A Highlander's Scars Read online

  “Did ye hear me?” she asked.

  “Of course, I heard ye. I did not lose my hearing overnight.”

  It was a struggle, not flying into a rage whenever he spoke that way. She’d always had a quick temper—one of her faults, she could admit, but Donnan did not merely inspire her to snap. He inspired her to scream.

  “Ye might answer me, then,” she muttered.

  “I dinna wish to speak of my brother. Ye dinna need to comfort me. I have learned to expect little from him. Aye, I’m certain he wished to meet with his friends.” Disdain all but dripped from his voice.

  “I will not speak of him again.”

  “I will not complain about it.”

  She rolled her eyes with a soft sigh, wondering again why he insisted upon being so difficult to know. It seemed that whenever he opened himself even the smallest bit and gave her a glimmer of hope that their journey might be a pleasant one, he would recall having resolved to behave like a brute.

  Her instincts were something she’d always prided herself on. Why could she not understand him better? He gave her no peace.

  “If ye are this difficult to agree with, it’s glad I am we were never married, after all,” she mused aloud.

  Donnan sounded as though he were choking. “Say that again.”

  She turned to him, wide-eyed. “I said—”

  “I heard what ye said, lass,” he scowled, the lines of his mouth visible beneath the hood he insisted upon wearing. “I dinna understand why ye said it.”

  “Do ye not remember asking me to marry ye?”

  “I do not,” he growled, turning his gaze ahead.

  “Are ye certain? It seems to me a man would remember such a thing.”

  “I tell ye, I know not of what you speak.” He cast an eye her way, glaring through the wall of hair in front of his temple. She knew he arranged it just so, that his injured face might be less visible. “Are ye certain it was not another lad who did the askin’?”

  “Och, nay,” she grinned. “I know it was ye. I could no sooner forget that day than I could forget my own name.”

  He again made a sort of choking noise she knew she was supposed to pretend she had not heard. “Why? What was so memorable about it?”

  At first, she was certain he could not mean it. That he was merely toying with her, feigning ignorance. When he drew back the side of the hood, and she took sight of the confusion written in his eyes, she knew otherwise. “Ye understand very little about the heart of a girl,” she informed him as kindly as she could.

  His lips, already drawn together, dropped at the corners when he scowled. “I dinna know why I ought to understand it at all, seeing as how I never was one,” he huffed, all impatience.

  “I took ye very seriously,” she informed him. “Very seriously indeed.”

  “Ye didna take me seriously, lass, for it was not I who did the asking.”

  “It was.”

  “Perhaps you’re thinking of my brother.”

  “Nay. It was ye. I never cared much for Ewan.” Her cheeks flushed the instant the words were out of her mouth.

  Instead of taking offense, he laughed, and the sound reminded her of sun breaking through storm clouds. It warmed her to her toes. “Ye made no secret of it last night, lass, truth be told.”

  “Would that he had understood as well as ye did,” she muttered. The way he had worked at drawing her into conversing with him! There were times when she’d nearly thrown her food at him, and only the thought of going to sleep with an empty stomach had stopped her.

  She was far too practical to risk hunger for a brief moment of vindication, no matter how sweet it would have been to see him sputter and gasp in surprise.

  “Why did ye not care for him?” Donnan asked, and she knew he was somewhat pleased by the hint of a smile in his voice. It had pleased him to see her treat his brother so.

  Had he been jealous? No, that could not be. Angered by his brother’s persistence, perhaps.

  She cleared her throat, wondering the best way to put it. “He always seemed rather… wild. But not in the same way you did, mind ye.”

  “I did?”

  “Aye. Always climbing the trees, jumping from the upper windows into the hay stacked alongside the house. Ye used to bedevil the cook and the stable boys and anyone ye could manage. But he seemed… to mean it, really and truly, when he played his games. I dinna know if I can put it plain…”

  “He wanted to cause trouble and make the others unhappy.”

  “Aye. That is what I mean.”

  “I agree with ye. I do.” He looked at her, this time without the hair in his face. “He was never punished as he ought to be. Da was too soft on him. He ought to have learned as a bairn that it wasn’t right to do what he did—to think only of himself and what he wanted. It may be that it wasn’t his fault, thinking as he did—some are born that way, I suppose, looking out for themselves but no one else. But he ought to have been taught, damn him.”

  Fenella swallowed over the lump in her throat. His tone sent pangs to her heart, spreading through her chest. “It was wrong of me to bring it up,” she decided in a whisper.

  “Nay, lass.” He looked away again, closed off as before. “It was wrong of me to speak so.”

  “It was wrong of Ewan to do as he did.” She did not mean behaving as a louse—not entirely. Nor was she speaking of the men he’d taken up with and the way he earned his living. A shameful thing, that, one which she would have liked to box his ears over.

  The way he had slipped off in the night, and all because his brother had advised him to go home and make things right while he had the time. The way he had left his father to shoulder his burden and had not the backbone to at least say he was sorry.

  Donnan snorted. “Do ye think so?”

  “I am only trying—”

  “I know what you’re trying,” he muttered. “And I dinna remember asking ye for sympathy or your apologies. What’s done is done.”

  She shivered, turning her face away that he might not see how deeply he wounded her when he spoke in such a manner. When all she wanted was to ease at least a little of his pain. “All right, then. We won’t speak of it.”

  “Thank ye.”

  “And I’ll no longer speak of the times we had together when we were young,” she added.

  “Times I dinna remember.”

  “Not even when ye fell through the roof of the house, hanging from the limb of the birch which grew alongside?” She did not wait for him to answer, riding ahead of him instead so the tears might fall unnoticed.

  Daft lass, thinking he had saved her from that terrible house because he felt something real. Fooling herself into believing he had come for her because he remembered how special they had once been to each other.

  All she’d done was invite heartache.

  He was not the same Donnan as the one she remembered. He had none of the charm, the humor. There was nothing of the sweet soul she’d been drawn to as a child. Whatever it was that had made him special to her, that had made her youthful heart sit up and take notice of his, had left either during or after the war.

  War did that to a man. She’d always heard it, but had never seen the proof of it for herself. She’d never born sorrowful witness to the hardening of a man’s spirit.

  What might he have become were it not for that?

  She ran an angry hand over her face when he trotted up behind her, wiping away a few hot, shameful tears before he could see them.

  “Ye remember that?” was his gruff question.

  “Do I remember what?”

  “My fallin’ through the roof.”

  “Aye. One does not forget such a sight—or the way your father howled.”

  “I didna recall ye being there.”

  That stung worse than anything else. It was as though he had forgotten everything, only recalling what mattered. “Ye do not recall? When it was because ye wanted to prove to me how high ye could climb that ye did it at all?”
r />   She received no answer, and that was likely just as well. If he did not wish to remember those times—times which she had always held in her heart as the sweetest memories, recollections of days around which her entire youthful life had revolved—it was better not to speak of them.

  A wound could not heal if one insisted on picking at it.

  Something which her escort was quite familiar with, she would wager.

  17

  The only sound breaking the stony silence between Fenella and Donnan was that of the woods. Scurrying, scratching, the rustling of leaves as squirrels leapt from branch to branch.

  Their grace and assuredness never ceased to amaze Donnan. They did not think about what it was they set out to do. They simply jumped, then moved on to the next jump.

  It was distraction, nothing more. Preventing him from thinking about the sullen woman riding at his side, the one whose jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a nut.

  He had said the wrong thing again. It seemed to be what he was best at, hurting the lass’s feelings. He did not intend to.

  He simply had little experience speaking to a woman, especially one his brother had accused him of caring for.

  All morning—and the night before—he’d run through Ewan’s words, questioning both them and himself.

  Had Ewan been right about her? Did she love him?

  Perhaps she had, as a child. She had loved an older lad, one who’d pretended to be worldly and important. One who had promised to be a strapping man, handsome and sure of himself, who would one day take his father’s place in Clan Ross.

  Any young lassie would have taken to him, as she had.

  And now, she enjoyed throwing the memories up in his ruined face, reminding him of what once was and would never be again. Twisting a knife in his chest.

  He gave her the benefit of doubting she understood what her words did to him, how her chiding and fond memories stirred him to anger rather than good humor. She would not purposefully be cruel.

  Would she?

  It mattered not, and he would do well to keep that in mind.

  Ewan had a talent for destroying things even when he was far away, that was a fact. He ought not to have spoken at all—for it merely made Donnan’s resentment grow.

  She could never love him. Not the way he was. As a lad, perhaps, but not as a man.

  They rounded a bend in the road, crested a slight hill, and at the top, they were able to see a village in the distance. Perhaps another hour’s ride would place them on the outskirts.

  “The Andersons are less than a half-day’s ride further south,” Donnan announced.

  The village had grown to twice the size it had been when he’d last seen it, but perhaps as many as ten years had passed since then. He only recognized the place by the square spire atop the church in the center of the village, in which sat the massive bell which gonged to beckon the faithful.

  “We shall be there by nightfall, then,” Fenella observed. There was still a sharp edge to her words which set his teeth on edge.

  It was late morning. Even at such a distance, Donnan could see how busy it was there. In fact, a pair of carts rolled their way, pulled by oxen. They moved to the side of the road to allow the lumbering carts past, with him turning his face away from the men driving.

  There would be many such men. And women. And children. All of them going about their day, all of them horrified at the sight of him.

  Once the road was theirs again, Fenella brought the horse up beside him. When he made no movement, she cast a questioning look his way. “Well?”

  His mouth went dry. How could he explain?

  Why did he care what she thought?

  Because he did. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that. He cared a great deal what she thought of him. It was cowardly to wish to avoid the village, like so many cowardly parts of him.

  “I… believe it would be best to take that road.” He pointed to a smaller, overgrown road that was really little more than a footpath which they would have to walk in single file. “It will mean not arriving at Padraig’s until later, perhaps waiting until tomorrow morning to present ourselves.”

  Fenella looked at him. She looked toward the village. Then back at him.

  “Very well. We shall take the other road.”

  She never asked why. He realized she did not need to. She understood him without being told.

  He was uncertain whether this was a comfort or an embarrassment.

  “We could travel the main road,” he suggested as they continued on, not yet having reached the place where the smaller road branched off from the larger. “It will mean arriving sooner, after all, and I can imagine ye would prefer the comfort of a bed tonight.”

  She shrugged, then sighed. “I do enjoy sleeping out of doors. Did ye not know it?”

  He was uncertain whether or not to believe this. “I did not.”

  “Indeed. The fresh air always makes me sleep better. When I was young, it would drive my father to distraction when he’d find me out of my bed at night, but he always knew where to find me, beneath the tallest of the pines behind our home.”

  She chuckled at the memory, her head lowered. He caught a glimpse of a soft smile, admired the delicate way she tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

  The desire to be the one tucking that lock, caressing her skin, touching her hair and her face was like a physical hunger. He desired her, desperately, and suddenly asked himself if it was wise to spend more time alone, just the pair of them with no one else about.

  While he craved the moments they would share—moments he would never enjoy with any other woman, as no woman would have him—he was beginning to doubt his self-control.

  It was too late. She’d made up her mind. “If ye wish to make haste, by all means, we ought to take the shortest route. But I do not mind going around the village.” She brought the horse to a stop where the roads branched and turned to look at him. “I truly do not.”

  He studied her, wishing he had it in him to ask if she took this attitude for his sake.

  Wishing he were strong enough to ride through the village and stare passerby in the eye, daring them to show shock or disgust—or, worst of all, pity.

  Pity made him wish he could tear their eyes from their heads, that they might never look upon another again, and that they would know what it meant to endure the pity of others.

  This was another reason why he did not mind spending time with Fenella. She did not pity him.

  But she was a kind, understanding soul nonetheless.

  “All right, then,” he decided in a firm voice. “We shall take the other road. If ye wish it so.”

  He thought she smiled before turning her face away. “Aye. I wish it so.”

  18

  Fenella’s father had always called her proud.

  Too proud to accept the attention of just any man, for instance. She’d told him time and again that she could see through every would-be suitor. All they wanted, any of them, was her father’s wealth and power among the other clans.

  There had been one occasion on which Aleck Gordon had challenged her.

  “What of it?” he’d asked one evening over their bowls of stew. “What if the man whose blessing I give to marry ye starts off merely wanting to align our clans? That is how such marriages are arranged when it comes to the children of a laird. I would never agree to marriage with a man unworthy of ye, if that is what ye canna abide.”

  She’d reached across the weathered old table and patted his hand. “I know ye would not.”

  “What is it, then?” he’d asked. Not a demand, but not a gentle reproach, either. She’d driven him to distraction with her arguments against each and every one of the lads suitable for marriage.

  “I simply have no desire to be wed to a man who looks at me and sees how powerful I will make him. If that makes me prideful, I suppose I am.”

  She had always been willing to admit her faults, of which she knew there were many.


  Even so, she had never seen the level of pride in any person—man or woman—that she saw in Donnan. He was as stubborn as an ox, as set in his ways as a tired old workhorse who refused to pull one more plow.

  Why could he not simply tell her he wished to avoid the village? She’d seen the danger in their passing through it on first sight. Far too many people, far too many eyes.

  It would crush his pride, of which he had so much.

  Why did he insist on pretending, however? Why did she take pains to protect his pride when he’d been so dismissive of her?

  He would not protect her pride. He would not go out of his way—hours out of his way, in fact, as she was—in order to spare her pain or make her a bit more comfortable.

  He did save her from Angus.

  Yes, and why? To relieve his brother’s debts. Not because he wished to see her safe. Not because he cared for her and loathed the thought of her being wed to another man.

  Why did she take such pains to guard his heart, then?

  Why did her own heart ache for him when they’d discovered Ewan missing?

  It was a lovely ride, at least, if not entirely worth the extra time it would take to reach Padraig. Forest as far as the eye could see, rich and dark green thanks to so much spring rain. To the northeast, Ben Nevis stretched high up into the sky, clouds covering the peak.

  The sky was blue, dotted with fluffy, white clouds, and the air was fresh and fragrant with the scent of pine and spruce. It wafted over them whenever the breeze blew—no matter the direction from which it came, thanks to the thousands of trees which blanketed the land.

  In spite of the weight in her heart, she felt strangely content.

  “What’s that?”

  Donnan’s curt question shocked her out of the reverie she hadn’t known she’d fallen into. “What?”

  “Ye sighed,” he informed her, turning slightly in the saddle. He rode in front of her as the road-which-wasn’t-a-road could not fit two riders abreast.

  “I did?”

  “Aye. I wondered why ye did it.”

  She shrugged. “Do ye not think it pretty? Everything, I mean. The trees and clouds. The breeze is so sweet, the air is so fresh and new.”