Sound of the Heart Read online

The stricken face turned toward Dougal, blue eyes pleading, tears streaming down the filthy, bruised face of an angel.

  “Aidan?” Dougal’s voice was a whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Dougal.”

  Aidan sat up, trying to cover his body, but failing. And Dougal saw what had been hidden for all that time. The body of a woman.

  CHAPTER 14

  Explanations

  He had covered her with his shirt and led her home.

  He had left the croft when she needed to clean herself up.

  He had come back an hour later, but made sure to knock first. It was the very first time he’d ever knocked on that door.

  And now he sat, staring at the fireplace, saying nothing. He felt numb. And incredibly stupid. He couldn’t get his thoughts to flow. Every time he tried to think of something, the realisation came back: Aidan’s a woman.

  For nearly two years he had spent almost all his time with her. He had slept beside her, for God’s sake! He had told her everything about himself and she had—Damn. She had said so much, but never that. Why? Why had she kept it from him? Why had this whole thing been a sham? He felt ridiculous and frustrated and angry all at once. And he felt a loss as well. Aidan was gone.

  “Dougal?” The familiar voice was timid. The voice of a stranger.

  Dougal had pulled his stool close to the fire, away from the table where she now sat. He knew she could see his profile, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He didn’t respond at all, just continued to stare at the fire. Was it because he was angry? Not entirely. It was just—he felt lost.

  “Please, Dougal,” she said. “Please talk wi’ me.”

  He swallowed hard and turned his head away so she couldn’t see his expression. He was afraid for a moment that he might cry, and he wasn’t even sure why.

  “Dougal? Please?”

  He turned back toward the fire and dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing them over his cheeks as if to wake them from this bad dream.

  “Why?” he finally asked.

  He heard her pick up the stool and walk to the fireplace, then set it down beside his, but he didn’t look up.

  She sat in silence for a few moments, then the truth began to trickle from her lips. Her voice was hushed but calm. As if she spoke in a dream.

  “I have been a lad to everyone for so long. Ye must understand. I had to be a lad. A lassie canna fight in battles. A lassie canna spend months in a prison wi’ great, huge, hairy men an’ come out in one piece. A lassie canna do any of these things. But a lad can. An’ I did.”

  Dougal rubbed his hands over his face again, then cradled his chin in his palms. “But why?”

  She sighed. “It happened a long time ago. An’ it was for the best. Ye see, it was my mam who made me into a lad.”

  Dougal dropped one of his hands and peered sideways at her. Her clothes had been torn, so she still wore his shirt, which covered her to her knees. She had wrapped the cape of the dead man on the road around herself as well, for modesty’s sake. It felt strange, knowing she had to do that.

  “Yer mam?” Dougal asked skeptically.

  She nodded, but looked away. “I’m no’ my father’s daughter, aye? My real da, the one I should have had, was killed the year before I was born.” Her hands, folded neatly on her lap, suddenly clenched into fists. Such small hands. Aidan always had such small hands. “The neighbour man forced himself on my mother before the stones were cooled o’er her husband’s body. She got wi’ child an’ nearly died when I was born. The man came back when I was nine. She saw him comin’ an’ ran to find me an’ Joseph. She hid me in the shed an’ bid Joseph cut all my hair an’ give me his plaid.”

  Aidan’s chin quivered. “She didna want him near me. She tol’ him he’d sired a lad.” Her fists unclenched and she clutched her kneecaps, then finally met Dougal’s eyes. “He forced himself on my mam again. I heard her screamin’ an’ Joseph an’ I ran to help, but he’d raped her an’ beat her to bloody an’ then he turned on us. I remember him grabbin’ my chin an’ sayin’ ‘Ye’re a bonny lad,’ an’ I was afraid he didna believe it. I should have kept quiet. But my mam was cryin’ an’ I tol’ him to get away from her. He slapped me hard enough that I fell over, an’ Joseph . . .” She swallowed, watching Dougal’s reaction. “Joseph stabbed him.” She snapped her fingers. “Killed him jus’ like that.”

  And she had watched Joseph die outside the prison, trying to help her escape again. Dougal started to understand the terrible pain she had felt when he’d died.

  “My mam yelled at us to run, to hide, to ne’er come back. We did. We ran. An’ we hid on our own for a month. But we were only nine or ten. We wanted to go home. An’ when we did, we found them all long dead. Ye see, they did die o’ the illness. But we didna get sick because we weren’t there.”

  Now it was Aidan’s turn to rub her hands over her face. She pressed her fingers against her temples and closed her eyes, and Dougal wondered if she were trying to forget it all, like he did with the battles. She dropped her hands back to her lap and looked at Dougal again.

  “We kept up that I was a lad. It seemed safer. We met folk, an’ they assumed I was a lad. I was treated like one, an’ we never worried about my bein’ attacked like my mother had been. It all worked so well until the day we were ordered to march. I had no idea how to shoot. My mam had never taught me that. I had only ever used my bow, an’ that just for hunting. Oh, an’ my dirk, but I’d never had cause to use it in a fight. When they decided we were goin’ to fight, Joseph an’ I had to learn from the men, but they didna trust us wi’ weapons. So we were the drummers. That suited me fine.”

  It was the same voice, the same mannerisms Dougal had seen all along, but everything was different.

  “But why could ye no’ tell me?” he asked. “Did ye no’ trust me, either?”

  She tilted her head, regarding him with such regret. “Oh, Dougal. So many times I wanted to tell ye. I didna want to live wi’ this secret forever. But I was afraid ye’d hate me, or tell me to leave. I thought maybe if I could only keep ye thinkin’ I was a lad, I could stay wi’ ye.” She paused and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I so wanted to stay wi’ ye, Dougal.”

  Their eyes met and held. Dougal couldn’t pull away. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind in that moment, but the one that held his attention the tightest was what an amazing feat she had managed, carrying this act out for so long in the midst of such conditions. She was watching him but had stopped speaking. It was his turn. They both knew he could end their entire friendship in this moment if he wanted. It was all in his hands.

  Why was he so hurt? Why did he want to scream? Trust. He had trusted her. “Ye lied to me.”

  She shook her head. “I never did. I may have twisted a few things to make it work better, but I never lied. Except for my name, an’ even then—” She smiled sadly, remembering. “I think it was Joseph who introduced me to ye. I never said my name.”

  All the familiar lines of her face seemed different now, and yet it explained so much. He understood why he had been captivated, watching her sleep in the past. Why her voice had soothed every man in those horrible places. She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, but he had looked away from that. She was a lad, and she was his friend. And now?

  “What’s yer name then?”

  She smiled. It was a bright, beautiful smile that filled her eyes though they spilled over with tears, and he forgave her everything. “Glenna. My name is Glenna. An’ that’s the first time I’ve been able to say so in almost eight years.”

  “Glenna,” he mused, testing the name on his tongue. It felt good there.

  She reached toward his arm, but he pulled away.

  “No,” he muttered, sitting up straight. “I’m no’ quite ready for that.”

  She nodded and looked into her lap. “I am sorry. Truly.”

  “Aye, I ken that. It’s only . . . well, it’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it? Safe to say ye’re no’ the man I thought ye we
re.” He offered a small smile, meant to put them both at ease.

  “But I am still the person I was, Dougal. An’ the way ye an’ I are, well, it’s no’ changed. I’ll still be a lad, if ye like. I’ll work as hard as I ever have. Harder, if it helps ye to forgive me.”

  He shook his head. “Ye work plenty hard enough, Ai—Glenna. No need for that. It will only take me some time, I think. I look at ye an’ ye seem like someone I’ve never known, but someone I’ve always known. Does that make sense?”

  She nodded, eyes full of hope.

  “I suppose it’s a blessin’ I found out now. I didna spend the rest o’ my life no’ knowing.”

  “An’ I’m so glad I dinna have to hide it anymore,” she admitted. “Everythin’ became a habit, but still. It will be easier on me now at least.”

  She reached for his arm again, and this time he didn’t move away when her fingertips rested on the taut muscle of his forearm.

  “Still friends?” she asked.

  “I’d be yer friend anyhow, Glenna. It wouldna matter if ye were a lad or a lass. Aye, ye’re stuck wi’ me. An’ I’m sorry if this is a problem, but I, well, I really am a lad.”

  “I’m well aware o’ that, Dougal,” she said quietly, then stood and walked across the room, clutching the cape around her.

  “I’m an oaf,” he blurted out, getting to his feet. “I didna think to ask ye—are ye well? Did they hurt ye?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’ll only need to mend my breeks is all.”

  “Yer breeks . . . ye’ll still dress like that then? Like a lad?”

  “Aye, I will. No need to change that, is there?”

  Dougal thought there probably was a need for that, but he wasn’t going to be the one to say so. Aidan/Glenna had worn either a kilt or breeks ever since the first day they’d met, and Dougal had never looked twice. But now . . . She was a beautiful woman. He was going to have enough trouble dealing with that without having to worry about the look of her backside or the slender outline of each individual leg.

  She heard his hesitation. “Dougal? Is that a problem for ye?”

  “No,” he said, doing his best to sound offended. “Why should it be?”

  She squinted at him, probing, but his expression gave nothing away. “Fine then,” she said. “I’ll just do my mending an’ get back to the traps later. I canna very well go out in naught but yer shirt, can I?”

  Dougal said nothing. He felt a sudden urge to go fishing. “I’ll be back later wi’ supper,” he said, and left.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sharing the Water

  It took some getting used to, but Dougal was determined that it should work. That he wouldn’t lose the friendship, the closeness he and Aidan had developed. Their connection had become essential to him. Glenna would mean just as much to him as Aidan had, he decided. It was just that he felt he needed to approach her differently now, talk about different topics, and he was running out of things to say that sounded halfway intelligent. He missed Aidan. He missed talking about nothing under the stars, never worrying about what to say. Now it was as if he always wanted to impress Glenna with something.

  Glenna put a stop to it one morning a week later. She’d disappeared into the woods, following her trapline, and hadn’t told Dougal where she was headed. Why would she after all? He hadn’t been there. He’d been in the stream, washing. When he’d returned, she was gone. The house felt hollow without her in it.

  “Glenna?”

  She wasn’t in the house, nor anywhere nearby. His heart started to thunder with unfamiliar panic. Where was she? What if something had happened to her? Why hadn’t he been with her, protecting her? He growled with self-disgust, chastising himself for being so irresponsible. What if the men from the other day returned hungry again, looking for revenge and finding a tasty little morsel?

  He ran toward the clearing where he’d discovered who she really was, hoping to find her, but also praying she wasn’t there. He burst through the trees, panting, and took in the scene.

  “Glenna?”

  She wasn’t there. He retraced his steps, then realised she had probably gone out to check her traps. He dug carefully on the side of the path they’d cut, knowing where she always left the traps. He found the first one. Empty. His chest loosened with relief. Yes. He would find her now. Watching the path for traps, he followed the line. They were sometimes hidden deeper than he thought and could be difficult to find. Once he barely yanked his foot out of harm’s way. She wouldn’t be happy if he messed up her traps, he thought wryly. He ducked under branches and slapped at midges, his eyes darting constantly, searching for her.

  Then he heard her. That nightingale voice, singing something low and sad, a lullaby she thought she sang only to herself. He leaned against the thick trunk of an oak, hidden from view, and watched her work. She leaned over a trap, setting to her work with her normal efficient manner, cutting the carcass from its noose and tying it to her belt. She moved like a man, only smoother. Fluid, he thought. Like a strong, capable deer. He liked observing her when she didn’t know he was there.

  “What are ye watchin’?” she asked, her gaze still on the trap she was resetting. Dougal jumped but didn’t speak. “Dougal,” she said, standing upright. She rested her fists on her hips and tilted her head, giving him a look that made him feel as he had twenty-odd years before, when his mother called him on something he’d done. “I asked what ye were watchin’.”

  He stepped out of his apparently poor place of concealment and walked toward her. She grinned at him. “How ye manage to be such a skilled hunter, I’ll ne’er understand,” she said. “I could hear ye breathin’ a mile away.”

  “Ye’ve the ears of a squirrel,” he grumbled.

  She nodded, then returned to her earlier line of questioning. “What were ye doin’ there?”

  “I came to see . . . I was worried that . . . I thought maybe . . .” He winced, realising how pathetic he sounded. He leaned down to pluck a tiny purple flower from the grass and snapped the bloom between his fingers.

  “You were worried? About me? Since when? After all ye’ve seen me do, ye’d ken that most of the time I’m just fine on my own, thank ye very much.” She glared at him. “I’m no’ delicate flower, Dougal MacDonnell.” She gestured toward the torn flower between his fingers. “I’m no’ shrinkin’ violet, either. If I’m a flower at all, I’m maybe . . .” She paused and grabbed the crushed flower from Dougal’s grip. “Maybe I’m a thistle. Ye’d best not squeeze me too hard.” She slid her knife back into its sheath, keeping shrewd eyes on him. “Ye know what? I’m sick o’ this, Dougal. O’ the way ye treat me these days. I’m no different, but ye are. What is it wi’ ye? Why do ye sneak around behind me all the time, watchin’? Why can ye no’ be yerself anymore?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Ye’d best just say it,” she demanded. “For if ye dinna speak yer mind, this will never ease between us, an’ it will end badly.”

  “I canna say what I am thinkin’, because I dinna ken what it is.”

  “Ye do.”

  “I don’t.”

  She shoved his shoulder and he stepped obligingly back. She came closer and pushed him again, harder this time. He frowned and his backward movement was less.

  “That’s right,” she said. Her eyes glittered with anger. “I’m askin’ ye to be the man ye were. The man ye are now isna worth a pot to piss in. Ye dinna speak of anythin’ worthwhile, ye dinna laugh, ye dinna do anythin’! Ye’re dull as a stone!” She shoved him hard again. This time he tripped back, then stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, holding it in place.

  “Don’t do this,” he said, almost pleading.

  In response, she slapped his face with the hand he wasn’t holding. He shook his head to clear the sting, then grabbed that wrist as well. She leaned toward him, trying to put her face in front of his, but he was a foot taller. She hissed up at him through bared teeth.

  “Do somethin
’, Dougal MacDonnell. Dinna turn into some ninny. Do somethin’.”

  “I dinna have to do anythin’. I’ve no need to prove myself.”

  “Oh no? Then why is it ye’re spendin’ so much time talkin’ of things that dinna matter? Why do ye try to do more than ye did before? Is it because I’m so wee, now that I’m a lass? Because I’m so small an’ weak an’ helpless? Ye need to show me what a big man ye are? Is that it?”

  “No . . .” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  She pressed even closer to him. Her voice lowered to a dangerous level, almost a whisper. Almost the sound he’d heard her make in her sleep. “Do ye think I canna take care o’ myself anymore? Is that why ye came out here jus’ now? Well, I can do jus’ fine on my own, sir. I heard ye comin’, an’ I’d hear that lot if they came within a mile o’ me.”

  Dougal felt the air buzzing between them, felt the pulse hammering in her wrists beneath his fingertips. Her eyes were furious, glowering at him like blue flames, challenging him. When she had been Aidan, they had never fought. Never had occasion to disagree, because everything had been so easy. What was it now?

  “What do ye want?” he demanded. “What do ye want me to do?”

  “Anythin’! Just be the Dougal ye were, man. Dinna tend to me as if I were a child. I’m still me. Why aren’t you still you? Do something, Dougal. Do something!”

  So he kissed her. He dropped her wrists and seized the sides of her face, bringing her lips to his. She pulled instinctively away, but he held on, kissing her mouth, slightly open with surprise. He touched the skin he had longed to touch ever since he’d first found out the truth about her. It was warm, hot even, because she was angry. He felt his own face warm as he sank into the kiss.

  She was so small, just like she’d said. Despite what she claimed, the bones he held between his hands were so wee, so delicate, fitting into the palms of his hands like she was made to be there. He slid one hand down her back so it rested on her waist and pulled her snug against him. He felt her body adjust, felt her muscles bunch up in response. Yes! Yes, this was what he’d been wanting. His blood sang, tingling his fingers, dancing in his lips—