Page 5 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

“Yer the niece of the laird—a man that I owe more than just my respect. We have to do this right, Margaret. We just have to,” Gavin said, cutting Margaret off before she could make another argument that would test his patience. “Now, tis been a long day for us both, and tis a bit improper for me to be here so late without your brother at home. Can I come by again in a day or two?”

“Sure,” Margaret replied, following Gavin only with her eyes as he left the room and then, unceremoniously, slipped through the door and into the dark of the night.

Margaret stood there, staring at the door, her eyes burning with the singular desire to shed a tear. But it had been years since she had cried last, on the day that Gavin had found her at her lowest point. That night, her tears finally dried, and she vowed that the next tear she shed would be a happy one. And, so far, she had kept that vow. She wasn’t about to allow herself to cave to her pain now, for this pain was nothing compared to what she had felt before.

Margaret was so focused on blinking back tears that the door flying open sent her jumping back in fright. A figure shrouded in a filthy woolen cloak came stumbling in, and Margaret raised her fists and gave a small shout of warning, preparing to rush at the intruder before he threw back the cloak of his hood, revealing a matted mop of copper hair.

“Calm down, will ye? Ye really ken how to make yer brother feel welcome in his own house,” Alan said, his words slurring together as he clumsily undid the fastening of his cloak, letting it just fall to a heap on the floor. “Do we got any ale?”

“No,” Margaret said with a sigh. “And I do not think you need any.”

“You’re right, I need whiskey!” Alan said, reaching down to unlace a small flask from his belt. He held it up, his plump red face full of pride, as if he had done something worth her applause. When Margaret just started at him, her arms crossed in disapproval, he shrugged and took a long swig.

“Has the allowance from our uncle arrived yet?” he asked as he wiped away the dribble of dark alcohol that had slipped down into the patchy growth of hair on his chin that he must have been trying to call a beard.

“No,” Margaret said. “You would ken. You only come home the day before tis set to arrive.”

“Ach, how observant of ye. Well, then tomorrow I shall ask ye again.”

“Laura needs new shoes.”

“What?”

“I said, Laura needs new shoes. Perhaps this time, you can leave us just a bit of the allowance so that your sister can have a proper pair of shoes.”

Alan rounded on her, the glossy shroud over his eyes clearing ever so slightly as the recognition that his sister was fighting back sobered him. “Well, I have more pressing needs. I spend day in and day out looking for better opportunities for this family. Do ye think that comes fer free? Ye’ll find a way to pay for Laura’s new shoes. Ye always do.”

Margaret stood there for a long time after Alan went up the steps, every bit of her too exhausted to do anything but breathe.

It won’t be much longer. He promised. It won’t be much longer.

Nearly two weeks later, Margaret walked up the path to her house, the afternoon sun beating down on her face and reminding her that it was far too early to be coming home from work. But there had been so little work needing to be done that day, and while the other men could shrug it off and go offer their services elsewhere for the afternoon, Margaret could not. No one else was willing to hire a lass. So, she was forced to return home with a painfully meager collection of small coins. Laura’s shoes, which Margaret had managed to patch with leather torn from a pair of her father’s old shoes, would have to be made to last another week.

Margaret was only halfway up the hill when Ann burst from the door, her face ashen and her eyes wide and wild.

“Thank God ye’re here. Hurry up, hurry up!” she hissed, rushing forward and grabbing Margaret’s arm.

“What is wrong?” Margaret replied, worry swelling in her breast. “Is it the girls?”

“Nay,” Ann hissed as she drug Margaret toward the door. “Tis your uncle.”

“My uncle?” Margaret replied, pulling her arm free from Ann’s grasp.

“Yes, as in the Laird of Clan Gunn. He is in the sitting room. He showed up this morning and I have had to entertain him all day. Did ye ken that he is an awfully impatient man who despises being kept waiting? I didn’t, but I sure ken now. Come on,” Ann replied, the words falling so quickly from her lips that Margaret could barely distinguish one from the next. “Just run up and change yer clothes as quickly as ye can.”

Margaret let Ann hustle her through the door, and she was halfway up the steps to her room when a deep voice boomed through the house, “Ann? Is that my niece finally home from heaven only kens where? Bring her to me immediately.”

Ann, hovering in the entry to the sitting room, murmured, “She is just going up to change, Laird Gunn.”

“Bloody hell, tis of little importance. Bring her to me now,” he shot back.

Margaret looked down to Ann, who was looking back up at her, her face even paler than it had been a moment prior. With a sigh, Margaret braced herself and went back down the stairs, taking a moment to brush some of the dust off of the undyed brown vest that she had on over her white shirt. Or, at least, it had once been white. Now it was more of a yellow.

Pausing just outside the room, Margaret straightened her posture and forced her face to relax so her expression could soften into ladylike demure. Then, ready to face whatever was about to come, she slipped into the room. “Uncle! Tis so good to see you.”

Her uncle had been sitting with his back to the door, so, when Margaret came in and settled herself into his view, she was able to witness his full reaction as his face morphed from anger to shock to confusion to scorn.

“Where have you been?” he asked.