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

by Jayne Castel

  She stared back at him, for the first time, the brittle chill giving way to surprise and then confusion.

  “Why would ye do such a thing?” she asked finally. “Ye don’t even know me?”

  Darach smiled. He then shifted his gaze from Shona’s and focused upon the sizzling skin of the roasting mutton. “Father Camron was a mean-spirited bigot,” he said quietly. “I lived under his yoke for many years … and felt nothing but relief when the pestilence claimed his life. He was a man of God, yet there was little humility or kindness within him. He didn’t have compassion for others.” Darach paused there, glancing up and meeting her eye once more. “The woman he spoke of was the leader I wished we’d had … someone who truly lives what she preaches.”

  Shona’s brown eyes widened at this frank admission. “The monks who followed the abbot were a cowed lot,” she said, a rueful tone creeping into her voice. “How does a man with such high ideals as ye suffer his tyranny for years?”

  A shadow stole over Darach at her question. “I told myself that my faith was stronger than my dislike of him … that the Lord was testing me.”

  “And yet, ye are no longer a monk?” Shona was watching him now with a penetrating look upon her face.

  Darach shook his head. “The sickness ripped through Crossraguel. I was one of the few who didn’t fall ill.” He paused there, remembering the sickly fear that had curdled his belly during those dark days. He’d been sure the plague would take him—and yet he’d been spared. “After I buried the last of my dead brothers, I decided that twenty years as a monk was long enough. Like ye, I can follow God in my own way.”

  Irritation flashed across her features. “My situation is a little different to yers, Darach,” she pointed out crisply. “Ye didn’t lead innocent women into battle and see five of them fall … ye didn’t ruin Kilbride’s reputation because ye wouldn’t bow to the rules.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with raising arms against those who’d do ye harm,” he countered, his own irritation rising. “Why do ye condemn yerself so harshly?”

  “Because I deserve it. I arrogantly thought I could recast the order in the style of my choosing, and God has punished me for it.”

  Silence fell between them, and the tension that had started to ebb rose once more.

  The former abbess of Kilbride was a complex woman, Darach realized. He hadn’t expected her to be so embittered, so full of self-recrimination.

  “I was a warrior once,” he admitted, lifting the mutton off the spit and setting it upon a rock. He then drew a knife from his satchel and started to carve the meat. “I come from a proud line of fighting men … William Wallace was my father’s cousin.”

  He glanced up to see that she’d raised an eyebrow at this admission.

  “When I was twenty-three, I took part in a bloody skirmish against a neighboring clan,” Darach continued. “We won the fight … but as I stood there … blood dripping from my dirk-blade, I was sickened by all the death surrounding me. I swore I’d take a different path.” Darach paused there, tensing as unwelcome memories surfaced. “My father threatened to disown me if I became a monk … but I was pig-headed and did it anyway.”

  “So ye know that violence is wrong?” There was no mistaking the challenge in her voice now.

  Darach placed a hunk of meat upon an earthen plate and passed it to Shona. “I was young and idealistic,” he said, his mouth curving into a tight smile. “But with the passing of the years, I’ve realized that life isn’t made up of absolutes. Sometimes ye have to raise arms against others … sometimes prayer isn’t enough to hold back the darkness in this world. Do ye think the MacKinnon clan-chief would have shown ye any mercy had he survived that battle?”

  Shona’s gaze guttered. “He planned to slaughter us at Kilbride, once he’d dealt with the outlaws,” she admitted softly. “I saw it in his eyes.”

  “Then ye did what ye had to,” Darach answered. He sat down and balanced his own platter of meat on his knee. “Enough talk … I’ve the hunger of a wolf this eve. Let’s eat.”

  Darach Wallace was already awake and stirring last night’s embers to life, when Shona emerged from her bothy.

  She’d slept badly, staring up at the darkness and ruminating over the things her uninvited guest had revealed.

  Father Camron was dead.

  She told herself not to rejoice over it, but warmth had spread through her nonetheless when Darach had told her. The abbot had been vicious and vindictive. He’d been bent on destroying her—and he’d succeeded.

  After Father Camron discovered that the abbess had taught her nuns how to wield knives, long-bows, and quarter-staffs—and that she’d led them into battle—she’d had no choice but to empty the abbey. She’d sent her nuns to a priory on the mainland, while she sought out a life as a recluse.

  A life she’d embraced as penance.

  Shona’s gaze settled upon the broad-shouldered figure before the fire. He hadn’t yet seen her, as he was staring west at the watery horizon.

  Dragging in a deep breath, Shona prepared herself to face him. Darach’s presence here put her on edge; she had to get him to leave.

  “It’s a fine morning,” she greeted him coolly. “Ye will have an easy journey back to the mainland.”

  Darach shifted his attention away from the horizon, his unnerving dark-blue gaze settling upon her. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said calmly. “Auskerry is a fine place to live in solitude … I will start on my hut this morning.” He glanced then at the squat bothy behind Shona. “Did ye build that yerself?”

  Irritation thrummed through Shona, and she started to tap her right foot as she bit back angry words. “No,” she snapped. “It was on the isle when I arrived … a storage hut for the folk who once lived here.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Ye need to leave, Darach. If it’s solitude ye seek … look for another rock with no one living upon it. This one is occupied.”

  The man had the nerve to smile then, as if he hadn’t noticed how rude she was being. “I’m sure I can enjoy peace and quiet upon this isle, even with ye living here.”

  Shona balled her hands by her sides, her fingernails cutting into her palms. “But I don’t want ye here,” she replied between gritted teeth.

  Darach shrugged. “Ye say that now … but it’s clear ye need a man’s help.” He gestured to the bothy’s roof. “It’s full of holes … and that hut was never meant for living in. I could mend it and extend it a little for ye.”

  Shona took a deep, steadying breath, trying to tame the fury that now cramped her belly. “I don’t need yer help … and I’m beginning to think ye have wool in yer ears. Ye aren’t wanted here. Leave!”

  He stared back at her, his expression sanguine. “No.”

  Muttering an ungodly curse under her breath, Shona turned, snatched a wooden pail from where it hung on the outside of the bothy, and stormed off.

  If she stayed a moment longer in this man’s infuriating presence, what remained of her self-control would shatter. She’d always prided herself on her calm, even temper. As Abbess of Kilbride, Shona had never been easily flustered, even under pressure.

  But Darach Wallace made her want to explode in blistering rage.

  No one had invited the cursed man here—and yet he seemed to think he had the right to invade her life.

  Muttering under her breath, Shona walked behind the bothy to the lean-to, where her two goats awaited. Juniper and her daughter Holly bleated in greeting. Shona responded to them, her temper still simmering. She then pulled up a stool and placed the pail under Juniper’s udder.

  She usually enjoyed this morning ritual, but Darach had ruined her peace.

  As she began milking, she heard the small clutch of fowl scratching at the dirt outside the lean-to, clucking gently. Farther away, the baaing of sheep reached her, from the tiny mob of black-faced ewes she’d had delivered from Stronsay.

  Her animals were the only companionship Shona needed. She didn’t care that the bothy�
��which had been built for storage, not habitation—was in a poor state of repair. She was practical and would deal with it herself when necessary.

  She certainly didn’t need the company of a presumptuous, overbearing former monk who seemed to know far too much about her.

  He’ll leave, she assured herself as the pail began to fill with frothy white milk. As soon as he realizes how unwelcome he is here.

  But Darach didn’t leave.

  Instead, that same day he got to work on the foundations for a hut of his own.

  Shona tried not to pay the man any attention, but it was hard not to when he made repeated trips down to the beach to haul stones up to the site he’d chosen for his hut—a location that was too close to Shona’s own dwelling for her liking. Auskerry wasn’t a big isle, but if he planned to stay, he could at least have built his hut on the far shore—not two furlongs from Shona’s bothy.

  The morning stretched out while Shona busied herself with weeding around her onions in the vegetable plot. She did her best to ignore the interloper, but her attention kept straying to the figure who hauled armload after armload of stones up from the beach.

  Darach worked tirelessly before taking a short break at noon. Thankfully, he didn’t seek her out. Instead, he sat by the pile of stones he’d carried up and ate some cold mutton, before resuming his toil.

  In the early afternoon, Shona started work on making cheese. Seated in her walled garden, she squeezed curds through a thin piece of linen, before tying the cheeses tightly and hanging them up to drain. Halfway through her task, Shona glanced up, her gaze instinctively going to where Darach had now started to place rocks around the square he’d smoothed out for his hut.

  He’d stripped off his tunic and now worked shirtless under the warm sun.

  Shona’s spine straightened, and she studied him.

  Despite that she knew better, despite that she thought she was immune to men’s charms at her age, she found herself staring.

  Powerfully built, Darach had the body of a warrior, not a monk. He wasn’t a young man—although Shona guessed he was a few years younger than her—yet his body still possessed a virile, masculine strength that spoke of an active life.

  Just like at Kilbride, the monks of Crossraguel would have worked hard to keep their abbey running. There was always work to be done in such places: toiling in the vegetable plots, raising and butchering livestock, collecting fuel for the hearths, and preserving food.

  Dragging her gaze from where sweat glistened off Darach’s broad back, Shona looked down at her tanned hands and arms. She’d grown leaner, almost wiry, since coming to live here.

  Idly, she wondered if a hard life and age had robbed her of the feminine softness that Aaron—her lover many years earlier—had so loved.

  Irritated by the direction her thoughts had taken, she continued with her work. She’d never labored as hard as she had since coming to live upon this isle. Without a community of nuns to assist her, Shona had to do everything herself. From first light till nightfall she toiled: looking after the animals, cooking, preserving, gardening, and gathering fuel for the fire. And then, as the last of the day faded from the sky, she’d sit at the fireside, watching the stars come out to play as she spun wool and knitted it into garments and blankets.

  However, Shona welcomed the endless chores that kept her mind and body occupied all day. The tasks stopped her dwelling on her past mistakes.

  “Ye are a madman,” Shona announced, handing Darach an earthen bowl of mutton and onion stew. “It will take ye an age to build yerself a hut, stone by stone.”

  Darach took the bowl with a tired smile. Around them, a soft dusk settled over the isle. Like the day before it, the weather had been warm and windless. “Aye, but without a cart to bring up stones from the beach, I have no choice. I’ll get there eventually.”

  Shona frowned, eying him as she settled down upon a stool on the opposite side of the hearth. The stew was too hot to eat as yet, and so she hesitated. “I have a wooden sled ye can use,” she admitted reluctantly. “One of the goats can pull it.”

  Darach’s smile widened, and Shona immediately regretted her offer.

  Goose! He’ll never leave if ye help him.

  All the same, she’d felt bad watching the man work so hard while knowing that she could make things easier for him.

  “Thank ye, Shona,” he said, his gaze holding hers steadily.

  Warmth spread across her chest as she held his eye. There was something sensual, intimate, in the way he said her name. He spoke it as if they were lovers.

  Shona swallowed and looked down at the steaming bowl of stew upon her lap. It would be better if she discouraged such familiarity. “How’s the stew?” she asked, forcing a light tone she didn’t feel.

  Glancing up, she watched Darach take a dutiful spoonful, and then he smiled once more. “Delicious.”

  Placing a stone atop the wall, Darach stepped back to view his progress. The walls of what would soon be his home were rising nicely. Now that Shona had loaned him her sled and the sweet-natured, yet sturdy, Juniper, he was able to work much faster.

  Darach reached for a bladder of water, unstoppered it, and took a deep draft. Fortunately, there was a spring near Shona’s bothy, although she also collected what rainwater she could in wooden pails and earthen pots.

  The woman was indeed resourceful.

  Darach caught sight of her then, walking with a long crook in hand across the wide, green meadows behind the bothy. She always checked on her flock in the afternoon.

  His gaze tracked Shona’s progress, taking in her light step and proud posture. A breeze blew in from the sea, and it flattened the woolen, ankle-length tunic she wore, outlining her slight frame and the curves of her small breasts.

  Shona was no longer a young woman, yet a lifetime of remaining active had kept her body strong and toned.

  Darach’s mouth went dry at the sight of her. He couldn’t help it—ever since arriving here, he’d been unable to think about anything except Shona.

  Her welcome had been frosty to say the least, although she’d gradually thawed during the days that followed. They met at mealtimes, their conversations short before they sat together in contemplative silence.

  Sometimes they even prayed together. That morning at dawn, Darach had knelt beside her upon the pebbly shore. Hands clasped before him, he’d closed his eyes and listened to the waves rumbling in while the gulls screeched overhead. Afterward, a sense of peace had settled over him as he began his day’s work.

  He and Shona hadn’t spoken of the past again, not since his first evening here. Instead, he kept his questions focused on practical matters. Yesterday afternoon, he’d finally patched up her roof—after much persuasion on his part.

  Their relationship was polite, yet distant. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed the long, graceful line of her neck, or her slender ankles and feet.

  The night before, he’d lain by the fire, staring up at the shell of the moon while he’d fantasized about what Shona’s hair would look like unbound. There were streaks of silver at her crown, yet he imagined her hair was as soft as spun silk to the touch. He’d then envisaged what her hair would feel like dragged across his naked skin.

  After that, his thoughts had turned feverish and he’d been forced to focus on other things.

  Seeing Darach look her way, Shona waved. Then, to his surprise, she altered her course and walked toward him. It was the first time she’d visited him since he’d begun working on his hut.

  Darach leaned his elbows atop the wall and smiled at Shona while she approached.

  “Ye are a fast worker,” she greeted him, before halting a few yards distant and running an eye over the stacked-stone walls of what would be his cottage. “It’ll be four times the size of my bothy.”

  “I told ye, I can extend the hut for ye,” he replied, meeting her gaze. “And I will.”

  Shona’s mouth pursed. She’d reluctantly allowed him to fix her roof, yet the id
ea of him doing any more work for her obviously still didn’t appeal. For a moment, he braced himself for an argument, and then—unexpectedly—Shona smiled.

  Darach’s breathing stilled.

  It was the first real smile he’d seen from her—a smile that lit up the afternoon like the first bright day of spring after a long, grey winter.

  The smile erased years from her face.

  An ache arose in Darach’s chest then. It was strange really, the connection he felt with this woman. He didn’t fully understand the impulse that had driven him to seek her out, but he hadn’t questioned it. At first, it had given him a purpose after he left Crossraguel. But over the past year, the instinct had grown stronger till he felt it in the marrow of his bones.

  “When ye are ready, I can help with the sods for the roof,” Shona said after a moment. “I have a pile of some already, from digging up peat for the fire.”

  Darach inclined his head. “I’d be grateful for the assistance.” He grimaced then. “I’m not afraid of hard work … yet sometimes I forget I’m no longer twenty.”

  Shona gave a soft laugh at that, and once again, Darach stilled. The woman enchanted him. “Ye are a good deal younger than me, Darach Wallace.”

  He huffed a laugh of his own. “I doubt that … ye have the energy of a lass.” He grew serious then, his gaze roving over her face. “What’s the name of yer clan, Shona?”

  Her mouth curved. “MacLea … I’m from Lismore.”

  “And did yer kin object to yer calling, as mine did?”

  “No … I’m the youngest of five lasses … my parents were relieved.”

  “So ye took yer vows young?”

  Shona nodded, although a little of the lightness drained from her face. Her brown eyes shadowed. “I entered the convent at sixteen and would have stayed there for life … if brigands hadn’t attacked it.”

  Darach’s gaze widened. He realized then how little he knew of this woman. “Were ye harmed?”

  Shona shook her head, her features tensing. “I was out collecting herbs when the attack occurred … the others were raped and murdered … I alone survived.”