“This is absurd.”
“Put a curse on the ground too, and then you can toss Lachlan out of Eden. I assume Owen is taking Eve’s part since he’s shorter.”
Duncan stomped toward the candlelit space cleared for the pantomime. “Don’t forget to put enmity between their seed before you toss Lachlan out,” Marsali whispered as he went. “Oh. There’s a flaming sword at the end too. But never mind about the angels. You don’t want to overact.”
Duncan flailed his arms and made a menacing grandfatherly face. It was the best he could do, having never met God in person. He felt more confident when it came to the part about the flaming sword.
He feinted. He parried. He thrust his pewter spoon with one hand negligently poised on his hip. He even got a little carried away and jumped up on an unoccupied bench, kicking up his skirt to lunge across the table. Sword fighting, after all, was his forte. Disengage. Extend.
The nuns absorbed this dramatic display in utter silence, but Duncan thought he looked rather good, especially if one discounted the fact that he was wearing a linen headdress and a habit.
But had God Himself actually engaged in swordplay in the Garden of Eden?
Duncan couldn’t remember much of the Bible, except the Twenty-third Psalm, which he read when a soldier lay dying on the battlefield, and then it was always with a sense of doubt and sadness that he could not bring himself to believe.
He executed a swift God-like riposte into the air. Damn, but it felt good to wield a sword again, power flowing through his veins as he jabbed at an imaginary enemy. MacFay. Yes, that was it. He was fighting MacFay.
He lowered his spoon with a swallowed curse, suddenly becoming aware of the shocked faces that watched him. Was he insane? Had he forgotten what the hell had brought him here?
Marsali, Owen, and Lachlan clapped politely as he jumped down off the bench. Only Johnnie showed any sense at all, standing by the door with a worried expression wrinkling his forehead.
“I thought I heard the gate, my lord,” he explained softly as Duncan backed inch by inch toward him.
Duncan gave a terse nod. Sister Bridget studied him in open suspicion now. He shouldn’t have been surprised. In his asinine display of derring-do, he had gotten his skirt hitched in his belt. The length of calf and thigh that bulged with muscle and gleamed with myriad white scars were a dead giveaway that he hadn’t spent his life in spiritual pursuits.
The secret was out: The Irish abbess was a man.
Sister Bridget had caught on too, for she was stalking him in slow lethal silence.
He glanced at Johnnie. “Now. Douse the candles. We’re getting Marsali out of here. Holy hell. That nun’s got murder in her eyes.”
Within thirty seconds the refectory lay in smoky darkness. A few schoolgirls screamed, more in anticipation than alarm, but to their credit the nuns did not break their silence. Duncan decided that they were frozen in terror. Not wasting another moment, he grabbed Marsali’s hand and whisked her outside, down the long arcade, breaking into a run when the infirmary door opened and he glimpsed Judith standing before him with a horrified expression on her face.
“Wait,” Marsali whispered, balking like mule behind him.
Duncan spun around, catching his feet in Lachlan’s skirts. “We are not waiting, Marsali. I can’t face my sister looking like this.”
“Where’s Owen?” Johnnie asked suddenly, his bulky form looming out of the dense mist.
“That’s what we have to wait for,” Marsali explained.
Lachlan untangled his skirts from Duncan’s feet. “He was still in Eden the last time I looked.”
“Eden?” A note of hysteria exploded in Duncan’s voice. “What is the idiot doing in Eden? I thought I banished him.”
Lachlan gave a sheepish shrug. “Ye banished me, my lord. Owen and I weren’t sure whether he had to leave too, so he decided to stay while ye were doing that fancy sword dance.”
The convent had never heard the creative flow of curse words that issued from Duncan’s mouth. In fact, Marsali and his clansmen were still standing in a stupefied trance when Duncan returned with Owen a few moments later, Judith and Sister Bridget hot on their heels in angry pursuit.
They took refuge inside the small detached belltower, only to find that they had escaped one danger to face another. A far worse danger. The moment he stepped into the dark timber building, Duncan’s nerves prickled down his back in belated warning.
MacFay and six of his retainers sprang out from behind the rickety wooden stairs to the tower. The scrape of half a dozen broadswords unsheathed in the silence reminded Duncan of his own sword locked up uselessly in the gatehouse. Unarmed. Outnumbered. Trapped. Dressed like a damn woman. Could it get any worse?
Still, he had the element of surprise on his side. In the dark he and his clansmen resembled the good sisters of the convent closely enough to seize the advantage.
Except that Owen tripped over a broom on the floor and went flying into Johnnie’s arms, shouting “Hell’s bells!” before anyone could shut him up. Which wasn’t the sort of thing a nun would say under the circumstances.
“They’re no bloody nuns,” a MacFay clansman said in astonishment. “Look—that big one wi’ the beard is the MacElgin himself.”
Jamie pushed his way forward, his sword lifted, to confront Duncan. “Draw your weapon, MacElgin. I told ye I wasn’t finished wi’ ye in the castle.”
Duncan raised the pewter spoon he was still clutching in his left hand. “En garde?” he said hopefully.
For a moment Jamie faltered, apparently not expecting the world-celebrated swordsman to counter his assault with a kitchen utensil.
“Defend yerself,” Jamie said, thrusting the tip of his broadsword toward Duncan’s chest.
Duncan raised his other arm, blocking the attack with the length of billowing black sleeve like a giant bat’s wing. Fron the corner of his eye he noticed a slender figure sneaking up the stairs to the belfry. Marsali? Blast her. What the hell was she trying to do? Ringing the bell to summon the sisters to their defense? A damn lot of good it would do to have a bunch of screaming women in his way.
Jamie glanced uneasily from Duncan to the armed retainers who stood guard at the door. “Give him a weapon. Jamie will fight like a man.”
A broadsword flew through the air and landed at Duncan’s feet. He stared down at it in violent longing, his hand aching for the reassuring weight. “You’re a wanted outlaw, Jamie,” he said, the words calm and deliberate. “This is a convent, for the love of God. No Highland law will save you from being hunted down even if you kill me.”
Contempt rippled across Jamie’s features. His men-at-arms stirred in the shadows, sharing furtive looks as if asking why MacElgin would suffer this humiliation.
“He’s a coward,” Jamie said in amazement with a low nervous laugh, and when that drew no reaction, he flicked his sword across Duncan’s face, flinging off his veil and wimple and raising a tiny trickle of blood down his cheek. “Look, I’m slicin’ him to bloody ribbons, and he’s lettin’ me.”
“Stop it, Jamie.” Her voice trembling with fury, Marsali ran down the stairs toward him. “I’ll go with you, but you have to promise to stop hurting people.”
Duncan barely felt the hot sting of pain in his face as his own anger, frustration, and anxiety over Marsali trampled down the tender vow he had made. He had been born into violence. He didn’t have the faith to rely on some intangible power that might or might not deign to help him.
“Get her into the boat.” Jamie gave Marsali a cursory glance before returning his narrowed gaze to Duncan. “And watch yer backs. I’m smellin’ a trick.”
The first shaggy MacFay clansman took a tentative step toward Marsali; Duncan had the broadsword in his hand and he sent Jamie sprawling flat on the floor between Owen and Lachlan before anyone realized what had happened. In the blink of an eye he had become the barbaric warrior that the world revered and feared. The power he exuded was palpable. Johnnie g
rinned in relief.
Jamie’s breath quickened as the sword pressed against his Adam’s apple. “Kill him,” he said through his teeth. “Somebody kill the bastard. He’s hurtin’ Jamie.”
No one moved.
Duncan stared down at MacFay in dispassionate silence; he was acutely conscious of the footsteps that had stopped outside the door, of Marsali’s pale anxious face beside him. He was agonizingly conscious of every minute detail.
He felt his own clansmen watching him in concern, tension mounting in the confined quarters. His vision blurred. His mind turned inward, spiraling back in time.
As if he were standing at the end of a tunnel, he heard Jamie’s voice, low with panic and resignation, asking, “Well, what are ye waitin’ for, MacElgin? Murder me and be done wi’ it.”
Murder.
Murderer.
He’s murdered his own mother and father.
She was stabbed twenty-seven times in the back.
Aye, slit his da’s gullet, he did. The blood was everywhere. His old auntie didna stop screamin' for days.
Marsali watched Duncan in an agony of compassion, as did his three silent clansmen. For all his power and position of dominance, the vulnerability he exuded broke her heart. If he had not confessed to her that morning in the castle, she might not have understood the burden of guilt and horror that had tormented his soul since childhood. Everyone expected him to slit Jamie’s throat. No one realized why he wavered.
His hand shook as it held the sword.
She felt powerless. There was no magical spell to reach into the dark place where he had retreated, reliving God only knew what nightmare. Worse, part of her wished he would kill Jamie and be done with it.
The MacFay clansmen waited in wary fascination for Duncan to make his move. It was a moment that would be talked about over Highland peat fires for decades to come, exaggerated until it reached epic proportions.
“Duncan.” Marsali couldn’t suppress the apprehension that quavered in her voice. Couldn’t he hear the footsteps outside? Had Jamie positioned more armed men around the convent? How long would the rival clansmen stand in awe of the legendary warrior before realizing the MacElgin stood paralyzed by scenes from his own past?
With his sword positioned at his rival’s throat, he held the power of life or death in his hand. But the decisive battle was being waged within himself.
The door opened slowly. Slow-moving swirls of mist and diffused light filtered over the strange tableau within the belltower. Duncan lifted his head. The movement looked forced and mechanical, like a statue coming to life against a backdrop of smoke. The look that passed between brother and sister pulsated with remembered pain.
“Judith,” he said, shaking his head in denial.
Judith’s horrified glance encompassed the unmoving man on the floor, the sword in Duncan’s hand, the unkempt clansmen who crouched like ghouls in the pale light.
“What have you done, Duncan?” she whispered, her skin as white as the linen of her coif.
“Nothing.” He stared down at Jamie, his face expressionless. “Get up, MacFay.”
Marsali darted around Jamie to come to Duncan’s side. His gaze still riveted on Jamie, he hooked his free arm around her waist and drew her against him.
“I told you to get up, MacFay,” Duncan said wearily. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about keeping my word.”
Jamie slowly rose to his feet, his face humiliated as he met the shamed gazes of his retainers. “What the bloody hell is wrong wi’ the lot of ye?” he howled in indignation. “There are five of you! He’s the only one wi’ a weapon, and ye made no move to stop him.”
“He wasna’ hurtin’ ye, Jamie.”
Jamie rounded on the man who’d dared to speak. “Who do ye serve, a man who’s sold his soul to the Sassenachs, or Jamie?” The silence that met his demand for a show of loyalty further infuriated him. He stomped his foot. His voice rose in childish rage. “Who do ye serve, yer chieftain or the MacElgin? If ye serve me, then prove it now.”
“This is a nunnery, Jamie.”
“He didna hurt ye, lad.”
He snatched up his sword, swinging it over his head in desperation as if he could rouse some primitive bloodlust in his kinsmen. “Who do ye serve?” he shouted, his hair tangling in his empurpled face.
Duncan gave a deep warning growl and pushed Marsali back into Johnnie, who caught her in a firm protective grasp.
One by one Jamie’s men began to unbuckle their sword belts, tossing dirks, swords, and targes into a pile at Duncan’s feet. The clatter of metal faded into the harsh stridor of Jamie’s breathing.
“We’re servin’ the MacElgin,” announced the short muscular MacFay lieutenant-at-arms known simply as Tore, which meant “boar” in Gaelic.
“Aye, the MacElgin!”
Jamie made a lunge at Duncan, only to be snagged like a spider in a web as four of his own kinsmen caught him by the arms. “What do you want us to do wi’ him, my lord?” Tore asked.
Duncan hesitated. Part of him fiercely wished he had been allowed to fight Jamie and settle this thing between them man to man. There was, after all, a great measure of peace to be had knowing your enemy was dead. And now he had to face the consequences of following his damned conscience. Now he had to absorb a half-dozen MacFays into his own ragged clan.
He threw down the broadsword, raking Jamie with a coldly disgusted glance. “Your first act of fealty to me will be to take this man to the British fort and have him incarcerated for his crimes. Get him the hell out of my sight.”
Jamie struggled against the arms confining him. “Ye are a black demon. And she’s a witch!”
“Hush your stupid mouth, MacFay,” Marsali burst out angrily. “Another word and I’ll be killing you myself.”
For a moment Jamie fell utterly still, like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Then he stared past Duncan to Marsali with a loud wail of immature desire underlaid with desperation. Compelled by curiosity, Duncan turned to gauge Marsali’s reaction and felt an unwanted stab of jealous resentment at the flicker of compassion commingled with disdain in her eyes before she glanced away.
Jamie’s men dragged him outside, darting apologetic looks at the two nuns who flanked the doorway in speechless bewilderment. Duncan felt suddenly drained, uncertain what his sudden reluctance to kill in self-defense meant in terms of his future. A man who had built his fame on fighting. Uncertain anymore of who or what he was.
Then Marsali broke away from Johnnie and burrowed up against him, her small warm body a promise of love and acceptance no matter how the rest of the world would view him. He caught her chin in his hand, tipping back her face, and kissed her in full view of the two nuns and his scruffy clansmen.
“Duncan,” Marsali whispered, her eyes alight with mischief and joy, “the Reverend Mother is watching.”
He sent Judith an amused glance. “So she is, but then I only promised her I wouldn’t do any killing. I never mentioned anything about kissing.”
Her mouth was warm and sweet, his kiss both rough and gentle. Ignoring his enrapt audience, he ran his hands down the delicate arch of her back and pulled her against him until she gasped for breath, breaking away with a dazed grin. He was afraid he would hurt her in his desperate anxiety to reassure himself they would never be apart again. This little brat meant the world to him.
Her soft laughter penetrated the moment of intense emotion.
He held her away at arm’s distance, smiling despite himself. “You still find it amusing to kiss me, Marsali?”
“I can’t help it, my lord. I keep thinking about the look on everyone’s face when you were prancing about on the bench playing God.”
Sister Bridget spoke from the doorway for the first time, “It was a little overplayed, all that thrusting about, although I have to admit he did manage to convey a certain sense of omnipotence.”
“Thank you,” Duncan said with a droll smile. His gaze moved to Judith, studying her face
, searching for the key to self-forgiveness that had eluded him all these years. “I’m sorry for the disruption, but at least no blood was spilled.”
“Except yours,” Marsali said in soft concern, lifting her fingers to the dark red streak that would heal to scar his beloved face.
He caught her hand, gripping it in gratitude. “We’ll be leaving your cloister now. Reverend Mother,” he said quietly. “After we return the clothing we borrowed, of course.”
“Of course,” Judith said calmly, her gaze lowering from his fierce warrior’s face to the fragile ethereal features of the woman he held like a lifeline. “But you, Marsali, you are supposed to take over for me in the infirmary tonight after chapel.”
“No.” The determination in Duncan’s voice challenged her quiet authority. “We’re leaving together.”
Judith’s expression did not change. “You’ve found her a suitable husband then. That’s the only condition under which I will allow her to leave.”
“I think so.” Duncan did not speak for a moment, willing away the memory of the long-ago morning when Judith had left the castle for the convent. His father, the marquess, had offered to adopt the pale withdrawn girl as his own, but Judith had pleaded to be sent away, craving peace and solitude after a life of her father’s abuse.
Duncan had been too drunk to even say goodbye. Until now he’d never even admitted to himself how he had missed her, depended on her.
“The man I’ve chosen loves Marsali very much,” he said at last, “and although he is by no means a perfect choice, I’m afraid he’ll have to do. Her friends have frightened everyone else away. At least he will protect her with his life.”
“Does he love her?” Judith asked, amusement flickering across her stern features.
Duncan frowned. “Isn’t that obvious?”
Owen nudged Lachlan in the ribs. “Who the devil is he talkin’ about then?”
“I dinna ken,” Lachlan answered in a baffled whisper. “Perhaps it’s Johnnie.”
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