My Highland Home

MHH Chapter 6

Colin gazed at the fire in his chamber and felt the weight of guilt bearing up on his shoulders. He'd treated the girl abominably he knew, but when he'd come in from hunting with his men and Meg had told him that the lass he'd rescued from the loch was a McDowell, well he'd lost his mind for a bit. With a rueful shake of his head, he decided that that might be a bit of an understatement. It had felt like the greatest betrayal. 

He'd fished her from the loch and pleaded with her to breath. He'd nursed her for four days, trying to drive out the fever that had burned in her body. When he had failed, he'd brought her into his home and sought out Meg, his clan's healer to work her particular magic over the lass. Never in his life had anyone told him to shut up, not even his dearly departed father. And he'd never imagined that anyone would tell him to go away. He'd thought that his mysterious maid had spirit and courage enough to pull through then. He supposed he should have known better than to form an attachment to the girl, but she'd been so wee and pathetic it had been hard not to. Especially given the treatment she'd so recently received.

Disappointment tasted sour in his mouth and although it hadn't helped thus far, he lifted his cup to his mouth and tried to wash away the taste with the help of fiery whiskey. She hadn't betrayed him. Though the thought brought him no pleasure, he knew it was true. Likely even if he'd known she was a McDowell he'd still have pulled her from the loch. Colin frowned. Perhaps if he had known he wouldn't have let the wee lass take up so many of his thoughts, perhaps if he had known he wouldn't have... Well, he supposed it was neither here nor there. He couldn't take back what he'd done or said to her. It was done now and he wasn't one to go back on his word.

Rolling his pale blue gaze away from the grate of the fireplace, he sighed. Likely he'd terrified the poor thing out of her mind. In fact, the more he dwelled on it and replayed the scene in his mind, he was sure of it. Of course, in his furore, it had been his intent. It hadn't been sporting of him at all, it wasn't as if she could physically put up a fight much more than she'd been able to squeak out her displeasure. The tears had been real though. And his gut clenched thinking about the tears leaking from her emerald eyes down her pale cheeks. Except for the bruised and scratched right cheek. That was still a mottled purple in the centre and a sickly yellow around the fringe.

Mentally he called himself all kinds of a fool. The McDowell lass could barely sit herself up in a bed, how on earth would Meg get her to stand with him before a priest on the morrow? What foolishness had he been thinking? And to be certain the bruises and scratches would give the holy man pause. Groaning at his stupidity, Colin again lifted his cup and took a deep draft of whiskey. What had he been thinking? Did he really want the daughter of the McDowell Laird as his bride? It didn't matter now, he never went back on his word. Closing his eyes in defeat, he decided that he'd tell Meg in the morning to start getting the lass back on her feet. In a few days time, when she could actually stand on her own two feet, they'd stand before the priest. Opening his eyes to return his stare to the fire, Colin just prayed that he knew what he was doing.