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

by Jayne Castel

  A few feet from Drew, Ella looked well, although a little tired, for she held a swaddled infant in her arms. Wee Anice was three months old and had arrived just as the plague swept through the north of the isle. Fortunately, Scorrybreac had been only lightly touched by the sickness.

  Coira’s belly tensed as her attention shifted to the bairn’s thatch of thick copper-blonde hair and rosy cheeks. They were so lucky that the illness had spared her and Ella.

  All of us here today are fortunate.

  Indeed, they were, for many upon the isle had died. Word had reached Dunan that whole villages had perished. Those who survived emerged into a much more subdued world. Whenever she went into ‘The Warren’, Coira was struck by just how quiet it was these days.

  The Goat and Goose had shut its doors permanently. It appeared the sickness had torn through the brothel, and once Old Maude succumbed to it, the few whores still alive fled Dunan.

  Coira’s thoughts returned to the present, and she glanced over to where Leanna sat making a large holly wreath. It would be the center-piece on the table for tonight’s Yuletide feast. Coira noted how well Leanna looked. Her eyes were bright, her smooth cheeks pink with excitement.

  Leanna had always loved Yule, even at Kilbride, where the celebrations had been considerably limited. Coira was glad she and Ross had made the trip from Barra to spend Yule with them.

  After word of Duncan MacKinnon’s death spread, a missive had arrived in Dunan around a month later. Coira had been sharing her morning bannocks with Craeg in this solar when Carr Broderick brought up a message.

  It was from Leanna.

  She and Ross were wed and farming a tract of land upon the Isle of Barra, where they raised sheep. Leanna had never been happier but admitted that she missed her old friends terribly.

  Afterward, Coira had decided that she would invite both Leanna and Ella to stay. Now that the ravages of the plague were behind them, it was safe to travel again. While Duncan MacKinnon ruled, Ella and Gavin weren’t welcome in Dunan either. In fact, he’d longed to have a chance to get his revenge against them.

  Now, they no longer had to worry about him.

  The rumble of male voices, punctuated by a burst of laughter out in the hallway beyond, drew Coira’s attention then. Smiling, she met Leanna’s eye. “Sounds like the men are back from hunting.”

  Leanna gave a squeal of excitement, cast aside her half-finished wreath, and leaped to her feet.

  At that moment, the door to the solar flew open and three men entered.

  The first was tall and broad-shouldered, a grey brindled wolfhound loping at his heel. Around his shoulders the MacKinnon clan-chief wore a heavy fur cloak. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders and peat-brown hair.

  Behind him another dark-haired man strode into the solar, his piercing blue eyes sweeping around as he took in the decorations. “Good grief … ye have all been busy.”

  “Do ye like it?” Leanna rushed to her husband and launched herself at him. With a laugh, Ross caught her before lowering his lips to his wife’s for a kiss. “Aye … it’s bonny.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any mulled wine, is there?” A blond man entered behind Ross. Gavin MacNichol blew on his chilled hands. The clan-chief had warm blue-grey eyes and a boyish grin that Ella responded to with a smile of her own. “Aye … the servants have just brought up some. It’s still hot … help yerself.”

  Gavin went to the cast iron pot sitting at Drew’s feet and lifted off the lid. The heady scent of plum wine and costly spice—cinnamon and clove—wafted through the solar.

  Coira breathed in the rich aroma with pleasure. This was her first experience of such a drink. She had grown up relatively poor, and her life in the brothel and then at the abbey had never given her the opportunity to try mulled wine.

  Gavin ladled cups for everyone and handed them out. Coira took hers gratefully, wrapping her fingers around the cup as she took a sip.

  Glancing up, she saw Craeg approach her. The pair of them shared a smile.

  “Did ye enjoy the hunt?” she asked. Behind them, Bran had settled down in front of the fire and was licking his wet paws.

  “Aye … we brought down two red deer,” he replied. He took a sip from his own cup, his gaze widening. “Lord, this is good.”

  “Mulled wine is as new to me as it is to ye then?” Coira asked.

  “Of course … outlaws don’t live like lairds.”

  Coira laughed, stepping close to him. Around them, the chatter of conversation punctuated with bursts of laughter filled the solar. Ross was teasing Leanna over her messy wreath, Gavin had picked up his daughter and was tickling her, while Ella and Drew debated whether or not it was too early to bring out plum and apple cakes to feast on. It was a happy scene, one that gave Coira a true sense of belonging.

  A feeling that eluded her until recently.

  She was happier too, since she’d received word from Shona. A message had arrived just a few days earlier. The former abbess of Kibride had found a new home far to the north of Scotland, upon one of the Isles of Orkney, where she lived as a hermit. And although it saddened Coira that Shona blamed herself for the events that had torn their lives at Kilbride apart, she was relieved to know that the woman was well. Maybe, one day, she’d realize the good she’d done them all. Coira knew she had much to thank Shona for.

  “Ye have a smile to light up the world this afternoon, mo ghràdh,” Craeg murmured, moving nearer still. “I love to see ye so content.”

  “I am,” she admitted, her smile fading just a little. “I only wish I could make this moment freeze in time … that all of us could remain exactly as we are … that nothing could ever touch us.”

  “Aye, but it’s the very fact that these moments are fleeting that makes them so precious,” he replied, favoring Coira with that soft smile he reserved only for her. He reached out then and gently cupped her chin, raising it so that their gazes met. “Just remember that we will have other days like this in the years to come. I plan to spend many more Yuletides with ye, Coira. Many, many more.”

  The End

  Surprise … I’ve got two more stories for you!

  Catch your breath—now that you’ve finished FALLEN—and prepare yourself for two more adventures set in the same world as The Sisters of Kilbride series.

  Wondering what happens to Mother Shona?

  A woman living in self-imposed exile. The man who has searched Scotland to find her. A destiny they both share.

  I’ve written Shona’s story and inserted as a bonus epilogue to this novel. It’s around 9000 words—long enough to get lost in. Just scroll forward a couple of pages to start DESTINED!

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  I don’t know about you, but I just had to know what happens between these two … and I had to give them a happy ending!

  So, I’ve written CLAIMED. It’s an 'epilogue novella' that tells Drew MacKinnon and Carr Broderick’s story. This is a 30,000-word sexy and emotional story that I LOVED writing.

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  A widow intent on taking the veil. The guard who would lay down his life for her. The proposal that will alter their relationship forever. A powerful tale of unrequited love in Medieval Scotland.

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  Read DESTINED—a bonus short story!

  A woman living in self-imposed exile. The man who has searched Scotland to find her. A destiny they both share.

  Shona was once an abbess. Now she lives as a hermit upon an isolated isle in the Orkneys. It’s a hard, lonely life, but one she welcomes, for she is filled with remorse for her past mistakes.

  Darach was once a monk. But after leaving his order, he’s traveled Scotland in search of the enigmatic warrior abbess who helped bring down a tyrannical clan-chief.

  Darach is surprised to discover a woman who is both lovely and tr
oubled. But, unfortunately, Shona doesn’t want to share her isle with him.

  Determined to stay and make a life for himself upon the isle, at her side, Darach must first convince Shona that she needs him. But that might be harder than he thinks …

  “Remorse is the poison of life.”

  —Charlotte Bronte

  The Isle of Auskerry

  The Orkneys, Scotland

  Summer, 1351 AD

  SHONA WATCHED THE man drag his boat into shore and wondered whether she should go and fetch her dirk. She lived alone upon this small, isolated isle—and she wasn’t expecting visitors.

  Stepping back from the dry-stone wall that surrounded her hut, she strode to the beehive-shaped bothy and ducked inside. She then retrieved her dirk from next to the pile of sheepskins where she slept and returned to the edge of her garden.

  The stranger had left his rowboat upon the grey pebbly beach and was now making his way up the gentle slope toward Shona.

  Clenching her jaw, she watched him, deliberately hiding the dagger amongst the folds of her woolen skirt.

  She’d ensure his attentions were actually aggressive before she drew her weapon. Nonetheless, life had taught her to be wary of strangers.

  As the man approached, Shona studied him with interest. Months stretched by upon Auskerry without her setting eyes upon another soul. Save for her rare trips across the water to Stronsay for supplies, she lived a solitary existence here.

  Just the way she liked it.

  This man wasn’t one of the flaxen-haired islanders of Stronsay, folk who hailed from the Norsemen who’d once raided these isles. In contrast, he was sturdily-built and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped, dark hair shot through with silver around the temples. The stranger wore a brown, sleeveless, woolen tunic—revealing brawny arms—plaid braies, and heavy leather boots. He carried no visible weapons, just a bulging satchel, which he’d slung across his front.

  And as he drew closer, Shona noted that the man wore a small wooden crucifix about his neck.

  The stranger halted around six yards back from where Shona stood.

  “Are ye Mother Shona?” he asked, his voice low and pleasant.

  “It’s just ‘Shona’ these days,” she replied. Her voice sounded strange to her ears, slightly husky. Apart from the odd comment to her two goats, clutch of fowl, and flock of sheep—who were her companions here—she spoke little these days. Of late, even her prayers had been carried out in silence.

  The man’s mouth lifted at the corners, and Shona noted that he had a ruggedly handsome face, with strong masculine features and piercing midnight-blue eyes.

  “But ye are the woman who defied the Abbot of Crossraguel?” he asked. “The abbess who led her nuns into battle against the MacKinnon clan-chief?”

  Shona stiffened, a chill sweeping through her. “I see my ‘fame’ has gone before me,” she replied, her tone turning wintry. “But, aye … I’m the woman responsible for those … incidents.”

  The newcomer’s mouth stretched into a proper smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m relieved to hear that … I heard a woman of God lived as a hermit upon this isle … and I hoped it was ye.”

  Shona frowned. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade. This man’s smile and friendliness put her on edge. She’d sought solitude upon this distant isle for a reason.

  She didn’t want visitors.

  “And why’s that?” she asked, hoping the frosty edge to her voice conveyed just how unwelcome this man was here.

  His smile faded, although those blue eyes still twinkled as he gazed upon Shona with an intensity that was starting to make her uncomfortable. “News of yer bravery has spread across Scotland,” he said evenly, “and I wanted to meet the warrior abbess myself.” He paused there, his gaze sweeping over the windswept isle surrounding them. Auskerry was small and barren, a place of lonely vistas of sea and sky. “And I too seek solitude. This isle looks ideal for contemplating God in peace.”

  Shona’s breathing caught, panic fluttering up under her ribcage. Seemingly oblivious to her reaction, the stranger took a couple of steps closer to her. “My name’s Darach.”

  Ignoring his introduction and the hand he extended in greeting, Shona’s gaze narrowed. “Ye can’t stay here.”

  He inclined his head, dropping the hand she clearly wasn’t going to clasp. “Is that any way to treat a weary traveler who’s trekked the length of Alba to find ye?” His tone was still friendly, although there was now an edge of chastisement underneath the warmth.

  Shona’s belly tightened. “I didn’t invite ye here,” she replied, her tone clipped, “and I don’t wish to see visitors.” Her hand then swept left, gesturing to the tiny bothy with a sod roof behind her. “There’s nowhere for ye to sleep anyway.”

  The newcomer, Darach, shrugged. “I’m happy to sleep by the fire outdoors … for the time being.”

  Shona’s fingers tightened around the bone handle of her dirk. She was now gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were starting to ache. “For the time being?”

  “Aye.” he flashed her an infuriating smile before striding through the gap in the wall and past her, toward the firepit. “I intend to build my own dwelling here.” As he walked by, Shona saw that he carried a bulky cloth sack over his shoulder. “I’ve brought ye a side of mutton from Stronsay,” he announced. “We shall dine well this eve.”

  Shona watched him go. Her pulse quickened, heat pooling in the pit of her belly as her anger rose.

  How dare he?

  “Come on,” the newcomer called over his shoulder. “We’d better get this mutton roasting, or we’ll be eating at the witching hour.” He paused then, and when he continued, his voice held a wry note. “And if ye aren’t planning on sinking that blade into my back, ye might as well put it away.”

  Night came slowly this far north, a gradual slide as light leached from the sky and the north-western horizon caught aflame.

  Darach sat by the hearth before the bothy and slowly spit-roasted the mutton. It was a tedious task, and his eyes watered from the oily smoke caused by the fat that dripped onto the embers. However, the end result would be worth it—and hopefully a fine meal would soften Shona’s attitude toward him.

  So far, the woman hadn’t smiled once. She sat opposite him now, silently winding wool from a reed-basket onto a wooden spindle.

  She’d barely spoken since he’d roused the fire. Darach noted that since this isle was treeless, she burned driftwood that the tide washed up, dried seaweed and animal dung, and lumps of peat.

  His gaze settled upon her face, as it had often over the past few hours since he’d landed here.

  This woman fascinated him.

  That fact shouldn’t have surprised him, for he’d spent nearly two years searching for her. He’d often imagined what the warrior abbess would be like—but he hadn’t come up with the female before him.

  He’d expected her to be tall, rawboned, and plain of face. But she was smaller and prettier than he’d anticipated. Dressed in an ankle-length, woolen tunic, girded around the waist with a leather belt, Shona’s arms were bare and lightly tanned from the fine weather they’d been having this summer. She had rich-brown hair, the same color as her eyes, braided into a thick plait that hung down her back; and on her feet, she wore light rope sandals. An iron crucifix lay against her breast.

  It was this woman’s face that really captured Darach’s attention though: it was ageless in a way, despite the fine lines around her eyes. She had lovely skin, queenly bone-structure, and delicate features—even if her comeliness was dimmed by the severe expression on her face.

  There were many things Darach wished to say to Shona, yet her hostility was a wall between them. He couldn’t understand why she was being so standoffish. Nonetheless, he bided his time and waited for her to shatter the silence between them.

  Eventually, she did.

  “I take it from the cross ye wear, that ye are a man of faith?”

&nb
sp; Darach’s mouth curved. “I was once a man of the cloth.” He rotated the roasting haunch of mutton on the spit before continuing. “Two years ago, I was Brother Darach of Crossraguel Abbey … but these days, I’ve gone back to being ‘Darach Wallace’.”

  He watched her stiffen, her gaze narrowing. He knew that her reaction had nothing to do with his identity—but the name of the abbey where he’d once lived as a monk.

  Darach decided he needed to explain himself. “Aye … I’ve heard of yer dealings with Father Camron … few of those within the Cluniac order in Scotland have not.”

  “And did the abbot send ye?” she asked, her jaw hardening. She might have been small and feminine in appearance, but this woman was as tough as forged steel. Strength emanated from her.

  “No,” he replied, holding her gaze. “Father Camron is dead.”

  Shona’s mouth thinned, although he saw relief flicker in her eyes at this news.

  “He caught the sickness on his way home from Kilbride,” Darach continued when she didn’t question him over the abbot’s death. “He lived long enough to tell us all about what transpired on MacKinnon lands upon Skye … of how ye led yer nuns alongside outlaws to bring down Duncan MacKinnon.”

  Shona’s mouth thinned before she replied, “I’m sure he didn’t recount the tale with such temperance.”

  Darach huffed a laugh. There it was—a flicker of humor just beneath the chill.

  “No, he cursed yer soul to eternal damnation … and was halfway through a vitriolic missive to the Holy See when his condition worsened, and the sickness took him.” Darach paused then, his gaze fusing with Shona’s. “I burned the letter. The Pope never heard of yer ‘misdeeds’.”