A soft chuckle escaped Deidre, and she shook her head. “I do not wish to speak ill of them, but they were never the sort of devoted, kind-hearted parents that Rhona and Ewan were. They had expectations, and they tried their best to instil them in their children.” She shrugged, and a deep smile came to her face. “I suppose he would have married according to their wishes, had I not captured his heart. His parents never forgave me for that.”
“But he married you,” Henrietta said, feeling a warm glow swelling in her chest, “despite their objections.”
“He did,” Deidre confirmed with love shining in her eyes. “He is my match in every way. Where he is loud, I am quiet. Where he is rash, I am cautious. Where he is strong, I am weak; and where he is weak, I am strong.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Henrietta admitted. “When I saw you that day, I thought…”
“I know,” Deidre said. “Some people do, but those who do always judge based on their own experiences, their own fears.” Her eyes grew soft, a silent question resting in them.
Henrietta swallowed. “My parents’ marriage was one of fear and pain until the day that my father took both of their lives.”
Deidre gasped.
“The memory of these few years haunts me still,” Henrietta said. “I’m afraid to love because a part of me believes that love is inevitably followed by pain.”
Stepping forward, Deidre reached for Henrietta’s hand. “Pain will find ye no matter how well ye believe ye can protect yerself.” She swallowed. “I’ve miscarried three times, and the last was…it was a boy.” Tears came to her eyes, and her hands tightened around Henrietta’s. “He was so small. He had little fingers and toes and the most beautiful little face. Before, I’d miscarried early when the baby was still just a thought and a wish. But that last time, it broke my heart.” Blinking, she forced back tears. “Pain will find ye. Ye canna help that. But when it does, ‘tis good to have someone to help ye bear it.”
Feeling tears of her own run down her face, Henrietta took a deep breath as she looked down at the fragile woman before her whose strength exceeded her own by far. “Do you not regret…?”
“No!” Deidre shook her head vehemently, determination shining in her eyes. “Of course, I wanted my children to live, but I do not regret trying to bring them into this world. They are worth every tear I shed.” She took a deep breath as more tears threatened. “Neither do I regret marrying the man I loved, the man I still love. All the pain and sorrow we’ve been through has made us even more certain that we’ve chosen the right path. An easy love that is never tried will just as easily fail when a storm approaches. But after everything we have been through, I know that nothing will ever be able to tear us apart, and that makes me feel safe.”
“Safe,” Henrietta whispered, wondering what it felt like to feel safe and if she would ever feel it herself. Meeting Deidre’s eyes, she nodded. “I’m sorry I thought…I can see now that he truly loves you, and I’m happy for you.” Dimly, Henrietta recalled how Alastair had demanded she stay away from his wife because Deidre was a gentle soul and he did not wish her poisoned by Henrietta’s anger. At the time, Henrietta had not seen the reason for his outburst, but now she understood.
Alastair was a good man, and he loved his wife beyond hope.
“If ye can see that Alastair loves me,” Deidre said, “can ye not also see that Connor loves ye just the same?”
A soft smile came to Henrietta’s face, and for a moment, she closed her eyes. “I can, yes. Now, I can.” She took a deep breath. “However, I have only now come to understand that love is not what scares me, not love itself. I’m afraid it won’t last, or that it will change, and I won’t see it. I don’t know if my mother ever loved my father. I was too young. But I wonder. Did she love him? Is that why she endured his anger? Did he ever love her? And if so, when did he stop and why?” Shaking her head, Henrietta rubbed her temples. “I cannot help these questions. They are an echo of the doubts that live in my heart, and whenever I am tempted to love and trust, they pull me back, make me see the danger I am putting myself in. No matter what I do, I cannot stop them. It’s as though they have a life of their own, and I am not strong enough to silence them.”
Feeling utterly defeated, Henrietta closed her eyes and raised her head to the sky, feeling the soft wind brush over her heated skin. Hopeful one second, and forlorn the next. All her life, the extreme emotions that rolled through her heart and mind, forcing her to do their bidding, had been so much a part of her that Henrietta was baffled by the idea that if she fought hard enough, she might be able to rid herself of them. A part of her doubted that it was even possible.
Should she try; she would surely fail.
“Are ye happy now?” Deidre’s soft voice asked beside her, her small hands coming to rest on Henrietta’s shoulders. “D’ye wake up in the morning with a joyous heart?”
Opening her eyes, Henrietta met Deidre’s eyes. Was she happy? What was happy? Henrietta remembered moments not tormented by her demons. Moments she had shared with her brother or Anna, laughing and smiling. But had she been happy?
“If ye do not know,” Deidre said, her soft eyes clouded, “then ye’re not.” Her hands slid down Henrietta’s arms and grasped her hands, her eyes searching Henrietta’s face. “I know ye’re scared of what might happen if ye open yer heart to someone. Ye’re scared it will bring ye more pain and loss. But ye’re already in such pain every day that I do not believe it to be such a great risk.” A soft smile came to her face, and she looked at Henrietta imploringly. “Think of what ye have to gain. The risk is minimal, and I promise ye Connor willna disappoint ye. And neither will I.”
Sniffling, Henrietta smiled through tears. “Thank you, Deidre.”
“Think about it,” the young woman said before a mischievous smile tickled her lips. “But not too much.”
Henrietta laughed. “I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Two − Lost in the Woods
Returning to the front hall, Henrietta thought about the advice not only Rhona but now also Deidre had given her. Naturally, her fears argued that she ought not to trust them. However, Henrietta’s heart could not imagine either of those two women to cause her any intentional pain. On the contrary, for the first time in her life, Henrietta felt appreciated, welcomed, cared for and even loved. No one had ever before looked at her and seen the pain that lived in her heart. Not even Tristan and Anna.
However, maybe they couldn’t have. Maybe it had been Connor’s influence that had dragged it out of its hiding place and into the light of day. He had pushed her over the edge, forced her to feel and face her fears so that they were now edged into her face for all to see.
Climbing the stairs to her bedchamber, Henrietta stepped around a corner and collided with none other than Angus Brunwood.
Shocked, she stumbled backwards as did he. However, when his eyes met hers and recognition found him, a snarl came to his face. “English rat,” he hissed, his eyes narrowed into slits.
Taken aback by the hatred that poured from him, Henrietta felt rooted to the spot, staring at the old man as though he was a ghost risen from his grave.
The muscles in his jaw tightened as his cold eyes slid over her. “He doomed us all when he brought ye here.” Taking a step toward her, he whipped a carving knife from his coat. “I will slit yer throat before ye can curse us again.”
Terrified, Henrietta stumbled backwards until her back hit the wall, her hand reaching inside her own coat…to find the secret pocket empty.
Her dagger still lay beneath the pillow in her chamber.
“Wait!” she called, backing away as he came after her. “I don’t mean you any harm. I swear I−”
“Lies!”
“Please, I−”
“Angus!” Moira shouted, her voice harsh and final.
Glancing behind her, Henrietta saw the tall, young woman standing there with wide eyes. Then Moira shook off her initial shock and strode toward them. “Drop that k
nife, ye crazy, old fool!” Stepping between them, she snapped the carving knife from Angus’ grasp before turning to Henrietta. “Are ye all right?” Her eyes slid over her, and relief came to her face when she found no injuries. “Go and rest. I will speak to him.”
Nodding, Henrietta backed away. Her feet, however, would not carry her in the direction of her bedchamber. As though a predator was still after her, she felt the need for open space, not a confined room. And so she turned and hurried down the stairs, feeling the old man’s hateful glare burning a hole into the back of her head.
Without conscious thought, Henrietta crossed the front hall and slid out through the side door. However, when she reached the rose garden, its usual tranquillity irritated her nerves and the walls around her felt like a trap. Turning on her heel, she returned to the courtyard and headed out the main gate, her eyes fixed on the open land stretching out before her.
Instantly, her heart beat calmed, and the air she drew into her lungs brought a sense of peace to her aching soul. Step by step, Henrietta marched out into the open, unwilling to even turn her head and glance back at the receding castle walls that slowly fell behind. She crossed the small stretch of grassland until she reached the tree line and proceeded down a well-trodden path. The soft rustle of leaves mingling with the gentle songs of birds and crickets pulled her forward.
Only when the sky slowly grew darker and the dim light fighting its way through the dense foliage overhead began to wane did Henrietta realise how far she had walked.
Stopping, she turned her head, but all she saw were trees growing amidst thick underbrush. The path she had walked had long since thinned and was now almost gone. Had she turned off the main path somewhere? Henrietta couldn’t recall.
When a soft drizzle touched her face, Henrietta lifted her head to gaze up at the canopy overhead. It had started to rain, and here and there, raindrops found their way through the forest’s roof. Sighing, Henrietta turned in a circle, eyes searching for the way back. However, in the dimmer-growing light, she saw nothing that sparked recognition. How would she get back?
“Ye seem lost, Dearie.”
As a gasp tore from her throat, Henrietta spun around and found herself staring at an old woman. Wrapped in a cloak, she stood with a stoop, white hair peeking out of the woollen hood covering her head. A water bag was slung around one shoulder, and an old wicker basket filled with different kinds of plants and mushrooms hung on her left arm.
“You startled me,” Henrietta wheezed, her hand clutched to her chest.
“That is quite evident,” the old woman chuckled. “Would ye care for a spot of tea?”
Surprised, Henrietta smiled. “I certainly would,” she said, glancing around but seeing nothing that promised the hospitality she had just been offered.
By the time she returned her gaze to the old woman, Henrietta only saw a receding back, slowly disappearing among the trees. Afraid to be left behind, Henrietta hurried after her. “Where are we going, Mrs…eh?”
“The name’s Morag,” the old woman said over her shoulder. “Simply Morag.”
“I’m…Henrietta.”
“I know, Dearie.”
Frowning, Henrietta followed Morag deeper into the forest until they came upon a strange dwelling that looked as though it had risen from the earth, a large tree growing out of its roof on either side. The trees’ roots ran across the small house and down its sides, disappearing into the ground. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a small hill with a door and a short chimney stack puffing soft, white smoke into the darkening night.
Henrietta shuddered as a sense of ancient heritage washed over her.
“’Tis been in my family for generations,” Morag confirmed Henrietta’s thoughts as she opened the small door with a soft creak and stepped inside. Carefully, she placed her basket on a short table before setting down the water bag beside what appeared to be a small stove, that emanated a soft glow and a welcoming warmth. “Sit down, Dearie.”
Choosing one of the two rather wobbly looking chairs, Henrietta watched the old woman rummage through her little kitchen.
Pulling out several jars, Morag mixed dried leaves in a small mortar, then crushed them with a pestle. Although she moved with care, her hands worked without thought as her eyes frequently ventured to Henrietta, eyeing her with open perusal. Her eyes, however, were not unkind, merely curious.
Uncomfortable, Henrietta cleared her throat. “What are you doing?” she asked, indicating the crushed leaves.
“Tea,” the old woman replied, a mischievous smile on her wrinkled face.
“What kind?”
Morag shrugged. “This and that. ‘Tis a choice of the moment.” Her eyes met Henrietta’s. “Never the same, and yet, always right.”
Uncertain how to reply, Henrietta remained quiet. Although the old woman’s strange ways made her feel somewhat uncomfortable, Henrietta slowly felt herself relax. There was something soothing about this little dwelling as well as the woman’s company that eased her turmoil.
“Why do you live out here?” Henrietta asked, curious about why anyone, let alone an old woman, would reside so far away from Greyston Castle.
Morag shrugged. “Although not silent, the forest is quiet compared to the castle and its village. Here, I can hear my own thoughts and know them to be mine.” Glancing at the many jars aligned on the wall, Morag met Henrietta’s eyes for but a moment. “Ye might have guessed that I’ve a way with herbs, Dearie. I learnt from my mother who learnt from hers. Healers of my family have lived in this verra dwelling for generations. It is here where we are closest to nature’s own heartbeat, undisturbed by the troubles of the world.” A smile came to her face. “’Tis peaceful here. Simple. Pure. New ways are not always better. We all come from here but we often forget. Despite all the achievements the world’s made, we’re still fragile as we have always been. I live here to not forget.”
For a while each dwelt on her own thoughts, and a comfortable silence slowly settled about the room. Then Morag poured two cups of tea and walking over set down one in front of Henrietta before she settled into the other chair, her hands wrapped around her own cup. Closing her eyes, the old woman sniffed the steaming liquid, and a smile came to her lips.
Raising the cup to her own lips, Henrietta, too, closed her eyes and waited for the tea’s aroma to engulf her. The scent was delicate at first, then grew stronger as it danced from one fragrance to the next, all mingling into a single one that never remained the same, but kept changing no matter how often Henrietta thought she had detected its flavour.
“Why are ye here, Dearie?”
Across the rim of her cup, Henrietta met the old woman’s eyes. “I’m lost.”
Morag nodded. “’Tis true, but why are ye here?”
Henrietta frowned. “I just walked. I didn’t see where I was going, and now, I don’t know how to return.”
“D’ye wish to?”
Startled, Henrietta looked up.
“Ye can speak the truth here,” Morag assured her, “and no harm will come to ye.”
“The truth,” Henrietta mumbled. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head.
“’Tis not easy to find.”
“No, it’s not,” Henrietta agreed, meeting Morag’s eyes openly. “The truth is, I don’t know.”
The old woman smiled. “Few things are certain, and those who claim to know what lives in their hearts merely ignore the doubts they don’t wish to see. To admit that one doesna know speaks of a truly honest soul.”
Touched, Henrietta smiled and took another sip from her tea.
“Yer eyes speak of great pain,” Morag spoke into the dimly lit room, “of fear, and yet, also of hope.” Squinting, she searched Henrietta’s face as though reading the words she spoke from the pages of a book. “For a long time, ye lived in darkness, but only recently a spark was struck.”
Her hands wrapped tightly around her cup, Henrietta froze as her husband’s face appeared before her inner eye a
nd a gentle warmth engulfed her.
Watching her, Morag smiled. “Whose face did ye see just now?”
Henrietta swallowed. “My husband’s.”
“Does it frighten ye?”
“It does.”
“Does he?”
Henrietta frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are ye frightened of him or of the love ye have for him?”
As her demons screamed in her ears, Henrietta shook her head, her hands closing more tightly around the hot cup. “I…I…”
“D’ye love him?”
Henrietta took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Does he love ye?”
“I don’t…” His voice echoed in her ears. “He said he did.”
“D’ye believe him?”
“Yes.”
Morag smiled. “Is he kind to ye?”
“Yes.”
“Does he protect ye?”
“Yes.”
“Does he respect ye?”
“Yes.” The answers flew out of her mouth without a conscious thought, and Henrietta realised with some surprise that she honestly believed them to be true.
“D’ye fear him?”
“No.” Again, something spoke from deep inside her, and Henrietta met the old woman’s eyes as a gentle smile played over her lips. “He is a good man.”
Morag nodded. “Aye, he is.” Setting her cup on the table, the old woman leaned forward. “But ye were never afraid of him, were ye? Of what he might do?”
At Morag’s words, the warmth vanished from Henrietta’s being, replaced by a dreadful cold that chilled her fingers despite the warm cup in her hands.
“Ye’re afraid of what ye might do, are ye not?” The old woman held her gaze for a long moment. “Buried deep in yer soul, ye believe yerself to be of weak character, do ye not?”
Closing her eyes, Henrietta nodded.
“We’re all weak sometimes,” Morag whispered across the table, her sharp eyes unbending under the uncertainties of life. “Even a strong man like Connor Brunwood is not always strong. He, too, holds fear and doubt in his heart. He, too, depends on others for his own happiness.”