by Amy Jarecki
“Thank heavens. I’ve had naught to eat or drink all day.” Enya reached for the cup and guzzled. The refreshing taste of spearmint swirled across her pallet.
Martha watched her with the same fascinated, almost daft smile. She rolled her hand. “Drink it all.”
Enya held the cup to her lips, but a tickle at the back of her neck made her stop. Before Martha could move, Enya turned the cup upside down. “What’s in it?”
Martha frowned at the small puddle. “Something to cleanse you within.”
The cup fell from Enya’s grasp. Dear God, they couldn’t have. How could she guzzle the tonic without asking what it was first? Had she caught it in time? Would she lose her bairn? Her head spun. A sharp pain stabbed her stomach. Enya doubled over with a grunt.
Martha moved toward the door. “I shall return in the morning. By then your insides should be fully cleansed.”
Her entire body shaking, her mouth salivating, Enya lumbered to the door. The lock clicked. She bore down on the latch and pulled with all her might, but the door did not budge. The pain ratcheted up, seizing her insides. She dropped over the bucket and retched until bright yellow bile filled the base.
Enya folded into a ball, her skin bloodied, every nerve scratched raw, her stomach roiling as if the tincture had reached inside her body with iron gauntlets and ripped out her bowels. Tears streamed from her eyes as she tried to block the pain. “Dear God. Please do not take my unborn child.”
***
Cloaked in a crofter’s woolen mantle, the hood pulled low over his brow, Claud Hamilton watched Lord Ross disembark at the wharf in Glasgow. Claud had paid a visit to Halkhead House, though Lady Ross had been too distraught to meet with him. The only thing he could pull from the valet was Ross had commandeered the king’s ships in Glasgow—something about taking Miss Enya to a nunnery. Boar’s ballocks, what had happened while his attentions had been elsewhere?
Claud had been on the run for weeks. Initially he fled into England, but found no hospitality among the border barons. His only recourse was to return to Scotland and reclaim his lands. After hearing Ross had successfully secured a pardon, Claud and the half-dozen men who followed him donned peasant clothing and crossed back through the Scottish Marches.
In the shadows, Claud crouched like a beggar and watched from under his hood. When Lord Ross disembarked, Claud removed the cloak and swiftly approached. “Lord Ross.”
The baron lifted his chin and squinted. “Hamilton?” He observed Claud with a disgusted frown. “I daresay I never thought I’d see you dressed as a commoner.”
“Desperate times…”
“’Tis fortunate I’ve found you here.” The crease between Ross’s brows eased. “I had planned to seek you out.”
Claud’s pulse quickened with hope. “Oh? And why, may I ask?”
Ross grasped Claud’s elbow and glanced over his shoulder. “Walk with me. We need to talk away from prying ears.”
“I heard you took Miss Enya to Iona.”
“Aye.” Ross’s eyes narrowed. “What else have you heard?”
“You managed to buy your pardon.” Claud leaned in. “I thought we might come to an arrangement—and renew our negotiations for Enya’s hand.”
Lord Ross actually smiled. This toothy grin spread across his face, as if he’d heard wonderful news. “I believe now would be an excellent opportunity for us both to arrive upon an amicable settlement.”
Claud clenched his fists. Before he could take this conversation further, he had to know if what he suspected was true. “Why on earth did you take Enya to Iona?”
Ross’s frown vanished as he knit his beetle brows. “’Tis grave. She followed the Highlander to Raasay.”
A lump formed in Claud’s throat. Enya was even more beautiful than Queen Mary. That bastard Highlander wouldn’t have been able to resist her. All she needed to do was grace him with her smile and he’d be smitten. Claud stopped and gazed over the dark swells of the river. He didn’t want to compromise. He tensed when Ross firmly placed his hand on Claud’s shoulder.
“I will buy your pardon and petition for your lands to be reinstated if you will accept her hand in marriage.”
“And if I do not?”
“I will raise the alarm before you can wrap yourself in that filthy cloak and resume your disguise.”
Claud cracked his thumbs.
“The abbess assured me Enya would be cleansed. Once they complete the process, she will again be a virgin in the eyes of God.” Ross squeezed his fingers tighter on Claud’s shoulder. “Her wild spirit will be quelled, and then you can rescue her from hell. She will adore you forever.”
Claud stepped out from under Ross’s grasp. Cleansed in the eyes of God and his lands returned? ’Twould be far preferable to living like a wild animal. He picked up a stone and threw it into the river. “Very well. A full pardon and my lands returned.”
“I can petition the magistrate on the morrow.”
With Enya’s wandering spirit broken, she would worship him. And a purification by God he could abide, as long as she remained beautiful. “Let it be done. I’ll commandeer your galley and mount my rescue.”
***
Bran stood on the main deck of The Golden Sun as they rounded Calgary Bay on the Isle of Mull. He used Calum’s spyglass to scan the waters to the south. Iona lay off the southern peninsula of Mull and was now in their sights. Though Bran wanted to sail directly to the tiny isle and blast any enemy out of the water, they needed to be cautious. Ross could still be lurking with his twenty galleys. No matter how large Calum’s ship was, it would not withstand a cannon shot below the water line. On one thing Bran was firm—he would rescue Enya and he needed to stay alive to do so.
“One galley with Ross’s pennant.”
Calum reached for the glass. “Only one?” He scanned for half an eternity and then lowered it. “It looks as though they’re tacking across the abbey’s beach—guarding it.”
John stepped in behind them. “I say we turn round and sail down the Sound of Mull. There’s an outcropping of rocks at the south of the isle where we can hide the ship. It’ll see ye close enough to row a skiff across and stay out of sight from the Ross galley.”
Calum nodded. “I like it. We might even slip through unawares—avoid a fight.”
Bran gripped the rail. “There’s nothing I’d like better than a good barney with that bastard and his son.”
Calum gave Bran’s arm a shove. “I ken one thing.”
Bran folded his arms and arched his brow.
“To wrap yer arms around yer fine lassie.” Calum cuffed the back of Bran’s head. “Calm yer blood. Ye may have cause to swing yer sword yet.”
“Good. Let’s turn this beast around. With the wind at our backs, we should reach the outcropping before dusk.”
***
To pick up time, Claud made the men row in concert with the galley’s sail. If the wind cooperated and the sailors used their muscle, there was a chance they’d arrive at Iona before nightfall.
Fortunately, an angry wind blew in from Ireland, filling the sail and the boat skimmed along nicely. Claud stood at the helm, watching the masses of land pass. Growing up inland, Claud hadn’t done much sailing, but Ross had lent him a worthy crew—or so he said. At the moment, Claud had no reason to doubt it. They were making far better time than he could ever hope on horseback. In addition, until his name was cleared, it wasn’t safe to be seen in any Scotland burgh, and no one would see him on a galley.
With nothing left to do but wait, Claud curled against the hull and closed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep straight away, because the next thing he knew, his man-at-arms shook his shoulder. “Iona ahead, my lord.”
Claud first glimpsed a tall ship sailing around Mull. He followed the direction of his man’s pointed finger. The isle looked tiny from the sea, but as they approached, it grew in size and the grey stone of the abbey came into view, as did Robert’s galley.
“Blow the ram’s hor
n to alert Robert. I’d prefer him not to opt to fire his cannon before he realizes ’tis us.”
By the time Robert’s men tossed the rope across the hull, it was nearly dark. The wind was markedly colder, with heavy, dark clouds rolling in above.
Robert stood on the deck of his ship, hands on his hips. “Where in God’s name did you come from?”
***
There was no way Bran would allow Calum to row across to Iona without him. The skiff lay low in the water with Friar Pat, Calum, John and a handful of clansmen rowing to Iona’s western shore.
Another galley had come up alongside the Ross boat. Calum peered at it through his spyglass. “I don’t like the looks of that. Ross has either sent in reinforcements, or there are other galleys mulling about.” He slammed it closed. “Be wary, men. Bran might just find the fight he’s been itching for.”
They quickly pulled the skiff ashore. They hid in the heather and marched north as the looming clouds opened with a torrent of rain. Calum pulled his plaid over his head. “This could be a blessing. The rain will make it difficult for the Ross guard to see us from the sound.”
Bran didn’t bother covering his head. Only one thing drove him forward, and nothing would stand in his way—not the weather, and most certainly not a galley or two filled with the stragglers from the Ross guard.
By the time they’d marched a half-mile to the abbey gates, the rain had soaked them clean through. Water dripped from Bran’s hair to his shirt and streamed from his kilt down his legs and his sloshing boots. Calum lifted the huge iron doorknocker and pounded it twice.
Chapter Thirty-two
Enya’s womb cramped so fiercely, stars crossed her vision. Curled on her side on the stone floor, she writhed in pain. Saliva drained from her mouth and her throat constricted. The pounding of her head stabbed against her temples and crept up her neck as if her brain had turned to stone. She squeezed her eyes shut, begging for mercy.
With an agonizing rush, the floodgates opened. Hot blood pooled on the floor beneath her hips. Shrieking, she clutched her knees against the unimaginable cramping that came in torrents. Tears poured from her eyes as she wailed. The babe was lost and she was next.
***
The nun who ushered them through the cloisters was none too friendly. “I do not know if Mother Abbess will grant you an audience. Compline has just ended. ’Tis time for the evening meal.”
Friar Pat ambled beside her. “We shan’t be long. We’ve word the lad’s wife is here. Once we find her, we’ll be on our way.”
The nun regarded the breadth of Bran’s shoulders and her eyes went stark, as if she were terrified. “No married woman has been brought here in some time.”
Bran cleared his throat, ready to bellow curses, but Friar Pat flashed him a glare that demanded silence and then turned to the sister. “If we can just have a word with Mother Abbess, we shall take our leave.”
The nun nodded once. “Wait here.”
Only Bran and Calum had been allowed inside with the friar. The rain streamed down from the cloister arches. Bran thought he heard a woman cry out, a sharp, muffled sound. Bran whipped around to face the source. “Did ye hear that?”
“Aye,” Calum whispered.
Bran gripped the hilt of his sword. “’Tis Enya. I ken her voice.”
The friar grasped Bran’s arm. “If ye want to slip out of here with the lassie in yer arms, ye’ll follow the plan.”
Calum nodded. “It willna be long now. Besides, we dunna want Ross sailing back into Brochel Cove, especially now he’s seen the extent of our guns. He’s likely to bring enough cannon to blast the keep off the isle.”
Bran held his breath and listened, but only heard the water dripping from the cloister arches. If their plan went awry, he would find her.
Footsteps pattered from the rear. The sister approached. “Mother Abbess will see you now. But mind you, she is most upset about being late to her table.”
The friar bowed obsequiously. “May God’s blessing be upon you, sister. As I said, we shan’t be long.”
Bran wanted this business done. If it had been left up to him, he would have charged through the passage and beat down every door until he found Enya.
The abbess, clad in black, sat behind a table and did not rise. Her eyes were dark, quite the opposite of Friar Pat’s sparkling blues. These eyes looked like they’d seen the devil—that she’d sold her soul, even.
The friar bustled in, grasped her hand across the table and kissed her ring. “Mother Abbess, gratitude for seeing us on such short notice.”
She eyed Calum and Bran as if they were vile serpents. “I take it your business is urgent, thus unable to wait until morning.”
“’Tis very grave indeed.” The friar made the introductions.
The abbess’s eyes rested on Bran and narrowed.
She’s been warned.
Friar Pat continued. “We’ve word Lord Ross has interned his daughter Enya into your care.”
The abbess continued to stare at Bran. “You’re the Highlander.”
“Husband,” the friar said.
The woman’s eyes snapped to the holy man. “Pardon me?”
Friar Pat folded his hands in front of his habit and bobbed his head. “Sir Bran, knighted into the Order of the Thistle by Mary, Queen of Scots, is Lady Enya’s husband.”
Calum stepped forward. “I witnessed the wedding meself. Lord Ross unlawfully trespassed upon my lands and abducted Sir Bran’s wife.”
The abbess narrowed her eyes. “And just how did Lord Ross take the woman out from under your”—she looked to Bran and crossed her arms—“sizable knight?”
The friar held up his hand. “Ross lay in wait and snatched her as she exited the privy.”
Bran nodded, stretching his frown downward. The friar’s quick story surprised him. The holy man would need to atone for a week for that fib.
Mother Abbess appeared to shrink a mite smaller. “You understand we accepted the woman into the abbey under the pretense her father requested she be cleansed.” Her gaze traveled from Bran’s head to his toes. “From fornication with a common man.”
“I am no commoner.” Bran walked up to the table, placed both hands on it and leaned forward. “And I’m here to claim the right of a husband.”
Mother Abbess’s hard expression returned. “You shall not bully a woman of the cloth.”
“I—”
Friar Pat stepped beside Bran. “You might sympathize with Sir Bran’s plight. If only ye can lead us to Lady Enya, we shall be on our way.”
“It is impossible for us to release her this night. Come back tomorrow.”
Bran wanted to wrap his fingers around the woman’s neck. “What did ye do to her?”
“She is in the midst of her cleansing—”
“Where is she?”
Calum ran his fingers across his dirk. “There best no’ be impropriety here.”
“This is a house of God. I assure you, nothing we have done exceeds the edicts of the written word.”
“Ye would deny a man from his wife?” Bran drew his claymore. “Ye wouldna want us to take her by force.”
Mother Abbess shuffled backward. “I cannot be bullied by the weapons of men.”
The friar held up his hands. “Sir Bran, sheathe your sword.”
Calum stepped in beside Bran and folded his arms. “Ye’d best take us to Lady Enya now, for I’ll no’ be responsible or me henchman once we leave yer chamber.”
The abbess stood, her hands shaking as she slipped a key from around her neck. “If I take you to her, you must hold the abbey harmless. We followed Lord Ross’s instructions in good faith.”
“What did ye do to her?” Bran growled.
The friar wrung his hands. “We shall give the lady any healing she needs from here out. Thank the good Lord we’ve found her—agreed, Sir Bran?”
Bran said nothing, but Calum grasped his elbow as the abbess led them to the corridor. Calum pressed his lips to Bran’s e
ar. “Dunna behave like an angry bull when ye see her. We’ve managed a peaceful entry. I want our exit to be the same.”
Bran offered a single nod of understanding.
Leading them through the cloisters, the abbess spoke over her shoulder. “You must understand, the first day of repentance is the most painful. Our methods have been sanctioned by the pope. Many fallen women have been reborn and have returned to their homes to live fruitful lives.”
Bran kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. Yes, Calum wanted a peaceful exit, but he didn’t trust a word from Mother Abbess. “Enya has no’ fallen.”
“That may be so, but we took her in good faith.”
***
Enya couldn’t stand when the nuns entered her chamber. They cut the sackcloth from her body. Her skin burned when they ran a sponge over her raw scratches. Two sisters held her up by her armpits. Working quickly, they tied rags between her legs to absorb the blood, and then wrapped her in a black woolen robe.
Enya stared at the large puddle of blood as a nun sopped it up with rags. Martha had said she would return in the morning—but surely it had only been a few hours. Enya’s insides cramped. She doubled over as the pain racked her body and a gush of hot blood soaked the linens between her legs.
Enya could barely move while they dragged her across the hall to a cell containing a bed with a straw mattress. Without a word, Enya fell onto it and curled into a ball. The waves of pain had grown further apart, but when they came, they gripped her with remorseless iron teeth that scraped her insides raw.
The door closed. The lock clicked. In utter darkness, Enya bore down as her womb purged. Cold sweat dampened her brow.
No sooner had Enya closed her eyes to pray for a swift end than the key rattled in the door. “She’s in here,” a crackly woman’s voice said.
Enya lifted her arm and shaded it from the torchlight. “Please leave me alone.”
Through the blinding light, she couldn’t tell who was there.
“Enya?”
Her heart lurched and Enya pulled her shaking hand away. “Bran, is it you?”
His face came into view as he stepped away from the torch and knelt beside the bed. Before she could stop him, he wrapped her in his arms. “Ye’re as pale as the pulp of a turnip.”
