Page 31 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

31

T he wind tugged at Keith’s cloak as Brannoc carried him down the narrow path that wound along the edge of the cliffs. Lucas’s words from the night before lingered in his mind and stirred his thoughts.

Would she marry someone else?

Would she come back?

He hadn’t ridden this way in some time. Not since before the bairn. Not since before everything had changed.

The first village came into view as the trees thinned and the trail dropped down into a green valley. Stone cottages lined the small square of Creaghan, their thatched roofs neat and smoke curling up from chimneys. The scent of peat and earth clung to the place, familiar and grounding. Chickens pecked at the ground near the baker’s door, and dogs barked lazily at his approach.

Children spotted him first, their shrieks of delight echoing as they ran ahead. A group of villagers gathered quickly, murmurs rippling among them. Old women curtsied, men bowed, and even the smith put down his hammer to watch.

“Laird MacAuley!” a voice called.

Keith jumped down from Brannoc and was met by a stout, ruddy-faced man with thick arms and a grin that carved into deep-set cheeks.

“Domhnall,” he greeted, recognizing the village elder. “Still breathin’, I see.”

“Aye.” Domhnall chuckled. “But barely, if ye keep surprisin’ us like this. We didnae expect our Laird to ride in after the news of yer visit to Balemara. Folks have been whisperin’ about yer change of heart.”

Keith scowled. “Folks always whisper.”

“Aye,” Domhnall agreed. “But now they whisper with hope. We heard that ye danced, Me Laird. At a festival nay less.”

Keith exhaled through his nose. “Rumors travel faster than horses.”

Domhnall stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “We also heard that ye werenae alone. That a lass was with ye. The one who’s got a fierce sword arm.”

Keith’s jaw tensed, and he adjusted Brannoc’s reins. “Is there a point to all of this, Domhnall?”

The old man held up a hand. “Nay judgment, Me Laird. Only that it’s good for the folks to see ye livin’. Nae just rulin’. Been too long since we’ve seen a MacAuley smile.”

Keith said nothing, the lines around his mouth deepening.

Domhnall gestured to the square. “We’ve cleaned the chapel roof. Built a new fence around the sheep fields. Even got the old millstone turnin’ again. All we need now is yer eye on the stores and a promise that ye’ll return come harvest.”

“Ye want me to promise before I’ve seen what’s changed?”

“I want ye to promise that ye’ll eat with us—break bread and share drink. That’s all.”

Keith studied him. The stubborn set of Domhnall’s jaw, the wary hope flickering in the villagers’ eyes around the square.

“Aye, I’ll come,” he relented.

A cheer rose around them, and Keith was quickly swarmed by a few brave lads and one elderly woman who pressed a handkerchief filled with oatcakes into his hand.

He didn’t stay long—just long enough to speak with a few farmers, inspect the livestock pen, and quickly check the grain stores. He listened as a young widow complained about wolves near her backyard, and promised to send two extra guards for the season.

The second village, Killdoran, lay beyond a thick forest. As Keith rode through the trees, the sun dipped behind the hills, and the shadows stretched long and strange. A mossy scent thickened the air, and he caught glimpses of deer moving between the trunks.

And there she was.

No, not really. But for a heartbeat, he saw her.

Ersie.

Stepping through the brush, her dark braid catching the light, her lips parted in a half-smile.

His heart kicked in his chest, but when he blinked, he only saw a farmer’s wife walking her goat. Her bonnet caught the breeze and fluttered like a flash of dark hair.

He growled under his breath. “Couldnae leave me alone, lass? It’s hard to think, with ye around.”

Killdoran was smaller, quieter. The square was little more than a fountain and a crumbling chapel, but the villagers poured out to greet him like he was royalty. Chickens scattered, and shutters opened. Children clung to their mothers, wide-eyed.

An old man approached him, tall and wiry, with shrewd eyes beneath bushy eyebrows.

“Welcome, Laird MacAuley. It’s been some years. Thought we’d been forgotten.”

“Nae forgotten,” Keith said. “Just busy bleedin’ for the Highlands.”

The old man smiled slowly. “Name’s Seoras.”

“I remember.”

“Come,” Seoras said, nodding toward a long table beneath an apple tree. “Have a drink.”

Keith followed and drank cider from a horn, nodding as Seoras explained the work they’d done to repair the dam, build the new loom house, and plant a small orchard. Two young girls shyly offered him sweetcakes, which he accepted with a soft thank-you.

“Ye’re still fighting for us,” Seoras said as the light filtered through the branches overhead. “But we dinnae see it like we once did. Yer visit today reminds us that we’re still part of yer clan. Still protected.”

“I’ve never stopped protectin’ ye,” Keith said, his eyebrows lowering.

“Nay. But protectin’ yer people is more than blades and war. Sometimes, it’s breakin’ bread. Dancin’ with the folk. Smilin’.”

Keith’s lips twitched. “Dancin’, ye say?”

“Aye,” Seoras said, grinning. “Word travels.”

“It always does.”

“We’ve our harvest feast next week. It would mean the world if ye came. Just bein’ here… it breathes life into the old stories.”

Keith nodded. “I’ll come.”

As he left Killdoran, the shadows deepened. He passed an alleyway, and a flash of movement caught his eye. A small kitten darted across the cobbles.

And for one gut-wrenching moment, he heard her.

“Here, Trouble! Come now, ye daft little beast!”

Her voice, clear as anything, echoed in his mind.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the kitten was gone. Just a shadow.

Some days, he didn’t see her at all, and those were the worst. When the ache settled into his chest like cold iron. When even his memories felt muted. Even the shadows didn’t look like her on those days.

Keith pulled Brannoc to a stop on the ridge, watching the dusk settle over his lands. Villagers lit torches, and a soft orange glow flickered in the windowpanes below.

He’d accepted two invitations, made two promises.

And still, she haunted him.

Maybe she always would.

Maybe that was his penance.