Virtue (Sons of Scotland Book 1)

by Victoria Vane

  “’Tis a skill that takes practice to master. ’Tis now yer turn.”

  Determined to impress him, Sibylla crouched down and slowly waded upstream, holding one hand out for balance as she reached the other under the shelf of rock cropping outward from the bank. The footing in the stream was slick with algae, and the water soon weighted her skirts which made the task much more difficult than she’d imagined. How had he made this look so easy?

  After several minutes, her fingers finally came in contact with a soft and slippery form. She stifled an excited squeal. “I think I found one!”

  “Aye?” Alexander grinned in encouragement. “Now slowly stroke his body.”

  “How do ye ken it’s a he?” she asked. “Maybe it’s a she?”

  “I dinna ken what difference it makes,” he mumbled with a shake of his shaggy head.

  “It’s gone still,” she murmured.

  “Then now’s the time. Reach in with both hands and grab its head. Hold tight, for it will fight ye the moment it awakens.”

  Sibylla put both hands around the fish and plucked it out of the water, but the moment its head broke the surface, it began thrashing fiercely. It was the biggest she’d ever caught, which made maintaining her balance and holding the fighting fish a greater challenge than she’d anticipated. Her foot slipped out from under her and, with a shriek, Sibylla fell backward into the water. Though sputtering, kicking, and flailing, she refused to release the fish.

  “Let it go, lass!” Alexander cried, his eyes wide with panic as he waded toward her. He was there in seconds. Placing his hands around her waist and lifting her up and out of the water as easily as he’d landed his own catch. “I wouldna have ye drown for a bluidy fish!”

  For a dazed and breathless moment, Sibylla stared up at him with the fish flopping between them. “I wouldna have drowned,” she whispered. “As ye can see, ’tis only thigh-deep.”

  Alexander gazed down at the water and then back up at her with an endearing look of chagrin. “So ’tis.”

  “But it doesna lessen the deed,” she said softly, her gaze seeking his. “Thank ye for yer chivalry, Alexander.”

  His body stilled except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his gaze locked with hers. In that instant, something seemed to awaken between them. It was as if he, like she, experienced a sudden awareness of every breath, of every heartbeat.

  Her grip on the fish went slack. Letting it slip from her fingers, Sibylla then grasped the woolen fabric of his tunic. Eyeing his mouth, she rose up on her toes, willing him to kiss her. Would he accept her invitation? Partially closing her eyes, she held her breath and waited for him to make the next move.

  *

  Alex’s stared down at Sibylla with his heartbeat filling his ears. Her eyes had closed and her breaths had become softer as she subtly tilted her face toward his. He knew what she wanted, but he had no experience of kisses. Nevertheless, the urge to meld his lips with hers sprang forth from some deep unconscious place. And the longer he held his hands at her waist, the stronger the urge became.

  “Have ye ne’er kissed a lass?” she asked, opening her eyes with a questioning look.

  “Nae,” he replied with a hard swallow.

  “I’ve ne’er been kissed either.”

  His attention fixed on her soft, pink lips. He licked his own in uncertainty as his conscience battled with the desire to feel them on his own.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Please, Sibylla,” he pleaded. “It’s nae ye, it’s just that I—” He shook his head with a groan. “We shouldna do this.”

  “Why nae?” she asked. Why wouldn’t he kiss her? She was certain he felt the desire.

  “Because kissing only leads to temptation.” His hands fell from her waist and clenched by his sides.

  “But one kiss can surely cause no harm.”

  He responded with a scoffing sound. “Only one bite, said Eve to Adam.”

  She frowned back at him. “Ye think I would bite ye?”

  He shook his head with a snort. “Do ye nae ken the story of Adam and Eve and the forbidden fruit?”

  “Nae,” she replied, “But I would gladly hear it—after ye kiss me.”

  “Sibylla! Alexander!” a voice suddenly called out.

  “Over here!” Alexander answered.

  Fiona came into view, dragging fishing poles behind her. “I thought I’d ne’er find ye,” she grumbled. “Sibylla?” Her eyes widened when she caught sight of her sister. “Ye’re drookit! Did ye take a swim in the burn?”

  “Aye, but ’twas nae my idea,” Sibylla replied wryly. “We were catching fish and I slipped.” She held up the single trout Alex had landed.

  “I’ve ne’er seen such a fine catch!” Fiona gushed. “How did ye do it without the poles?”

  “’Tis a secret.” Sibylla gave him a conspiratorial wink, but Alex didn’t return her smile for fear of encouraging her.

  “I must return now. I’ve much work to do.” He took up his psalter and tucked it under his arm.

  Alex left the burn with his mind still tangling with his emotions. He’d been sorely tempted to kiss her and had nearly given in to the desire. Only Fiona’s arrival had saved him from temptation, but was her arrival a blessing or a curse?

  A kiss in itself was no sin, he told himself, but Sibylla wasn’t just any lass—she was the chieftain’s niece. Given his position at Kilmuir, he could not permit what almost happened today ever to happen again.

  *

  Sibylla watched Alex go with a tightening sensation in her chest. She wished she knew what he was thinking. They were having such a wonderful time together until the end. What had gone wrong? Might he have kissed her if Fiona hadn’t interrupted? Sibylla feared she might never know.

  “A word of advice to ye, Sister?” Fiona spoke up as if reading her mind. “When ye decide ye want to be kissed, ’twould probably be best if ’twere nae a priest.”

  “I wasna trying to kiss him!” Sibylla protested, a lie, though she would have denied it to her dying breath.

  “Nae? That’s nae how it looked,” Fiona said, unconvinced. “He’s nae for ye, Sibylla, dinna ye ken that?” At barely thirteen, Fiona saw far too much, but her younger half-sister had always been wise beyond her years.

  “Aye,” Sibylla sighed. “But have ye ever wanted something ye canna have?” She continued wistfully. “It seems the knowing only makes ye want it all the more.”

  Chapter Four

  The next morning Alex chose a new tack. Instead of sitting in his room waiting in vain for his pupil to show, he decided to go out in search of him. Surely MacAedh would soon expect a progress report. What was he to do? He’d give Domnall one last chance before confronting MacAedh with his nephew’s truancy.

  Surely God had not sent him here for no purpose—unless His true reason was to test Alex’s resolution to take holy orders. Was Sibylla a part of that test? Had Fiona not come, would he have given in to the yearning to taste her lips? He wished he could be certain of his fortitude, but he’d never experienced the power of physical attraction before Sibylla. He knew he’d done right to leave the glen, but why did he feel no satisfaction in it? He was used to self-denial on many levels, but this new yearning was something beyond his ken. He’d never imagined kissing a lass, but now that’s all he could think about. Now that desire had awakened in him, could he ever rest without experiencing it?

  He was so distracted by these thoughts that he almost collided with MacAedh as he passed through the bailey. “Alexander?” Domnall’s uncle considered him with a frown. “Is my nephew nae at his lessons?”

  “Nae.” Alex shook his head. “It must have slipped his mind.”

  “Is that so?” MacAedh’s gaze narrowed. “Has it ‘slipped his mind’ before?”

  Alexander struggled with how he should answer. Though he didn’t want to put Domnall out of favor with his uncle, he also couldn’t lie. “I’ve tried everything I can to engage his interest, but he has y
et to attend his lessons. Mayhap he would do better with a more experienced tutor?”

  “’Tis nothing against ye,” MacAedh reassured. “Domnall’s ne’er been one for books. Nevertheless, a man must do many things in this life that he doesna like—especially one who aspires to lead other men.”

  “Is Domnall yer tanist?” Alexander asked.

  “Tanist?” MacAedh snorted. “If justice be done, the lad would one day be king of all Scotland.”

  “King?” Alexander repeated blankly. He’d surmised that Domnall was the son of a nobleman, but he’d never considered that he might be of royal blood.

  “Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “Ye dinna ken? Did Domnall nae tell ye how he came to be at Kilmuir?”

  “Nae.” Alexander shook his head. “He tells me nothing.”

  “I suppose he wouldna,” MacAedh said. “’Tis a sore subject.” Alexander lengthened his stride to match the larger man’s steps. “Through his faither, the lad is descended from King Duncan—not that the kinship has ever been to his benefit,” he was quick to add. “After the rebellion, his faither, William Fitz Duncan, married my sister to cement his claim to our lands, but later divorced her to wed a Norman heiress, that he might also claim her English lands and title.”

  “So Domnall is his heir?”

  “Nae.” MacAedh shook his head. “The short of it is that Fitz Duncan died a verra rich man, the most powerful in Scotland, next to the king, but left Domnall and Sibylla with nothing.”

  “How is this possible?” Alex asked.

  MacAedh responded with a humorless laugh. “All things are possible through machination, murder, and mutilation, the Cenn Mór specialties. In this case, the king repudiated Domnall’s legitimacy in order to give his inheritance to his Anglo-Norman half-brother, William the Atheling of Egremont, the son of Alice de Rumilly.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?” Alexander asked.

  “The short answer is out of spite,” MacAedh replied. “Why would the king willingly give land and power to anyone with blood ties to the clan who most strongly opposed his reign, when he could devise a way to grant those same lands and privileges to a faithful Anglo-Norman vassal? There is an ancient enmity between our people and the Cenn Mórs,” he explained. “The king thought to suppress any future attempt Domnall might make to claim the throne by making him illegitimate and penniless.”

  “Does Domnall think to oppose the king?” Alexander asked.

  MacAedh considered the question. “He will make that decision for himself once he comes of age. I have little to say about it. In the meantime, however, his life must be safeguarded. I dinna trust the Cenn Mór—which is why Domnall is here, under my protection.”

  Alex wondered that MacAedh spoke his sentiments so openly. Many would consider his words as traitorous. They had walked to the rear of the castle to a six-foot high stone wall that appeared to be an enclosure. Was it a private garden? He was answered by the sound of clashing steel.

  “What is this place?” Alex asked.

  “’Tis the armory,” MacAedh replied. He raised the latch and swung open the gate. “I suspect we will find yer errant pupil here.”

  Alex followed MacAedh inside where half a dozen youths were engaged in mock combat with sticks, targes, and blunt swords. Transfixed, Alex watched as a pair of younger lads practiced with wooden swords. One lad charged another, only to be felled to the ground by his opponent. From thence, the would-be sword battle quickly transformed into a full out grappling contest.

  MacAedh inclined his head to two older combatants, one Alex recognized as Domnall, who faced one another with bollock daggers. Domnall circled his opponent with a wolfish smile on his face and a predatory gleam in his eye.

  “He trains to be a warrior?” Alex asked.

  “Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “I told Domnall there is no shame if he chooses to live peacefully as I have done these past twenty years, but if he should decide to fight for his birthright, I would nae have him go unprepared. ’Twas the only good thing that came out of his early life—exposure to well-trained Norman soldiers.”

  “Would ye like to join them?” he asked. “Domnall could teach ye to fight.”

  Alex shook his head with a laugh. “Weaponry is hardly a useful skill for a man of the cloth.” Although he was no stranger to the knife, having wiled away countless hours in secret practice with his own sgian-dubh, he’d never intended to use it beyond personal protection.

  “No man, regardless of birth or station, should be without fighting skills,” MacAedh replied. “Swords and knives alone do nae harm. ’Tis all in the hand that wields them. Domnall’s unchallenged amongst that lot,” he remarked with pride. “But I willna have him neglect his education. Domnall!” MacAedh called out to his nephew.

  The moment Domnall turned to answer, his opponent lunged and struck, the tip of his blade slicing Domnall’s cheek. “Bluidy bastard!” Domnall hissed.

  With a lightning-swift swoop of his leg, he downed his opponent. Pinning one knee to his adversary’s chest, Domnall pressed his dagger to the lad’s throat. The redhead’s eyes bulged with terror. Alex had never witnessed such skill. Even to his untrained eye, Alex could see that Domnall was swift and skilled in his strikes. If he’d wished it, the results would have been lethal.

  “Gu leòr! Enough!” MacAedh barked.

  Domnall released his sparring partner with a show of reluctance, sharply contrasted by the lad’s eagerness to regain his feet. Mumbling what was surely a threat for future retaliation, Domnall sheathed his daggers and turned to face his uncle.

  “I would ken how ye progress in yer lessons,” MacAedh said, adding with a look of reproach, “by my reckoning, ye should have been at yer studies an hour ago.”

  “I dinna like the books.” Domnall glowered at Alex. “The monk should go back whence he came.”

  “A strong sword is indeed one way to gain a man’s respect,” MacAedh said. “But keeping it is quite another matter. Ye must learn how to command yer men.”

  Domnall made no attempt to hide his contempt. “What would this monk ken of commanding men?”

  “Much knowledge and wisdom can be gained from books and Alexander is here to guide ye to this knowledge.”

  MacAedh was trying to provide the guidance that Domnall needed, but Alex feared his nephew’s impatient temperament would always lead him to learn his lessons the hard way. Alex studied Domnall, wondering if his attitude might be altered if he could somehow find some common ground. As a warrior, Domnall clearly valued physical skills above intellectual pursuits. Perhaps there was a way to win him over. Could a physical contest be the way to gain his respect?

  “I’ll leave under one condition,” Alex said.

  “And what is that?” Domnall asked. By the glittering in his eyes, Alex assuredly had the younger man’s attention.

  “I have no training with swords or combat,” Alex confessed. “But I do have some skill with a knife. If ye can best me in a challenge, I’ll go back to the monastery.”

  MacAedh’s brow furrowed. “Are ye certain about this, Alexander?”

  “Aye,” Alex replied. He wanted to win a trial of skill, not just to gain Domnall’s respect, but for himself. It was suddenly important for him to know that he could stand his own as a man amongst these fierce Highlanders.

  “What manner of challenge do ye propose?” Domnall asked.

  “Knife throwing,” Alex said.

  Domnall laughed. “Ye just might regret that decision.”

  “I stand by my promise if I lose,” Alex replied evenly. “But if I win, ye’ll attend all of yer lessons. Ye may name the distance and the target. Do ye agree to the terms?”

  “Aye.” Domnall grinned. “A standing target’s too easy. I would propose something harder—something that moves.”

  “A moving target? Like what?” Alex asked.

  Domnall scratched his lightly-stubbled chin. “I would call a chicken at five paces.”

  “A chicken?” Alex shook
his head. “I willna kill a living thing purely for sport.”

  “Ye said any target,” Domnall replied. “The chickens will be eaten for supper anyway. What difference does it make how they get to the cooking pot?”

  Alex had felt a twinge of conscience in killing an animal, but if the chickens were already doomed to be dinner… “A’right,” he agreed.

  “Duncan!” Domnall called out to a fair-haired boy. “Go ye to the chicken coops and bring back two birds.”

  The lad threw down his wooden practice sword and sprinted in the direction of the kitchen building. A few minutes later, he returned with two squawking hens followed by a cluster of tittering spectators. Word had spread quickly.

  “What do ye want me to do with them?” Duncan asked.

  “Take them back a few paces,” Domnall instructed, watching Alex with a smug smile. “Are ye ready? They’re going to flit the instant they hit the ground.”

  Alex withdrew his sgian-dubh from the sheath he wore around his leg and fingered the familiar cold metal. While he hadn’t expected such a strange challenge, after seventeen years of practice, he was confident he could do it. He nodded to Duncan. “Let one loose and then jump back.”

  The boy tossed the birds. They landed in an angry ruffle of feathers. If this were a simple target Alex could have shut his eyes and hit it, but the birds were about ten paces away and their movements were erratic as they darted hither and fro.

  Focusing on one bird, Alex crouched and waited. The instant it paused, he flicked his wrist. The spectators released a collective gasp as the knife spiraled twice through the air and impaled his target.

  “Well done.” MacAedh clapped him on the back.

  Just as Alex opened his mouth to respond, Sibylla rushed toward the bird, picked it up, and snapped its neck. With a glare in his direction, she then withdrew his knife, wiped it on her apron, and came toward him with a scowl of disapproval wrinkling her brow. “’Tis nae right for it to suffer just to prove yerself manly,” she said, offering the knife.

  “But that’s nae why…” he protested as he accepted it from her hand, only to find himself speaking to her departing back.