The prioress looked at him gratefully, taken with his courtesy and consideration.
Wordlessly, Fiona brought over a chair—one which she knew was in desperate need of repair—for the laird beside the prioress. Perhaps, she thought wryly, his weight will be too much for this. The image of him sitting among the splintered wreckage would be precious.
“Will you sit, Lord Alec?” the older woman asked. “We have much to talk about.”
Alec looked over at Fiona, who was standing quietly behind the prioress. Striding across the floor, he effortlessly snatched up the larger chair by the worktable and added it to the group.
“Will the young lady join us?”
Fiona spoke at once. “Nay, m’lord. I...I...have—”
“Nonsense!” the prioress erupted. “Of course you’ll join us.”
Fiona could not conceal her shock at the superior’s words. In the past the prioress had practically hidden her away whenever any well-to-do gentleman had visited the Priory. The prioress had been particularly careful whenever Torquil MacLeod or any of his men had come around.
“Lord Alec,” the older woman said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I’ve failed to introduce you to Fiona...our beloved rebel.”
Fiona blushed scarlet and bowed her head toward the warlord. Her hands were clasped tightly, and she hardly dared to look up at him.
“A rebel, prioress?” Alec asked, raising an eyebrow at the young woman.
“Only at times, Lord Alec,” the prioress answered. “The truth is, Fiona is an angel who was dropped at our doorstep years ago. But then, the Lord has strange ways of... testing his servants.”
“He certainly does, prioress.” With casual grace Alec moved to stand beside her, one hand on the smaller chair. When he pulled it back, holding it for her with a slight bow, Fiona looked down at the chair and again at him.
She paused. Then the prioress’ expectant look flustered the young woman momentarily. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, Fiona seated herself cautiously on the edge of the chair that the warlord held for her.
Alec hid a smile and took his seat beside her.
The prioress and the laird talked, and as they did, Fiona considered how quickly this handsome nobleman was charming his way into the older woman’s good graces. And she found herself listening attentively to the intelligent conversation, his pleasant voice ringing with easy laughter as he and the prioress exchanged both news and barbs of wit.
Their discussion ranged from the politics of court to the state of the year’s crops. With every shift in topic Fiona listened anxiously for any possibility of the conversation turning to the morning’s mishap, all the while afraid to move for fear the chair would collapse beneath her.
Then, once, when the prioress mentioned her concern about the bands of outlaws roaming the island, Alec gave Fiona a mischievous look before explaining his plans regarding their control and turning the conversation. He had the opportunity, she thought, but he didn’t bring it up. It was then Fiona knew her secret would be safe with him.
As the two talked, Alec often directed his comments at Fiona. But the young woman avoided entering into the chat with the same determination that she avoided returning his lingering looks.
When the discussion turned to the running of the Priory, Fiona knew that her silence was coming to an end. It was the prioress who forced her into the conversation.
“Fiona, tell Lord Alec about your system,” the superior ordered.
Their chairs were so close.
“M’lady,” Fiona stammered. “There is really so little to tell.”
“So little,” the prioress scoffed before turning proudly to Alec. “She has only improved the Priory’s financial standing from break-even stature to a profit-making one. And those profits are feeding more mouths every day.”
The prioress rose and went to the table, shuffling through papers as she continued to speak. With the older woman’s attention momentarily diverted, Alec shifted his weight and placed his knee against Fiona’s skirts. Though he was very nonchalant about it, Fiona was sure he was well aware of the pressure of his leg on hers. She felt her cheeks color—he was doing this on purpose. She moved her leg slightly to the side. His knee followed. She tried to push back with her knees, but still he didn’t take his leg away. Casually positioning one foot behind the other, this time she kicked him.
Alec calmly moved his knee away and smiled as he once again captured her eyes. Another flush of color crept into Fiona’s face.
“...And I tell you her ideas are truly inspired,” the old nun concluded. “The farms’ yields improve with every harvest.”
“I could see coming here this morning,” Alec agreed heartily, “that these are the most productive lands in Skye. I never expected to run into such treasure.”
“Lord Alec, you haven’t seen anything yet,” the older woman asserted. “But I would like you to see the farms, the storehouses, the orchards. This young woman is responsible for the most significant changes. Fiona, take the new laird for a tour of the grounds. Show him some of the changes.”
Alec looked at the young woman in a new light. At first he had come in here determined to rescue her from the prioress’ wrath and, if he could, to get back at her somehow for letting him think she was a nun. But now, hearing of her intelligence and administrative abilities, Alec’s interest in the blushing beauty unconsciously took on a new dimension.
“M’lady, why don’t you take Lord Macpherson around?” the young woman pleaded. A kind of panic was overtaking her at the thought of being left alone right now with Lord Macpherson. His playfulness notwithstanding, something was happening to her. Something she dared not think about. “Certainly you—”
“I cannot, Fiona,” the prioress retorted. “But perhaps Lord Alec will join us for a noon meal.”
“I would be delighted, prioress.”
Alec stood, and as Fiona rose resignedly, the sound of cracking wood was heard, and the chair crumpled to the floor.
The three looked down at the splintered mass, and then the prioress and Alec glanced at Fiona.
“I had no breakfast, either,” she said innocently.
They all laughed in unison, and Alec scooped up the pieces as they started for the door.
As they took their leave, the prioress gestured to the leather wrist band that the warrior wore.
“I understand that you are an avid hunter, Lord Alec.”
“Aye, prioress. Though I value the birds and the sport of it more than the hunting. In fact, your brother is right now holding a fine peregrine outside.”
“I, too, am a fancier of hawking.”
“Are you, prioress?” Alec responded with delight.
“Aye.” She sighed. “Well, I was. But if you would like to put your falcon somewhere, I have some empty cages.”
“I will do that. Thank you.”
“But, Lord Alec?” she said as the two started out through the door.
“Aye, prioress?”
“If you truly value your bird, do not let Fiona out of your sight.”
Chapter 4
The courtly knight did a great oath swear,
He would serve Satan for seven year...
—William Dunbar
“Renounce thy God and Come to Me”
“I never saw her again!” Alec said, retelling the story of his encounter with the strange woman.
Alec and his younger brother Ambrose were the only ones left at the head table in Dunvegan Castle’s Great Hall. The weather had gradually deteriorated as the day had progressed, and now the wind-whipped rain slapped past the open slits of the windows at the far end. An arm-wrestling match at one of the lower tables caught Alec’s eye as Robert was holding his own with one of the Macpherson warriors. The lad was getting stronger by the day.
“What do you mean?” Ambrose asked incredulously.
“It was the damnedest thing,” Alec answered. “She never came back!”
“She said nothing?” Ambrose
asked, unable to imagine the scene. “This woman just turned her back on you and left?”
“That is exactly what she did.”
In the hallway outside the prioress’ office, Alec and Fiona had been met by a nervous, waiflike boy who was waiting anxiously for the young woman. Fiona had drawn the boy aside and spoken in hushed tones with him as Alec stood by. Then she had retrieved her cloak from the peg by the wall and had headed down the corridor with the lad in tow.
Alec had followed, and he might have been amused by the proceedings had it not been for Fiona’s obvious agitation. Whatever the lad had said, it had upset her. Outside, David had quickly joined them, but without a word, Fiona and the boy had disappeared.
“And you let her? Did you tell the prioress what happened?”
“No.”
“But why not? Who does this woman think she is?”
“A nun.”
“A nun!” Ambrose looked in shock at his brother. “By God, Alec. You did not tell me that before. You, Alec Macpherson, smitten by a nun! Big brother, you are in a lot worse shape than I thought.”
“Smitten,” Alec scoffed gruffly. He realized that, in telling Ambrose of the morning’s events, he must have made more than a few references to Fiona’s looks. “I never said I was even attracted to the woman.”
“A nun! Perfect! You will be joining the monastery next.”
“Ambrose...” Alec threatened.
“Why not?” Ambrose continued. “You are living the life of a monk now. When was the last time you had a woman?”
“I am warning you, little brother.”
“Admit it,” the young warrior pressed, rocking back on the chair. “You hardly drink anything anymore, it is impossible to get you into a brawl, and you’ve already sworn off women. My God, not even the monks are that good! You two will make the perfect pair. You can hold hands at Mass. Do they allow that, Your Holiness?”
With a quick sweep of his boot, Alec sent his brother crashing to the floor. At a table at the far end of the hall, several Macpherson warriors looked up in surprise at the commotion at the head table. Seeing that it was Ambrose who had been upended, they shared a laugh among themselves and went back to their conversation.
Ambrose lay stock-still on his back, staring at the blackened ceiling.
“I am hurt,” he said, feigning injury. “But not too far gone. I can still take care of the announcements for you.”
“Get up, you worm.”
“Colin and Celia would want to be here,” he continued, still lying motionless. “Your new goddaughter will enjoy the ceremony. And there are all the folks at home.”
“Get up, Ambrose,” Alec said disgustedly, offering him a hand up. “You’ve put on enough of a show.”
“A nun.” The younger brother laughed, accepting Alec’s help and seating himself again on the chair.
“If you care to hear the rest of it, then hold your tongue.”
“You mean, there is more?”
“I started to tell you about what she’s done there.”
“You said she left.”
“David took me around and explained the new ways. And at the noon meal, the prioress told me more. This Fiona has made some amazing changes.”
“Oh, it’s ‘Fiona,’ is it?”
“Will you give it up, Ambrose? This is serious.”
“Very well, big brother. What has she done?”
“Three years ago, the prioress was training her to administer the church lands. Apparently, it was then that Fiona came up with a very different idea of how to manage things. She suggested that the prioress divide the land and lease it to families long-term in return for half of what they produce initially.”
“Divide the lands?” Ambrose repeated, his interest piqued.
“Aye. The prioress thought she was crazy at first, but this Fiona is very persuasive. She suggested trying it with two families to start. Well, after the first year, the prioress was convinced. The two leasing families outproduced the others by quite a bit. Now the church lands are almost completely leased out, and the Priory serves as a center for exchanges and bartering while still overseeing the farms’ planning. With the increased yields they have been able to build a new stable, expand the orchards, and give more help to the island folk. Ambrose, they’re doing the things a Priory is intended to do.”
“She made the peasants into landowners? Where did she get that idea?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” Alec responded. “As far as I know, she has never even been off the island.”
“Do you know who she is? Her family? Her name?”
“Nay, she was a foundling. One thing I do know, though, is that she’s damn good at disappearing.”
“Well, here’s one more thing about Skye.” Ambrose laughed. “Even the nuns are a mystery.”
“Actually, Ambrose, she is not a nun...yet.”
Ambrose stared at his brother, leaning his elbow on the rough oak boards of the trestle table. “First you tell me she’s a nun. Now you say she isn’t. Which is it?”
“You asked me who she thinks she is. She thinks of herself as a nun. But apparently she is not.”
Ambrose continued to look quizzically at Alec.
“I see. She’s a bit daft. Is that it?”
“No! She just has not yet taken her vows,” Alec explained.
Ambrose sat for a moment, nodding as if a great truth had just been conveyed to him.
“Then I say you should wait, Alec,” he needled with a straight face. “I mean, as far as pursuing her goes.”
Alec drained his cup of ale and set it on the table, ignoring his brother’s last dig.
“But Fiona was not the only surprise I found at the Priory this morning,” the warlord said. “There is a lad—”
“She has a child,” Ambrose broke in. “A nun with a child. Well, that explains the attraction.”
“Ambrose, it’s time…”
Alec halted midsentence as a cloaked figure strode to the table on the dais.
With his one good arm, Neil MacLeod whipped his sodden cloak from his shoulders. Throwing it to a servingman, the tall man moved around the table to a bench beside Alec. As he seated himself, he lifted the dead weight of his right arm and dropped it on the table.
The thud of the useless limb sent a pang of sympathy through Alec. Glancing from MacLeod’s crippled arm to the scar that marked Ambrose’s forehead, Alec thought of the king’s battle at Flodden. And of the sacrifices that had been made.
Neil Macleod noted with grim satisfaction the look of sympathy that flickered on the warlord’s face. Aye, he thought. Think hard on the wrongs of this world, hero. You’ve nothing but rewards to show for a day when we were all nearly wiped out. Here you are, laird of Macleod land…land that never belonged to you. For your bravery? For your sacrifice? Ha! You just stood with the rest of the sheep. While I…while I was mislead by Andrew. I should be chief of this clan as he promised. And Torquil can burn in hell for ruining it all. And you can burn with him, hero. I fought at Flodden. But tell me, warlord, what have the Macleod’s to show for it? What have I to show for it?
“The Devil’s abroad tonight!” Neil declared grimly, reaching for the tankard of ale before him.
“Aye,” Ambrose answered. “But surely you must be used to it out here.”
“We are,” MacLeod responded, downing the ale and gesturing for another. “The foul fiend is never far from us on Skye.”
“This island is also the abode of angels, from what I hear,” Alec countered.
“Perhaps,” he conceded grudgingly. “But I do not see them helping us much with the weather.”
“They say ‘Every man’s heaven is simply the thing he most deserves,’” Ambrose stated shortly, ignoring the nasty look MacLeod was directing toward him. Then he added vaguely, “Or was that ‘desires’?”
“Maybe, but what I desire now has nothing to do with heaven,” Neil said, turning his attention to the trencher of food that was being place
d before him.
“They also say that the Devil always has the last word,” Ambrose muttered to Alec under his breath.
Alec was beginning to feel the constant pressure of serving as mediator between these two. Though the warlord was not completely enamored of the MacLeod leader, he was determined not to let his feelings show as blatantly as Ambrose was willing to. And he had more important tasks to accomplish than continually worrying about two clashing personalities. Considering those larger tasks, Alec’s thoughts returned to Malcolm.
“I visited the Priory today,” Alec said, directing his words at MacLeod.
Neil turned to him, a look of genuine surprise on his face.
“No one from Dunvegan has found much welcome over there. Not for years.” The man pushed his empty plate away from him and busied himself with cleaning his knife. Even three years after his injury, it was obvious to all who watched that he still had difficulty dealing with even simple tasks. “That woman, the prioress, would bring down fire and brimstone if Lord Torquil even stepped close to the place.”
“After seeing the condition of the rest of the island,” Ambrose said, gazing into his cup. “I can understand her feelings.”
Under hooded eyelids, Neil shot a silent dart at the younger Macpherson warrior.
“I met Malcolm,” Alec went on quietly, looking hard at the man. Before today, the new laird had heard nothing about the existence of a MacLeod heir. Nothing about Torquil’s son Malcolm.
The man shrugged indifferently.
“Who is Malcolm?” Ambrose asked.
“One of Torquil’s bastard brats,” Neil spat, draining another tankard of ale.
“From what I understand,” Alec interjected, “he is the only direct heir your laird left behind.”
“He is still a bastard,” the MacLeod argued noncommittally. “And a convent-trained milquetoast, at that.”
“Judging a seven year old a bit harshly, aren’t you.”
“I am not judging anyone,” Neil responded after a thoughtful moment. “But what good is a seven-year-old laird in a wild place like these outlands? He could never survive power like yours.”
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