by Jayne Castel
Coira’s pulse accelerated, and she quelled the urge to exchange glances with the other nuns at the table.
They all knew that statement was a lie.
There was much Father Camron didn’t know—much he couldn’t know. If there was anyone in the outside world they had to protect themselves against, it was this man. The abbess had confided in Coira that Gavin MacNichol had offended the abbot’s pride when he’d gone to Scorrybreac to corner Ella about leaving the order. To compound matters, when Father Camron had arrived at Kilbride, he’d not gotten the welcome he’d expected. Mother Shona had let her temper get the better of her for once, and had given him further offence.
She would be regretting those rash words now.
Father Camron was a man who nursed grievances like a bruise. He never forgot a slight.
“I have informed the Pope about the goings-on here,” the abbot continued, undaunted by the abbess’s sanguine reaction. “MacKinnon sent word to me that yet another of yer nuns has left the order … this is highly irregular.”
Mother Shona inclined her head, favoring the abbot with a long-suffering look. “Did he also tell ye the reason for Sister Leanna’s departure?”
The abbot’s blank look told them all that the clan-chief had not.
“Sister Leanna’s father died, and she was going to his burial when MacKinnon’s men abducted her.” The abbot’s face tensed at this, his dark gaze narrowing, yet Mother Shona pressed on. “He took a novice nun against her will back to Dunan, where he planned to wed her. Sister Leanna managed to escape, and we haven’t heard from her since.” The abbess paused there, letting her words sink in. “I can assure ye, we had nothing to do with her disappearance. It saddens me greatly that we have lost such a devoted sister.”
Father Camron watched the abbess, high spots of color appearing upon his already florid cheeks. “MacKinnon said none of this to me.”
Mother Shona’s expression grew grave. “That doesn’t surprise me. He wouldn’t wish to cast himself in a poor light.”
Coira watched the abbot’s heavy jaw tighten, although he held his tongue this time. This news clearly shocked him, and she could see he was debating whether to believe the abbess or not.
With a suppressed sigh, Coira dropped her gaze to her half-full bowl of stew.
The man’s company was tiresome at best.
A few years ago, Father Camron had spent three months at the abbey. But during that stay, he’d been a guest, not an inquisitor. And at that time, the relationship between the abbey and the MacKinnon clan-chief hadn’t deteriorated to this level. A heavy sensation settled in the pit of Coira’s belly, dulling her appetite.
She’d joined the order to embrace a life of peace, stability, and order—but the chaos of the outside world was always clawing at the door, seeking a way in.
Craeg watched the nun climb up onto a stool and peg a heavy woolen curtain to the rafters. The thick material blocked out the pale light filtering in from the infirmary’s tiny windows and the glow of the hearth. His stuffy corner of the building was now illuminated only by a guttering candle.
“What are ye doing, Sister?” he asked. The weakness of his voice both shocked and irritated him. It didn’t sound like it belonged to him. He wasn’t used to feeling this physically feeble either.
Finishing her task, Sister Coira stepped down from the stool and turned to him. Her expression was carefully composed, those startling eyes shuttered. “There’s a price on yer head,” she said, her voice low. “And as such, I’m taking precautions.”
“Surely, no one is likely to see me in here,” he pointed out.
“The abbey has visitors at the moment,” the nun informed him coolly, “and we don’t know how long they’ll stay.”
A fluttery sensation rose in Craeg’s gut. The way she’d said the word ‘visitors’ immediately made his hackles rise; years of living as a fugitive had honed his instincts. Craeg attempted to push himself up off his nest of pillows. “I should go,” he grunted. “My band will be wondering what’s become of me, and I don’t want to put ye and the others here at risk.” An instant later a wave of sickly pain crashed over him. Sweating, Craeg sank back down onto the pillows. “Maybe not … just … yet. Looks like ye might have to put up with me a bit longer.”
Sister Coira’s mouth compressed as she eyed him. “Aye, ye are in no fit state to be going anywhere.”
“These visitors,” he wheezed. “Who are they?”
The nun’s gaze met his. “The Abbot of Crossraguel Abbey … he’s here to investigate the abbess’s conduct.”
Craeg frowned as he struggled to focus on her words. The pain in his side was starting to subside although his body still quivered in its memory. “Really? What has she done to warrant that?”
Sister Coira let out a slow exhale, and he sensed her wariness around him. However, he wasn’t about to push her. If she didn’t want to speak openly, he understood. “There have been a few … incidents … here over the past year,” Sister Coira admitted finally. She folded her arms across her chest then, an unconscious defensive gesture. “Two nuns have left the order in … questionable circumstances.”
Craeg cocked his head. “Now I’m curious.”
“Aye, well some things are best not discussed.”
The clipped tone of her voice didn’t put him off. Instead, it merely intrigued him further. “Ye can’t just leave it there.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Can’t I?”
They watched each other for a long moment, and Craeg suddenly became acutely aware of every detail of the woman standing before him. The voluminous black habit she wore, along with the veil and wimple that shrouded everything except her face, did their best to cancel out her femininity. And yet he saw beyond the austerity of her clothing. She was tall, which he liked, and the generous swell of her breasts was evident despite the heavy material of the habit.
But it was her face that drew him in. The blend of strength, vulnerability, and sensuality in her features.
What a pity she’s a nun, he mused. Life had been a fight for a survival of late, and there had been no time for women. Yet he’d never met one that intrigued him like this Sister of Kilbride did.
“Around a month ago, I met a young woman who claimed she’d been a nun here at Kilbride,” he said finally, shattering his silent appreciation. “Her name was Leanna.”
Sister Coira’s lips parted, her gaze widening. “Where did ye see her?”
“She was fleeing Dunan … with the aid of Ross Campbell,” Craeg replied, his gaze steady as it continued to hold hers. “They entered the valley not far from where my band camped, and we hosted them for a night.” He paused there, aware that her expression had turned stern. Craeg made a face. “Worry not, I didn’t take them prisoner … although I made an error of judgement during their stay that cost me dearly.” His chest constricted then as he remembered the mess Brochan had made. He should have seen that coming. “One of my men tried to use Leanna and Ross to blackmail my brother … and everything went to hell.”
Sister Coira didn’t answer him, although her face now wore a wintry expression. Craeg knew he wasn’t giving a good account of his band, yet he forced himself on. Nonetheless, it was an effort to keep eye contact. His throat thickened as he continued. “The man, Brochan, under-estimated my brother—we all did. Before he killed Brochan, MacKinnon tortured him … and discovered where we were hiding.”
Craeg dragged a shaky hand through his hair and sank back into the nest of pillows behind him. “Ross and Leanna helped us defend our camp when MacKinnon’s men attacked, but it wasn’t enough to save us. Many of my band fell that day, and I took the arrow that landed me here.”
Sister Coira was watching him, her gaze shuttered. Craeg thought she might comment, but when she didn’t, he pushed on, concluding his tale. “When the fight turned against us, I told Ross and Leanna to run. I hope they managed to elude MacKinnon.”
He stopped speaking then, his eyes flickering shut. Their
conversation, short though it was, had drained him, the weight of guilt settling over him. Brochan had been one of his closest friends. Aye, he’d acted foolishly, but that didn’t make Craeg feel any less to blame for his end.
“They’re safe,” Sister Coira said finally. “Mother Shona received a letter around two weeks ago. We don’t know where they are now … but they’ve left Skye and made a new life together.”
Craeg’s eyes snapped open, and a little of the heaviness lifted. “That’s good,” he replied, his mouth rising at the corners into a half-smile. “Ye could see Campbell was in love with the lass. At least life has happy endings for some of us.”
It was her turn to incline her head then, her gaze questioning. “Aye,” the nun murmured, favoring him with a rare smile that was tinged with sadness. “Leanna wasn’t suited to be a nun. Her father sent her to Kilbride only in order to protect her from yer brother; her heart was never in it. I miss her all the same though.”
Again, Craeg felt a pull toward the woman before him. What a contradiction she was: at once strong and capable, yet with a softness, a vulnerability, just beneath the surface.
“What about ye, Sister Coira?” he asked finally. “Why did ye take the veil?”
The moment he asked the question, Craeg realized he’d overstepped. It was like watching a door slam shut between them. Sister Coira took an abrupt step back, her jaw tightening and a shadow passing over her eyes.
“I came here for a better life,” she replied, her tone clipped. With that, the nun turned, pushed aside the curtain, and departed the alcove, leaving Craeg with his own company.
6
Sickness
DREW MACKINNON STEPPED out of her bed-chamber and closed the door firmly behind her. Leaning up against it, she inhaled deeply, a chill seeping through her. Behind her, she could hear the rumble of the healer’s voice and the weak sounds of his patient’s reply.
Mother Mary, save us.
Drew clenched her eyes shut and wished she was a pious woman. Her mother had tried to instill religious fervor within her years earlier, but the hours spent kneeling on the stone floor of the kirk, praying for forgiveness for her numerous sins, hadn’t made the slightest difference. If anything, it had made Drew rebel further.
But a strong faith would be welcome now.
“Lady Drew?” A gruff male voice intruded. Drew’s eyes snapped open, and she glanced left to where Carr Broderick had halted. He was watching her, his grey-blue eyes clouded with concern. “Are ye unwell?”
Swallowing, Drew shook her head. “No … but my handmaid, Tyra, is.” She paused there before forcing the words out. “The healer thinks she has the plague.”
Plague. The word hung between them like a death sentence.
Broderick’s features tightened. “Is he sure?”
“The signs are there.” Bile stung the back of Drew’s throat. “Her fingertips have blackened, and she has swellings under her arms and at her groin.”
Did she imagine it, or did Broderick’s face pale at this description? The symptoms of the sickness that was now sweeping across Scotland were clear enough.
There could be no doubt.
“How is he treating her?” he asked, the rough edge to the warrior’s voice betraying his alarm.
Drew screwed up her face. “In the usual fashion … not that it seems to do much good. Blood-letting and a tonic of vinegar and heather honey. He’s rubbed raw onion over the swellings on her skin … the chamber reeks of it.”
Their gazes fused then and held for a long moment. It was unusual for Drew to interact with her brother’s right-hand in such a fashion. She and Carr Broderick had lived under the same roof for over fifteen years now, but until recently their paths rarely crossed. However, with Ross Campbell’s disappearance, Broderick had taken on his role as Captain of the Dunan Guard. These days, the warrior was never far from her brother’s side.
“I should go and inform Duncan,” she said, breaking the tense silence between them. “It’s the first sickness inside the broch … he will want to know.”
“I will tell him, milady,” Broderick replied with a brusque nod.
The tension that had turned Drew’s shoulders to stone eased just a little. She’d been avoiding her brother recently, and had taken to having most of her meals alone in her solar. It wasn’t like her to shrink from confrontation—but she needed time to think, to plan.
Of late, Duncan had become not only a danger to himself, but to the MacKinnon clan. Ross Campbell had been her only ally here—and just hours before she’d helped him flee Dunan, he’d agreed to support her if she ever made a move against her brother.
Campbell was no good to her now though. She didn’t even know if he still lived. And with his absence, she was truly alone here.
She could ask Carr Broderick for help, but the man was an unknown quantity. It appeared his loyalty to her brother was unshakable. She couldn’t confide in him.
“I shall go and inform the servants then,” Drew said, injecting a brisk note into her voice. She needed to get ahold of herself. Fear of the sickness wouldn’t help any of them. The number of cases inside Dunan village was rising sharply with each passing day—it had only been a matter of time before someone within the broch fell ill.
And now that it had happened, they’d have to deal with it.
“Very good, milady,” Broderick replied. The usual impassive mask the man wore had slipped back into place. You would never have thought the news about the sickness had alarmed him. Drew admired the man’s self-control, his strength.
Watching him turn and stride off down the hallway in search of her brother, Drew inhaled slowly and wiped her damp palms upon the skirts of her kirtle.
Aye, they’d all have to be strong in the face of what lay ahead.
Carr Broderick was sweating as he stood before MacKinnon—a chill sweat that made his skin crawl. Dread ran its cold fingertip down his spine, causing his pulse to slow. Yet he kept his reaction to Lady Drew’s news hidden under a mask it had taken him years to master.
He wasn’t the only one shaken by news that the sickness had entered the broch. In all the time he’d served the MacKinnons, he’d never seen Lady Drew scared. Yet, the pallor upon her lovely face, the alarm in those iron-grey eyes, had made him want to reach for her, enfold her in his arms.
Something he would never do.
Lady Drew was likely to scratch his eyes out if he ever attempted such a thing.
Nonetheless, he’d noted the slight tremor of her body, the way her throat had bobbed as she swallowed. She was alarmed, and she was right to be. The devil had entered their home. How many of them would survive his visit?
A scowl split Duncan MacKinnon’s forehead once Broderick had delivered his news. The clan-chief sat before the hearth, a goblet of wine in hand, his wolfhound, Bran, curled at his feet.
“If the maid is ill, I don’t want her in my broch,” he growled, his voice slurring slightly. It was still an hour or two till the noon meal, yet MacKinnon was clearly not on his first sup of wine. Ever since Lady Leanna’s disappearance, MacKinnon seemed always to have a goblet of wine in hand—a habit that had turned his already mercurial temper into something even more dangerous.
Carr chose his words very carefully around the clan-chief these days.
“But the healer is attending her,” he ventured. “Surely, it’s dangerous to move the lass?”
“Get her out of my broch,” MacKinnon ground out. He rose unsteadily to his feet, stepped over his sleeping hound, and stumbled to the sideboard, where he helped himself to another goblet of wine. “And burn her bedding … that is my final word. Don’t argue with me, Broderick.”
Silence filled the clan-chief’s solar. The window was open, revealing a monochrome sky beyond. A breeze, chill for this time of year, blew inside causing the lump of peat in the hearth to glow bright red. However, the draft couldn’t mask the stale odor of wine and sweat that emanated from the clan-chief.
Carr studie
d MacKinnon as he returned to his place by the hearth and sank back down in his chair. Of late, his master’s state-of-mind had started to concern him. MacKinnon had always liked to drink, but there was a recklessness to his behavior in the past days, a bleakness in his gaze that worried Carr.
Ross was the clever one, he mused. He got out while he could.
No one here knew that he’d caught up with Ross Campbell and Lady Leanna in Knock, a fishing village on Skye’s south coast, where they’d been about to board a merchant’s birlinn. He’d confronted Ross, but had let him leave all the same.
Today, he wished he’d gone with him.
He wondered what MacKinnon would do if he knew. Most likely lunge for his dirk before plunging it into Carr’s belly. If the clan-chief ever discovered what he had done, his life would be forfeit.
“How long are ye going to stand there, gawping at me?” MacKinnon eventually growled. “Instead of bothering me with ill news, how about some good tidings instead?” He swirled the wine in his goblet, his grey eyes narrowing as he fixed Carr with a glare. “How goes the search for Craeg the Bastard?”
Carr returned the clan-chief’s stare. “I have half the Dunan Guard out searching for him now, MacKinnon,” he replied. “We have redoubled our efforts, especially along the borders and coast. He may be trying to leave Skye.”
A muscle ticked on MacKinnon’s jaw at this admission. Of course, as much as his half-brother had caused him trouble over the years, the clan-chief didn’t want him to move on. Instead, he wanted the man caught.
A heavy sensation settled upon Carr then, like two large hands had just fastened over his shoulders and were pushing him into the floor. He would never admit as much to MacKinnon, but he held out little hope of finding the outlaw leader, or his band of followers. In all the years they had caused strife here, MacKinnon had only been able to get close to them a couple of times.
They were ghosts, appearing and disappearing at will.
