devil. But Bradley’s nae his faither as I have told Bradley himself many times. He’s kind and strong and,” she paused, her voice breaking, “and I thought he cared for me.”
Alan’s expression softened further, pity flickering behind his eyes.
“He does, lass. On me oath, he does. But fear makes men fools, and the Laird’s been ruled by his for longer than he’ll ever admit.
I’ve seen the same fear in battle, men who run not from the blade, but from what they might become. ”
Laura turned her gaze back to the rolling hills, her heart aching with every breath. The mountains loomed in the distance like solemn judges, unmoved by her pain.
“He’s a coward, then,” she said at last, her voice low and trembling. “Too afraid to trust his own heart.”
Alan looked down, his face shadowed beneath his riding hood. “Aye, maybe ye’re right. But he’s nae the kind of man to stay a coward for long. He’ll come to his senses one day, and when he does, he’ll ken what he’s lost.”
Laura gave a bitter laugh, though there was no joy in it. “By then, it’ll be too late. I’ll be gone, hidden away behind Abbey walls, and he’ll have only his guilt for company.”
Alan sighed deeply, adjusting the reins as his horse snorted against the chill. “I’ll say this, me Lady, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Laird, it’s that he fights hardest against himself. That’s what makes him drive ye away. He will regain his senses and come back for ye.”
She looked up at him, her eyes glistening like morning dew. “He’s already lost me, Alan. For what man pushes away the woman that carries his bairn?”
Alan had no answer for that. He only nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the horizon where the Abbey waited, silent and gray beneath the rising mist. The air between them grew heavy with unspoken truths, carried away by the cold Highland wind.
But Laura was glad he rode beside her in quiet company. She sank back into her seat and rested her head against the cushion. The sound of the wheels returned, steady and endless, echoing her sorrow.
As the road wound deeper into the moors, she pressed a hand to her belly once more and whispered, “We’ll be strong, me wee one. We’ll make our own home, far from his shadow.”
A few hours later, Laura pressed her hand against the window, her eyes taking in the familiar terrain that stretched before her—rolling green hills, dotted with heather and the faint shimmer of a loch in the distance.
Her heart tightened as she realized they were nearing the Abbey, that place of silence and prayer which would soon become her home.
The sound of hooves came closer, and Alan’s steady voice broke through the rhythmic creak of the carriage.
“We’re nearly there, me Lady,” he said, his tone respectful yet tinged with sorrow.
His broad figure was visible through the window, seated atop his dark horse with the easy grace of a seasoned soldier.
Laura gave a small nod, her hands twisting the fabric of her cloak as the wind swept her hair across her face.
As the carriage turned around the bend, the Abbey came into view.
It sat on a low rise, surrounded by a stone wall thick with moss and ivy.
Tall arched windows caught what little sunlight broke through the clouds, casting faint glimmers upon the wet cobblestones of the courtyard.
The spire reached upward like a finger toward heaven, solemn and graceful, its bells silent in the mist.
The carriage slowed, creaking to a stop before the wrought-iron gates. Two nuns appeared, their black habits billowing softly in the wind, hands folded as they waited in patient silence. Laura felt her throat tighten as Alan dismounted and strode to the carriage door.
“We’ve arrived, Lady McCormack,” he said softly, offering his hand to help her down.
Laura stepped onto the ground, her feet sinking slightly into the damp soil. She looked up at the Abbey again, studying the worn stone and creeping vines that told stories of centuries past.
“It’s as beautiful as I remember,” she murmured, though her voice trembled with something close to grief.
Alan nodded in agreement, reaching for her trunk and heaving it down. He carried it with another guard.
“Aye, that it is,” Alan replied. “A fine home. The sisters keep it well, peaceful, safe, and quiet. Ye’ll be cared for here, me Lady, and the bairn will want for nothin’.” His eyes softened as he spoke, though a shadow of discomfort lingered in them.
Laura turned to look at him, her expression weary but kind.
“Aye, it’s a safe place,” she said, her voice low.
“But it’s nae me true home anymore. Me heart remains at Castle McCormack, nay matter how far I’m cast from it.
” Her gaze drifted toward the carriage, as though she could still see the road that led back to the castle and to Bradley.
Alan shifted his weight, the leather of his boots squeaking faintly as he adjusted his stance.
“I understand, me Lady,” he said gently. “’Tis nae easy thing, leavin’ behind the place ye love, nor the man that rules it. But the Laird, he’s a stubborn man, aye, but I’ve never known him to act from cruelty.”
Laura’s eyes filled with unshed tears as she clutched the folds of her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
She looked toward the looming Abbey doors, the dark oak carved with crosses and angels. “He’s buildin’ a prison for himself, Alan. One day he’ll find it empty, and only then will he understand what he’s lost.”
Alan nodded, lowering his gaze.
Laura let out a trembling sigh, her voice growing soft. “I cannae wait for that day, Alan. If it ever comes, I may be too changed to care.” She brushed a tear from her cheek and tried to steady herself, lifting her chin as she took a step toward the Abbey.
Alan fell into stride beside her, the trunk balanced easily on his shoulder. The wind rustled through the tall grass as they walked through the gate and along the narrow path leading to the Abbey door. “Still,” he said, glancing at her gently, “ye’ve strength, me Lady. More than ye think.”
Laura gave a faint smile through her sorrow. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “But strength feels hollow when it’s born from heartbreak.” Her steps slowed as she reached the Abbey steps, her eyes drawn upward to the carved stone above the doorway, an angel with outstretched wings, her face serene.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and a rush of cool, sweet-scented air from within the Abbey washed over Laura.
Standing there in the doorway was a young woman, no more than two-and-twenty, her hair tucked into a bun.
Her eyes were kind, her face round and gentle, and her figure short and soft in her novice’s robes.
The sight of her, so serene, so warm, broke the last of Laura’s composure, and before she could stop herself, she stumbled forward and fell into the young woman’s arms.
“Nieve,” she whispered.
Nieve caught her, steadying her with a gasp. “Oh, lass,” she murmured, “Hush now, daenae cry. Ye’re safe here, truly ye are.”
Her hand smoothed Laura’s hair as Laura wept against her shoulder, her sobs echoing faintly in the stone corridor behind them.
Laura clutched the girl’s robe, her voice trembling as she spoke through the tears.
“I’ve returned, Nieve,” she said brokenly. “Returned… and broken beyond repair. I daenae ken what else to do.”
Nieve’s eyes softened further, and she held Laura’s shoulders with a firm but gentle grip. “Hush now, lass,” she said, brushing away a tear from Laura’s cheek. “Whatever’s happened, the world’s cruelties cannae touch ye here. The sisters will care for ye, and I’ll make sure ye’ve all ye need.”
Alan stood just outside the door, his cloak damp with mist, Laura’s trunk beside him.
He gave a respectful bow toward Nieve. “Sister,” he said gruffly, his deep voice echoing against the Abbey stones, “I am the man-at-arms of Castle McCormack. Me Laird ordered me to see Lady McCormack safe to the Abbey.”
Nieve straightened slightly, her eyes glancing from Alan to Laura with understanding.
“Well,” she said kindly, “ye’ve done yer duty, son.
She’s safe with us now, and the Lord shall bless ye for it.
” Her words carried the quiet authority of one who had learned to soothe pain with both faith and gentleness.
Alan gave a small nod and stepped forward, setting Laura’s trunk down in the entryway. The sound of it settling on the stone floor echoed faintly in the quiet hall.
“Aye, then,” he said, stepping back again, “she’s in yer care, Sister. I trust ye’ll see she’s well looked after.”
Nieve smiled faintly, her hand still resting comfortingly on Laura’s arm. “We’ll see to her, lad,” she said. “Now go on with ye, and may God guide yer way back to the castle.”
She looked at Laura, her expression softening again. “Ye’ve folk who care for ye, I see. That’s a blessing, even in sorrow.”
Laura turned toward Alan, her heart twisting as she saw him preparing to leave. “Alan,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “Wait… please, just a moment longer.” She stepped forward, her fingers trembling as they twisted in her cloak.
Alan turned back, his eyes filled with quiet sorrow. “Aye, me Lady,” he said gently. “I’ll nae go till ye’ve said yer piece.” He removed his cap and held it before him, his broad shoulders slightly hunched in respect.
Laura swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but the words spilled out before she could think.
“Tell him… tell Bradley that I arrived safe,” she said, her voice quivering.
“Tell him the sisters were kind and that I didnae fight ye on the road. But tell him too that I cannae forgive him, Alan. Nae for sendin’ me away when I needed him most.”
I daenae believe that I would nae forgive him. I think I would, but somethin’ inside me wants to hurt Bradley, as he has hurt me.
Alan’s brows drew together, his voice thick with emotion.
“Aye, I’ll tell him, me Lady,” he said quietly.
“I’ll tell him ye were brave, and that ye walked into this place with yer head held high.
He may think he’s done right by ye, but I reckon the Laird’s heart will ache soon enough for what he’s lost.” His voice faltered slightly, though he quickly composed himself.
Laura managed a small, tearful smile. “Ye’ve always been kind to me, Alan,” she whispered.
“Ye’ve the heart of a good man, and I’ll never forget yer loyalty.
Tell the men I wish them well, and that I’ll pray for their safety.
” Her gaze fell to the floor as she added softly, “And pray for me too, if ye will.”
Alan bowed his head deeply, his voice low. “That I will, me Lady. Every night, I’ll ask the Lord to watch over ye and the bairn. Ye daenae deserve this pain, but I believe ye’ll find peace here. Maybe someday, when the Laird’s pride breaks, he’ll come to his senses and fetch ye home again.”
Laura’s eyes shimmered with tears once more. “Perhaps,” she said softly, though her tone carried little hope. “But I’ll nae hold me breath for a man so stubborn. Go now, Alan, afore I beg ye to take me back.” She gave a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob.
Alan’s jaw tightened as he nodded, turning away toward his horse. “Farewell, Lady McCormack,” he said solemnly. “Ye’ll be missed.” With that, he climbed atop his horse and gestured for the guards to ready themselves.