Page 33 of The Warrior
But Sean had ruined her for a better man’s touch. He had ruined her for pleasure. That was the part of herself she could not save. To feel those wonderful, intense feelings again, she would have to make herself vulnerable to a man. And for that, she would have to trust him.
Moira never intended to trust a man again. Least of all, Duncan MacDonald.
Chapter 15
Duncan hoped Niall healed quickly so they could get the hell out of here. The tension between him and Moira was thick as a dense fog as they walked to the healer’s cottage in the morning.
“How is he?” Duncan asked the healer as soon as she opened her door.
“Ye can ask him yourself,” she said, waving her arm to where Niall lay in the bed propped up with pillows.
Duncan was relieved to see that Niall was alert and his color much improved. The only other person in the room was the old woman who had recognized his great-grandfather’s whistle. Duncan nodded to her.
“Caitlin is as good a healer as old Teàrlag,” Niall said, looking at the young woman with calf eyes. “But she has a far gentler touch.”
Ach, Niall was thoroughly enjoying his injury. “How soon will he be ready to travel?” Duncan asked.
“Not for a few days,” Caitlin said.
“I’ll have the boat repaired by then.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be on the beach.”
“If you’ll take a seat,” Caitlin said, gesturing to her small table, “I’ll give you and your wife some breakfast.”
His wife, ha.
“Thank ye kindly,” Moira said and sat at the table with the old woman.
Duncan was starving, as usual, so he joined them and made quick work of the steaming bowl of porridge Caitlin set in front of him. When he glanced up, hoping there was more, the old woman was staring at him with her bulging eyes. She appeared to have forgotten the spoonful of porridge she held in her quivering hand halfway to her mouth.
“Ye were born here, ye know,” she said.
He did not. So far as he knew, his mother never told a soul where she had been the year she was gone. She certainly had not told him.
“Ah, I see that she kept her secret,” the old woman said. “A woman’s allowed.”
“I remember our bard telling the tale of Duncan’s mother disappearing from the beach one day with a secret lover,” Moira said with a faraway look in her eyes. “It was a great mystery and a favorite tale on long winter nights in our castle.”
“The truth is no romantic tale,” the old woman said, shaking her head.
“I never believed it anyway.” Duncan hated that this strange old woman knew more about his birth than he did. And he hated it even more that he wanted to know. He ground out the words, “What did happen?”
Duncan stiffened when the old woman reached across the table and touched his arm with her clawlike hand. He did not need pity from an old woman.
“All I want is the truth,” he said.
“Your mother was stolen from the beach near Dunscaith Castle one day, that much of the tale is true,” she said. “A MacLeod took her.”
“My mother ran off with a MacLeod?” Ach, this was worse than he thought.
“She didn’t go willingly.” The old woman paused, giving him time to absorb that. “Your mother was a dreamer and didn’t notice the galley full of MacLeod warriors until they were upon her. At sixteen, your mother was a rare beauty, to be sure. One of the MacLeod men decided to take her away with him.”
Duncan leaned his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. His father was a MacLeod and a rapist. Christ, help him. No wonder his mother had refused to tell him.
“What was this MacLeod called?” he asked without looking up.
“The devil’s name is Erik,” the old woman said. “And he’s no dead, if that’s what ye think.”
Duncan sat up straight. “He’s alive?”
