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

by Jayne Castel

  Coira had never been kissed before.

  The men who’d frequented The Goat and Goose didn’t kiss the whores. There wasn’t any tenderness, any intimacy, in what had passed between her and the men she’d once serviced. They’d disrobed, rutted her, tossed her a coin, and left.

  This was completely new to Coira, and when Craeg’s lips first touched hers, a dizzying wave of panic rose up within her. He was crossing her boundaries, smashing down the walls that had kept her safe over the years.

  But she didn’t shrink away.

  Despite the blood roaring in her ears, her wildly beating pulse, she forced down her fear. His lips brushed hers once again, and the need she’d been fighting for days now ignited within her like dry kindling to a naked flame.

  His lips were soft, and the heat of his body, the spicy male scent of his skin, sucked the breath from her. She couldn’t help it; a sigh of need escaped her.

  And that was when everything changed.

  His mouth slanted over hers, firmer now, and his tongue gently parted her lips.

  Aching want swept over Coira, along with a desperation that shoved any lingering fear aside.

  He tasted better than the first apple wine of the autumn, better than fresh bread or heather honey. He smelled like summer rain, like crushed grass, like oiled leather. He was life, death, and eternity all in one kiss.

  A cry rose in Coira’s throat, smothered by his gently exploring lips, his masterful tongue. She heard her quarter-staff thud to the ground, slipping from nerveless fingers. Not caring, she leaned into him, her tongue tentatively stroking his.

  Craeg groaned, deep in his throat, his hands sliding down from her face to her shoulders. He drew her against him, gathering her into his arms as his kisses deepened.

  Coira was lost. Her hands came up, her fingertips tracing his jaw, his neck—resting in the hollow between his collarbones, where his pulse raced. She couldn’t believe she’d lived her whole life till now without this.

  His body, pressed against the length of hers, was strong, warm, and exciting beyond measure. Her fingers ached to strip away the clothing that lay between them. She longed to know what his naked flesh felt like pressed up against hers. Hot desire flooded through her, dizzying in its intensity.

  It was Craeg who eventually ended the kiss. His breathing came in ragged pants, his eyes gleaming, when he pulled back. His face was taut, his expression feral.

  Their gazes fused as the first glimmers of early dawn filtered into this dark corner of the ravine.

  “Whatever comes to pass today,” he said, a rasp in his voice, “I want ye to know that the shadow MacKinnon has cast over ye will soon lift. Please remember that, Coira.” He reached up, stroking her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

  A lump rose in Coira’s throat, making it hard to swallow, to breathe, and to speak. His voice was a balm, his touch an anchor. Suddenly, she dared believe he was right. How she wanted to believe that.

  She sought his hands with hers, their fingers entangling. Finally, she nodded.

  Carr Broderick stood on the walls and watched a damp, misty dawn rise over Dunan.

  The village beneath him, still cast in night’s long shadow, was eerily quiet. Usually at this hour, he could see smoke rising from stacked stone chimneys, could smell the aroma of baking bannock.

  But this morning it was as if ghosts inhabited Dunan.

  Even before MacKinnon had ridden out with his men, folk had started to flee the fort, hurrying out into the hills with rolled blankets and packs upon their backs. But in the three days since the clan-chief had departed, so had the bulk of the village’s residents.

  The streets were now deserted, the markets closed. Sickness had come to Dunan, and its people had sought sanctuary elsewhere. Carr’s gaze narrowed at this observation. Of course, they’d just taken the sickness with them, and would likely spread it.

  The fortress at Carr’s back was also empty. The broch of Dunan hadn’t been spared. Most of the servants who hadn’t sickened had run off.

  Carr heaved in a deep breath and turned, making his way along the narrow walkway to the steep stone steps leading down to the bailey. A grim sight awaited him there: a row of bodies covered by sacking. Three of the stable lads and one of the cooks lay under there. Carr and the few remaining members of the Dunan Guard would have to burn them later in the day.

  A knot tightened under Carr’s ribcage. He’d been spared so far—but how much longer would it be before he fell ill? He lived day-to-day now, with the Grim Reaper breathing down his neck. Sooner or later, he expected to feel the Reaper’s cold touch.

  Entering the broch, Carr went first to the kitchens. The only soul there was a lass—the only one of the kitchen staff remaining—frying a large round cake upon a griddle. Carr shouldn’t have been surprised really. Kenzie was a tough wee thing and doggedly loyal to MacKinnon.

  She glanced up when he entered and favored Carr with a tired smile. “The bannock is ready if ye are hungry?”

  “Thank ye, Kenzie,” he replied, not returning the smile. His mood was too dark this morning to make the effort. No word of MacKinnon had returned to Dunan. Carr wondered if the clan-chief had indeed managed to track his bastard brother down, and if so, what the outcome had been.

  “I’ll take some up for Lady Drew first,” he added.

  Kenzie nodded, relief suffusing her face. There weren’t any servants left now to carry out such tasks. Working quickly, she flipped the bannock onto a platter before slicing it up into wedges. She then added earthen pots of butter and honey before lifting up the tray and handing it to Carr. “I’m sorry ye have to be saddled with such tasks, Broderick,” she murmured, offering him another smile.

  Carr suspected that the young kitchen wench had developed an affection for him of late—feelings which had intensified as the inhabitants of the broch slowly dwindled. Carr had given her little encouragement, yet that did not dim her interest.

  “I don’t mind,” he answered, returning her smile now. It was the truth. Bringing Lady Drew some food to break her fast was merely an excuse to see her. The only good thing to come from this sickness was that he now interacted with Lady Drew far more often than he had in the past.

  Climbing the stairs, he made his way to her solar. He knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” a soft voice called out.

  Carr pushed open the door with his elbow and made his way in.

  Lady Drew was seated by the fire, a thick shawl about her shoulders. Carr’s step faltered a little at the sight of her. It was rare to see MacKinnon’s sister with her hair unbound. Long and wavy, and the color of peat, it tumbled over her shoulders.

  Drew’s grey eyes widened at the sight of him. “Oh … it’s ye, Broderick … I thought it was Kenzie.”

  “She’s busy downstairs,” he replied with an apologetic shrug. “Ye shall have to make do with me, milady.”

  He moved to the center of the solar and set the tray down upon a table.

  “I’m quite at a loss, ye know,” she said, her tone rueful. “I’m used to having servants fuss around me in the morning … it looks like I’ll have to dress myself and put up my own hair.”

  Carr huffed a laugh at this pronouncement. “I would offer to help, but …”

  Drew snorted, before she rose to her feet, drawing the shawl tight. “I’m sure I’ll manage. God’s bones, Broderick … it’s cold in here. Could ye put some more peat on the fire?”

  Carr nodded and went to do as bid. However, he personally found the chamber warm and a little stuffy. He couldn’t see how she could feel a chill. “I was going to open a window,” he said, “but I take it ye would prefer I didn’t?”

  “Please don’t,” she replied, moving over to the table. “Come and join me at the table instead … I take it the lass didn’t expect me to eat all these bannocks?”

  After attending to the fire, Carr returned to the table and took a seat opposite Drew. He waited until she had helped herself to a bannock, before
he did the same.

  Being able to sit at the same table as the woman he longed for was both an unexpected pleasure and a torture—but he’d not deny her.

  Spreading some butter upon his wedge of bannock, Carr glanced up, his gaze fixing upon her. This close, he saw her heart-shaped face was pale.

  Carr went still. “Lady Drew,” he said softly. “Are ye well?”

  She nodded, her mouth tightening in annoyance. “Of course … don’t fuss.”

  Carr watched her, his gaze narrowing. Her sharp tongue didn’t bother him. However, her well-being did. Without asking permission, he rose from the table and crossed to her, placing his hand upon her forehead.

  It was the first time he’d ever touched the woman he served.

  The move was bold, and in other circumstances he wouldn’t have dared. But today was different.

  “Broderick!” she gasped, twisting away from him. “What the devil are ye doing?”

  Carr withdrew his hand, dread twisting under his ribcage. Her brow was burning hot, the skin clammy.

  Their gazes fused then, and whatever admonishments she’d been about to utter died upon her lips when she saw the look on his face.

  22

  Face-to-Face

  DUNCAN REINED IN his horse and watched the riders approach, before frowning. He’d sent scouts ahead, to keep an eye on the outlaws, but they’d returned sooner than he’d expected.

  “They’re on the move,” Keith greeted him. The blond man’s face was flushed. He’d ridden hard to reach the clan-chief as quickly as possible. “The outlaws are traveling west … toward us.”

  “How far away are they?” Duncan barked, trying to ignore the chills that wracked his body and the cough that tickled the back of his throat.

  Curse them all, he felt terrible.

  Keith MacKinnon’s gaze settled upon the clan-chief, and his pale blue eyes narrowed. Duncan could tell by the way his face tensed that he didn’t look good. However, the man was wise enough not to comment upon it.

  “Around twenty furlongs distant.” Keith replied. “Our paths will cross before noon.”

  This news made MacKinnon scowl. He hadn’t expected his bastard brother to ride out to meet him—at least not so soon. He’d wanted Craeg’s scouts to spot them and scurry back to their hiding place before chaos and panic ensued. Duncan clenched his jaw; it mattered not. The sooner they clashed the better.

  “Did someone let them know we were coming?” One of Duncan’s men asked behind him, echoing the clan-chief’s own thoughts.

  “Who cares,” Duncan growled. “The Bastard has saved us all a long ride.” His gaze swept right to left, taking in the wide valley they’d pulled up in. Behind him stretched woodland, whereas broom and gorse dotted the slopes of the valley below. “We make our stand here.”

  They’d been marching for over an hour when the sky above cleared and the sun appeared. Warmth filtered over Coira, and she raised her face to it.

  This was the first time in a decade that the sun had shone upon her naked head. She felt strange, lighter, walking without being shrouded by her veil. The sensation had been discomforting at first—she’d felt naked without her habit. It had been her shield for so long. When she’d warn it, men ceased to see her as a woman. But ever since she’d appeared before the outlaws in Fenella’s clothing, the world looked upon her differently.

  “Can ye really use that quarter-staff?” Farlan’s question made Coira lower her face from the sun’s gentle caress and glance right. The outlaw walked beside her in the long column that snaked down the mountainside.

  Coira’s mouth curved in her first real smile in days. “Do ye want a demonstration? I can knock ye flat on yer back, if ye would like.”

  Farlan raised his hands, dark eyes glinting. “No need for that … save yer aggression for MacKinnon’s lot.”

  Coira’s smile faded. “I intend to.”

  “So … the rest of the nuns at Kilbride … are they like ye? Can they really fight?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “Mother Shona taught us. Before she came to Skye, she had a hard life. When she was elected as abbess, she decided that the Sisters of Kilbride should be able to defend themselves if the need ever arose.”

  Farlan gave a low whistle. “And there was me thinking nuns were useless.”

  Coira’s gaze narrowed. “The Lord’s work is never ‘useless’. Kilbride is the reason the people of Torrin haven’t starved over the past years. MacKinnon always raids their stores in autumn.”

  “So ye have been helping folk?”

  “Aye, when we can. It’s just one of the reasons why MacKinnon has always disliked us.”

  Farlan frowned. “And the other reasons?”

  The young man was sharp—too sharp. Coira might have confided in Craeg, but she wasn’t about to do the same with Farlan. She liked him well enough, yet he asked too many questions.

  Coira glanced away then, her gaze traveling down the column to where Craeg strode next to Gunn. The red-haired warrior was easy to spot in a group, and he was never far from the outlaw leader.

  Warmth settled in the cradle of Coira’s hips, radiating out.

  If she’d been alone, she’d have raised her fingers to her lips, allowing the memory of that kiss to flood through her. However, under Farlan’s penetrating gaze, she prevented herself.

  That kiss had shifted her world. Everything was different in the aftermath. She felt desire for a man—a man that didn’t turn her stomach, a man that didn’t want to pay her so she’d spread her legs, a man who treated her as if she were something precious, something to be cherished.

  A pressure built in her chest as she thought about Craeg, recalled the tenderness in his eyes and the fierceness upon his face as he stared down at her at dawn.

  The shadow MacKinnon has cast over ye will soon lift.

  He’d said those words with such conviction that she’d believed him. For the first time, she actually had hope. It was something she’d searched for at Kilbride, yet despite her strong faith, she’d never truly found it.

  Not until Craeg entered her life.

  A soft laugh drew her from her reverie. Coira glanced back at Farlan to find him still watching her, a knowing grin upon his lips. “Ye wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for him,” he said with a shake of his head. “Craeg wields charm like a blade.”

  A chill stole over Coira at these words. He made Craeg’s behavior seem contrived, practiced—as if he’d put on a show for her. Perhaps Farlan saw the alarm on her face, for his grin abruptly faded. “Sorry, poor choice of words. I could do with some lessons in charm myself. No wonder the lasses prefer Craeg.”

  Coira huffed a laugh, although underneath it she was now wary of Farlan. “Aye … one day ye will cut yerself on that sharp tongue of yers, Farlan.”

  He offered her a sheepish smile. “I think I just have.”

  The two bands met just as the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

  Craeg, who walked ahead of his men, caught a glimpse of MacKinnon pennants in the distance. His gaze traveled along the line of horsemen outlined against the dark wall of greenery behind them.

  “Stay here,” Craeg murmured to Gunn, his gaze never leaving the riders. “I’m going out to talk to him … alone.”

  “I should come with ye.” Gunn’s voice held a warning, yet Craeg ignored it. Before the end came, he’d speak to Duncan MacKinnon face-to-face.

  “Stay here,” he replied, still not glancing at his friend.

  With that, Craeg stepped out of the line and walked down the scrubby slope to where the horse and rider had halted at the bottom of the valley.

  The sun warmed the crown of his head as he walked, and he was aware that after what seemed like weeks of grey, misty weather, the sky had cleared and summer had returned to the Isle of Skye.

  Craeg walked easily, despite the heavy pine shield he wore slung across his back and the claidheamh-mor that hung at his side. Unlike many of his men, he
didn’t carry a quiver of arrows and longbow, for he preferred to lead the charge of warriors into battle. However, he’d strapped a long-bladed dirk to his right thigh for fighting at close-quarters, should the need arise. And it most likely would.

  MacKinnon cut an imposing figure astride the magnificent warhorse. He sat easily in the saddle, and Craeg remembered what a skilled horseman his half-brother was. He’d heard about his prowess as a hunter too—Duncan would be a formidable adversary, mounted or not.

  And as he drew near, Craeg finally made out the features of the MacKinnon clan-chief’s face.

  His breathing quickened.

  So many years had passed since the pair of them had met face-to-face, since they’d looked each other squarely in the eye.

  He’d heard many folk pass comment on the physical resemblance between them, but since the times were few and far between when Craeg ever glimpsed his own reflection, he would have to take them at their word.

  Duncan hadn’t changed much over the years, although there were perhaps lines of severity upon his handsome face that made him look sterner, older. Those iron-grey eyes were the same though: cold and shrewd.

  But as Craeg came to a halt around eight yards back from the destrier, he realized that something wasn’t quite right. Those lines upon his face, weren’t from age, but from strain. His skin had a grey tinge and sweat gleamed off his forehead.

  “No horse for Craeg the Bastard, eh?”

  Duncan MacKinnon’s greeting slammed into Craeg like a fist to the belly. In an instant he was transported back to that fateful day in Dunan. The last time he’d heard that voice, he’d been curled up fighting consciousness in an alley that reeked of stale piss.

  That arrogant, drawling voice had echoed in his ears for months afterward.

  But now all Craeg heard in his ears was the roar of his own breathing. His heart started to race, and he clenched his jaw as he resisted the urge to bare his teeth.