by Jayne Castel
Perhaps seeing Darach’s shocked expression, she gave him a long look. “That’s how I came to learn how to defend myself, and how to wield weapons. I fell in with a group of outlaws for a few years … and eventually their leader became my lover.”
Darach stared at her. He’d expected there was a tale behind Shona’s unorthodox methods at Kilbride, yet he hadn’t anticipated this explanation. “And what happened to yer man?” he asked finally, aware of the tightening sensation in his gut as he spoke. Surely, he wasn’t jealous? This woman wasn’t his, and the past Shona spoke of lay many years behind her.
“He fell in battle,” she murmured, sadness lacing her voice, “and I entered Kilbride on Skye looking for a fresh start.”
Darach mulled over her words. Suddenly, the missing piece in the puzzle that was Shona slid into place.
She wasn’t like the other holy women he’d met. There was an earthiness to her—a worldliness that had fascinated him from the first moment he’d locked eyes with her. And now he knew why.
Their gazes fused and held then, and Darach saw the challenge in Shona’s stare. She was daring him to pass judgement. “Does my past shock ye, Darach Wallace?” she asked.
It had—but not in the way Shona believed.
Still holding her eye, Darach shook his head. “All of us have a past,” he replied softly. “Although I must admit, I’ve heard of few like yers.”
Shona flipped the oatcakes over with a large flat-bladed knife, inhaling the nutty aroma as she did so. Her belly growled in response. After a busy afternoon in the garden behind her bothy, she was ravenous.
The lump of peat glowed in the hearth before her, its pungent smoke drifting across the walled garden in front of her hut. The summer months were pleasant upon Auskerry, for she virtually lived outdoors. However, the two winters she’d spent here so far were another matter.
She’d thought the bitter season upon Skye could be harsh, but this treeless isle was another matter. She’d spent months shivering under layers of sheepskins at night. Darach was right—the bothy wasn’t really fit for habitation.
Glancing up, her attention settled upon the man seated a few feet away. Darach was whittling a piece of driftwood with a small knife.
“What are ye making?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“A wooden spoon,” he replied with a boyish smile. “I noticed ye needed one.”
Without checking her response, Shona smiled back. “Ye are right … I do.”
For a brief moment, the hard kernel of bitterness that had lodged deep within her after leaving Kilbride softened and the heaviness that dogged her steps lifted. His kindness made her open up like a flower.
“Ye have a bonny smile, Shona,” Darach noted. He was looking at her with that same intense expression he’d worn when she’d visited him earlier that day.
The lightness faded, as did Shona’s smile.
She wasn’t an innocent: she knew what honeyed words and hungry looks meant—what they led to. It had been many years since a man had looked at her this way, yet she hadn’t forgotten.
Seeing her change in expression, Darach’s own grew serious. “I didn’t mean to overstep … it’s only that yer smiles are a rare sight indeed.”
Shona shifted her attention to the oatcakes. She lifted them from the griddle, dividing the cakes between two platters of cheese and boiled eggs. “My thoughts have been bleak of late,” she admitted. She handed Darach his supper while deliberately avoiding eye contact. “The past casts a long shadow it seems.”
Darach snorted. “Ye are too hard on yerself. Instead, ye should be happy that ye helped liberate the MacKinnon territory from a tyrant.”
Shona clenched her jaw, irritation surging. “Aye,” she snapped, “but an abbess who truly served God wouldn’t have abused the trust those nuns put in me. I knew some of them weren’t ready … but I led them into battle all the same … and then I stood before Father Camron and showed no repentance for what I’d done. He was right to condemn me.”
“This is ridiculous talk,” Darach countered, his voice low and firm. “Ye wanted to protect the nuns … and teaching them how to defend themselves was wise.”
“No,” Shona replied, her temper fraying. “It was prideful.”
“How long will ye go on, wallowing in remorse?” He was frowning now, his gaze clouded.
Shona didn’t answer, even though the urge to was nearly overwhelming. She could feel her heart thudding against her ribcage. This man was like a dog with a bone; she felt as if he was deliberately goading her. Fighting back sharp words, she sat down opposite Darach, placed her platter of food upon her knee, and began eating.
However, despite her hunger, she was too upset to enjoy her supper. The silence between them now was brittle. Shona’s newfound ease with Darach splintered, taking them right back to where they’d been on the day he stepped ashore.
Once his hut is built, he can take his meals alone, Shona vowed. She already fought her conscience on a daily basis—she didn’t need to fight him as well.
Darach finished building his hut seven days later—and Shona grudgingly had to admit that he’d done a fine job of it.
He’d built the cottage in the same bee-hive shape as her bothy, yet inside it was far roomier. And the roof, constructed using large branches of driftwood and sods, was far stronger than that of Shona’s dwelling. Even with Darach’s work on it, the wind still managed to get through the walls and roof of her bothy at night.
To celebrate the completion of the build, Shona brought Darach a basket of eggs and some goat’s cheese. He planned to start on a garden behind his hut, but apart from the fish he caught—flounder mostly—with a spear in the shallows at low tide, he had little other food supplies.
“Will ye sit and have supper with me here, Shona?” he asked, his expression hopeful. “To help me celebrate the start of my new life.” He took the food from her and set it down next to the outdoor hearth he’d just lit.
For a moment, Shona was tempted.
She’d kept herself emotionally-distant from Darach over the past days, making it clear that she no longer wanted to discuss herself or her reasons for living here.
Darach wasn’t a dull-witted man—he’d picked up on her mood. As such, there was a wariness in his expression now.
“Not this eve,” she replied, before taking a step back from the firepit. “I’m tired … I think I’ll get an early night.”
The disappointment on his face made her chest constrict. The Lord preserve her—this man seemed intent on getting under her skin. However, he didn’t ask again.
Please don’t look at me like that.
The man had soulful eyes, ones that she could easily have drowned in.
Fighting the desire to agree to share his supper, Shona turned and strode back to her bothy. And all the while, she felt his gaze boring into her back.
Frustration welled within Darach as he watched Shona walk off. He could tell by the tense set of her shoulders that his request had upset her—it seemed that everything he said troubled her of late.
He’d thought that she’d warm to him over time, but whenever he tried to deepen the conversation, she brought her shields up.
Over the past days, while he’d worked to finish the hut, Shona had been pleasant and kind, bringing him food and even taking time away from her own chores to help him with the roof. But the moment he attempted to get to know her, she turned from him.
Muttering a curse, Darach dragged a hand through his short hair before glancing down at the basket containing the fresh flounder he’d speared earlier that afternoon. He’d hoped to share the fish with Shona, hoped to tell her the full story of why he’d sought her out upon this lonely isle.
But she hadn’t given him the chance.
With a sigh, Darach sat down cross-legged before the hearth, pulled out a thin-bladed knife, and began to gut the flounder.
A strong wind got up while a rosy dusk settled over the isle. Shona wen
t to check that the goats were comfortably ensconced in their pen under the lean-to and was greeted by soft bleats from Juniper and Holly. Satisfied that the goats were happy, she secured the fowl coop next door for the night and returned to her bothy.
She was just about to crawl inside when she glanced right at the sod-roofed cottage outlined against the darkening sky to the south. The glow of Darach’s hearth was dim, and there was no sign of him before it.
A strange sensation rose within her as her gaze searched for the man—it was an odd kind of longing. She realized then that she was getting used to having Darach in her life. The evening felt empty without him.
Irritated at the direction of her thoughts, especially after she’d deliberately shunned him, Shona crawled into her bothy. Making herself comfortable upon her nest of sheepskins, she did her best to leave her troubles behind.
But as always, they followed her.
She was tired, her body crying out for rest, and yet sleep wouldn’t come.
Instead, she lay there listening to the whine of the wind and looking up at the newly patched roof.
“The devil take ye, Darach,” she whispered. Tears stung Shona’s eyes, her hands fisting by her sides. “I was content here before ye arrived.”
But had she been? She’d been alone to ruminate over her regrets—but that wasn’t the same as happiness.
Darach wouldn’t let her ‘wallow in remorse’, as he’d put it, and she resented him for it.
The evening stretched out, and eventually Shona fell into a fitful doze.
And then, just past the witching hour, she heard something. The noise was faint, the sound of water splashing, but she caught it nonetheless. Moments later, she heard the crunch of feet on stones.
In an instant, Shona was up and reaching for her dirk in the darkness.
Then, clad only in a linen shift, her hair spilling over her bare shoulders, she crawled outside.
The cool wind whipped her hair into her eyes. The sky was a wide, star-sprinkled arch above her.
Keeping low, Shona crept to the edge of the wall surrounding her bothy and peered over.
The three men were easy to spot in the moonlight. Big and broad, they stole up from the shore—making for Darach’s cottage.
Shona’s breathing caught. Of course, her own hut looked like a storehouse. They were heading toward what appeared the only dwelling.
And as she watched, Shona caught the glint of steel in the moonlight.
God preserve us … they’re armed.
They were just yards from Darach’s cottage. She couldn’t stop them.
But that didn’t prevent Shona from jumping the wall and sprinting barefoot across the grass, dirk clenched in hand, after them.
Darach hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d gotten used to stretching out under the stars, and so had brought his sheepskin out of the hut and lain it down before the smoking embers of the fire.
Wrapped in the sheepskin, he’d stared up at the Plough twinkling above him. However, sleep still hadn’t come.
He’d been content to finish his cottage, yet his lonely supper had put him in an odd mood. He wondered if Shona would ever grow to trust him—or whether the months would slip by with the pair of them growing ever-more distant.
I won’t let that happen, he promised himself. Tomorrow I will tell her the truth of why I’m here. How would she respond? Most likely, she’d think he’d taken leave of his senses.
Sometimes he wondered if he had.
These days, Shona filled every waking thought.
The rasp of breathing ripped Darach from his brooding. He tore his gaze from the stars to see the bulky shadows of three figures move up the incline toward him.
Lying in the shadow of his hut, Darach wasn’t yet visible to them.
Rolling to his feet, he reached for the only weapon available to him—a rock that fitted neatly in the palm of his hand.
“Leave now!” His voice, rough with aggression, split the night. “Or I’ll cave in yer skulls.”
That got their attention. The trio had nearly reached the door to his cottage, but they halted now, gazes darting around. This close, Darach saw that all three of them were armed with dirks. These were no weary travelers who’d come here looking for shelter.
They were raiders.
Darach drew back the stone and threw it hard at the head of one.
The man grunted, his dirk clattering to the ground as he crumpled.
Darach reached for another stone—but the other two were on him.
He lunged up to meet the first of them, his hand fastening around the man’s wrist as the dirk blade flashed toward him.
And then a man’s cry echoed through the night.
It wasn’t the one Darach was now locked in a death grip with, but the man who’d been close behind him.
Darach was vaguely aware of a scuffle going on then—however, he was too intent on keeping the dirk blade from his throat to pay any attention to it. He jabbed his knee upward, driving it into his assailant’s belly.
Knocking the dirk aside, he reared up and head-butted the man hard.
His attacker staggered and then went down on his knees before collapsing.
Darach straightened up, breathing hard, to find a small figure standing before him. Three burly men lay groaning on the ground between them. Shona’s hair was unbound and whipped around her face, which illuminated by the moonlight, wore a fierce expression.
“The bitch stabbed me,” one of the men wailed, clutching at his shoulder.
“Be grateful I don’t cut yer throat,” she said coldly.
“Vicious harpy,” the man wheezed. “I’ll make ye pay for this … I’ll—”
The man didn’t finish his sentence before Darach grabbed him by the neck and slammed him face-first into the dirt. “One more word and the gulls will soon be feasting on yer eyeballs,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
A heavy silence, taut with aggression, followed before Shona shattered it. “Ye fools have walked into the lair of a witch woman.” Her tone grew harsh then. “I will bring the sickness down upon ye … boils will grow upon yer skin, yer fingers will blacken and wither, and fire will rage through yer blood. Ye will cry for yer mothers before death takes ye. If ye want to live, I suggest ye return to yer boat now and row away … before I decide not to be merciful.”
One of the men made a strangled sound at this, the whites of his eyes stark in the moonlight. Next to him, one of his friends whispered a prayer under his breath. Like most folk, they were superstitious and feared women who delved in the dark arts.
All three of the raiders were injured. However, Shona’s words spooked them enough to propel them to their feet. Holding one of their companions between them—the one Darach had felled with a rock—they staggered away down the hill.
Darach and Shona stood shoulder-to-shoulder and watched them go.
The men’s bickering could still be heard as they pushed their boat out into the waves.
“I should have killed them,” Darach said when they’d gone, regret lacing his voice. “They’re likely to return at a later date … with friends.”
Shona snorted. “No, they won’t … why do ye think I told them I was a witch woman?”
Darach chuckled. The look of terror on their faces when she’d threatened to curse them had been almost comical. “Ye were certainly convincing enough. Ye sent a chill down my spine.”
Shona snorted. “Aye … just as well. Raiders can be a problem in these isles … best that folk think I’m not to be messed with.”
“Ye most definitely aren’t,” Darach replied, turning to face her.
Lord, Shona looked lovely in the moonlight. Dressed in nothing but a thin shift that highlighted the slender lines of her body, her long brown hair spilling over her shoulders—she was a wild creature.
It was hard to believe that this woman had ever been a nun, let alone an abbess.
“I’ve never met anyone like ye, Shona,” he said, his v
oice husky as the last of his reserve fell away. “But I’ve known for a while now that ye and I were destined for each other.”
Shona stared back at Darach. His rugged face was all angles and shadows in the moonlight, his eyes so dark they appeared black.
Her pulse, which had just started to ease after the raiders’ departure, accelerated once more.
“What are ye talking about?” She tried to keep her voice steady, yet it caught all the same. His nearness, his raw masculinity, was making it difficult to think.
“I haven’t been entirely honest with ye, Shona,” Darach began, his gaze now devouring her face. “When I listened to Father Camron’s feverish ranting about the abbess who wielded a sword and taught her nuns to fight like men … how she’d stood toe-to-toe with the abbot and refused to be intimidated … I was captivated.” He paused, stepping closer to her—so close that Shona had to raise her chin to continue holding his eye. “I knew then and there that I had to meet this woman … and then, the night after I buried the last of my brothers, I went to the kirk to pray. I was lost and asked the Lord for guidance. As I knelt upon the cold stone floor before the altar, I knew where my future lay … it was with ye.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” she breathed. “Ye hadn’t even met me.”
He shook his head. “That didn’t matter … I had to seek ye out, Shona. It was God’s will that I did … I could feel it in my bones. And I still feel it.”
He shifted closer still to her, the warmth of his body enveloping her, even if they weren’t touching. “Ye sense it, don’t ye … this pull between us?”
Shona swallowed hard. She wanted to deny it, wanted to step back and break the enchantment he’d cast over her, yet she couldn’t.
He reached up then, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “We both gave up earthly pleasure when we took our vows,” he murmured, “But ye and I are now free of the order that once bound us.” The feel of his knuckles, sliding against her skin, made Shona’s breathing catch. She hadn’t felt like this in so long—not since Aaron was alive. She was aware then of her rapidly-beating heart, of the heat that pooled in her loins.