Page 9 of Tender is the Heart (The MacCallens and Randalls #2)

Chapter Nine

M argaret felt that she and Aiden had reached a truce of sorts. Oh, it hadn’t been spoken aloud, but the sense of it was still there. They were able to have an honest discussion about unimportant things without Margaret losing her temper or feeling as terrified as a fawn who had discovered he was about to be devoured by a wolf.

He had bid her a fond good day, not long after she had read Onnleigh’s letter aloud. As chief, he had many important duties to tend to.

Admittedly, she felt a strange sense of emptiness when he closed the door behind him. For the longest moment, she sat as still as a mouse, wishing he might return.

He wasn’t quite the rude, ignorant beast she had first believed him to be. If she were being honest with herself, she had given up that notion almost as soon as they had returned to his keep that fateful day, weeks ago.

A beast would have not cared about her feelings. A beast would have insisted she do her duty and consummate the marriage immediately. A beast would have beaten the sharpness of her tongue out of her from day one.

Nay, Aiden wasn’t a beast or a brute or a vile man. He was, as she was quickly learning, an honestly kind and gentle man.

’Twas not a shocking discovery, truth be told. Nay, ’twas something she had known from the start. She had simply been too afraid and too angry to admit it.

Still, worry lingered at the back of her mind. She simply could not afford to let her guard down. If Aiden ever learned the truth about her, her entire world would come crumbling down around her feet.

She had already lost one life: the life she had led before coming here. Margaret didn’t wish to give up another. Nay, she would do her due diligence and guard that dark, ugly secret with every ounce of strength she possessed.

She would be polite and kind to those around her. And she would guard her own heart as much as she would guard her secret. She could coexist with these people.

But she would take her secret to her own grave. And she would spend every waking moment of every single day protecting it.

The afternoon had turned cold and dreary, the sky outside Margaret’s window heavy with iron and pewter clouds.

Wanting to be out of her chamber for at least a little while, she decided to get dressed and start her day. Aye, she knew ’twas long after the mid-day meal, and she understood how much of the day she had wasted, lost in her thoughts and worries. Still, she didn’t wish to stay cooped up in her chamber any longer.

She chose her favorite dark-blue gown, its sleeves and neckline trimmed in goldenrod stitching. Under that, she wore a fur-lined chemise and warm woolens. Her boots matched the color of her gown rather nicely.

After braiding her hair, she took a long look at herself in the small looking glass she kept on her dressing table.

She liked the way the blue dress felt as well as how it made her look more like a grown woman than a young girl.

She felt pretty, and that was a highly unusual. It had been a good number of years since she had felt anything but repulsion when she looked at her own reflection. Not because she thought she was hideous to look upon, but because of the woman she had become.

As she turned the corner, she found a little boy sitting at the top of the stairs.

He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, his curly brown head resting against the cold, damp wall. It only took a glance to realize the child was upset about something.

“Lad?” she asked with measured caution. “What is the matter?” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the boy’s name.

He sniffed, wiped his tears on the sleeve of his tunic, and turned away.

A sense of uncertainty washed over her. Should she leave the little boy alone or press harder to see if she could help? Truly, she had no experience with children and was at a loss as to what to do.

She could only pull from her own memories of being so young. Mayhap he had been in an argument with one of his cousins. It could also be that he’d gotten into trouble with one of his parents.

Supposing it really didn’t matter, she decided to sit beside him. Even if he didn’t wish to talk now, at least he wouldn't be all alone. That was a feeling she understood all too well.

The stairway was quite narrow and the stone steps rather uncomfortable to sit on. She was glad for her fur-lined chemise, thick woolens, and shawl. The lad, however, wasn’t dressed properly for this weather. He wore only a dark-brown tunic, wool trews, and fur-lined boots. He would definitely need a cloak if he were to sit here much longer.

Her breaths hung in the air before softly disappearing. With the dark-gray skies out of doors, no light shone in through the arrow slits, making it feel all the more cold and gloomy. While lit torches lined the staircase, they offered very little in the way of warmth.

They sat in silence for a long, long while before Margaret finally spoke. “Are ye cold?”

His only response was to give a quick shake of his noggin.

She worried that if they stayed here much longer, they’d both find themselves frozen to the stone walls and steps. “Well, I am cold. Would ye like to go with me to get some warm cider? Mayhap we can see if Flossie has a sweet cake?” A little bribery never hurt a thing.

Another shake of his head.

Worry began to settle into her mind. While she had no experience with children, she felt certain that no one as young as he would turn down the offer of a sweet cake, either as a reward or a bribe.

“I fear if we stay here much longer, we shall become rather large icicles, frozen clear through. We might break and shatter into a hundred pieces if they try to dislodge us.”

The little boy didn’t find her statement nearly as amusing as she did. He continued to ignore her attempts at a conversation.

“Should I fetch yer mum for ye?”

And that is when the dam burst.

“I dinnae have a mum!” he cried. “My mums all die!”

Margaret’s heart stopped beating for a moment. Och! This poor babe!

Guilt gripped her heart like a vice. Margaret had a vague recollection of her first morning here, when the Randall family had gathered in her bedchamber. This was the little boy who had mentioned his father’s grief that morn.

Of course she had no way of knowing ’twas his mother who had died. Still, she knew her words had hurt him deeply.

Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him into her lap. Rocking back and forth as one might do with a newly born babe, she did her best to comfort him. “Och, sweetin’,” she murmured. “I did nae ken.”

Snuggling into her breast, the little boy wept without restraint. The more he wept, the heavier her heart became. Truly, had she known about his mother, she would never have said what she had said.

Gently, she continued to rock, to and fro, whispering soothing words against the top of his head. “Let it all out, child. Cry all ye want.”

How many times in her life had she longed for a mother who would offer the same kind of comfort she was offering this little boy? A mother who would hold her and whisper words of comfort into her ear?

It suddenly became clear to her. The clarity so fierce it felt like a kick to her gut. I dinnae have a mum either.

At least not in the truest sense of the word. Nay, she’d been cursed with a cruel, vicious woman who cared only for herself. A woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Never had Helen cared about who she was hurting or how badly she was hurting them.

Her own tears began to fall then. Not tears of grief like this little boy had. Nay, she cried for all the things she’d never had. She cried for the life she had longed for for nearly a decade. Tears of regret, longing, and sadness.

As she wept, she made a silent vow. She would never be the kind of mother Helen had been. No longer would she wallow in her own self-pity, and neither would she continue to be so bloody cold-hearted to those around her.

Starting right this very moment, she was turning over a new leaf. Her past would remain her past, and the deep, dark secret she held would never see the light of day.

It had been a long time since Symon had crawled into a woman’s lap and cried. Of course, at the ripe old age of eight, everything felt like an eternity.

While some people believed that little boys shouldn't cry else they grow up to be weak men, his uncle Aiden didn’t agree with that. When Symon’s grandsire had died a few years ago, his uncle had given him permission to cry to his heart’s content. “All men grieve,” Aiden had told him. “We are grievin’ the loss of someone we loved verra much.” They had cried together for an entire afternoon.

He felt comfortable here, in his new aunt’s arms. He felt safe and loved too. Flossie and Aunt Lizabet are wrong about her. Margaret is verra nice. And she smells good, too.

“All will be well, lad, ye will see,” Margaret whispered against the top of his head.

“Nay,” he wept. “Nothin’ will ever be well again.”

“Now, what makes ye say that?”

He buried his head further into her chest. “I killed my mum. I am a murderer!”

Margaret’s heart seized once again, causing her to gasp with horror. She pushed him away so as to look him in the eyes. “What?” she asked incredulously. Not for a moment did she believe this sweet little boy could do such a thing.

He nodded his head rapidly, his little brown curls bouncing with the movement. “Aye, I did! She died givin’ birth to me!”

A blend of relief and sorrow washed over her. Relaxing her shoulders, she pulled him back into her chest. “Lad, that was nae yer fault! Who would tell ye such a thing as that?”

He sniffed twice before saying, “No one. I figured it out myself.”

’Twas difficult to hold on to the laugh that wanted so desperately to escape. She was quite relieved that no one had told him that. To say such a thing would have been vicious and cruel. Something her mum might have said.

“Now, laddie, ye listen to me, aye?” she said as she hugged him tightly. “Ye did nae kill yer mum. I give ye my word. Many women die durin’ childbirth, and many babes go to heaven with them.”

His sobs lessened, and she could tell he was listening intently. “Now, I did nae ken yer mum, but if she was anything at all like yer aunts, she is mighty glad that ye lived.”

“Ye think so?” he asked softly.

“I nae only think it, I ken it.”

She could feel his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. This poor child! How long has he been holding on to this pain and worry? And where on earth is his father? Before letting her anger get the better of her, she took in a slow breath and chose her words carefully.

“Lad, is yer da still alive?” She held her breath, worried he would start crying all over again.

“Aye,” he nodded.

That was a tremendous relief. “Have ye talked to him about yer worries?”

He shook his head and said, “Nay. He is grievin’ somethin’ fierce right now.”

Perplexed, she asked him why.

He sighed heavily as he sat up, wiping his face against the sleeve of his tunic. “Because my new mamma died, just like my mum.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, she took in a deep breath. This poor child has now lost two mums.

“She died birthin’ my brother. Only he did nae live like I did.”

Two mums and a baby brother? How much more heartache could this child bear? Her heart felt tight again, and tears threatened. She choked them back and gave him a gentle hug. “I am so sorry, child. I am so verra sorry.”

“Do ye think I will ever have a mum who will nae die?”

Lord, he was intent on breaking her heart! “I certainly hope so,” she replied, offering up a weak smile. That was a question no one could answer.

“Mayhap ye should tell yer da how ye are feelin’,” she offered hopefully.

He gave a slow shake of his head and said, “I dinnae think so. He is grievin’ somethin’ powerful right now.”

Grievin ’ somethin ’ powerful. ’Twas something she had heard him say repeatedly, and she wondered if it was something he had heard before, or if he had ‘figured it out’ himself, as he had figured out he was a murderer.

“Well, I think we should talk to him anyway,” she encouraged. Mayhap, if he could see how badly his son was hurting, the father might be able to focus on something other than his own pain.

“We can try, but I am tellin’ ye, he is grievin'—”

“Somethin’ powerful,” she interrupted. “I understand, but we can at least make a good effort, aye?”

With a shrug, he slid off her lap as he continued to shake his head. “I dinnae ken what good will come of it,” he told her, “but I will take ye to him anyway.”

He held her hand as he led the way to his father’s bedchamber. With a gentle knock on the heavy wooden door, he said, “Da? ’Tis me, Symon.”

Symon! Realizing she didn’t even know the child’s name, she felt rather foolish yet relieved to now know it.

Symon lifted the heavy iron latch and slowly opened the door.

The dim light from the hallway spilled into the black-as-pitch room. Briefly, Margaret thought mayhap Symon’s father wasn’t inside, until she heard the deep timbre of the man’s voice. “Come in, son.”

Startled, Margaret followed the boy into the room. To her left, she could hear the sound of flint stone before a candle burst to life.

“Who is with ye?” the deep voice asked. He didn’t sound upset or angry, but something about his tone made her uncomfortable.

“My new aunt,” Symon said as he crossed the floor. “Margaret.”

“Ah,” the disembodied voice replied. “I have heard much about ye, Margaret.”

His voice came from the dark corner of the room.

“Da, ye let the fire burn out,” Symon said as he walked across the room. “Are ye nae cold?”

“Mayhap a bit,” he replied with a soft chuckle.

From the corner of her eye, she could see a dark shadow moving from the corner to the opposite side of the room.

Symon was tossing small logs into the hearth when the man moved, appearing as naught more than a dark shadow moving from one corner to the other. “Here, let me help ye with that.”

He was crouching next to his son, adding kindling to the hearth. In very little time, the two had a nice fire coming to life.

Margaret strained her eyes to get a good look at the man. ’Twasn’t until he stood up and turned towards her that she could see him clearly.

He was taller than Aiden by a few inches, but that was where the differences between them ended. He was nearly an exact replica of her husband. Dark hair, dark-brown eyes, and built like stone walls. Broad shoulders, narrow at the hip, and a countenance that bespoke strength, honor, and quiet dignity.

“I am Aiden’s eldest brother, Brodie,” he introduced as he walked towards her. “’Tis a pleasure to finally meet ye.”

Several things occurred at once. Firstly, she was struck by just how devilishly handsome he was. Secondly, she was consumed with confusion as to why he, as the eldest son, was not chief of their clan.

“Please, come sit by the fire,” he said, sweeping his arms toward the hearth.

Hesitantly, she did as he asked and took a seat in a nice chair by the hearth. The heat from the fire felt good against her skin, but something still left her feeling quite unsettled. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what that something was.

Brodie took the seat opposite her and held his arm out for his son. “Symon, come see yer papa.”

The little boy crawled into his father’s lap and smiled broadly. He appeared to be happy and content to have his father’s arm wrapped around his waist. A small pang of jealousy stabbed at her stomach. Only moments ago, Symon had been content in her lap.

“What brings ye here to see me this miserable afternoon?” Brodie asked.

“She wants to talk to ye about me, papa.”

Symon looked down at his son with a most curious expression. “Have ye done somethin’ wrong, lad?”

“I dinnae think so,” he replied worriedly. He turned his attention to Margaret. “Did I do somethin’ wrong, Aunt Margaret?”

She couldn’t help but to giggle softly at his worried question. And quite frankly, she was enjoying the fact that he was referring to her as Aunt Margaret. “Nay lad, ye have done nothin’ wrong.”

Looking much relieved, Brodie asked, “What is it ye wish to speak to me about, then?”

Her amusement with Symon was immediately replaced with a sense of discomfit with his father’s question. There was something odd about this man. Something that made her feel ill at ease.

“Are ye aware that yer son is grievin’?” She hadn’t intended the question to sound quite so accusatory.

“I am,” he replied before glancing down at his son with a broad smile. “We are all grievin’, aye?”

“We are, Papa,” Symon said. “But ye are grievin’ somethin’ powerful, Da.”

Brodie gave him a gentle hug. “That, I am, son. That, I am.”

Margaret was more than just a bit confused with the interaction between father and son. Symon had insisted that he couldn’t talk to his father about his grief, for the man was too lost in his own.

But here they were, openly discussing their own grief with one another.

“Ye worry over me, son, aye?” Brodie asked with a warm smile.

“’Tis true, Papa, I do.” To Margaret, the boy was exceedingly forlorn and sorrowful.

“’Tis glad I am to ken ye worry over me, son,” Brodie replied.

Margaret was completely taken aback by his statement. “How can ye be glad that yer son worries over ye to the point of tears?”

Brodie turned his attention away from his son, his smile evaporating in an instant. “Dinnae all good sons worry over their parents grief?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say!” she exclaimed.

Brodie cocked his head to one side and stared at her. She found it more than just a bit unsettling that he wasn’t looking directly into her eyes. Oh, his eyes were fixed on her, but ’twas as if he was seeing right through her, as if she weren’t truly there.

“If yer mum or da were ill, or injured, or grievin’, would ye nae worry over them?”

There was no way she could answer his inquiry without sounding like a petulant and selfish person or without telling him her life story. ’Twasn’t necessarily a lie she gave him, but more of a half-truth. “Aye.”

“Then, ye understand why it is that I am glad my son worries over me.”

No, she didn’t quite understand.

Sensing her lack of understanding, Brodie said, “He worries because he loves me.”

Clarity dawned, but only dimly.

“I would be more worried with a son who has no sympathy for others.”

Now she understood his point completely .

“He is a good lad,” she pointed out with a smile towards Symon.

Beaming proudly, Brodie agreed.

“Papa, I miss them,” Symon said as he rested his head against his father’s shoulder.

“As do I,” Brodie replied. “They were good women.”

After a short and awkward moment, Symon let out a heavy sigh. “Papa, I have a confession to make,” Simon whispered solemnly.

“And what might that be?”

Simon shifted his weight nervously.

“Please, dinnae hate me, Da, but I killed me mum.”

Before his father could utter a word, Margaret spoke up. “Symon, that is absolutely nae true! Why on earth do ye think such a thing?”

Brodie sat back to absorb the conversation.

“She died because I was borned.”

From his furrowed brow and the dubiousness in his eyes, he believed it. “If I had nae been borned, she would still be alive, and my da would nae be grievin’ so fiercely.”

A very large, gaping crack formed in her heart. “I see,” she said rather calmly. “Simon, have ye seen Rose Randall’s babe?”

“Aye,” he replied with a good measure of curiosity. “Grace, Hope, and Faith took me to see him.”

Margaret smiled softly. “He’s a wee thing, aye?”

“Aye,” he replied, growing more curious by the moment .

“Do ye think little Andrew could kill yer da?”

He sat upright in his father’s lap, aghast at the thought. “Nay! My da is strong and fierce! And Andrew is just a wee babe!”

“Aye, he is. Just a wee babe. Just like ye were when ye were born, aye?”

He blinked a few times, clearly trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Andrew could nae more kill anyone than ye could have when ye were a babe. Nae, Simon, ye did nae kill yer mum.”

“Then, why did she die?”

Margaret looked at Brodie hoping for some sort of assistance. None was immediately forthcoming.

“People die for all sorts of reasons, lad. Birthin’ a babe is verra, verra hard work, and it can be quite dangerous. Some babes die before they’re even born. Others die right after. Some women die while birthin’ their babes. Some can have many, many babes without issue.”

“But why did my mum die?” Tears were pooling in his eyes again. It made Margaret’s heart crack even more seeing his distress and sorrow.

“I dinnae ken,” she answered, her voice cracking on tears of her own.

Brodie finally stepped in to help. “Simon, we dinnae always have the answers to all of the questions we have in life. As much as it pains to me to have admit it, ’tis true. I myself dinnae understand why I have lost two women I loved so verra much. But I have.”

’Twas heartbreaking to watch father and son grieving. Symon’s sadness especially tore at her heart. She had been three and ten when her father died.

Nay, she couldn’t think about her father. ’Twas far too painful to think of him and how he had died. She swallowed back tears, determined to focus on the two people lost in grief.

“What was Symon’s mother like?” she asked in a soft whisper. Just what brought forth that question, she couldn’t rightly say. But there it was, out and asked, and she couldn’t pull the words back in.

Brodie’s smile was warm and infectious. “She was a good young woman,” he began. “Strong, determined, and och! Did she have a temper!”

Symon covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. “She scared ye, did nae she, Papa?”

Brodie gave his son a gentle hug. “Aye, that she did, lad.”

Margaret was glad to know that Brodie had no issue with sharing memories of Symon’s mother. Some people, after losing someone they loved so deeply, didn’t like to talk about them anymore.

She scoffed inwardly. Her mother was not of the latter ilk. Nay, she talked about Margaret’s father on a nearly hourly basis. Not out of any fond or loving memories, but to remind Margaret just what a lazy, no-good, horrible man he’d been.

Margaret knew none of that was true, of course.

Once again, she was forced to push her own memories of her father aside. She had missed most of what Brodie and Symon were talking about and felt ashamed for being lost in her own thoughts.

“Aye, she did hit me over the head with a chamber pot,” Brodie said. His son was sitting up now, facing his papa. Although Margaret couldn’t see the lad’s face, she could certainly hear him giggling. “She was the only one ye were ever afraid of, right, Papa?”

“Aye,” Brodie said, feigning fear. “She made me quake in me own boots!”

Symon threw his head back and laughed, almost falling off his father’s lap. Brodie caught him around his waist before he could fall.

“And she was beautiful, too, Papa. Don’t forget how beautiful she was.”

Brodie’s shoulders sagged, and his smile dulled. “Aye, lad, she was a beauty.”

“And ye did nae need yer eyes to ken that, did ye, Papa?”

Brodie swallowed hard before answering. “Nay, laddie. I did nae need my eyes to ken that.”

“Because beauty comes from inside, right, Papa?”

Brodie’s smile brightened again. “That is true, son. Verra true.”

“A person can be beautiful on the outside but ugly on the inside. Right, Papa?”

“Aye, this is true as well,” Brodie said as he pulled his son in to kiss the top of his head.

“But it takes a blind man to see that, aye, Papa?”

Brodie nodded his affirmation before turning his attention back to Margaret.

’Twas then she realized why his eyes never quite met her own. Margaret, ye are an eejit, she thought.

“Ye are blind!”

Brodie tossed his head back and had a hearty laugh at his sister-by-law’s expense. Now, if he still had the gift of vision, he would have been able to clearly see her cheeks burning a deep shade of red. Blind or nae, he knew she was probably dying from embarrassment.

“’Tis all right, lass,” he said through fits of laughter. “Most people already ken that I am blind. And those that dinnae eventually figure it out.”

“I am so sorry,” Margaret exclaimed. He could hear the humiliation in her voice.

“For what? That I am blind?” He hoped there was enough sarcasm in his tone to set the lass at ease.

“For—. I mean, I …” She was clearly struggling to find the right words.

“Dinnae fash over it, lass,” he said warmly. “I dinnae regret anything in my life. Nae even losin’ my sight.”

’Twas true, but she had no way of knowing that.

There were few times in his life where he had cursed his blindness. But that was in the early days after losing it.

Were it not for his father’s unwavering faith in Brodie’s abilities, he would not have grown into the man he is today. Garren Randall had been Brodie’s strongest ally, always pushing for him to try, to never give up, no matter what obstacles were put in front of him.

“I fear I dinnae ken what to say,” Margaret murmured softly.

’Twas Symon who saved the uncomfortable silence that followed. “Is it true ye saved a babe from a fairy tree? Did ye truly fight off at least a dozen fairies to save her?”

There was so much hope in his son’s voice that Brodie had to chuckle. He gave Symon a gentle squeeze before playfully adding, “A dozen?” He shook his head. “I heard tell it was an entire legion of fairies.”

Symon gasped, and Brodie could imagine the boy’s mouth all agape with astonishment. “A whole legion ?”

“’Twas what I heard,” Brodie said, feigning all seriousness.

Margaret finally stepped in to set the matter straight for both of them.

“That is nae what happened,” she told them.

“Then, pray tell us what did happen?” Brodie challenged.

Margaret wasn’t sure how much she should tell him. Something about the man told her he could be trusted with secrets. Mayhap not all of her secrets, but she could at least start with this small one.

The following hour flew by. Margaret told the story of what really happened. She added no embellishments, no exaggerations. In truth, she told the story as plainly as possible to the point it sounded rather boring to her.

But little Symon didn’t think it was boring. “I remember that night!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement.

“How could ye?” Brodie asked. “’Twas the middle of the night. Ye should have been abed.”

“I was,” Symon told him. “But we heard all the commotion below stairs. Me and Hugh listened from the balcony.”

“I see,” Brodie said.

“That is how I kenned she saved the babe. The babe was cryin’ somethin’ fierce. Flossie got her some goats milk.”

“Then, ye ken the truth of it,” Margaret said. “I am no hero. I did nae fight any fairies or other monsters.”

Brodie cocked his head to one side in bemusement. “But ye did, lass.”

Margaret scoffed at the idea.

“Ye went against the monster that was yer mother, aye? Ye refused to kill that babe. Ye saved many lives that night. Not just the babe’s but Onnleigh’s as well.”

Margaret had never thought of it that way before now. She was stunned at the physical reaction she had to that realization. Something deep inside her shifted, causing her heart to feel warm and light.

Aye, she had saved more than one life that night. She had defied her mother. And Brodie was right; her mother was a monster in more ways than one.

And, because of Margaret’s actions that night, she had slayed that monster, at least in the figurative sense. Her mother was now locked away, a prisoner of her own doing.

“Lass?” Brodie asked in a concerned tone. “Are ye well?”

His question shook her out of her quiet reverie. She nodded her head, before remembering that Brodie couldn’t see. “Aye, I think I am.”

The sudden realization that her mother couldn’t hurt her anymore, either with her words and threats or her fists, was so profound it made her head spin. ’Twas a good thing she had already been sitting down.

“Ye dinnae look well,” Symon said as he slid down from his father’s lap. Concerned, he stood in front of her and patted her hand. “Do ye need a dram of whisky?” he asked. “My da and uncles always sip a dram of whisky when they are nae feelin’ well.”

Margaret giggled and pulled the boy in for a big hug. “Nay, lad!” she exclaimed. “I dinnae need any whisky.”

“Symon, could ye go and see what Hugh is doin’?” Brodie asked.

“Hugh?” Symon asked, turning towards his father. “But why?”

“Because I want to make sure his older sisters are nae ignorin’ him,” Brodie replied.

Symon nodded with understanding. “All right, Papa. I will find him.”

Once the door closed behind Symon, Brodie turned his full attention to Margaret. “Ye sound rather happy, lass.”

“I do?” Margaret asked. Shrugging her shoulders she smiled brightly. “I suppose I am.”

“And what brought forth this newfound happiness?”

“Who says it is newly found?” she asked with a most serious and curious tone.

Brodie chuckled before replying. “Nae only has yer husband been to see me numerous times, but so have Lizabet, Elayne, and the rest of my sisters. Even Flossie has been here to seek my counsel.”

Confused, Margaret furrowed her brow. “Counsel on what matter?”

“On the matter of ye.”

Margaret was truly surprised. “Me?” Fear trickled up and down her spine. She knew she had been less than kind to them. Nay, she’d been downright mean. “Why did they come to ye?” she asked as her worry continued to grow.

“They came to me because they were all worried about ye.”

“Worried? About me?” Her worry began to lessen. In its place, a tremendous sense of guilt for having behaved so cruelly to them.

“Aye,” he replied before getting to his feet. “They worried ye would never settle in here.”

Given how childishly she'd behaved, she couldn't fault them for that.

Brodie effortlessly made his way to the hearth and grabbed the poker to stoke the fire before adding another log.

’Twas amazing to Margaret how he could move with such grace, considering he was blind.

“Hope was worried that ye were goin’ to do somethin’ to hurt yerself.”

Shame filled her stomach before bursting out the rest of her body. Her cheeks warmed. “I would never do such a thing,” she said. But there wasn’t much conviction in her voice. She would be lying if she said the thought never crossed her mind.

“Each of them believed ye were filled with so much sorrow and anger that ye would never feel at home here. Yet each of them believed that, with enough love and kindness, ye would eventually settle in.”

Margaret couldn’t resist the urge to smile. They were genuinely concerned with her happiness. Her smile was short-lived when Brodie next spoke.

“’Twas Elayne who came up with the idea to kill ye.”

Her audible gasp made him turn to look at her. Chuckling he quickly added, “To kill ye with kindness, lass.”

She blew out a breath of relief as her shoulders sagged. Placing a palm on her rapidly beating heart, she said, “Thank ye for clarifying that. Ye scared me half to death!”

“My apologies,” he replied as he bowed slightly at the waist.

It took a long moment for her heart rate to settle. ’Twas terrifying to think someone wanted you dead.

Brodie returned to his seat and leaned forward. “Now, tell me why ye are suddenly so happy.”

“She cannae hurt me anymore,” she said, sitting a bit taller in the chair.

“I take it ye are speakin’ of yer mother?”

“Aye,” she said with a nod. “Ye helped me to realize that she cannae hurt me, or anyone else, ever again.”

The sense of giddiness washing over her body was hard to contain. She wanted to jump up and shout it from the rooftops! She wanted to run from room to room with the news.

“Then she was as bad as Lizabet told me,” he replied.

“Lizabet?” Margaret asked curiously. “What would Lizabet ken of my mother?”

“Onnleigh MacCallen,” he answered pointedly. “She sent a letter to Lizabet. In it, she explained what a harsh upbringing ye had.”

She quirked a brow. “Harsh?” Oh, Lizabet had no idea what kind of upbringing she had. She also doubted Onnleigh truly knew. It irked her that the two women would assume they knew anything about her.

“Harsh. Cruel. Whatever ye may call it,” Brodie said. “The point is that ye have a chance to start yer life anew here.”

That much was true. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She’d spent the better part of her life being angry and afraid. ’Twas time to set all of that aside and focus on her future.

“So, I will ask ye again, lass. Why are ye happy?”

“Because she cannae hurt me anymore.”

She cannae hurt me anymore, she thought as her heart began to race. No more threats. No more beatins. No more bein ’ forced to do her biddin ’ .

Helen couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Her breathing increased along with her heartbeats. She cannae hurt me anymore.

’Twasn’t so much a sense of relief that washed over her as it was joy that was quickly turning to giddiness. A slow giggle started in the pit of her stomach, and before long, she was laughing with such intensity she began to wonder if she hadn’t lost her mind completely.

She lay on her back, across her bed, and looked up at the stone ceiling. Her arms were spread out, her laughter slowly beginning to wane. “She cannae hurt me ever again,” she said. “My mother is dead to me. I am now free.”

Free.

Oh, how many times had she prayed to be free? To be free of her mother’s cruelty, not only towards Margaret but the cruelty she cold inflict upon others. To be completely free from her mother’s influence and ruthlessness.

“Ye can start anew.” Isn’t that what Onnleigh had told her that fateful day a fortnight ago? Margaret had been too exhausted, too upset, too terrified to pay any attention to anything anyone might have said that morning.

Moving forward, however, wouldn’t be easy. Her entire world had been built on a foundation of lies. A foundation of broken bricks and sand.

Had she not been so utterly terrified of her mother, had she grown a backbone much sooner, she could have fought against her. Fought for what was right instead of doing her evil bidding. And her life most assuredly would have been far different.

Realizing there was naught to be done about it now, she could only move forward and take the steps necessary to make up for everything she’d ever done wrong.

For the first time in years, Margaret felt a sense of hope and peace. Although she knew, unequivocally, that she had made a horrible impression on Aiden and his family, she still felt optimistic that she could change their opinions of her. And she would have to if she were to have even a glimmer of hope for a much brighter future.

A future that didn’t involve her mother.

She would extend the proverbial olive branch to Aiden and his family. She could only pray that they would accept it.