by Jayne Castel
“I don’t want to leave ye here alone, Mother.” Sister Elspeth’s voice cracked as she spoke, betraying just how upset she was.
The nun faced the abbess at the foot of the steps to the kirk. Like the group of nuns behind her, she wore a leather pack upon her back. However, Sister Elspeth’s right arm was in a sling.
“I won’t be alone, Sister Elspeth,” the abbess replied, favoring the nun with a tired smile. “Sister Magda is with me … and so will be Sisters Anis and Fritha … if they live.” She paused then. Sadly, Sister Morag had passed away during the night. Earlier that morning, Coira had shown the abbess how to lance plague boils, a vile task but a potentially life-saving one. “We won’t tarry here for much longer either. As soon as we can, we too shall move on.”
Hope flared in Sister Elspeth’s eyes. “Will ye join us at Inishail Priory?”
The abbess shook her head.
Sister Elspeth’s gaze guttered. “Why not?”
“I don’t know where I shall go after this … perhaps Sister Magda and the others will join ye, but I will seek solitude.”
A brittle silence followed these words.
Looking on, Coira saw that Sister Elspeth was now close to tears. She was an odd woman, Coira reflected. Watching her now, Coira realized just how much Kilbride meant to Sister Elspeth. It tore her up inside to leave it.
The nuns filed out of the abbey, solemn black-garbed figures. They carried a defeated aura about them—so different from the fierce women of a day earlier. They wielded no weapons now, and probably would never do so again.
A dull sensation settled in the center of Coira’s chest. She glanced across at where Craeg stood, watching the nuns leave. She was happy to stand at this man’s side, to go with him to Dunan. But at the same time, the situation here at Kilbride filled her with regret.
Not for herself, but for the Sisters, for Mother Shona.
Turning to the abbess, she met her eye. “None of this is yer fault, Mother,” she said softly. “Please don’t blame yerself.”
Mother Shona’s mouth pursed, her gaze narrowing. “Isn’t it? There’s a reason why men go to war and women keep the home fires burning. For years I fought against the natural order of things … I wanted to make ye all strong. Ye put yer trust in me, but I put yer futures all in jeopardy. I should never have taught ye all how to fight.”
Coira drew back. “Ye did a good thing.”
The abbess shook her head, her jaw tightening. “Father Camron wouldn’t have returned here to investigate me, if I’d run the abbey as I should have.”
Coira tensed. “That bigot? He—”
“Hush, Coira. I like the man no more than ye do, yet he’s an emissary of the Pope. For years I thought myself above following the rules. I can play games with my own life, but not with the lives of others.”
Coira heaved in a deep breath. The abbess seemed intent on shouldering the responsibility for Father Camron’s meddling. Although Coira didn’t share her view, she could see that there was little point arguing with her.
One thing she’d learned over the years was just how stubborn Mother Shona could be. The harder you pushed, the more she dug her heels in.
“So ye will go off to some forgotten isle and find yerself a hermit’s hut?” she asked finally.
Mother Shona snorted. “Perhaps.” She gave Coira a shrewd look then. “And what of ye, lass?”
Coira’s cheeks warmed at the question. Although she hadn’t minded standing with Craeg in front of his outlaws, being so bold with Mother Shona wasn’t as easy. Embarrassed, she lowered her gaze.
“There’s no need to look ashamed,” the abbess murmured, a note of chagrin in her voice. “Do ye think I’m in a position to pass judgement upon yer choices?”
Coira lifted her chin, aware that Craeg had stepped close, his hand taking hers. The warmth and strength of his fingers made the awkwardness ebb a little. Even so, it was difficult to meet Mother Shona’s eye.
“I took vows,” she replied softly. “And I have broken them.”
“Aye … but none of that matters now,” the abbess replied. Her expression turned wistful then. “Ye never belonged here, not really. Like Sisters Ella and Leanna, ye used these walls as a refuge. But like it or not, our past catches up with us eventually, just as mine has. The Lord has other plans for ye, as it had for yer friends.”
Mother Shona’s attention shifted to Craeg then, and a soft smile curved her mouth. “Plus, love is hard to fight. I once gave my heart to a man like ye, Craeg MacKinnon … I know how difficult ye are to resist.”
30
Ghosts
THE BULK OF Dunan appeared in the distance, lit up in red and gold by the setting sun.
The sight of it, rearing up against a backdrop of dark pine forest, made a host of unwelcome memories slam into Coira. The skin of her forearms prickled, and her breathing quickened.
This was going to be harder than she’d thought.
Glancing left, she saw that Craeg was staring at the fortress, his handsome face strained.
The pair of them walked at the front of the column of warriors, alongside the gurgling River An. However, when they were around four furlongs from the walls, Craeg halted and turned back to his men, his gaze sweeping over them. “Watch yer backs,” he called out, his voice carrying down the line. “They will be expecting Duncan MacKinnon to return to them. Not us.”
“He will have left a few of the Dunan Guard behind to guard the broch,” Gunn pointed out. The warrior had put Fenella on one of the wagons and ridden forward to join Craeg. “They might put up a fight.”
Craeg nodded. “Aye … draw yer weapons, but don’t use them unless I say so,” he ordered. “Enough blood has been spilled of late … but if we have to use force, we will.”
Coira’s gaze shifted over the faces of the outlaws before them. They were weary, their eyes hollowed with fatigue, yet their faces were set in determination.
The gates of Dunan would only hold them for so long.
The column moved on. They skirted the locked South Gate, taking the road to Dunan’s main entrance, the North Gate. On the way, Coira saw the blackened embers of what looked like funeral pyres.
A chill stole over her.
The sickness.
The gates were open, and the arable fields before them were empty, the rows of vegetables left untended.
“Where is everyone?” Craeg breathed, looking around.
“They’ve fled,” Coira replied. “For fear of getting sick.” She met Craeg’s eye then. “Ye may find that only ghosts now inhabit Dunan.”
A lone guard met them before the archway leading into the broch’s bailey. He was a broad, brawny warrior with short blond hair and a face that might have been handsome, if it hadn’t been set in such a severe expression.
A heavy claidheamh-mor hung from the man’s waist, but he hadn’t yet drawn it.
Craeg, who’d led the way up the cobbled street from the North Gate, halted a few feet from the guard.
The men’s gazes fused for a few instants, before Craeg spoke. “Do ye know me?”
The guard’s mouth thinned. “The family resemblance is uncanny … Craeg MacKinnon I take it?”
The note of grudging respect in the man’s voice surprised Coira. He’d not addressed him as ‘Craeg the Bastard’ as they’d all expected.
Another heavy silence stretched between the two men, before the guard spoke once more. “MacKinnon is dead, then?”
“Aye,” Craeg answered, his voice flat. “As are his men, save the survivors we bring with us. If ye’d like confirmation that he’s gone … ye can ask them if ye wish?”
The guard swallowed, the only sign that this news moved him at all.
“And ye are?” Craeg asked, when the man didn’t answer.
“Carr Broderick,” the man replied gruffly, “Captain of what’s left of the Dunan Guard.”
Craeg inclined his head, taking the man’s measure. “So, what will ye do now, captain? Deny me ac
cess?”
Broderick’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “I could … but we both know how that would end.”
“How many of ye are left?”
“Twenty … three of whom are sick.”
Craeg glanced over at Coira, and they shared a long look. They both knew surrender when they saw it. However, it was also clear that this was costing Carr Broderick dearly.
“Ye were loyal to my brother?” Craeg asked, his attention swinging back to Captain Broderick.
To Coira’s surprise, the man’s mouth pursed, as if Craeg had just said something distasteful.
“Aye,” he replied after a pause, bitterness lacing his voice. “Like a hound.”
“And can a man change loyalties?”
Broderick frowned, his jaw tensing as he sensed a trap. Tension rippled between them, and when the warrior finally replied, his voice was rough with suppressed anger. “I didn’t like yer brother,” he admitted. “But I still served him … not like Ross Campbell, who took a stand.”
Craeg’s gaze narrowed. “Ye knew Campbell well?”
“Aye … and I was sent to track him down. I caught up with him too, just before he and Lady Leanna escaped from Skye … yer brother never learned about that meeting though. I’d have swung for it, if he had.”
Craeg raised an eyebrow. “Ye let Campbell and Lady Leanna go?”
Broderick nodded, his features tightening.
“Then ye weren’t MacKinnon’s hound after all,” Craeg replied. “Ye are glad he’s dead. I see it in yer eyes.”
The captain dropped his gaze, his hands, which hung by his sides, clenching into fists. He then shifted to one side, making it clear that Craeg and his men could pass.
Craeg moved forward, drawing parallel with Broderick. “Is Lady MacKinnon at home?” he asked coolly.
The captain’s chin snapped up, and Coira, who’d stopped just behind Craeg, drew in a sharp breath when she spied the anguish in Broderick’s grey-blue eyes. “Aye,” he rasped. “Although ye won’t want to see her … Lady Drew is gravely ill.”
Coira followed Captain Broderick up the stairwell to the uppermost level of the broch. The emptiness they’d seen in the narrow streets and alleyways of ‘The Warren’ had continued within the broch itself. Apart from the odd scurrying servant or skulking guard, the fortress was deserted.
“Surely, not all the servants fell ill?” she asked, hurrying to keep pace with the warrior’s long strides as he led her along a hallway. There were no windows in the corridor; instead, a row of flickering cressets illuminated the cool space.
“A few did,” the warrior replied, his tone as gruff as it had been at the entrance to the bailey. “The rest fled like rats ahead of a flood.”
Coira took this news in, her mouth thinning. His words didn’t surprise her, although it was concerning. How many of those who’d fled had been ill already, and had merely taken the sickness with them and passed it on to others?
Broderick led her halfway down the hallway, and into a dimly-lit bed-chamber.
The first thing Coira did—before even going to the figure lying on the bed—was walk to the window and unlatch the shutters. She then pushed them wide, breathing in the pine-scented evening air with relief.
Turning back to Broderick, she saw that he was glowering at her. “Don’t look so worried,” she chided him. “I told ye that I’m a healer.”
“The last one told us to close the shutters,” he replied, his voice edged with suspicion.
“And where’s he?”
Deep grooves bracketed Broderick’s mouth then. “He fled with the others.”
Coira sighed. “Well then … it’s just as well I’m here.” She gestured to the open window. “Fresh air clears out the ill humors. Plus, it’ll help me to see.” Placing the basket she’d brought on a desk, she pulled out her scarf and gloves and put them on.
When she shifted her attention back to the captain, he was staring at her as if she’d just sprouted horns.
“It’s for my own protection,” she told him, moving toward the bed. “I’m not much good to the sick if the plague gets me, am I?”
Approaching the bed, her gaze fixed upon the woman reclining there. One glance, told her that she was possibly too late.
The woman, around five years her elder, lay there, dressed in a sweat-soaked léine. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, although her delicate features were gaunt with sickness and pain. The eyes that watched her were eerily familiar—iron-grey—marking her as Duncan MacKinnon’s kin. Her clammy-looking skin was ashen and marked with dark spots, huge swellings visible under the arms.
Despite her scarf, Coira took in a shallow, measured breath. The Lord have mercy on us all.
“Can ye help her?”
The desperate edge to Captain Broderick’s voice drew Coira’s attention. Her gaze swiveled to him. She wondered why the man was so obviously upset, before realization dawned.
He’s in love with her.
Coira’s throat tightened, and she shifted her attention back to Lady Drew. Even if the woman had been well, anyone could see that such a love-match would be impossible. She was a lady and he a guard. Society would not allow it.
And would society allow a union between ye and Craeg? A voice needled her.
Underneath her scarf, Coira’s mouth curved. A woman who’d lived as both a whore and nun, and an outlaw with a price on his head—they were a perfect match indeed.
“She is in the latter stages of the illness,” Coira said softly. “But I will do all I can … even if the shock of the treatment may be too much for her.” It was true, Lady Drew’s weakened state made this procedure a risky one. Coira then reached for the knife she carried at her waist. “Can ye get me a bowl?”
31
Make Ye Mine
IT WAS AFTER dark when Coira joined Craeg in the clan-chief’s solar.
He stood by the window, a lonely figure looking out at where a dark line of trees met an indigo sky. Even from the doorway, she could see the tension in his broad shoulders. He wasn't comfortable here.
She didn’t blame him. Neither was she. However, she’d had plenty to occupy her since her arrival at Dunan. It had taken her a while to tend to Lady Drew, and to adequately clean the lanced boils. But after seeing to her patient, Coira hadn’t gone to Craeg directly. First, she had gone down to the kitchens and found a bucket of water and lye soap to bathe with.
Tending the sick left a taint behind it. She wanted to scrub it off, before she spent time with her love.
Hearing the thud of the door closing behind her, and the light pad of her footsteps, Craeg turned. His gaze was shadowed. “How’s my sister?”
“In a bad way,” Coira replied softly. “But I have treated her like the others … if she survives the night, there may be hope for her.”
Craeg watched Coira, his throat bobbing. “I never met Drew, ye know,” he said after a pause. “Our father thought it fitting to bring Duncan to the brothel to meet me … but it would have been unseemly to bring the bastard into the broch itself.”
“So ye have never set foot in here before today?”
He shook his head.
Coira reached Craeg’s side and linked her arm through his, leaning against him. “And how does it feel?”
“Odd,” he huffed. “Like I’m trespassing.”
“Well, ye aren’t.”
Craeg drew Coira close, his hand sliding up her back. “I feel as if the moment I step outside this room, a servant is going to appear, point at me and shriek ‘Bastard … what are ye doing here’?”
Despite herself, Coira laughed, burying her face against the warmth of his neck. “No need to worry … there are no servants left to heckle ye.”
“Ye mean we shall need to fix our own supper?”
“Aye … if we can find any food.”
Coira drew back from him then, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. The look on his face—both tender and fierce—made her heart leap, her breathing quick
en. When he looked at her in that way, her limbs melted like butter in the noon sun.
“Mother Shona was right, Craeg,” she said softly. “This is yer destiny. Ye might feel like an imposter right now, but no one could rule these lands better than ye. I am proud to stand by yer side.”
Craeg gazed down at her, his expression suddenly vulnerable. “I’m glad ye are here with me, Coira,” he murmured. “This broch is a tomb. I feel as if my brother’s ghost is breathing down my neck.”
Coira huffed. “Yer brother will be too busy trying to outrun the devil and his pitchfork in the depths of hell,” she replied.
Craeg’s mouth quirked at the image. “Aye.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, to her cheekbone. “Long may he burn there.” He lowered his head then, his mouth slanting over hers.
His kiss was hungry, demanding, and Coira answered in kind. Reaching up, she linked her arms around his neck. Her mouth opened beneath his, heat rising in the pit of her belly.
She couldn’t get enough of Craeg. His taste, his touch, swamped her senses.
It only took moments for the kiss to spiral out of control, for all thought to dissolve from Coira’s mind.
Nothing else but this man mattered.
She reached down and unlaced his léine, her fingers sliding against the warm flesh beneath. Frustrated, she unbuckled the belt that prevented her from ripping the tunic off him.
Breathing hard, Craeg broke off the kiss, stepped back, and pulled off his léine. A soft sigh escaped Coira then, as she leaned forward and tasted the skin where his neck met his shoulder, her fingers sliding over the breadth of his chest and the crisp, dark hair there.
She’d been aching to do this all day. Last night had been but a taste of what she hungered for. Had circumstances permitted, she’d have locked them away together for a week so she could feast on him. Her lustiness shocked her. After years of numbness, yearning like this was unexplored territory.