Haunted & Revered: The Scotsman's Destined Love (Love's Second Chance Book 15) Page 11

  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 e
xpect compassion, sympathy or even pity.

  And yet, her heart ached for it.

  On they continued 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.

  “I present to ye my niece,” her aunt spoke into the silence of the room, “Moira Brunwood. Her brother delivered her to me only moments ago.”

  Moira glanced at her aunt, wondering about the need to explain what she heard in the older woman’s voice. Was Fiona afraid the laird would fault her somehow? Was she doing what she could to distance herself from her traitorous niece?

  Moira sighed knowing she could not blame her aunt for what she did. Aye, it would have been nice to have someone on her side; however, she had to admit that she had not once thought about what her presence here at Seann Dachaigh Tower would mean for her aunt. How would it affect Fiona’s life? How would people treat her? Look upon her?

  The laird’s broad shoulders rose and fell as he inhaled a long breath. Then he slowly turned around as though apprehensive to look upon her.

  Moira gritted her teeth, feeling a surge of anger rise in her heart. Why on earth had he agreed to Connor’s request if he did not want her here? Why would he−?

  The breath caught in Moira’s throat the moment Cormag MacDrummond’s charcoal grey eyes met hers. Of all the things she had expected to feel in that moment−shame, regret, guilt, even fear−she was completely unprepared for the sudden jolt that seemed to stop her heart and make it come alive at the same time. Warmth streamed into her chest as though the sun had risen after a long absence, and she felt the corners of her lips curl upward, unable to contain the exhilaration that had claimed her so unexpectedly.

  Overwhelmed, Moira clasped her hands together, needing something to hold onto.

  Never had she felt like this before.

  Not even Connor had ever inspired such…such…

  In that moment, Moira finally realised that she had never been in love with Connor Brunwood.

  Read on!

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  About Bree

  USA Today bestselling author, Bree Wolf has always been a language enthusiast (though not a grammarian!) and is rarely found without a book in her hand or her fingers glued to a keyboard. Trying to find her way, she has taught English as a second language, traveled abroad and worked at a translation agency as well as a law firm in Ireland. She also spent loooong years obtaining a BA in English and Education and an MA in Specialized Translation while wishing she could simply be a writer. Although there is nothing simple about being a writer, her dreams have finally come true.

  “A big thanks to my fairy godmother!”

  Currently, Bree has found her new home in the historical romance genre, writing Regency novels and novellas. Enjoying the mix of fact and fiction, she occasionally feels like a puppet master (or mistress? Although that sounds weird!), forcing her characters into ever-new situations that will put their strength, their beliefs, their love to the test, hoping that in the end they will triumph and get the happily-ever-after we are all looking for.

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