Page 32 of The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (The Highlander’s Bride #3)

Gilda laughed as Conn tickled the baby’s chin, earning a gurgling coo as Will waved his chubby fists. Conn is so good to him. He will be good for both of us. I have made the right decision.

The words flooded her heart, piercing her with warmth and conviction. Da will be back in a few days and we will start arrangements then. It has been more than a year since the pirate attack. So much has happened. I know he will give us his blessing.

She felt radiant and lighthearted, happy and excited in overwhelming measure. Conn tucked Will against him and Gilda slid a hand beneath his elbow, placing her other palm lightly on his forearm. The look of approval from Conn set her spirits to humming. With a lightness she’d not felt in far too long, Gilda gave her attention to the activity on the dock.

Only one birlinn sat docked. The other boats were fishing vessels, in with the morning’s catch. Seagulls crowded the sky above them, screeching their hunger and greed. Everywhere, people hurried about on foot, carrying various wares and goods in bags, baskets, casks, chests and barrels. The creak of a wagon warned her of its approach and she clung tighter to Conn’s arm as she stepped out of harm’s way.

Just ahead, a man on a beautiful white horse approached, following the only path from the wharf to the village. The horse picked its way through the throng of people, front feet flashing, mane rippling like a banner in the breeze. Gilda’s gaze slid from the magnificent animal to the man on its back, his dark hair shoulder-length and unbound, his face—

Gilda’s vision swirled and her feet faltered. She couldn’t draw breath and a gasp of distress slipped from her. At her side, Conn spoke, but his words made no sense to her. He pried her fingers from his arm and thrust Will’s bundled form into her arms.

Mindlessly, she pulled the baby tight against her chest. He began to cry and a vague reality forced itself past her daze. Without breaking her gaze away from the rider of the horse, she loosened her grip on the bairn, and he snuffled against her breast.

She could not bring herself to name the man before her. It was too impossible for him to be here, yet he was, his hooded look betraying no emotion, though his lips were chiseled in a straight, stern line. A droning sound grew in her head and she swayed on her feet.

Conn gripped her arm, moving her protectively close. “Gilda?”

His voice sounded muffled and distant. She bit her lip against the burst of hysteria rising in her throat. Time passed—an instant or a year, she could not say—as the crowd ebbed and flowed around them, and the man on the horse never wavered. Conn stepped forward and left her abandoned, her emotions naked and vulnerable.

He grabbed the horse’s reins and jerked her to a stop. “Ryan?” His other hand trembled as he lifted it, almost touched the man’s leg. “St. Andrew’s Balls, man! Say something to her!” Anger whipped through his voice, but the man on the horse still showed no emotion.

At last he lifted a hand, reining his horse to the side. “My apologies for startling ye. I will let my family know I am home, and give the three of ye a chance to recover.” With a tap of his heels to his horse’s flanks, he moved around them and turned up the path at a brisk trot.

Conn stared after Ryan, hands fisted on his hips, but Gilda could not have moved if her life depended on it. People shouted and chattered around her, but they could have spouted nonsense for all the words meant to her.

He looked at me with hatred. What have I done?

Conn took Will from her boneless arms. The babe grunted against the transfer, but settled quickly. “Gilda, lass. Speak to me.”

Hours seemed to pass before she moved herself to answer his question. Feeling bewildered, stunned, lost and rejected, she slid her gaze from the spot Ryan’s horse had occupied moments before to Conn’s face.

“Is he truly Ryan?”

Conn drew a finger gently across her cheek. “Aye. Ryan has returned.”

Gilda blinked. “Where has he been?”

“I dinnae know, lass. We are certain to find out soon.”

The memory of Ryan’s cold look twisted her insides and she whispered, “Why does he hate me?”

* * *

Shona bucked her hindquarters in complaint as Ryan dug his heels into her flanks, urging her forward. He rolled automatically with the movement, taking scant note of the mare’s flattened ears as she champed the bit between her teeth.

His mind replayed the touching scene of his wife and Conn—and the bairn between them. He ground his teeth against the shouting denial churning through his chest. All his memories of Gilda, thoughts of her despair, her pining and her decline—his hurry to return to her, to assuage her grief—all was for nothing. She certainly hadn’t spent more than a week or two grieving him. He did a rapid mental calculation. The bairn couldn’t be more than a couple of months old. Which meant she’d wasted no time before seeking solace with his best friend.

So, this is what Boyd meant when he said she’d likely marry the MacLaurey heir. Heat rushed through him, forcing air from his lungs like the hottest furnace. Sweat broke on his brow, and he felt physically ill.

Shona’s gait quickened into a canter and he welcomed the rush of cool air on his face as he turned his attention to the guards at the castle gates—and away from the young woman who had just torn out his heart.

There was no recognition from the men at the wall, but the gates were open for the villagers’ travel to and from the beach, and Ryan rode in unchallenged. He pulled Shona to a halt and dismounted, handing her reins to a stable lad who led her away.

He stared at the bailey walls, tall and stark and familiar. People surged around him, paying him no particular attention. With a shrug, he entered the great room’s open doors, his shadow falling inside the hall of his birth.

A middle-aged man approached him.

“Might I help ye?”

“Ye dinnae know me?”

The man looked him over, a puzzled look on his face. “Nae,” he ventured, his voice not quite sure.

“Then I shall require my father to verify his son has returned.”

Recognition dawned and the man’s jaw fell slack, his eyes bulging wide in his suddenly pale face. His hands fluttered up, having no job but to pantomime his complete surprise. Even heart-weary and bone-tired, Ryan couldn’t resist a chuckle. Their conversation drew attention, and voices around them pitched to a curious murmur.

“’Tis the laird’s son!”

“Impossible. . ..”

“. . . dead . . ..”

Ryan grimaced at the words, knowing all believed him dead this past year. A flurry of activity at the entry to the hallway near the laird’s chamber captured his attention, and he saw a tall, robed man enter the room, his hair gray and sparse, his hands spread wide as though questioning the commotion in the hall. Da. Though more stooped than he remembered, and his hair nearly white, it was Laird Macraig.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode across the room, fully aware of the words uttered behind raised hands.

Why? When? Where? How? He kept his shoulders squared, wondering how they’d respond to his answers. What they would think of him once they learned he’d lived the past year with the hated pirates.

A flurry of crimson cloth flew at him and he caught the bundle of tears and flailing arms.

“Ryan!” Lissa clung to him with the strength of ten, her sobs wetting the front of his shirt. His name rolled brokenly from her lips over and over, and he was at last moved to set her from him.

“Aye, Lissa, I am home.”

Her sobs faded into hiccups and snuffles, and he gazed at her face, swollen eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and thought them beautiful.

“Why are ye in yer robe, lass? Are ye in the habit now of sleeping late? ”

“She is ailing, sir.” Keita placed her hands on Lissa’s shoulders. “Naught but a summer chill, but she shouldnae be out of bed.”

Ryan placed a kiss on Lissa’s forehead. “Aye. Ye are feverish. Hie yerself back to bed and corrie doon beneath yer blankets. I will be here when ye wake.”

“Ryan, I have so much to tell you!” Her excitement ended on a rasping cough and Ryan nodded to Keita to return her to her room. Lissa flung an anguished, entreating look over her shoulder as the older woman led her away. “Ye will be here? Ye willnae leave?”

He smiled reassuringly. “I will be here.”

His heart warmed by his sister’s reception, he turned to the uncertainty of his father. They were at odds when they last saw each other.

Around him, people waited expectantly. Murmurs still raced around the hall, echoes of the same questions and speculations.

Where has he been?

What happened?

What kept him away?

How is it he returns?

Ryan completed the distance to his sire and stood before him.

“Hello, Da. I am home.”

The elder Macraig’s eyes reddened, his face twisted.

Is he not glad to see me? Ryan’s resolve faltered. Laird Macraig’s hands moved helplessly before him. At last he spoke.

“My son? Is it truly ye?”

Ryan’s heart twisted at the hesitant sound of his da’s voice. More than months had aged the man before him. Loss and grief had taken its toll. Ryan’s eyes misted.

“I am home, Da. I am truly home.”

His da gripped his arms with claw-like force. “Where have ye been?” His gaze turned frantic as he inspected him head to toes. “What happened to ye?”

Ryan glanced to either side, aware of the eager ears surrounding him. “I would tell ye of it in private, sir.”

Drawing back, his da gave him a thunderous look. “Why did ye not send word? Do ye have any idea what ye have put us through?”

Ryan sighed. “May we speak in private?” He returned his da’s look with a steely gaze of his own .

Laird Macraig dropped his hands and stepped back. “Aye. Clean yerself up and come to my chamber.” He sent one more look over Ryan. “I need a glass of whisky.”

* * *

Gilda cast a frantic look up the narrow road to Ard Castle. “I cannae return there. I want to go home!”

Conn recoiled with the force of her words and touched her shoulder with a soothing gesture. She jerked as though stung, her eyes wide with anguish, her skin devoid of color.

“I am sorry, Gilda. I dinnae know why he acted the way he did. I am certain he doesnae hate ye.”

Gilda clasped the bairn tightly to her chest, rocking back and forth. Her distress unnerved him, made him feel helpless, useless. And afraid.

Would she ever feel as strongly about me? It was glaringly apparent, given the choice between himself and Ryan, whom Gilda would choose. But it seemed just as apparent Ryan no longer cared for her or wanted to have anything to do with her.

“Please, Conn? I want to leave now. I must go.”

“What about yer things?”

“I dinnae care. They can be sent to me later.”

“I will have the men escort ye back to Scaurness.” He lightly touched her pale, cold cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I need to speak to Ryan.”

Her eyes flew to his face. Her demeanor remained firm. “I will go to Tavia’s cottage for a day or two. I am not expected back at Scaurness yet.” Tears sprang unchecked down her face. “I need to be alone.”

Conn had not the heart to argue with her. “Aye. Tavia can help with the bairn. I will tell the men.”

Gilda made her way back to the picnic site where the horses were tethered. Conn jerked his chin to the four men who had walked to the dock with them and they closed ranks behind her. His heart thudded dully in his chest.

What is best for her and the bairn? Do I denounce Ryan and give her time to come back to me? How long will it take her to get over his loss a second time? Especially his cold rejection ?

Anger began to simmer inside. He watched a guard grab Gilda’s arm as she stumbled. Another gently took the bairn from her and she wiped a sleeve across her face before picking up her skirts and continuing along the trail. Regardless of her feelings for Ryan, his heart went out to her, his arms ached to comfort her. Conn clenched his fists, his thoughts grim.

Ryan had better have a damned good reason for treating her like this.