“I will cherish it,” he whispered, leaning toward her, his lips a hair’s breadth from her own. “Always, Elsy.”
Elsy sobbed at the memory, her hand flying to her mouth as more tears streamed down her cheeks. The handkerchief fell from her grasp, slowly floating down until it rested on the pile of letters on the desk. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she found her knees buckling. She grabbed the desk, stabilizing herself as she slowly sat down in the chair behind her, perching on the edge of the torn cushion. Her elbows braced themselves on the table in front of her, her hands clasping her face.
He was supposed to return,she thought while biting back another sob, her shoulders shaking. He had promised it on his father’s life. She sniffed, unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d had to go to the Battle of Falkirk. It had been the only way to get his father to allow a union between them. Elsy recalled Laird MacArthur bitterly, remembering how he’d spoken down to her, the way he’d regarded her as beneath his son.
That was the only reason Connell left her. The only reason he did not return. She’d tried to make him stay, but Connell had refused to listen. He hadn’t wanted to marry another. He had only wanted her. There was a time she had thought his words romantic. In the end, she wished he had left her for another. She wished he had listened to his father’s words. Then he would still be alive. They wouldn’t be together, but he would be alive. She didn’t care if they could never marry. All she wanted was to hear his laughter and see his smile, at least one last time.
She could say the same about many things that happened that year. Not two days after Connell left, her father had fallen ill, dying swiftly in her arms. She had tried everything, but she had never come across an illness so cruel and deadly. With both her father and Connell gone, she had been all alone, with no one to console her through her heartache. She remembered spending her nights sobbing in bed, burying her face into the mattress, and praying for Connell’s safe return.
Elsy leaned back in the torn and worn chair as the memories of that time tormented her. Shortly after the Battle of Falkirk, Laird Alan McCormick had come, injured, and requiring aid. She had been the only healer of the village. She remembered him leaning against the threshold of her cottage, holding his stomach, blood staining his hands.
“Are ye the healer they speak of?” he asked her, his voice gruff and strained. “Elisabeth Tandie?”
Elsy was washing the blood from her hands when he approached her. She had been treating another injured soldier, one who had need of his leg being removed. The event had been traumatic. She had hardly known what to do, given she had never performed such a terrible thing before, but she had relied on her father’s words and his books.
“Aye, that is me,” she said as she helped him inside.
“I am Alan, Laird of the McCormick clan. I’ve been sent to speak with Laird MacArthur, but unfortunately I have found myself upon death’s door.”
Alan stumbled against the table. Elsy held him, helping him onto the wooden surface. He groaned, his gaze going to the ceiling as she batted his hands away from his wound.
“Ye may be upon it,” Elsy muttered while pulling Alan’s armor from his body, stifling her grimace at the scent of blood assaulting her senses. “But ye have yet to enter.”
“Please,” Alan said, stopping her by grabbing her hand and pulling her close. “If I do not live, I need ye to pass on a message to Laird MacArthur.”
Elsy nodded, her brow tenting in worry and confusion. “Of course. What must the laird know, Laird McCormick? Have we won the battle?”
“Nae, we have not.” Alan winced, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears as he released a shuddering breath. “His son is dead.”
Elsy clamped her eyes closed, pushing those memories far away. She could not torment herself any longer. Thinking of Connell would do her no good. It would not help her escape this terrible place. But as she opened her eyes, more tears slipped down her face as she recalled crumbling to the floor at Alan’s words, unable to carry on any longer. That moment had broken her. She had lost everyone she had ever cared for.
Her gaze drifted to the handkerchief as she wiped her tears. “So why are ye here?” she asked the small piece of cloth, bitterly. “And who has taken ye?” Was this her reason for being captured? Was this about Connell? After these long four years, he had miraculously returned to her life from beyond the grave.
Elsy chuckled bitterly.Most likely someone is playing a terrible trick on me,she thought while rising from her seat. In that moment, the lock clicked, and the handle turned. She stilled, straightening her shoulders, and holding her head high as she waited for her abductor to appear. Her gaze narrowed as he entered. His was turned away, but she recognized that black patch from before. She knew those broad shoulders and those large arms from when he had seized her.
“Who are ye?” she asked, her tone commanding. “Why have ye brought me here? I demand ye tell me at--”
She gasped as he turned toward her, his one blue eye meeting hers. She knew that gaze, knew that chin, that mouth, that nose. Her knees buckled and her breath left her in one swoop as she plummeted back down into the chair. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She blinked several times, yet he remained before her, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.
Elsy shook her head, not understanding. “Connell?” she whispered, her eyes prickling with tears at the sound of his name against her ears. She hadn’t uttered that name in so long. She still couldn’t believe this was real. “Is it truly ye?”
Connell smirked; his expression dark. She had never seen him act so foreboding. She had never seen that cruel glint in his eye as he stared at her. There was only ever adoration. How could this be her Connell?
Surprise filled her as she watched him nod. “Aye, Elsy. Tis me.”
