Page 32 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

32

T he clatter of trinkets and tinctures echoed off the stone in the courtyard, announcing her presence before the guards could call out her name. Ersie had barely made it through the outer bailey before she heard the familiar rasp.

“Is someone going to help an old woman down, or shall I leap from the saddle and shatter what’s left of me hips?”

Mrs. Morrigan, cloaked in layered wool and a scarf wound tight around her gray braid, sat astride her horse like a woman half her age. A sack of herbs and vials was strapped to her side, clinking with every movement.

Ersie grinned and stepped forward. “I see age hasnae softened yer tongue.”

Mrs. Morrigan swung her leg over and dropped lightly to the ground. “And I see ye still have that cursed glint in yer eyes. Good. Ye havenae let that Laird of yers dull it.” She gave Ersie a once-over before patting her cheek with a gnarled hand. “Where’s the maither-to-be, then?”

“In the solar. Laura’s had some backache since yesterday’s walk.”

Mrs. Morrigan’s eyes lit up. “Aye, the bairn’s likely shiftin’. Let’s get in there, then. I’ve brought lavender oil, yarrow tincture, and a new tea that smells like horse piss but does wonders for sleep. Just like young Fraser.”

Laura was reclining near the hearth when they arrived, a woolen blanket tucked around her belly and Fraser perched beside her, babbling contentedly to his wooden horse. He looked up and squealed when he saw the midwife.

“Mrs. Morrigan!”

“Ah, me wee cabbage!” Mrs. Morrigan cried, crossing the room with a speed that belied her years. She scooped him up into a hug and kissed his round cheek. “Growin’ like a weed in the spring, are ye nae?”

Laura laughed softly. “He’s been eating everything in sight. If this one’s a girl, she’s going to have to keep up.”

Mrs. Morrigan set Fraser down and moved to Laura, her hands already moving with the ease of habit. She pressed gently along Laura’s belly, prodded her hips, and listened intently as Laura described the aches.

“Healthy,” the old woman declared after a few moments. “Strong, well-set, but a little mischief-maker already, judgin’ by the way they’re pressin’ against yer spine.”

Laura smiled, resting a hand on her bump. “Feels like a fighter.”

“Oh, they all do when they’re in the womb,” Mrs. Morrigan muttered fondly, fetching a vial from her sack. “But this one’s got good roots. And so did Fraser.”

She glanced around the room then, her fingers stilling.

“I remember every bairn I’ve brought into this world,” she said suddenly, her voice lighter, touched by some warm memory. “Every last one. Some cried like banshees, others came into the world so quiet I thought Death himself was waitin’ for them at the door.”

Laura tilted her head. “Every one?”

“Every single one,” Mrs. Morrigan said firmly. “Let’s see… Before Fraser, there was that lad born to the MacEwan blacksmith’s wife—big head on him, Lord save her. Then that quiet girl from the fishing village with the dark curls… sweet lass. And before her, it was ye, and then…” She tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Ciaran.”

“Only three?” Ersie teased.

“Only three that ye ken. I’ve brought most of ye into this world.”

“So, Ciaran was yer first?”

“Nay, Ciaran wasnae me first. But he was certainly the most memorable.”

Laura glanced toward the window with a smile at the sound of her beloved’s name, and Ersie felt a pang of jealousy.

To love someone so much that the sound of their name brings ye joy.

“Och aye, I remember. He was born in the middle of a thunderstorm. His mother screamed at the sky like she was battlin’ the old gods themselves, and when he finally arrived, he looked at me like he’d already made up his mind nae to cry.”

“Sounds like him,” Ersie muttered, her arms crossed.

“Aye.” Mrs. Morrigan chuckled. “Then, there was ye , Ersie Barcley. Stubborn from the start. Refused to turn the right way. I had to twist ye around like a corkscrew before ye’d show yer face.”

Ersie laughed. “Explains the scar on me chin.”

“’Twas nearly a battle, but we got ye out in one piece. Yer maither nearly broke me hand.” Mrs. Morrigan paused, her expression warming. “A fine woman. Brave to the end.”

The room fell quiet for a moment.

Mrs. Morrigan softened her voice. “There was also a bairn born to Clan MacNiall—a sweet girl with golden hair—and a wee lad born to Clan Sutherland. That one didnae stop wailin’ for three days.”

She turned to the toddler now dancing near the hearth, flapping his arms like a bird. “Young Fraser came into the world with a full head of red hair and a cry that shook the rafters.”

Laura’s eyes misted.

Mrs. Morrigan placed a hand over her heart. “And now this one, this new bairn… I feel it. This one’s going to change everything.”

Ersie tilted her head, curious. “How do ye mean?”

The old woman smiled mysteriously. “Every now and then, a bairn is born that ties the past to the future. This one has roots that run deeper than we ken.”

The warmth of the room lingered, filled with the scent of dried herbs and the lazy crackle of the fire. Fraser had fallen asleep near Laura’s feet, one hand tucked under his chin. Laura stroked his curls idly as Mrs. Morrigan sipped from a chipped teacup, her wizened eyes drifting toward the fire.

Ersie sat nearby, her arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze distant.

Something itched in the back of her mind.

It had been weeks since she’d last seen Keith—since she’d left MacAuley lands, since that fight in the dungeons, since her heart had broken a little more than she cared to admit. She’d told herself to move on. She’d buried it under training drills and morning patrols. But the weight never truly left.

Her voice broke the comfortable quiet. “Mrs. Morrigan…”

The old woman turned, her eyes sharp despite her age. “Aye, lass?”

“Ye said ye remembered every bairn ye’ve brought into the world.” Ersie hesitated. “Do ye… Do ye remember one from MacAuley Keep? A few years back?”

Mrs. Morrigan smiled softly, her fingers curling around the teacup. “Aye, I do.”

The answer came so swiftly, so easily, that it knocked the air from Ersie’s lungs.

Mrs. Morrigan’s smile deepened, her gaze far away now. “That boy was the sweetest wee thing. Came a bit early, but he was strong, loud, and stubborn. Kicked like a wild colt when I held him.”

Laura looked up, startled. “Wait, ye were there? At MacAuley Keep?”

“Och aye. Keith’s wife—poor girl—had gone into labor two weeks early, and word came from their healer, who was too ill to deliver. I rode through a storm to get there. Nearly froze me bloody fingers off.”

Ersie’s throat closed up. “But… she died.”

Mrs. Morrigan blinked, still caught in the memory. “Nae right away, nay.”

Silence fell. Laura sat straighter, her eyes fixed on the old woman.

Mrs. Morrigan wrapped her arms around herself, as if the memory needed to be physically contained. “The boy was born in the deepest part of the night. A beautiful bairn. Had this tiny birthmark right above his ankle—shaped like a crescent moon. I always remember birthmarks. They help me tell the bairns apart when I deliver more than one in a day.”

Ersie held her breath.

Mrs. Morrigan kept going, the memory alive behind her eyes. “He came out squallin’. Keith looked quite eager and excited and terrified, as most new faithers are. His wife held that boy to her chest and wept like the world had cracked open for twelve minutes. I wrapped him in a blue swaddling cloth with silver thread. I remember it clear as day.”

“But…” Laura’s voice was nearly a whisper. “What happened?”

Mrs. Morrigan shook her head gently. “He was alive and strong. He was clean and fell asleep on his maither’s breast, and that’s when we lost her. I assumed… well, I assumed Keith had told ye that the lad passed.”

Ersie’s hands clenched into fists. “He told me. I’m aware.”

Birthmark. Alive. Blue swaddling cloth.

“I held him to his maither’s bosom after she passed,” Mrs. Morrigan said softly. “She died of fever in the night. But the boy… I laid him on her chest, and he nestled into her like he kenned it was his last safe place. I stayed until dawn, then I rode out. Hers was one of the bloodiest births I’ve ever seen.”

Laura covered her mouth with her hand, tears welling up in her eyes.

Ersie sat perfectly still, her heart screaming inside her ribs.

Birthmark .

She shot to her feet so suddenly that the stool behind her clattered to the floor. Fraser stirred but didn’t wake up.

Mrs. Morrigan blinked. “Ersie?”

But Ersie wasn’t listening anymore. Her world had gone quiet, her mind racing.

Keith had never lied to her. Not once. Not when she pressed, not when she asked why he still bore the scars of grief like fresh wounds.

But someone had.

She didn’t remember walking. Just that she was suddenly in the corridor, the wind whipping through the halls as she stormed outside, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Behind her, Laura cried out, “Ersie!”

The wind howled through the keep as Ersie burst through the front doors, her braid slapping hard against her back, her boots echoing across the stone.

She didn’t stop for her cloak. Didn’t stop for her sword, just the blades she carried on her person as she stormed over to the stables.

She barely remembered yelling something at the stablehands before she mounted Fanella bareback and kicked her into a gallop.

Cold air bit at her skin. Rain gathered on the horizon like a dark wall, but she didn’t care.

The killer was still alive.

And Keith… he didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

Because if he’d heard even a whisper of that truth, he never would have stopped searching. He never would have looked her in the eye and told her that he had nothing left.

The road blurred beneath her. Trees whipped past like ghosts, reaching, grabbing, but Fanella was swift and surefooted, her hooves eating the distance with wild urgency. Thunder cracked once, far off, and Ersie didn’t flinch.

She was too busy remembering.

The moment Keith had stood in the dungeons and told her about his son like it had broken something inside him. The raw grief that trembled beneath his fury. The rage that always simmered just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t madness. It was mourning.

And now…

Now, she knew the truth, but he didn’t. And it felt like poison on her tongue.

“God above,” she gasped, rain pelting her cheeks. “What if he blames himself?”

She thought of Mrs. Morrigan’s voice. Soft. Dreamy. “He nestled into her like he kenned it was his last safe place…”

And then she thought of Keith—how often he’d spoken of the past like it was still living behind his eyes. How he’d torn himself apart over a son he believed had been stolen from him by death.

He’d been lied to.

And someone had taken that child away.

MacAuley Keep rose over the ridge just as the rain began to fall in earnest. Cold sheets of it, slicing sideways across the hills. The guards shouted something as she approached, but she didn’t hear it. She didn’t slow down.

Fanella surged into the courtyard like thunder.

Ersie leaped from the saddle before the mare had stopped, stumbling hard on the slick stones, but she didn’t fall. A stablehand tried to grab the reins, and Ersie threw a wild “Hold her!” over her shoulder as she ran for the keep.

Something about her arrival told her to use the odd back entrance. The doors slammed open under her hands. Her boots slipped on the flagstones, but she caught herself, flying down the corridor she hardly recognized and toward his study, where she thought he’d be.

On her way up the stairwell, she heard lovers giggling and silently apologized for the intrusion. But when she came around the bend, her eyes landed on a sight that she never thought she would see.

Lucas and Isla. In the throes of passion.

“Is anyone there?” she called, after clearing her throat and failing to get their attention.

The lovers sprung apart, their breathing ragged, their clothes disheveled. The sight of them made her stomach cramp, but she stood tall.

“Ersie? Is that ye ?” Lucas hissed.

“Aye. Is that ye ?”

Lucas laughed and gestured for Isla to leave, which she did… quickly. “Aye, lass. What has brought ye back to MacAuley Keep so soon?”

“I have to meet with Keith.”

His mouth lifted in a sly smile as he rubbed his hand through his beard. “Och, so he finally sent for ye? About time.”

Ersie simply shook her head.

“The front door wasnae available?”

“Nay.”

“Well, I can take ye to him.”

She followed Lucas through the winding halls. Her heart was still pounding with urgency.

The air in the keep was thicker than she remembered—tighter, darker. Lucas said little as they moved, his boots deliberately echoing down every stone corridor. He moved like a man on a mission, but it wasn’t until they passed the corridor to the war room that a thread of unease wound its way down her spine.

“This isnae the way to the study,” Ersie murmured, slowing down.

Lucas turned, smiling a little too wide. “He moved his maps to a quieter chamber. Wanted focus. Privacy.”

Ersie said nothing, but her hand drifted toward the hilt of the blade hidden behind the small of her back. Just in case.

He led her to a door near the east tower, one she didn’t recognize. The walls were cold here, damp with disuse. As he pushed it open, she saw no study. No maps. No candlelight or parchment.

Just stone. Four walls. One way in.

Lucas stepped inside first.

“After ye,” he said.

She hesitated—just a bit—before stepping inside.

The door shut behind her with a metallic thunk.

Ersie spun fast, but Lucas was already facing her. He didn’t smile this time. He reached for the sword at his hip, drawing it slowly, as if savoring its weight.

“What do ye ken?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Her blood ran cold.

“Lucas,” she said carefully. “What is this?”

“Tell me what Mrs. Morrigan told ye,” he demanded. “What did she remember?”

She didn’t answer.

His jaw twitched. “I’ll ask one more time, and I suggest ye answer.”

Ersie’s fingers brushed the edge of the blade at her back. She tilted her chin. “Ye already ken what she told me.”

Lucas’ eyes flashed. “Aye,” he said, stepping forward. “That Mairead held him. That she left him warm and squallin’ in his maither’s arms.”

His voice cracked at the edge—too many emotions for someone who claimed nothing but distance. Especially at the mention of Mairead, which she found odd.

“Why would that anger ye?” she asked, carefully keeping her feet light. “Why would that make ye draw yer sword?”

Lucas laughed—hollow and bitter. “Because he was mine .”

Ersie’s suspicions were confirmed, but that did nothing to prevent her heart from tightening at hearing the truth. She wanted to know more. Keith deserved to know everything. “What are ye talking about?” She pressed Lucas.

“She thought nay one kenned, but I did. That bairn… he wasnae Keith’s. He was mine. ”

Ersie nodded, to keep him talking.

Lucas’s voice dropped, shaking. “She was mine before Keith ever noticed her. We were supposed to run away together. But then Keith—bloody perfect Keith—claimed her like he claims everything else. She carried me child, and she never told him.”

Ersie’s stomach lurched. “So ye—” Her voice broke. “ Ye killed him.”

Lucas smiled bitterly. “I saved meself.”

The question was tangled in the lump that had formed in her throat. How could ye do it?

Lucas didn’t wait for it, though. He lunged.

Ersie dodged sideways, drawing her blade in a blur and slicing low. She caught his thigh, blood seeping through the fabric.

He roared and swung, but she ducked, momentum flinging her to the far wall. She pushed off the stone, driving toward him with her shoulder.

He was faster than she had expected. His hand clamped around her wrist mid-strike, twisting until she cried out. Her blade clattered to the floor.

“Ye’re fast,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I have more to fight for.”

She kneed him hard, breaking his grip, and dove for her sword. But he kicked it away and leveled his blade at her chest.

“Ye always were sharp, Ersie,” he breathed. “But nae sharp enough.”

Her breath hitched. Her back was pressed against the wall, her heart thundering.

“I dinnae want to kill ye,” he admitted. “But I cannae have ye runnin’ to Keith.”

“And Red Hugh? The three men ye killed?”

“Surprisingly enough, they were telling the truth. Red Hugh sent them after ye because I asked him to,” he said calmly as the tip of his blade pierced through the fabric. “I sent him a letter and a pretty coin to protect me, and he sent them . Little did they ken that they were part of a bigger plot. Ye see, only I can be trusted to protect me . They were pawns. Ye were a complicati?—”

“Touch her and die, Braither.”

The voice was low. Cold. And full of murderous rage.

Lucas froze.

Ersie turned her head just slightly, her breath catching.

Keith stood in the doorway, every inch of him carved in fury. His eyes were black with rage, his sword already drawn, and the full weight of his voice dropped like an avalanche.

“If ye harm her , I will cut ye down without blinkin’, Lucas.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “Stay back, Keith.”

“Ye point that blade at her again,” Keith growled, “and I willnae stop until I’ve fed ye every one of yer own bloody teeth.”

The silence stretched taut, until Lucas made to press the blade even further into her skin and Keith kicked out at him.

Ersie hissed—slow, ragged—and Keith moved, his sword raised, a storm on his face.