Page 31 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)

31

K atie stared blankly at the heavy canopy above her bed, willing the stubborn visitor of sleep to come to her. It wouldn’t even edge nearer, eluding her entirely.

He’s back at the castle. He’s safe.

That should have been enough to alleviate her worries. Yet, her worries now weren’t the same as those she’d left the forest with. Rhona’s warning clanged like a gong in her head, ringing without end.

Reassurance from Hector might have helped, but he hadn’t come to her either. She only knew he had returned to the castle because she’d been sitting by the window, taking a pause from her sewing, and had seen him come through the gardens. To her partial relief, he’d been carrying a stag over his shoulders, not a human body.

Maybe he forgot about what he ran off to do. Maybe he carried on huntin’ instead.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, with Rhona’s words still echoing in her mind. Had he lost interest in that chase, as he would eventually do with her? Had he been distracted from his task, as he might have been distracted by another woman?

Just bloody well ask him!

Evidently, her brain had had enough of her, giving her the only sage words of advice that might actually get her to sleep before dawn.

“Aye… just bloody well ask him,” she muttered, throwing back the covers. “Dinnae be a coward, lass. Ye’ve never been a coward before.”

Keeping that in mind, she pulled her simplest dress over her nightdress and, picking up a lantern, headed out into the hallway.

For such a vast castle, filled with so many people, it had fallen unnervingly silent. There was only the occasional whistle of the wind sneaking in through a crack, and the whip of the flames in the sconces, reminding her of the sound of laundry hanging out to dry on a breezy summer day.

The stone hallways deadened the sound of her footsteps as she crept along, her heart in her throat. She had never been to Hector’s bedchamber before, though she knew where it was—Isla had pointed it out to her, back when the old woman was in Katie’s good graces.

Steel yerself, lass, she told herself when she spotted the right door up ahead.

Thirty paces, and what felt like thirty minutes later, she stopped outside his chambers. Holding her lantern aloft and clearing her throat, she gently rapped her knuckles against the hardwood. A sound so quiet that even a mouse could have beaten it.

Taking a deep breath, she was about to bring her fist down with all the strength of the agitation simmering in her veins when a different sound drifted out to her. So soft that she had to press her ear to the keyhole, to make sure she’d heard it at all.

A breathy gasp sounded in the room beyond, the tail end of it smoothing into a yearning moan. And as it came again, the moan became a word, panted with desire.

“Hector…”

Every instinct made Katie want to recoil, but it was as if her ear had become stuck to the keyhole, needing to hear what happened next. Indeed, she wondered if she was any better than the degenerate who had watched her swimming.

“Aye… Aye, M’Laird… Oh… Oh, Hector…” The moans were rhythmic, punctuated by a dull thud, as if a headboard had struck the wall. “Aye, Hector, like that! Oh… like that, M’Laird! Harder, M’Laird!”

The thudding duly quickened, as did the horrified, heartbroken pounding of Katie’s heart. And as if that was not bad enough, to hear another woman moaning Hector’s name as he pleasured her, that woman’s voice was familiar.

Ye said ye’d help me escape… and now ye’re with him, in his bed, with his name on yer lips.

Indeed, those weren’t the noises of a woman who had insisted she had no claim to Hector. She was… enjoying herself while knowing that his bride was down the hallway, sewing her wedding gown alone, trying to get it finished in time.

Of course, Katie wasn’t in her room anymore, but the point remained: Rhona thought that was where she was.

At last, whatever was keeping Katie stuck to the door seemed to decide that she’d heard enough, allowing her to recoil.

She managed to stand on shaky legs, her heart sore and her stomach sick, and urged herself into a walk. Even if her knees buckled, she would keep going, taking herself as far from that wretchedness as possible.

“Fresh air,” she gasped, her chest tight. “I need fresh air.”

She followed her instinct, heading along the hallway and down the narrow staircase in something of a trance, trudging on until she found a door that would spill her out into that blessed fresh air.

As it happened, the door she chose led her into the gardens, where she wandered in a daze, crossing the babbling stream to the pear tree island. She didn’t pause to look at the stones beneath more closely, continuing on as if an otherworldly force had taken hold of her, making her do its bidding.

She didn’t hesitate as she found herself walking through the creaking, ancient gate and into the eerie, shadow-drenched woods. Forgetting what had happened there just a few hours ago.

Yet, even the night creatures and anyone lurking in the darkness seemed to understand that the woman traipsing through wasn’t in any state to be messed with. Perhaps she radiated an unnatural energy, dazed as she was. Perhaps they realized she’d been through enough for one night, seeing as she was walking alone through dangerous territory.

Whatever the reason, she took no notice of her surroundings as she pressed on, unsure where she was going. The pool, maybe? She didn’t know. She just wanted to be anywhere but the castle for a while, so she could decide how to proceed.

Me siblings will be safe there until the mornin’ at least. Isla will keep them safe.

Despite having no notion of where she was going or where she wanted to go, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Katie found herself standing on the opposite bank of the river that led to her cottage. As if that quaint, ruined place had guided her home through the storm of her turmoil.

Stripping off her dress and holding it over her head, she descended into the water, gasping at the icy shock of it. Invigorated enough to feel the first spark of anger break loose from the great mass of numb nothingness that had draped over the incident—to prevent her from screaming in the hallway, no doubt.

The swim was easy, with the current half-carrying her to the opposite shore, and as she reached the other side, she pulled on her dry dress and headed for the rear gate of the cottage. The herb garden on that side didn’t seem to be in a much better condition than the front, everything trampled and destroyed by spiteful feet.

“Katie?” a soft voice called out to her from the dark.

A stifled yelp escaped her throat, her eyes squinting to pick out the source of that voice.

There, sitting on a chair to the side of the cottage, a broadsword across his thighs, was the miller, Lewis. Standing guard. Taking the night watch on a cottage that had been decimated and emptied of belongings and people, despite her insistence that he stand down.

“Katie—I mean, Miss Blake—is that ye?” he asked, rising.

It was the hammer blow that shattered the floodgates. Hearing his gentle, concerned voice, seeing his anxious smile, seeing that he was taking care of her cottage when no one else would—it whipped back the drapes of her hurt, unleashing the tears that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back.

Bracing her hands against the tree stump she used for splitting wood, she coughed out her choked sobs, her tears dripping onto the stump, filling up the crevices made from years of chopping.

“Katie?” Lewis’s voice carried a current of urgency as he hurried toward her. “What’s wrong, lass? Why are ye cryin’? Did I scare ye that badly? I’m sorry, lass. I wasnae expectin’ anyone—least of all ye—to appear.”

She didn’t protest as his hand rested gently on her back, his other hand taking hold of her arm, turning her around and lowering her onto the tree stump.

He crouched low in front of her, peering up. “What’s wrong?”

Wiping the tears from her cheeks with her fists, feeling utterly foolish in so many ways, she told him through hiccupping breaths what had sent her all the way home. She told him everything, from the ‘seduction’ to that very moment, though she left out the more sordid details. And as she spoke, he listened, holding her hand tightly through it all.

“Och, lass…” He shook his head slowly, clicking his tongue. “I’ve half a mind to take me broadsword and shear the wastrel in two. He doesnae ken what he has, but then what Laird does? They dinnae cherish things like ordinary folk. Warmongers, least of all. Och, they dinnae even cherish life.”

Katie mustered a smile, covering his hand with hers. “Thank ye, Lewis. Thank ye for listenin’ to me, though ye must be thinkin’ that I brought it upon meself.”

“Nae at all,” he replied in earnest. “I never much liked him as a laird, and I like him even less as a man, now. Ye didnae bring this upon yerself, lass. Ye’re nae the sort. Ye’re the finest lass I ken, who couldnae bring such a thing upon herself if she tried.”

Katie stared at him, shaking her head. “How can ye say that after the way I’ve treated ye?”

She recalled, in mortifying detail, all of the times he’d brought her flowers or a bag of good grain, freshly ground, and had asked her in that same hopeful voice if she would marry him. And she, in turn, had smiled—laughed softly, perhaps—and refused him as gently as she could. Then, with a fond smile, he would say, “Next time, maybe.”

It was a well-rehearsed performance, and she’d always assumed it was just that: a friendly back-and-forth, with no real intent behind it. Now, all she could think about was how much she must have hurt him with her endless rejections.

“What do ye mean?” He tilted his head to the side. “Kindly? Generously? Ye’ve always given me somethin’ to drink or eat when I came by. Ye’ve always talked with me, while others would just take their grain and leave. Ye’ve always been good to me, lass.”

She swallowed thickly, imagining a different future. “But… I rejected ye so often, Lewis. Ye asked me to marry ye over and over, and I said nay. How can ye think well of me after that?” She dabbed at her eyes with her damp sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Lewis. I’m so sorry for puttin’ ye through that.”

“I think well of ye because ye’re a good lass,” he replied, squeezing her hand. “It hurts, bein’ rejected. I’m sure ye ken that now, but dinnae worry about me, lass. I decided long ago that if it wasnae ye, it wouldnae be any lass, and so I’ve learned how to enjoy me life alone. Doesnae mean I cannae help ye still, though, does it?”

She sighed. “Thank ye, Lewis.”

“Dinnae mention it.” He stood up, pulling her with him. “Now, come on, let’s get ye inside and get a fire goin’ before ye catch yer death.”

She allowed him to lead her, resisting the urge to look back toward the castle. There was nothing there for her now. Perhaps Rhona had simply been proving that point.