Page 4 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

Margaret watched Ann go, feeling too exhausted to join her as her mind slipped back to Isobel.

There were many days that Margaret envied Isobel; days like today where every muscle in her body ached after a long day of work and all she had to show for it were a few coins and a pair of cheap candlesticks. While she heaved bundles of hides here and there, she would imagine her cousin sitting in some overly stuffed chair, her thin lips pursed and stained red from an afternoon cup of wine while she debated what dress to wear to supper. Her cousin’s life had always seemed so easy, so privileged, with her wanting for nothing while Margaret felt the pain of every small purchase in the calloused crevices of her hands.

Now what was there to envy? Isobel may have been blessed in some ways, but Margaret would always have an edge over her cousin in at least one regard.

A soft, gentle knock on the door roused her, and Margaret stood, ripping the cap off of her head and running her fingers through her hair to loosen the tangled waves as she crossed to the door and pulled it open.

Choice. The word slipped through Margaret’s body like a summer’s breeze, loosening the tightness in her shoulders that she hadn’t even felt building.

The lad standing on her doorstep straightened just a bit when he saw her, his eyebrow rising just a bit as his dark eyes looked her up and down. After a long pause, he said, “How is it that those clothes look better on ye than they ever did on me?”

Margaret blushed and leaned into the doorway. “Be careful, Gavin. You’ll never see me in a dress again if you keep that up.”

Gavin’s smile broadened, and he reached out and pulled her into the darkness, boldly enveloping her in his arms. “I missed ye, lass.”

“You would not have to if you stopped them from taking you on such long trips,” Margaret replied, earning a small grunt of amusement from Gavin that she felt vibrate into her own chest.

For so much of her life, the dark-haired boy next door had been nothing more than a nuisance—her brother’s companion for every practical joke and pull of her hair. She had despised every moment that she was forced to spend in his presence, wishing that he would stop teasing her and giving her strange looks from across the room.

“Someday, you might come to appreciate his attentions,” her mother had said with a coy smile when a twelve-year-old Margaret had complained about his near constant presence in her life. “Every lass will someday need a lad.”

“But,” her father had interjected, lowering his papers so he could give his wife a stern look, “in the meantime, you can do your father a favor by avoiding lads at all cost.”

Though Margaret’s mother had sighed and rolled her eyes, Margaret had taken her father’s statement as if it were law. Whenever she thought she could hear Gavin’s voice echoing through the halls of the house, Margaret had made a point of disappearing. Her father’s office became her refuge, where he would silently pass her some boring tome or another about business, the leather trade, or history, and Margaret would let herself enjoy the comfort and security of her father’s presence.

But then Margaret’s mother had died. And then her father had followed into her the grave a year later. One afternoon, only a week after her father had been buried, Margaret had felt the walls of the house caving in upon her, and the tears had come so suddenly and so fiercely that there was nothing she could do to tame them. That had been when Gavin appeared in the doorway, his face frozen as he watched her try in vain to brush away the tears. There had been nowhere for her to run anymore, nowhere for her to hide. Her safe haven was buried in the ground and all she could do was let Gavin see her suffering.

That had been the first time he had embraced her, pulling her from her seat and into his arms with a strength she hadn’t known he possessed. Though she knew she should have pushed him away, she found herself trapped in his arms, unable to do anything but accept the comfort as he told her that he would take care of her, that he would keep her safe.

Her mother had been right. She now needed his attention nearly as much as she needed air.

When Gavin finally released her, his arms slipping back down to his side slowly, as if he was fighting every inch, Margaret led him back into the house and shut the door behind him with a bit more force than was necessary, hoping Ann would hear the sound from wherever she was in the house and know what it meant. While Margaret had outgrown her distaste for Gavin, Ann had not.

“So,” Margaret started, “what did my uncle have you do this time?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” Gavin said in his usual way as he wandered into the sitting room.

“Where is Alan?” Gavin asked, looking up and around as if he would find Margaret’s brother embedded in the woodwork.

“Who knows.”

Gavin studied her face, as if waiting for her to react, before his eyes slipped away and began to study the room, eventually coming to pause on the mantle. Margaret winced, instantly realizing what he was looking at. Or, rather, not looking at.

Her father had always made a point of bringing her mother back some trinket or bauble from his travels. There had been vials of sand from the beaches of the Mediterranean, amethyst crystals from France, and tiny glass figurines from London, all displayed on this very mantle. But in the years following her father’s death, the collection had slowly dwindled until all that had remained was a small silver box containing locks of her parents’ hair braided together. Margaret had thought that it, more than anything else on the mantle, had been priceless. But it hadn’t been.

Margaret saw Gavin’s face cloud. She watched the change with a heart that felt suddenly like it was carved of stone, hanging both heavily and unsympathetic in her chest. Why had he gone looking for another sign of her house being stripped bare if it was going to upset him?

“When will you take me away from this place?” Margaret asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Gavin took a deep breath and held it for a long moment before he let it slip back from his lips. “I havena earned enough money yet to give ye the house ye deserve.”

“Anything you could give would be better than this,” Margaret said, her voice cracking.

Gavin came over to her, reaching for her face as if he intended to pull it to his own, but his hands froze midair. They hovered there helplessly for half a heartbeat before Gavin cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his side, his fingers balling up into a fist that she was sure was designed to contain them from attempting some other reckless act. Other than the occasional hug, Gavin never touched her out of respect for her uncle.

After a few moments of silence, Gavin finally said, “It won’t be much longer.”

“But—” Margaret started.