Fallen: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Sisters of Kilbride Book 3) Page 12

  MacKinnon favored her with a sharp smile. “I wasn’t sure, I admit … for one nun looks much like another … but few women have eyes like yers. Ye are a difficult woman to forget, Coira.”

  The intimacy in his voice made her skin crawl. Acid stung the back of her throat, yet Coira swallowed it down. She needed to keep a leash on her fear; if he saw it, things would only go worse for her.

  MacKinnon took a step closer, his gaze raking over her. “Aye … ye are still comely … especially in that habit ye wear.” His smile widened to a grin then. “And all the ‘Hail Marys’ in the world can’t cancel out who ye were … what ye still are.”

  Coira remained silent, even if his words made her nostrils flare. Lord, this man knew how to wield words like blades; he always had. Deliberately, she didn’t answer him, didn’t deny his comment.

  MacKinnon’s gaze hooded. “So ye go for walks at night, do ye Coira?” He stepped closer still. They now stood little more than three feet apart, and it took all Coira’s will not to shrink back from him.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I’m the healer here at Kilbride … some woodland herbs have to be collected at night.”

  He snorted. “That’s a weak excuse … I thought ye were cleverer than that. Ye are still a whore at heart, aren’t ye? I’d wager ye sneak out at the witching hour to spread yer legs for outlaws.”

  His words were a slap across the face, and Coira started to sweat with the effort it was taking her not to react. Unfortunately though, Duncan MacKinnon wasn’t yet done. “Have ye serviced my bastard brother yet?”

  Nausea swamped Coira. She’d not done anything to be ashamed of with Craeg, and yet MacKinnon’s words made her feel dirty.

  “I haven’t seen any of the outlaws,” she lied, her voice husky with the effort it was taking not to turn tail and bolt from the chapter house. “And if that’s all ye want to know, our conversation is at an end.”

  “No, it isn’t.” MacKinnon closed the gap between them, and suddenly he was looming over her, invading her space.

  Coira went rigid. Her arms dropped to her sides, and her fingers curled into her palms, the nails digging in. Her heart was pounding so fast that she was sure he’d be able to hear it.

  “I’ve missed ye, Coira,” he murmured, his voice lowering. It was an intimate tone, a lover’s voice. “And seeing ye again has reminded me how much I enjoyed our time together.”

  “I didn’t,” she bit out the words. “I hated every moment.”

  His eyebrows raised, and then he gave her a slow smile. “Good.”

  Coira backed away from him. Once again, the walls were closing in on her. His closeness was a stranglehold. However, his hand shot out, his fingers closing roughly over her upper arm and halting her.

  “When I’m done with the outlaws, I’m coming for ye, Coira,” he growled, “and if ye give me any trouble, I will have my men butcher every last nun within these walls. Is that clear?”

  Coira’s breathing came in short, rasping gasps, her body now shaking uncontrollably. “Ye are a beast, MacKinnon,” she replied, choking out the words. “Curse yer soul to eternal damnation.”

  He grinned at her, his gaze gleaming. “It’s too late for that.” His grip tightened, his fingers biting into her flesh. “I’m done being thwarted. Ready yerself to leave Kilbride … prepare for a life as my whore at Dunan.”

  MacKinnon let go of her then and stepped back, his chest heaving. The lust on his face made Coira’s belly roil. Clamping her jaw shut, she staggered back from him. Her hands fisted at her sides.

  Enough. If he dared reach for her again, she’d break his jaw.

  But MacKinnon didn’t. Having delivered his terms, he favored her with one last lingering look before turning on his heel and striding from the chapter house.

  A hollow silence, broken only by the rasp of Coira’s breathing, settled over the space. For a few moments, she merely stood there, body coiled. She’d almost wanted him to grab her, so that she could unleash the fury she’d smothered for over a decade. But he hadn’t given her the chance.

  Once again, MacKinnon had bested her.

  A sob splintered the air. Had she just made that wretched sound? Trembling, Coira wrapped her arms about her torso and staggered over to the narrow bench-seat that ran around the perimeter of the floor. She sank down onto it and squeezed her eyes shut as terror pulsed through her.

  He won’t have me again. The vow was a silent scream inside her head.

  The abbey had become a prison.

  It seemed that everywhere Coira turned there was a man wearing MacKinnon plaid, leering at her. She was sure she was imagining the lecherous looks, and yet she couldn’t help fear that the clan-chief had told his men about her past, of who she’d been before taking the veil.

  The morning following the clan-chief’s arrival was misty and cool. Coira and Sister Mina escaped the confines of the abbey with a trip to Torrin to tend on the sick farmer’s wife and daughter. Although it was a relief to be free of Kilbride, the visit didn’t provide Coira any solace. Her patients’ conditions had worsened—they both had swellings under their armpits and their bodies were wracked with fever—and the farmer had grown more agitated.

  “Ye must be able to do something?” His voice rose as he loomed over Coira when she emerged from the dwelling. “They’re going to die.”

  Coira faced the farmer down, her belly twisting when she saw the grief in his eyes. “I’ve done all I can I think of … but they’re not responding to the herbs that usually bring down fever. I’m sorry. I can do nothing but pray for them.”

  Her words were heartfelt, and yet they felt hollow. The farmer didn’t want them. The man’s face grew hard. “Useless,” he rasped, as he turned away from her. “What good is yer God to me now?”

  “It’s not yer fault,” Sister Mina murmured as they left the cottage behind and stepped onto the path that would take them back to Kilbride. “Deep down, Bred knows that.”

  Coira heaved a sigh, putting away the scarf she’d tied around her mouth and nose when dealing with the patients. Her mother had often covered her face when tending those she thought infectious, although it hadn’t stopped her from succumbing to a terrible fever sickness that had swept through Dunan and the outlying settlements one winter. It likely wasn’t going to protect Coira much either, yet she had to do what she could to keep herself healthy.

  “I know,” she replied, her heart heavy. “I wish I could have given him hope … but it would be a false one.”

  “So they really will die?”

  “Aye.”

  Sister Mina’s grey eyes clouded, but she didn’t comment further. There wasn’t really anything one could say to that.

  The two nuns had walked another few yards when a man suddenly stepped out onto the path before them. Tall and lean, with a sharp-featured face, the stranger wore dusty leathers and carried a longbow and quiver over his back.

  Sister Mina cried out, fumbling at her belt for the knife she always carried. Meanwhile, Coira dropped her healer’s basket and brought up her quarter-staff; she gripped it two-handed, barring him from approaching further.

  The man halted. His gaze widened, flicking between Coira and Sister Mina, even as his mouth quirked. “Fighting nuns … now I’ve seen it all.”

  Coira gritted her teeth. She’d had enough of the arrogance of men. One more jibe and she’d jab him in the cods with the pointed iron end of her staff.

  As if reading the fierce expression on her face, the stranger’s face grew serious and he raised his hands, palms faced outward above him. “I mean ye no harm.” His attention flicked from where Sister Mina now held her knife at hip level, blade pointed toward him, back to her companion.

  “Are ye Sister Coira?”

  Coira scowled. A long moment passed, before she nodded.

  The man let out a gusting breath that she guessed was relief. “Just as well … I’ve not been able to get near the abbey gates to ask for ye.”

  “MacKinno
n’s here,” Sister Mina spoke up.

  “So I’ve gleaned,” the stranger replied, his gaze never leaving Coira.

  “Who are ye?” Coira demanded, her temper fraying.

  “My name’s Farlan … I’m part of Craeg’s band. He sent me here.” The outlaw paused, his lean face tensing. “Two of our men are sick … we think it’s the plague but have no healer to attend them. Craeg asks that ye visit them.”

  Coira stiffened. “The sickness is here now too … I’ve just come from a mother and daughter afflicted with it. They’ll likely die … as will yer men.” The words were harsh, and yet Coira’s nerves had been stretched to breaking point of late. She didn’t have it in her to soften her answer.

  However, Farlan didn’t appear offended. He continued to hold her gaze, his own steady. “All the same, Craeg has asked for ye … will ye come?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, to send the outlaw away with a sharp reprimand.

  But then a strange sensation settled over Coira—one that made her pause.

  She looked away from him, her gaze settling upon the grey stone walls of Kilbride in the distance.

  For years, the abbey had been her refuge from the world, but not anymore. Her past had finally caught up with her. If she returned to her life amongst the sisters, it would only be a matter of time before MacKinnon made her choose: her life or theirs.

  Coira glanced over at Sister Mina. The nun still had her knife raised, her young face screwed up in consternation as she glared at the outlaw. “Ye go on ahead, Sister,” Coira said softly.

  Sister Mina’s attention snapped to her. “Ye are going?”

  Coira nodded, her belly fluttering as she did so.

  If ye do this, there’s no way back.

  But did she actually want to go back? For years she’d lived contentedly as a nun, yet in the past days something had shifted within her. A restlessness had surfaced, a yearning that would not be quietened.

  Craeg had been the catalyst. The hours she’d spent in his company while he’d been recovering, and then that intense exchange in the moonlit clearing, had ignited something inside her. She wasn’t sure what the future held, but the urge to go to him grew with each passing moment.

  She wouldn’t ignore it.

  “But ye can’t go alone … I’m coming with ye.”

  “Ye can’t, Sister,” Coira replied with a shake of her head. “I’ve gotten myself into trouble with both the abbot and MacKinnon now. This will be one step too far. If I go to the outlaws, I won’t be able to return to the abbey … and so neither will ye.”

  Sister Mina stared at her, realization dawning. “Ye are leaving the order?”

  Coira favored the young woman with a soft smile. There was so much she wanted to say to Sister Mina; her chest felt tight with the need to unburden herself. Yet she held herself back. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  Silence fell, and then Farlan cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but if we linger out here in the open much longer, someone’s going to see me. We need to go now.”

  Still holding Sister Mina’s eye, Coira gave a curt nod. “I’m ready.”

  The novice’s eyes gleamed, and she started to blink rapidly. “This isn’t right. Ye mustn’t leave.”

  “I’m afraid, I must,” Coira replied, her throat tensing. The determination in her voice surprised her, as did an overwhelming sense of relief. She didn’t actually want to return to Kilbride. “Peace be with ye, Sister Mina. Please tell the others I’ve gone to collect herbs and will be back later.”

  Sister Mina’s throat bobbed. She lowered her blade and resheathed it at her waist. “Peace be with ye, Sister. Worry not, I will not betray ye,” she murmured.

  Coira forced a smile. “Thank ye.”

  She then lowered her quarter-staff, picked up her basket and looped it over one arm, and followed Farlan into the trees without a backward glance.

  Hidden in a clump of bracken, the watcher observed the two nuns part ways.

  He saw Sister Coira follow the man into the woods, while Sister Mina continued on her way along the path leading down the hillside toward the abbey.

  Heart racing, Brother Ian rose to his feet and dusted off his habit. He’d shadowed the healer for days now, watching and waiting for her to transgress once more. Following someone without being spotted was a challenging task, but the monk was small and slight, and could easily make himself invisible if he so wished.

  Secretly, he’d begun to question Father Camron’s fixation with this nun—until now.

  Excitement fluttered in Brother Ian’s belly. The abbot was right. The nun did fraternize with outlaws. He’d seen it with his own eyes.

  Drawing his robes close, the young monk crept away through the bracken.

  16

  Yer Luck Has Run Out

  COIRA FOLLOWED THE outlaw and wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. The heady rush of resolve that had made her turn her back on Kilbride was now ebbing, and she was starting to doubt her decision.

  There’s still time. Ye can turn around and flee back to the abbey.

  Back to MacKinnon.

  The thought made her keep walking, although her heart leaped with each step. The people she was traveling to help were those who’d risen up against the clan-chief, those who would one day bring him down.

  She wanted to be part of that. She’d gladly help those who rebelled against a clan-chief who over-taxed his people, who controlled these lands by terrifying folk into submission. His time was coming to an end, and she would join the rebellion against him.

  Heat spread across Coira’s chest, recklessness catching fire in her veins. Suddenly, she knew in her bones that she’d made the right decision.

  The time had come to act.

  Reaching into the small leather pouch upon her belt, Coira’s fingers curled around a silver ring. After arriving at Kilbride, she’d been forced to remove the ring from her right hand, and had instead donned a fine gold band when she’d taken her vows—a new ring that marked her as a Bride of Christ. But she had always kept her mother’s ring close, even though she knew she really shouldn’t. It was the only thing she had left from her past—the only link to her parents.

  And although she still donned her habit, the desire to wear the old ring once more swept over Coira.

  Removing the gold band, she put it away in the pouch and slipped her mother’s ring onto her right hand. A smile spread across her face.

  Once again, instinct had taken over, and she would follow where it led.

  Farlan took her to a glade where a saddled horse awaited them. Wordlessly, he untied the gelding and tightened its girth, before he sprang up onto the saddle. Reaching down, he helped Coira up behind him.

  To keep her seat, she squeezed with her thighs as the outlaw urged the horse into a bouncing trot and then a jolting canter.

  Moments later they were flying through the trees, heading east.

  Duncan MacKinnon stirred the turnip and kale pottage around the earthen bowl before him.

  Stew … again.

  Maybe that was why his appetite was poor today. Did these nuns eat anything else but stew and coarse bread?

  Putting down his spoon, Duncan reached for his cup of ale and took a sip. He didn’t feel himself. He’d awoken feeling listless and hadn’t broken his fast with a plate of bannocks as he usually did. Now the sight of food made him feel queasy, and his belly had developed a faint ache.

  He hoped the mutton stew he’d eaten the day before hadn’t made him sick.

  Next to him, Father Camron spooned great mouthfuls of stew into his mouth. Heavyset with an appetite of three men, the abbot certainly hadn’t complained of the fare at Kilbride. However, he was obviously used to eating this way.

  Gaze drifting around the table, Duncan searched for Sister Coira. He knew that she took her meals with the senior nuns at the abbess’s table, yet he hadn’t seen her enter the refectory.

  And there was an empty space at
the table.

  He glanced over at the abbess to find Mother Shona watching him. Duncan frowned at her. “Where’s Sister Coira?”

  “There are sick villagers in Torrin,” the abbess replied, her voice cool. “Sister Coira has gone to attend them.”

  Across from Mother Shona, Father Camron stopped shoveling stew into his mouth. Straightening up, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ye should forbid her to do so, Mother.” His dark brows knotted together as he frowned. “Do ye want the plague entering the abbey?”

  The abbess glanced over at the abbot, her mouth pursing. In the day he’d been here, Duncan had seen the woman grow increasingly tense. “The abbey has an important role,” she replied, her tone sharpening. “We will not abandon the folk of these lands.”

  MacKinnon snorted, drawing her gaze once more. “From what I hear, there is no cure for the sickness … Sister Coira is wasting her time.”

  His belly tightened then as he considered that the nun might fall ill and die. He had plans for the lovely Coira—the last thing he wanted was to lose her again.

  Ye don’t want to catch the pestilence off her either, he reminded himself.

  “MacKinnon is right,” Father Camron added with a cold smile. “A nun’s place is here … serving the Lord in prayer.”

  “A nun’s place is helping others … as Christ taught us,” Mother Shona replied crisply. “Sister Coira is a gifted healer. Even if she can’t cure folk, she can ensure their last hours are as comfortable as possible … and bring comfort to their families.”

  The abbot’s smile twisted. “A lot of good that’ll do.”

  Mother Shona’s brown eyes glinted, and she inhaled sharply. Her lips parted as she readied herself to reply to the abbot. However, the arrival of a monk at their table forestalled her.

  The monk was young—small and slender as a lass. His dark hair was cropped short, the crown tonsured. And even though heavy dark robes swathed his small body, MacKinnon could see that the monk was quivering with excitement.