by Jayne Castel
Coira pulled her cloak close and followed Sister Mina’s slender silhouette around the back of the kirk. They hugged the shadows, the sound of their footfalls masked by the whistling wind. Although Coira didn’t glance behind her, she sensed that Craeg was following at her heel, no more than three paces behind.
She didn’t need to worry about him being careless or noisy. The man was used to making himself one with the darkness, to traveling unseen.
Skirting the edge of the complex of buildings that spread out around the kirk, the three of them avoided the shortest route to the gates, which would have taken them into the open across a wide dirt yard. Instead, Sister Mina took them the long way, past the graveyard and the fowl coop, before they edged along, under the shadow of the high stone wall that encircled the abbey.
Sister Firtha, a lanky young woman who’d just recently taken her vows of perpetuity, awaited them at the gates. Swathed in a slate-grey cloak, the nun blended in perfectly with the darkness. When she stepped forward to greet them, Coira’s step faltered, her heart leaping in her chest.
Placing a hand over her thudding heart, Coira nodded to Sister Firtha. Without a word, Sisters Firtha and Mina both went to the gates—high slabs of oak and iron. From a distance the gates appeared closed, yet this close, and now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Coira realized that they were indeed ajar. The two nuns hauled them open, creating a gap of around two feet.
Coira and Craeg squeezed through it. As she crept away and scanned her surroundings, Coira heard a soft creak as the nuns pushed the gates closed once more. They’d leave them ajar ready for her return, hopefully sooner rather than later.
Still not speaking, she led Craeg east, into the hazel wood that flanked the abbey. Earlier that evening he’d told her that direction was the closest to where he was headed. Craeg had been careful not to reveal any detail about the location of the new outlaw camp.
She supposed he was being tightlipped for her benefit, not just for his. If she didn’t know where he and his band were hiding, she couldn’t betray them, even under duress.
As soon as they entered the woods, a little of the tension that had coiled tight within Coira eased. They were outside the abbey walls now at least, and she was confident that no one had seen them leave. Father Camron would now be none the wiser that they’d been harboring a wanted criminal inside the walls.
It was beautiful amongst the trees, with the moonlight frosting them. Coira rarely walked in the woodland after dark, and despite the roar of the wind through the branches, the peace settled over her, soothing her jangled nerves.
Behind her, she heard Craeg’s heavy tread and the whisper of his breathing. He walked close now, so she slowed her stride, mindful that he’d been bed-ridden for the past week.
“How are ye feeling?” she murmured, slowing further so that he drew up alongside.
“A bit weak, but well enough,” he replied in a voice that warned her from inquiring further. Of course, his injury would be paining him, but he was stubborn and he wouldn’t tell her that.
Ye need to stop fussing, Coira reminded herself. He’s no longer yer patient.
No, he wasn’t, but she worried for him nonetheless. An odd sort of friendship had struck up between them in the past days, and she’d found herself looking forward to her trips to the infirmary. Despite that he couldn’t linger at Kilbride, she knew Craeg shouldn’t be up and about this soon, not after being so ill.
They continued walking, side-by-side now, the wind tugging at their cloaks, until they reached a small glade. They were around ten furlongs east of the abbey, and here the land sloped upwards. If they were to keep walking in the same direction, the trees would soon give way to foothills. And then shortly after that, they would stand under the shadow of great mountains.
Craeg halted in the midst of the glade and turned to Coira.
Moonlight filtered in, highlighting his face in sharp angles. However, his eyes were dark as his gaze settled upon hers. “This is where our paths diverge,” he said softly. “It’s not safe for ye to travel any farther, Coira.”
The intimacy in the way he spoke her name made Coira catch her breath. She’d never thought her name a beautiful one, but it was when he said it. Warmth spread across her chest, and she was glad the darkness hid the blush she was sure now stained her cheeks. “It’s Sister Coira,” she managed finally, her voice higher than usual.
“Aye … it is.” He stepped closer to her, dipping his chin just a little so that he could continue to hold her gaze. “Ye saved my life … and I will never forget it. Ye are an angel.”
An angel.
Coira’s breathing quickened, as if she’d just been running. The low timbre of his voice, the sensuality of it, made her struggle to catch her breath. For the first time, his nearness, the heat of his body, caused her to feel light-headed.
What was the man doing? It almost seemed as if he was trying to seduce her.
“I am a healer,” she finally managed, cursing the sudden huskiness in her voice. “I wasn’t going to let ye die, was I?”
“No.” There was a smile in his voice now, a masculine self-confidence that was both attractive and irritating. And yet she wasn’t cowed by him. For years, she’d been afraid of men—any man. The first few farmers from Torrin she’d tended had terrified her; big men with rough voices and hot stares. She’d been sure they’d take liberties, and yet they hadn’t.
Craeg was taller and stronger than her. He was a warrior used to living rough, and he shared the same blood as a man who’d used and tormented her. But he wasn’t Duncan MacKinnon. The past days had made that evident.
He stepped even closer to her then, and suddenly she realized that they were standing little more than a hand-span apart. Coira lifted her chin, holding his eye.
She heaved in a steadying breath. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the clearing, and her surroundings disappeared. The roar of the wind, the chill of the night air, the rich smell of damp earth and vegetation—all of it faded. Craeg dominated her senses.
“Ye and I are but ships passing each other in the fog,” Craeg said softly, his voice husky now, “but know this, Sister Coira … if things were different. If I wasn’t a fugitive, and if ye weren’t a Bride of Christ, I would do all I could to make ye mine.” His hand reached up and, gently, his knuckles brushed her cheek. Coira stopped breathing, stopped thinking. “I’ve never met a woman like ye,” he concluded softly, “and I doubt I will again.”
10
Unrepentant
I WOULD DO all I could to make ye mine.
Craeg’s words whispered to Coira, mocked her, all the way back to Kilbride. She strode out briskly, cheeks burning, yet his voice, rough with longing, still followed her.
I’ve never met a woman like ye, and I doubt I will again.
They were bold words, charming words, and yet they had drawn a web around Coira. And she’d been ensnared by them. Once he’d finished speaking, they’d stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment—and then he’d stepped back from her, dropping his hand and breaking the spell.
Clutching her staff so hard her knuckles ached, Coira had spun on her heel and taken off back the way she’d come.
They’re just words. Aye, but words had power. Hadn’t Coira been her most frightened when Duncan MacKinnon loomed over her, whispering cruel, hateful things?
Why hadn’t she seen this coming? All these days Craeg had been her patient and she hadn’t realized that he’d developed feelings for her. Coira hadn’t encouraged him. She’d treated him as she did all those who needed her help—but that hadn’t prevented him from seeing her as a woman.
Looking back, she now saw the signs. The way his gaze often lingered upon her face, the intense way he watched her, and the warmth of his smiles.
How could I have been so blind?
It was improper, both she and Craeg knew it. A man didn’t say things like that to a nun, and a nun wouldn’t tolerate it. She should have reviled him, should have m
ade the sign of the cross and warded him off like the devil. But instead, she’d turned tail and fled.
Coira’s breathing came in ragged gasps. Despite the cool wind whipping against her face, the blush that had started in her cheeks had now spread over her entire torso, pooling in her lower belly.
“Dear Lord,” she murmured, horrified by her body’s betrayal, “please forgive me.” She couldn’t believe how swiftly she’d responded to Craeg, how she’d leaned into him as he spoke. For an instant she’d longed for him to dip his head and capture her lips with his. She’d wanted to tangle her fingers in his wild, dark hair, to plunge her tongue into his mouth and—
Stop it!
Coira clenched her jaw so fiercely that pain darted through her left ear. This was wrong, all of it. When she returned to the abbey, she’d spend the night praying on the floor of her cell. She’d do anything to send these lustful thoughts back to whence they’d come.
She hurriedly retraced her steps back to the abbey, and when the high walls of Kilbride loomed before her, Coira sucked in a deep, relieved breath. Despite all the dangers around them, the abbey was still her refuge, still the place where she could shut out the rest of the world.
Pushing the gates open wide enough so that she could slip through, Coira re-entered the abbey. As she’d expected, both Sisters Firtha and Mina had retired to the dormitory for the night. The yard before the kirk was empty, and no cloaked figures waited in the shadows around it.
Coira pushed the gates shut, but didn’t risk bolting them. She didn’t like leaving the abbey gates unlocked, but even in the wind, the noise would travel. She would just have to hope that no one slipped in.
Heaving a deep breath, Coira edged her way right, past the stables and the guest lodgings—where the abbot and his monks would be slumbering—toward the low-slung complex of buildings that were the dormitories, and the cells belonging to the more senior nuns. And since Coira had lived at Kilbride for many years now, she was considered one of them.
Coira’s chest tightened in anticipation at being able to close the door on the world for a few short hours, to be able to put herself back together again and make sense of her jumbled thoughts and emotions.
She’d almost reached the entrance to the lodgings when a man’s voice, rough and accusing, cut through the chill night air. “Stop right there.”
Light blazed behind her, and Coira abruptly came to a halt. Her heart then started pounding. Without turning, she knew that Father Camron stood at her back and that he was carrying a torch.
“Turn around,” he ordered sharply. “Let me see yer face.”
“The nun is unrepentant. This time, she must be punished.”
Father Camron’s voice boomed through the abbess’s hall, echoing off the stone walls. Standing a few feet back, her gaze bleary, for she’d just been torn from sleep, Mother Shona winced. “There’s no need to bellow, Father,” she said wearily. “None of us are hard of hearing.”
“I caught her, Mother,” the abbot continued, barely lowering his tone. “With that staff of hers. And look at her … she’s wearing a cloak. The nun has clearly been outside the abbey walls!”
Coira said nothing, although she didn’t take her gaze off the abbot’s face. His dark eyes gleamed, and his cheeks were flushed. He could barely contain his glee at catching her.
“Was she practicing with the quarter-staff again, Father?” Mother Shona asked with a long-suffering tone that Coira knew well. It was one she used with the likes of Sister Elspeth, when the nun came to her telling tales about the ‘misconduct’ of other sisters.
“No.” A little of the abbot’s glee ebbed from his face. “But that matters not … the point is, Sister Coira has no godly reason to leave the abbey at night.” His attention swiveled to Coira then, his gaze pinning her to the spot. “What were ye doing?”
“I have trouble sleeping, Father,” Coira replied, her voice frosty as she fought anger. It was rising within her like a springtide, and it took all her effort to choke it down. “So I took a walk in the hazel wood. I didn’t go far … and I took my staff with me, for the ground is uneven and I didn’t want to trip in the dark.”
The abbot gave a loud snort, his broad chest expanding with the force of his disbelief. The large iron crucifix he wore gleamed in the light of the cressets burning upon the surrounding walls. “Ye must take us both for fools, Sister Coira. Ye were out consorting with men, weren’t ye? Ye were fornicating!”
“Father!” Mother Shona gasped. “How dare ye suggest such a thing?”
“I dare because it is the truth!”
“But ye have no proof.”
“I don’t need any … not when I caught her returning from outside the walls.” Father Camron rounded on Coira before taking a menacing step toward her. “This time, ye will be flogged … and I shall wield the rod.”
“No, she won’t—and ye won’t.” The abbess’s voice cut in, flint-hard now. Glancing Mother Shona’s way, Coira saw that the last vestiges of sleepiness had disappeared from her face. The abbess’s eyes had turned dark and hard, and her nostrils flared.
Coira’s belly dropped in response. In all the years she’d lived at Kilbride, she’d never seen Mother Shona look so angry.
“If ye dare take a rod to anyone here, I shall rip it from yer hands and use it upon ye,” the abbess said, her voice tight with the force of the rage she was barely keeping in check. “Ye are a guest here, Father. Remember that.”
The abbot pulled himself up short, his broad chest expanding even further. His eyes bulged, and he began to breathe noisily, in short, rasping breaths. “I am an inquisitor, Mother,” he growled. “I can do what I wish.”
Mother Shona drew herself up, eyeballing him without the slightest trace of fear. “No … ye can’t.” Her voice had turned icy now. Watching her, Coira’s breathing caught. How she admired the abbess. Although small in stature, she wasn’t afraid to stand up to men. That day Mother Shona had stood her ground against MacKinnon, Coira had been frightened for her. But now watching her face-off against the abbot, her small hands balling into fists at her sides, Coira felt nothing but respect for the woman.
How she wished she was that brave.
It hurt to kneel upon the hard stone floor of the kirk—especially since the bruising upon Coira’s knees had only just healed. But it was preferable to a flogging so she bore the pain in silence.
Dawn wasn’t far off; she sensed its approach. The interior of the kirk was beginning to lighten as the sky outside the high narrow windows turned from black to indigo.
Closing her eyes, Coira swayed. Fatigue pressed down upon her. She was so tired she could have happily stretched out upon these icy flagstones and gone to sleep.
But instead, she was praying to atone for her misbehavior.
The words of the prayers blurred into each other now, for tiredness had muddled her thoughts. Instead, the abbot’s words intruded.
Ye were fornicating!
If the accusation hadn’t been so serious, she’d have laughed at its ridiculousness. After what she’d suffered at the hands of men in the past, sneaking out to copulate with one was the last thing she desired.
However, the abbot didn’t know of her past—and if he had, he’d likely have just used it against her.
The argument had escalated after Mother Shona had thwarted the abbot. He’d bellowed and threatened, yet the abbess had stood firm.
In the end, he’d turned and stormed from the abbess’s hall, leaving a hollow silence in his wake.
Coira’s legs had weakened with relief at the sound of the door slamming shut, yet she knew it was but a brief reprieve. Father Camron would be out for her blood now.
At least Craeg got away.
Coira’s fingers, clasped together in prayer, curled into each other. Since returning to the abbey, she’d done her best not to think about the outlaw. Having to deal with the abbot had been a distraction, as had her cold and discomfort as she knelt on the floor of the kirk.
>
But with this last thought, her shields came down.
Suddenly, she was back there in that dark, windy glade, staring up into his eyes. His face had been beautiful in the moonlight, had seemed carven from marble, yet his touch—feather light and reverent—had been warm.
His touch had lit a fire within her. Coira’s return to the abbey had banked it momentarily, but now that Craeg crept back into her thoughts, it flared once more.
How she’d wanted him to kiss her. How her fingertips had ached to touch him, to trace that thin silver scar on his face.
A lump rose in Coira’s throat, and it hurt to swallow. The abbot would have her flayed for such thoughts. Maybe he wasn’t that wrong about her after all.
A nun shouldn’t desire a man’s touch.
A burning sensation rose behind Coira’s closed eyelids, and she squeezed them even tighter shut, forcing back tears. She hadn’t wept in years, had thought she’d forgotten how.
This wasn’t any good. She couldn’t continue like this—as soon as she could, Coira would seek the abbess’s counsel. Mother Shona would teach her how to overcome this weakness.
She has to.
11
A Fiery Dawn
IT TOOK CRAEG longer than he’d expected to reach his camp.
His injury had weakened him on a deeper level than he’d realized. Aye, he could walk, yet he seemed to have lost his stamina. It was as if the soured wound and the terrible fever that followed had both sapped him of strength.
As such, he found himself needing to rest numerous times during the journey inland, especially once the land steepened. The woods gave way to scrub-covered hills, and then stony slopes.
The wind whipped against Craeg as he climbed, cooling his heated cheeks. Yet it wasn’t enough to keep exhaustion at bay.
Panting, he stopped halfway up the mountainside and lowered himself onto a rock to rest. He reached inside the small leather pack the nuns had given him and withdrew a bladder of beer before taking a few gulps. The liquid revived him, yet his limbs felt as if they were weighted down with boulders.
