Page 33 of Highlander’s Hope

“Mom, this is really good,” he’d said with what felt like a stone in his throat. “I’m no expert, but you should show this to someone. How many do you have now in your shed?”

She’d waved her hand at him and chuckled. Her blue eyes had dimmed as she’d looked at it. She’d tucked her blond lock behind her ear. “I’ve no idea. Hundreds, maybe? Ten years worth of pain and seventeen years worth of therapy, hon.”

Therapy, yeah. Thank God for therapy. With the years, she’d even started dressing with more colors. Blank, gray sweaters and trousers were replaced with flowy, light tunics, long, colorful skirts. She’d started dying her hair regularly and tried new haircuts. She’d even hosted a weekly book club at her home where, from what she’d told him, her friends and her mostly drank wine and chatted.

“You’re good, Mom,” Konnor had insisted. “They belong in a gallery.”

“Ah, stop it.” She’d stood up, holding her lower back with one hand and the painting with the other. The earrings one of her friends had made with sea-glass clanked. “All my artwork is like entries in my personal journal. Who’d want to buy my therapy? By the way, I thought of you when I was doing this one.”

Konnor’s chest had tightened. Had she perceived his loneliness? She was his mom, so he wasn’t be surprised. Yeah, he was lonely. A part of him did want a relationship, a real connection. But that was impossible. He’d only hurt the woman with his inability to open up.

He’d taken out two thousand dollars and laid the bills on the coffee table. “This should be enough until I’m back.”

She’d stared at the money. “This is too much, Konnor.”

“Just in case. I won’t be here, so who knows. I’ll feel better you have a bit more than you need.”

Yeah, he’d be back, and she’d show him another painting. He’d continue managing his business. He’d need to hire more guys, because he was getting more and more inquiries from Hollywood.

He’d remember Marjorie. He’d torture himself thinking about how he’d left her in the midst of danger when he’d promised to protect her. Glenkeld didn’t stand a chance in the condition it was in. The image of her, wounded and bleeding, invaded his mind. Her black hair spilled on the ground, her eyes darkening with death. Pain gripped his throat, and he stopped to take a breather.

But what could he do? She didn’t want his help. He was alone, hurling these damned rocks. And besides, Marjorie was right. He didn’t know this world. He did need to listen to her, not just boss her around.

Konnor had seen people die in a battle before—his friends and army buddies who’d gone too early. Every time he thought of them, sharp pain pierced his chest.

He couldn’t save everyone, but he could swallow his pride, go back to the castle, and find a way to work together with Marjorie to protect her.

Yes, he’d only met her a few days ago. He didn’t really know her. But he felt for her much more than he wanted to admit. The Highland queen could bring him to his knees. What had happened to her connected them beyond words, even though she didn’t know it. He just couldn’t walk away.

Did he believe in destiny? Not really. Not until now, anyway. But after he’d found out about the common threads in their pasts, Isbeil’s words about finding the person you’re really destined for by traveling through the stone didn’t sound as absurd as it should.

Fact was, Konnor couldn’t live with himself if he up and left Marjorie in peril now. He just couldn’t. He had to try to make this right.

And the way to make this right lay with him opening up to her and working together with her. And that could cost him so much more than she could ever imagine.

That could cost him his heart.

* * *

Marjorie ran the blade of her claymore across the whetstone, and it let out a satisfying whoosh. The blade didn’t really need sharpening, but after Konnor left the council, she’d needed an excuse to do something physical to distract herself.

Going out riding would have been good, but she was not going to set foot outside the castle, not while MacDougalls could be out there, waiting for her to make one mistake.

She was so mad with Konnor. What an infuriating man. She’d only asked for his advice and help as a soldier. She hadn’t expected him to lay out a whole strategy in front of her and her men and completely undermine what she had in mind.

The truth was, it was her pride that hurt. She was inexperienced, but she was in charge of the castle and her whole clan. She needed to appear like she knew what she was doing. And he’d pointed out she didn’t.

She ran the blade over the stone again, her hands warm in the blacksmith’s gloves.

“I think it’s already sharp enough,” Konnor said.

Marjorie’s heart gave a lurch and galloped against her ribcage. She looked up. He stood in the doorway to the smithy. Marjorie straightened and brushed her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. Her cheeks burned, but that must be from the exercise, surely not because he was looking her like that with his handsome eyes. How could a man have such long eyelashes? And what was that pleasant warmth spreading in her stomach at the sight of him?

“Did ye need something?”

“Yes. I need to keep my word.”

“Oh?”