Page 37 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
Such my life, when I confidin’
Gave to her my heart to keep.
The word “confiding” stuck in Charlotte’s mind. In that moment she decided that she would tell this man a little of herself and, in doing so, hopefully convince him to share a little bit of his past.
* * *
“I understand why, as a Scotsman, you might view my father with––I suppose the word that would most accurately portray your feelings might be––repugnance,” Charlotte said.
The song that had insinuated into Edward’s thoughts died on his lips. He stopped his honing, the last rasp of the whetstone cutting off abruptly to issue in the silence. The knife blade, that he had sharpened to a lethal edge, sparkled in the warm glow of the cozy fire.
The mention of Captain Bolton, even the indirect allusion to him, nagged at something raw inside of him, like the pain of a sore tooth. Edward was not sure what to say to this comment of Charlotte’s. What did she expect him to say?
Repugnance does nae even come close to me feelin’s fer that devil.
He looked critically at the blade of his dirk, ran his callused thumb down the bitter steel and felt the slight roughness that the whetstone had left along its keen edge. He imagined what it would be like to thrust that blade up under Captain Bolton’s ribs, to the hilt, and twist it.
Could I still do it, now that I ken his daughter? Could I bring meself to do it if I kenned that she would find out that it was me that killed him?
He knew that he could. His clan’s––his family’s––vengeance could not be assuaged by anything other than the death of this man.
Edward turned his eyes upon the woman sat across from him, swathed in his plain woolen blanket. He had to admit, he had never seen a bonnier lass than Charlotte Bolton. The realization struck him time and time again, like the blow of some great hammer to his heart, and did not get less. On the contrary, it seemed that he was becoming more and more affected by her, not less.
Charlotte was looking at him anxiously for some reason, as if worried that she had said something inappropriate, so Edward grunted to show that he had heard her. Then, thinking that that was probably not really an adequate response, he said, “Aye, yer faither is certainly a man that many would consider to be about as bitter as gall,” he said.
He tried to soften his words with a slight smile, but it was hard to pull the expression onto his face when talking about a man he hated above all others.
Charlotte’s face was a picture-perfect mask of blushing pinks and warm oranges in the firelight. Her pale blue eyes looked almost white. Edward thought how fine she looked, how magical. Like some faerie that had wandered out of the forests or moors to sit with him while he dreamed.
“Bitter as gall, might be being slightly generous with your appraisal of him,” Charlotte replied.
Edward was a good hunter, attuned with his senses, and every sense in his body was telling him now that Charlotte wanted to talk with him.
“Why did ye put up with it so long?” he asked her abruptly.
Charlotte blinked. “Put up with what?”
Edward motioned to his own face. “With the beatin’s,” he said. “The way ye talk, the way ye act, and from what little ye have spoken of, this is certainly nae the first time that that dog has done that to ye.”
He expected Charlotte to look away. It was no comfortable thing to talk of, and doubly uncomfortable when the perpetrator of the assaults was a family member––a supposed loved one.
But Charlotte did not look away. She stared at him thoughtfully over the fire; a sudden look of infinite sadness mingled with exhaustion rushing over her beautiful face in a wave. She raised a hand to her face and touched gently at the bruises that marred one side of it, a fingertip lingering at the split in her lip.
“It just became normal, after a while,” she said, softly.
Edward got the impression that it was not just to him that she spoke. Rather, she sounded as if she was also answering a question that she had asked herself countless times.
“You would be amazed at the sort of pain that one can get used to after suffering with it for long enough.”
The image of his mother’s smiling face flashed into Edward’s mind at these words.
I think I can believe it.
“Then, why now?” he asked.
It was clear to him that this lass had not had anyone to talk to about, well,anythingfor quite some time. Edward knew what it was like to be alone with only your own thoughts for company. He had spent long days––weeks, even––out in the wild Highland fells after his mother had been killed. He had been in that awful state of mind, where all he wanted was to be around others, but then, when he was in the midst of company all he cared to do was get away and be on his own.
“Why did ye decide to leave and run away now, Sassenach?”
