CHAPTERSEVEN
Connell
Connell hardly slept. The whole night had been filled with tossing and turning, and when he finally could fall asleep all his dreams were filled with Elsy. He dreamt of her holding his hand, tugging him through the fields of his clan. Her laughter reverberating through him, her touch warming the ice that had been his only company these last few years.
As he dreamt, he remembered the time they were caught in a storm after picnicking in the meadow and had been forced to hide in the stables belonging to a village farmer. His father had been angry when he returned and Connell speculated it hadn’t been due to worry, but due to the beautiful woman he had spent the entire day with.
He recalled their first kiss, how it felt to have her lips touching his own, and how wonderful it felt to be loved by this strong, fiery woman. He dreamt of their last kiss, how she desperately held onto him and how he didn’t ever want to let her go. His dreams turned dark, then. Laughter echoed within his mind, belonging to a man now dead and not by Connell’s hands. He recalled the horses shrieking, his own stabbed through, lying in the grass stained with its blood. McCormick’s face filled his mind, his cruel smirk, the sword in his hands. The dream changed and Connell found himself in a room, hiding in the shadows. Elsy was lying in a bed near him, wearing nothing more than her underclothes, beckoning McCormick to her.
His eye opened, his heart lurching at that last dream. His heart was pounding so fast he worried it would break from his chest. Pain brimmed within him as the image tormented him: her desire-filled eyes, her hands reaching for McCormick, her legs spreading for him. Connell’s hands fisted, his teeth clenching.It should have been me,he thought angrily. He should have been Elsy’s husband, her lover, her first. Instead, he left her to go into battle.
The sun’s rays peeked into his room, lighting the darkness with red and golden hues. Connell stared up at his ceiling, watching the light play against the stone. His eye blinked. It ached painfully from the little sleep, but his mind was awake, imagining his first meeting with Elsy—what he would say to her, what she would say to him. He closed his eye, telling himself he shouldn’t feel anything toward her, but his heart fluttered despite his thoughts. Her smiled filled his mind, her eyes alight with joy.
But she was no longer Elsy Tandie. She was Lady McCormick. Connell grimaced as he imagined McCormick looming above her, a wicked grin on his lips, her head tilting to the side as a look of pleasure washed over her face.
Connell’s eye snapped open, and he quickly rose, no longer wanting to subject himself to such torturous dreams. He knew at some point he would have to meet with Elsy, tell her the truth of who and what he was. The thought of her seeing him after all these years made him pace back and forth in his chamber.Is this really the right thing to do?he wondered while stroking his chin. Would questioning her really provide him with the justice he so needed? Would seeing her again provide them both with any closure? Or would it be like scraping at an old wound?
He paused mid-step, his gaze meeting his reflection in the looking glass across from him, cracked long ago. His attention caught on the eyepatch and a deep frown marred his lips as he wondered what she would think of him now that he was damaged, now that he was vile to look upon.
How could he see her now, when he was a monster? He leaned toward the mirror, scowling at himself, scrutinizing his face. He kept the patch on even as he slept, hating the way he looked with it off, yet hating the way he looked with the thing on.What will Elsy thing of me now?he wondered, his fingers stroking the black cloth lightly. Would she still think him handsome? Or would she stare at him in horror, deeming him an ugly, frightening beast with this scar marring his face?
Slowly, his fingers tugged at the eyepatch, the strings untying with the movement. As the cloth fell away, he closed his eye, lowering his head. Even now, after all these years, he couldn’t look at it.How weak I’ve become,he thought bitterly with a scoff.
His eye opened and he turned toward the mirror, forcing himself to look upon the scar he hated so much. He grimaced as he stared at it. It didn’t matter how many times he had seen the scar, he still found it revolting. It started at his brow and ran down the length of his eye, ending at his cheekbone. It wasn’t as red or as swollen as it had once been. The stitching had been done quickly. Many of the healers had believed he would die from infection. Others had wondered how he survived such a blow. The eye was gone. Connell shivered as he remembered the blood, the slice through his flesh, the pain.
Jerking away from the looking glass, he snatched his eyepatch, gripping the cloth in his grasp angrily. He wished to throw the thing away, but he hated the way others stared at him with either horror or pity. How would Elsy stare at him? he wondered. Would she be disgusted?
He stalked toward the wash basin and splashed water on his face, scrubbing it against his eye as if it would magically heal all his wounds. There were times he even shocked himself with his eye—times he would forget it was missing. He would shout in terror when he saw his reflection. Often times, he would swallow his sobs, wishing he could return to a simpler time.
Quickly, he retied the patch over his eye and searched his clothes for something appropriate to wear. If he was to see Elsy after these four years apart, he wanted to look his best. He held up a white tunic, frowning at the dirt stain in the front before tossing it to the side. The next cloth he grabbed was a crimson red, yet it was frayed at the ends and there was a rip in the front. Finally, he settled on a black tunic, one that didn’t display any tears or stains. The garment was long, fitting him perfectly. It wasn’t immaculate like the attire he used to wear when he was Laird MacArthur’s son, but it was better than his usual garments. He grabbed the cloak that had been hanging over the chair in his room. As he put it in, he felt the weight pull to the right. He frowned as his hand reached into the right pocket, finding something hard and cool to the touch.Elsy’s ring,he realized as he brought it into the light.
Nae,he thought with an angry scowl.Lady McCormick’s wedding ring.
With that one thought he was reminded of his dream, of her lying in bed and beckoning for McCormick’s approach. Connell ground his teeth, shoving the ring back into the pocket while admonishing himself for caring so much. He had a duty to Scotland and his people. Elsy was McCormick’s widow. This wasn’t a welcome call. He needed her to provide proof of her husband’s foul deeds. Connell closed his eye, allowing his anger to wash over him. She was the one who married the man who took his eye. She was the one who forgot about Connell.
And who’s fault was that?he thought bitterly.Ye could have returned to her.
Connell’s shoulders shook. He wanted desperately to hit the wall, to roar, to barge into her room and demand answers.Why?It was the one word circling around in Connell’s head.Why McCormick? Why did she marry him?Connell’s eye widened and his body ached as he wondered,did she love McCormick?Did he seduce her? Connell feared the answer. He didn’t know if he could hear that truth.
Connell left his quarters and stalked down the hall. His feet took him to the staircase leading up to Elsy’s chamber, but he held himself still, knowing now was not the time to speak with her. The sun had barely risen, and the day before had been long and tiring for her.Let her rest, he told himself as he stared at the steps, still unable to move as if the floor had swallowed his feet whole.
“Connell?”
Connell frowned and turned toward the voice, finding Brann holding a small platter with bread and cheese. The boy looked worried as he stared at Connell, as if he had been caught stealing gold from a merchant rather than carrying a tray of food.
“Is that for Elsy?” Connell asked, his expression softening.
“Aye,” Brann said with a curt nod. “Forgive me. I thought she would be hungry.”
“There is naething to forgive. Tis good yer thinking of her comfort.” Connell cleared his throat as he closed the distance between them. “How was she last night?” Connell winced at the urgency in his tone. He shouldn’t care for a prisoner, nor worry about her comfort.
Thankfully, Brann didn’t notice. “She was scared, but I told her nae harm would come her way. She looked tired.”
Connell nodded. His gaze returned to the staircase, and he imagined her alone in the room, wearing something old and dusty she had found in one of the trunks. He frowned. If this was to be their first meeting after so long, she deserved better attire than that.
Connell turned on his heel, brushing past Brann. “Come,” he said simply as he continued down the corridor, not waiting for Brann’s reply.
His footsteps were answer enough.
