Adaira’s hands slowed in her hair, and Sorcha made atskingsound with her tongue.
“Aye, well, that is a conversation ye must have with Reade. I canna tell ye what weighs on his heart, ‘tis for him to tell ye, but he has a good reason for his behavior.” Sorcha rested her hand on Blair’s shoulder and gave her a comforting squeeze. “Dinna fash. Talk to him, give him a chance to see what a fine lass ye are, and his heart will be swayed. He looks to be all bluster, but inside, he has a heart of gold.”
Blair nodded but didn’t believe Sorcha for a minute. She’d seen the look of hatred on Reade’s face the night before. Nothing would sway that man.
Then Sorcha leaned close to Blair’s cheek and slipped her arm around Blair’s shoulders.
“But I will speak with the lad on your behalf, just in case. He can be thick-headed, aye? Now, let’s finish up here and ye can join us to break your fast. Ye must be famished.”
Sorcha was true toher word, and later that day she flipped her arasaid over her head and marched across the misty courtyard to the place where she was sure to find Reade.
The stables. The sanctuary of all her boys.
Attached to the side of the barn, and set against the outer stone wall, the horse stables exuded a sense of serenity. Well-tended, replenished with fresh hay and peat daily, the horses at Castle Glenachulish were legend. Several stable lads from the nearby Glenachulish village and the stronghold worked shifts to keep the horses and their stables in the best condition possible.
Sorcha wasn’t wrong. Reade stood at the door of the farthest stall, feeding a dried apple to his resplendent chestnut Highland pony, Motcha, meaningmighty. But not so mighty presently. The beast practically nuzzled Reade’s hand, and Sorcha had a flash that if the man could calm and endear the giant steed to him, then he should be able to do the same with his wife.
“Good day to ye, my son,” Sorcha announced as she pulled the plaid off her head.
The misty air saturated the interior of the stables, making the heady scents of hay and dung and horse more pungent. It was a clean scent, a pure scent, and from the look of Reade, still in his now-rumpled wedding kilt from the day before and with a few rogue strands of peat in his hair, Sorcha was certain her son smelled of the stables. He’d obviously slept in the stables the night before instead of with his wife.
She replaced the scowl on her face with a matronly smile and approached her eldest, who remained reticent as he fed the horse. He knew why she was here.
“I dinna have to ask what happened last night. Your peat covered kilt and the lass sleeping in her wedding garb tells me everything.”
Reade’s jaw clenched at the mention of his wife. Och, this was going to be harder than Sorcha had expected. Was he really laying fault for the death of Camden at Blair’s feet? Och, God save her poor, misguided son and his thick skull.
“Then why are ye here, Mother?” His raspy voice matched his ragged exterior.
“Why did ye no’ bed the lass? Ye are married now. ‘Tis best to make sure we keep the lass safe and see if she had knowledge of anything related to Gordon’s goings on. At the verra least, the lass has been traded as cattle for most of her life, including traded to ye, my son. She deserves some kindness in her life.”
“Ye and Adaira seem to have that well in hand,” he retorted as he rubbed his knuckles along the horse’s muzzle. The animal flipped its well-groomed mane with delight at the attention.
Sorcha studied the scene for a moment, then inhaled her chest fully, readying herself to make her opinion known.
“Reade, when ye care for the horse –” she started, but Reade lifted his hand to stop her.
“Mother, please. I’m no’ in the mood for your symbolic speeches. Speak plainly.”
Sorcha pursed her lips. She didn’t care for plain or tactless words. They oft proved injurious when kinder, softer speech sent the message with a gentler blow. But in this situation, and given her son’s wretched state, she decided to indulge him. Sorcha leveled her gaze at him. If Reade wanted bald, harsh language, he’d get it.
“Do ye think Camden would be proud of how ye are behaving with this lass? Do ye think he’d celebrate your coarse treatment of her?”
“Ye strike a low blow, Mother,” Reade spat out. “And ye forget. She’s no’ exactly been considerate with me.”
Sorcha barked out a laugh. “What do ye expect? How would ye behave if ye lost the only family ye had, slain by a clan ‘twas supposed to be an ally, then to be forced off your land to live with a clan that despises your husband and now believes ye to be a spy? How tender would your words be?”
Reade didn’t answer, but the reddening of his skin told Sorcha she was hitting him where it hurt.
“Camden would want ye to celebrate your marriage, arranged or no’. He’d want ye to be a better man, the man he knew as his dearest friend. He’d want ye to open yourself to this forlorn lass who has more spunk and is merely searching for a place to call home. If ye treat her right, this could be a home for her. A home for both of ye, together. Ye must remember that she wasn’t the one who held the sword that slayed Camden. He didn’t die by her hand, or even her husband’s hand. The Campbells and the Campbells alone are responsible for that. And they murdered her husband as well. She, too, is a victim of the Campbells. Ye do share that common thread. Mayhap ye should open yourself up to her and tell her about Camden.”
Reade’s hands moved from the horse to grip the stall door. He was taking in Sorcha’s logical sentiments, trying to reconcile that with the untimely death of his cousin and closest friend. His anger and pain were painted across his skin like woad from the old days.
At least he was considering it. That was the best she could ask for. Sorcha stepped behind her son and hugged against his back. For all he was a burly Highland warrior, he was still her son, and she hated to see him distressed. If she could fix that for him, then by God in Heaven, she would.
“She might understand ye better, and ye her. Try kindness, like ye do with your horse. I think ye might be surprised at what can happen.”
Sorcha gave him one more squeeze and then lifted her plaid skirts to step over the piles of hay and loose peat. She paused at the doorway, letting the cool mist wash over her, and turned back to cast her motherly gaze upon her son.
