Page 39 of Hunted By the Hard Highlander

“Thank ye,” she said, her hands delicate around the base as she watched the wick catch. She looked up at Hendry, her expression open and almost reverent as she waited to follow his lead.

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he walked her toward the wall, feeling the way her body moved through the fabric and beneath his palm. Stuck to the old stones that still remained at the top was wax from years past, stubbornly hanging on through both the heat and the cold, the rain and the sun.

“I always let a few drops fall,” Hendry said, reaching forward and wrapping his fingers around her wrist softly. He tilted her hand, letting the melted wax drip onto the remnants of candles from vigils of years past. “Then, ye press it onto the melted wax.”

His hold shifted, his hand coming around hers to guide the candle into place. Letting his touch linger, he pressed down a bit harder, ensuring the candle would stay upright. Then, reluctantly, he let his hand fall to his side.

“Ye do this every year,” she whispered, her eyes locked on the flame dancing in the soft breeze. “Ye come to honor the people that ye lost. That is an admirable thing.”

“It is the least we can do,” Hendry said, his jaw tightening. “I couldnae save them; me mother couldnae. It is our duty to remember those that we have lost, those that were taken from us much too soon.”

Aurora looked up at him, those brilliant green eyes seeming to dim a bit. He was coming to learn that they showed her emotions more reliably than her expression. The sympathy there was real, as if she were taking on the loss like it was her own.

“That is an honorable way of approaching this,” she muttered, holding his gaze for a long moment.

She turned then, the soft ringlets of her hair bouncing around her shoulders. Her eyes fell on the village below, the empty cottages still standing untouched, the wildflowers that had taken over the places where children once played. The silence, from her and everyone around them, said far more than any eulogy the priest could have delivered.

It was as if they could feel the places where those who could not be with them would be standing. The silent echoes of children’s laughter surrounded them. There seemed to be an ache that they were all collectively suffering, an ache that only seemed to become more acute the longer they stood together.

Hendry was not sure how much time had passed, but gently, Aurora took his hand. It was as if the weight of their collective mourning was too great for her to bear alone. Or, perhaps, she did not want him to carry it on his own.

For a few seconds, he did not react. Her gentleness was something that he was not prepared to handle. All he truly knew was that he did not want to pull away.

Then, as if something inside him snapped, he returned her grip.

His fingers threaded through hers, pressing their palms flush against one another. The softness of her skin sent a shiver through him, pushing out the slight chill that had settled over the vigil. She warmed him to his very core with nothing more than a touch of their hands.

She cannae remain defenseless.

The thought crashed into him, and he knew that he could no longer deny the danger that was quickly approaching. Every day MacGonagal drew closer, if not to outright infiltrate the castle, to attend the handfasting. If the worst should happen, Aurora would not be able to be saved by herbs or the tunnel alone.

“Aurora,” he said, his quiet voice still seeming to startle her out of her thoughts. She blinked up at him, her perfect pink lips parted slightly. He had to taste them again, but only when he knew she was safe, when he knew he had done his duty. “I would like ye to meet me in the trainin’ yard before dawn.”

She blinked twice, and for a moment, he thought she would argue or demand to know why. Instead, her voice still tempered by the gathering around them, she said, “Of course, Hendry.”

* * *

“I dinnae ken that the sickness had been so absolute,” Adair said, looking up from the book that was open on his lap. He had been quiet since they had returned to the castle, keeping himself close to Aurora’s side. “When Laird Anderson spoke of the plague, he was never very specific.”

“I ken,” Aurora said, not looking away from her knitting. Her mind had not quieted since their walk back to the castle hours ago. “It must be painful. He did everythin’ he could, learned healin’ from the best healer he kent, and he still couldnae save everyone.”

“It isnae somethin’ he wishes to speak about,” Adair finished.

The boy went still, contemplative in his silence. Aurora looked at him, the slight downturn of his lips, the furrow of his brow. He was smarter than his years, making connections in his head that most would not find until they were at least twice his age. She waited, letting him completely form his thoughts before he spoke again.

“There will be things that I cannae stop,” he said, sounding as if he were already mourning something that had not yet come to pass. “Nay matter how hard I try, even if I do everythin’ I am meant to.”

“It doesnae mean ye are a bad leader,” Aurora said. Despite her own complicated feelings about the man, Hendry was the furthest thing from an inadequate Laird. “Sometimes it means yer enemy got the better of ye. Sometimes ye were fightin’ somethin’ that couldnae be defeated by skill alone.” She looked down at the knitting in her hands, running her thumb over the yarn wrapped around the needles. “I think what ye do after is just as important, if nae more than how ye handle the crisis itself.”

“Ye think so?” Adair asked, tilting his head slightly as he turned that over.

“Aye, I ken so,” Aurora said with a bit more confidence. “That is why Clan Anderson is so fond of Laird Anderson. They respect how he handled the plague, and they see that he honors those that he couldnae save.”

Adair made a sound in the back of his throat, turning his head toward his lap once more. He was quiet for so long that Aurora was sure that he had gone back to reading. Nearly a full minute later, he said, “I hope that one day I will be a leader like Laird Anderson. Like Father.”

She did not know why, but the words brought tears to her eyes. Blinking away the onslaught of emotion, she said, “Every day that I watch ye grow, I become more and more sure that ye will make the MacGonagal people proud, that ye will keep them safer than anyone else ever has.”

“Ye really think that, Aurora?” he asked, looking up at her with big, trusting eyes. They were much darker than her own, like a forest rather than like a gem. “Do ye think I will be able to protect me people the way Laird Anderson does?”