* * *
Marsali had disappeared by the time he got outside; he was furious at her, playing peekaboo with him when that hothead MacFay could come crashing like a boar into the convent at any second. Naturally she thought this was all a joke, or she was punishing him for leaving her here. He couldn’t keep up this disguise forever. He didn’t have the chest for it. The bodice of his habit was already bursting at the seams.
“Damn it,” he muttered as he stared out into the eerie pearlescent mist that swathed the cloister. “Where the hell are you hiding?”
“Here, my lord.”
Lachlan, Owen, and Johnnie fluttered out from behind the stone arches like a trio of clumsy bats.
“Grub, praise God,” Lachlan said, reaching for the platter.
Duncan elbowed him away. “Wait until you’re served at the table.” He stared hard at the three pathetic faces hovering over the platter. “My God. If there’s any praying to be done in this place, let it be for a total eclipse. You’re the most sorrowful excuses for women I've ever seen in my life.”
Johnnie snorted. “And look who’s talkin’, he with his shoulders as wide as a drawbridge.”
“Owen, take that dirk out of your belt,” Duncan said brusquely, handing the platter to Lachlan to yank the wimple down lower on his clansman’s forehead. “Johnnie, I thought I told you to get rid of those boots. You’re supposed to be a nun, not a bloody fisherman. Now behave yourselves and follow me to the refectory.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What’s a refectory, my lord?”
“It’s a mess hall,” Duncan replied, stomping past them in the black habit that barely came down to his knees. “Any man who swears, spits, or scratches himself at the table will answer to me afterward. We get Marsali, and we’re gone. Is that understood?”
“Aye, my lord.”
It sounded easy enough. Damn it, it should be easy. Hadn’t he pulled off more daring rescues in his day, under more dangerous circumstances? Hadn’t he negotiated the release of hostages, stormed an enemy citadel, captured entire armies? Except that this time he was motivated not by dreams of glory but by the two women in the world he loved and who, despite knowing his worst secret, loved him in return.
They were the ugliest women that Marsali had ever seen. In fact, her jubilation at hearing Duncan’s voice from outside the refectory window had been superseded only by her shock at seeing his chiseled face framed in a white linen veil.
She was so eager to find out what he was doing in the convent that she bumped up against the lectern when he entered the refectory. Skim milk went splashing up all over his habit from the huge pitcher she was carrying to the table.
“Duncan.” She knelt, rubbing milk off his skirts with her sleeve. “What are you—”
“Hush, child.” He bent at the waist to half lift her from the floor, whispering from the edge of his veil, “Jamie’s on his way here. I’ve come to take you away before there can be any fighting. Be ready to leave right after we eat. You’ll have no time to change.”
She wanted to touch him, to burrow against his broad chest like a child. Shivers of happy excitement streamed through her. “Why can’t we leave right now, my lord?”
“Because Johnnie, Lachlan, and Owen won’t have the strength to help me row home until I feed them. Anyway, we’re sneaking away with as little fuss as possible.”
“Where are you taking me?” Marsali whispered, daring to rest her hand on the powerful shoulder that shifted forward beneath his habit.
“With me.” He nudged her chin upward with his thumb, aching to run his hands all over her tempting little body. He didn’t even try to hide the longing that burned in his eyes as he looked at her.
“You took your time about it,” she said irritably. “You were cruel to put me here.”
“I wanted you safe, lass.” He glanced down at her mouth. "I wanted you for myself but I couldn’t admit it.”
Her eyes clung to his, reflecting hope and uncertainty in the candlelight. “Do you really care about me, Duncan?”
“Would I be dressed like this if I didn’t?” He allowed himself the dangerous indulgence of brushing his mouth across her hair. Pleasure teased his senses as he breathed in her scent. “Would I have let you turn my world upside down if I didn’t care?” he asked in a voice hoarse with love and concern.
A dark form came fluttering up behind them. “Dear, dear. Not another accident,” Sister Bridget exclaimed, shaking her head in woe at Marsali. “Ye know what the penance will be for soiling the abbess’s skirts.”
Marsali nodded dutifully, a wicked thrill coursing through her as Duncan squeezed her knee before they rose together to face the irate nun. “Yes, Sister Bridget.”
Hell, Marsali thought happily, she’d agree to do a hundred penances standing on her head now that she knew her imprisonment was almost over. She grinned at Duncan over her shoulder. With me. With me. The words washed away all the weeks of doubt, of waiting, of aching. Her chieftain, her love. She had always seen the potential in him, the strength, the goodness. She’d always known in her secret heart that this moment would come—although, to be honest, she had never pictured Duncan admitting his feelings for her dressed in a nun’s habit.
She caught a glimpse then of Johnnie, Lachlan, and Owen tramping to the table. Her own dear idiots who had gone to such drastic extremes to save her from Jamie MacFay. Of course, now that she was getting better at her magic, she could have probably saved herself from Jamie, and with half the bother. But men were so funny that way, needing to prove their power, to protect. Her heart tightened with tender affection.
How strange, how wonderful life could be, and yet not long ago, it was true what she had told Duncan in her uncle’s cabin: She hadn’t cared if she lived or died. She would always miss her father and brothers, her sweetheart Robert. She would always mourn them in a private corner of her heart. But somehow she sensed they approved of Duncan—indirectly it was their involvement in the rebellion that had brought him home. Suddenly she felt closer to her father than she had ever been before he died.
He was blessing this union from heaven. She sensed it so strongly that it was as if he were standing in the room. Andrew Hay had been Duncan’s champion at a time when his other clansmen had shunned him. Had Papa known all along? Had he planted the seeds of self-worth and compassion in Duncan’s embittered heart for a reason?
Her contemplation was broken as a nun rang the bell signaling the start of grace.
Duncan and his three “sisters” looked faint with hunger as they devoutly bowed their heads over the humble fare set before them. Marsali cast an anxious glance around the tables. She ought to be thanking God for the food, but in truth she was more grateful for the strict convent rule that said a nun may not raise her eyes from the table during a meal.
Duncan’s beard was growing blacker before her eyes. Lachlan’s wimple had slid back several inches to reveal his receding hairline. Owen was sneaking a crust of bread into his mouth. Johnnie was shaking a very manly, hairy-knuckled fist at him in warning under the table.
Grace ended; the four men practically dove into their seats, only to straighten in awkward embarrassment as they noticed that the other nuns had remained on their feet.
“You can’t eat until after the lesson is read,” Marsali whispered in sympathetic amusement as she placed the pitcher next to Duncan’s plate.
Sister Bridget strode briskly past the low oak benches; she was so short one could barely see the top of her wimple behind the lectern. She had chosen to read a selection from the Book of Psalms. Psalm 119, announced Sister Bridget. It was a long psalm. At 176 verses it was, in fact, the most long-winded psalm in the psalter.
“Blessed are the undefiled in the way, who walk in the law of the Lord,” Sister Bridget began, in a deafening voice that boomed across the room like musketfire.
Owen looked up at the tiny nun in astonishment.
“Amen,” said Lachlan, then he reached for his spoon,
only to drop it when Duncan slapped his wrist.
“Patience, Sister,” Duncan murmured.
The psalm went on. Sister Bridget’s voice climbed in passion; rumor in the cloister had it that she’d been quite the actress before God called her. Duncan eyed her in admiration; he could have used a pair of lungs like that on the battlefield.
On went the psalm.
And on.
Marsali went quietly about her duties, slicing warm brown bread, her eyes downcast except for the delicious glances she stole at Duncan. Her breath caught whenever she dared look into his face. His emotions were out in the open now. Desire, concern, possession. The wolfish gleam in his eyes marked her once and for all as his. Her body warmed under his scrutiny like a candle wick held to a flame. The nun’s habit did nothing to dilute his potent masculinity.
He was all male, and no disguise in the world could hide it.
Time was passing in a torture of impatience for Duncan. His gaze shadowed every move she made, every graceful step, every tantalizing dainty turn. That plain convent dress emphasized her beguiling delicacy. He couldn’t wait to play out this charade so he could have her to himself. His lids narrowed as he imagined in visceral detail how they would spend their first night alone. With every frustrating moment the ache to possess her intensified, to—
There was danger in the air.
The thought sliced unexpectedly like a sword thrust into his intensely pleasurable reverie. For a reckless moment he’d forgotten Jamie’s fondness for violent behavior. But in a chilling flash of precognition he could picture Jamie and his amoral retainers bursting into the refectory. He could hear the shocked cries of the defenseless women, the prayers that would be drowned in the gusts of crude male laughter.
His hands tightened on the table. He would kill Jamie if he touched Marsali. He couldn’t help it. Despite his promise to Judith, despite the fact that he was soul-sick with bloodshed himself, the primal male impulse to protect would overpower all his more civilized intentions. Aye, he’d kill Jamie, and enjoy it.
He had to get Marsali back to the boat before Jamie arrived, even if it meant floating all night in that damned sea fog.
“At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto Thee because of Thy righteous judgments!” Sister Bridget shouted with such vigor that Lachlan, dozing on his feet, woke up and grabbed Duncan’s arm in fright.
Midnight.
Duncan glanced at Marsali, then at the heavy doors of the refectory, measuring distance and obstacles to escape. Were Jamie and his retainers lying in wait outside? Had they hidden themselves in the alcoves of the cloister? Was there another way to the beach?
Slaughter. Abduction. In the ancient Highlanders’ eyes, these were crimes that could easily be justified. He should never have forced his clansmen to disarm themselves. What good would their weapons do locked up in the gatehouse? Tension thrummed in his veins. Had Johnnie remembered his instructions to hide their boat?
I swear to you, Judith, I will not defile the purity of your convent. I will not raise a hand in violence. Not a single drop of blood will be shed by my hand. On our mother’s grave, I swear it. On my daughter's soul—
Judith’s startled face rose in his mind, the memory of it touching a disturbing chord. Daughter? What daughter is this, Duncan?
He looked up abruptly.
Marsali smiled at him, bewitching in the flickering gold shadows of the tallow candles on the table. Sister Bridget’s voice boomed like a blunderbuss. The incompatible smells of damp wool, fish, and heated wax rose to his nostrils, making him long for a breath of sweet night air. Perhaps Jamie would lose his way in the mist. Perhaps he’d stay home to wash his hair.
“My soul fainteth for Thy salvation,” bellowed Sister Bridget.
“Amen,” Owen muttered. “My stomach fainteth for food.”
Finally the psalm ended. Lachlan dumped the entire communal platter of baked fish onto his plate. Owen made so much noise quaffing his soup that a few nuns almost broke protocol by glancing at each other in disapproval.
Duncan ate his bread in anxious silence, wanting nothing more than to end the meal and escape. Each time Marsali leaned over him to refill his glass, he was reminded of her fragility. This was his fault. If he had not put her in such a vulnerable position in the first place…
“Where is she?” he demanded in a loud male voice that did lift several veiled heads around the table in alarm.
A moment of panic threatened to destroy his charade. He half rose from the bench, his heart drumming against his ribs as he scanned the room and realized Marsali had vanished. Then military training overtook his emotions. He shrugged apologetically and sat down, pulling his sleeves over his muscular forearms.
His voice an urgent whisper, he jabbed Johnnie in the side. “Where did she go?”
“I’m right here, my lord,” she whispered, tugging on his skirt before Johnnie could answer.
Duncan glanced down in disbelief and saw Marsali’s sweet face peeking out from under the table. He settled back on the bench, pretending to have risen to pass the pitcher across the table. The blood roaring in his head began to recede. Anxiety was a totally alien emotion to his nature. “What on earth are you doing?” he whispered gruffly.
“I have to wash your feet,” she explained with a sigh. “It’s my penance for spilling milk on your habit.”
A reluctant grin lit his face. “You’re joking, lass.”
“I am not. Now lift up your skirts and for heaven’s sake, pull that veil over your face. Your jaw is looking like the Black Forest.”
He glanced up, trying not to sigh in enjoyment as her small fingers pulled off his stocking, slid around his ankle, and gently massaged. The meal was ending. His men were snatching bites of food even as a pair of convent schoolgirls efficiently whisked the plates away.
One girl, who apparently did not obey rules any better than Marsali, lingered overlong at his side. He tried to ignore her. She was too curious, a troublemaker, he was sure. He hunched down deeper into his habit.
Finally, he worked up the nerve to look into her face. Surprise widened his eyes because for a puzzling instant he saw his own mother staring back at him. The girl gave a sharp gasp of astonished recognition; presumably one didn’t expect the new abbess in the convent to boast shoulders as wide as a warship and a buccaneer’s square bearded jaw.
Would she ruin everything?
Would she run to fetch Judith from the infirmary?
He clenched his pewter spoon, suspense ticking away between them as her gaze darted questioningly to Johnnie, then Lachlan, and Owen.
He couldn’t read her expression. He could only see something bold and disturbingly familiar in the strong features of her face.
She smiled slowly, a shy but knowing smile, and the power of it slammed into his chest with unexpected force. Who the hell was she?
“Bless you, Reverend Mother Abbess,” she murmured, then she began to back away from the table with an armful of dishes, leaving Duncan to puzzle over her in silence.
“You have the biggest feet I’ve ever seen,” Marsali whispered under the table.
He frowned, distracted by her voice. “Who was that girl? Look, quickly, the one just going to the door.”
Marsali twisted her agile body between the table and the bench to see. “Oh, her. That’s only Hannah. She’s one of the orphans who’s been here forever.”
“But she isn’t a nun?”
“No, she isn’t a nun. She’s a prefect.” Marsali’s voice was thoughtful. “She’s said to be related to your sister, which I suppose means she could be related to you. She swears like you sometimes.”
Sister Bridget had returned to the lectern; she wasn’t shouting again; now she was gesturing wildly with her arms for Owen and Lachlan to come to the makeshift stage.
“What is that woman trying to do?” Duncan asked in a wary undertone.
“It’s time for the pantomime,” Marsali whispered back. “She’s just chosen Adam and Eve.
We’ve been acting out the Book of Genesis. It’s the only excitement we’re allowed.”
Owen and Lachlan had risen from the bench, bowing and grinning like idiots to have been singled out for the honor of playing the original outcasts.
“Sit down,” Duncan hissed. “We don’t have time for a play.”
Sister Bridget was waving her arms at Duncan like a windmill. He pretended not to notice. Marsali wriggled out from under the table to whisper in his ear.
“She wants you, my lord.”
He looked alarmed. “She wants me for what?”
“She wants you to play God.”
“God? She wants me to play God? What for?”
Marsali gave him a little encouraging push off the bench. “You’re the only one in the convent with the beard for it.”
Duncan lumbered to his feet, nodding to the nuns around the table, who politely motioned him forward. “I don’t want to be God,” he said in a peevish undertone. “I don’t know how to be God.”
“Listen, my lord, you were born for this part. In fact, it’s what you do best. Giving orders. Frightening the hell out of people.”
“I hate this, Marsali. There are probably twelve armed men waiting outside the door to abduct you while I prance around in a dress playing God.” He flipped back his veil to glower at her. “How am I supposed to pantomime God anyway?”
The other nuns were beginning to look at them in earnest now. Sister Bridget frowned in admonishment at Marsali across the room. From the corner of his eye, Duncan noticed the girl named Hannah slipping back through the door.
He swore to himself. Judith would probably burst in at any second. He wanted to get the hell off this misty little island with Marsali. And now he was going to stand in front of a room full of women, nuns, pretending he was a woman pretending to be God.
Marsali nudged him again. “Just put a curse on the serpent.”
“What serpent?”
“I think it’s Sister Douglas. Yes, it’s that chubby nun writhing around the lectern in spectacles.”
Fairy Tale Page 31
