Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

On such a day, even a nun had to sneak out of the convent.

Though Agnes was not yet a member of the Craeghil Order, indeed barely a novice—even if she had taken her rites, she was certain God would forgive her. He’d always done so in the past. And did he not create fine spring days like this one?

Today was a day of perfect blues, skies, winds, and a riot of blossoms. A day with summer just over the next hill, a day meant for souls to be outside and free, not tucked behind stone walls and scripture.

Agnes huffed out a breath as she clambered over the garden wall, then crouched low to the grass. Its sweet smell rose, warmed by the sun, and she slowly rose, breathing it in.

Endless wonder, endless flower, endless gratitude, as Sister Theresa always hummed. Then she’d put her hands on her hips as she surveyed the hills and her good gardens, murmuring, Isn’t this lovely world to be enjoyed and amazed at?

Perhaps, Agnes admitted as she ducked behind a tree and peered back at the convent, squatting like a sullen goose on Aregehich Hill—it was less God and more Sister Theresa who allowed Agnes to be a wee bit sinful.

As always, Craeghil felt half-asleep, the rest of the world passing by without so much as a glance toward the western coast of Galloway. Sometimes, Agnes fancied the woods around Craeghil grew up around the stone pile, crowding in for comfort and protection, rather than the other way around.

To the west was the sea, while to the north and south were the small villages of Corsluith and Douglas. And so Agnes hurried east, where there was nothing but the hills and rivers of the Glenlands.

Once, five years ago, when Mother Superior was away, Agnes dared to explore further than she’d gone before, almost a half day’s journey beyond the walls, and stumbled upon a blur of vast green and gray. ‘Twas the wilderness of Galloway Forest, rumored to be endless, where bandits and strange creatures lurked, where rumors of fierce Highlanders passing through the Uplands came from.

Since then, always, a part of Agnes ached to return, to again step within the forest, and feel its ancient silence. Yet, she knew she had to tamp down such longings and make the best of her stolen hours. She only wished Joanna could’ve come along, but her dear friend was still recovering from a fever and needed more rest.

Between Craeghil and Galloway Forest, there was a long, half-hidden body of water which Agnes nicknamed the “Lowater.” It was there that she pointed her feet, as it was a little more than half an hour’s walk, and she’d have it all to herself.

As she walked, she surveyed the land around her. The path took her through glades and low hills, then an open sweep of land, before curving round to the loch. The western half of it was half-hidden by dense pines before it sprawled back into the open landscape. It almost looked like the curve of a river, perhaps one that fell asleep while the rest of its waters drifted on.

Rivers move and change like the seasons, though it takes far longer, she recalled Sister Theresa telling her long ago. Ah, but the world was vast and interesting.

If only I could see more of it, she thought wistfully, before chiding herself for such a selfish and impossible thought.

As she approached the pines of the Lowater, she heard a distant splash and stilled. A bird? She craned her neck as she heard another splash and moved quicker, watching her feet, knowing it was far larger than a bird. A deer, perhaps, or a dog?

A soft whicker came then, and Agnes gasped, heedless of making a noise, for she recognized that sound.

A horse.

She loved horses with all her heart and used to sneak out of the convent to ride the lone mare they’d kept, but then Mother Superior caught her, and the horse was sold.

Her throat burned with grief at the memory, and Agnes almost fell as she emerged from the woods. At the same moment, a horse plowed toward the shore, shaking drops off its deep black coat in a cascade of light.

It was the biggest horse she had ever seen, with nothing but lean muscles and a long mane, with keen, liquid brown eyes. Agnes did not know horses could get this big. Or look as though they were crafted from the halls of night skies.

“Well met, Sir Horse,” Agnes breathed.

The great creature stilled, its nostrils flaring. They observed each other for half a moment, but then Agnes could not stand it and took a step forward. The horse reared slightly, and she bent her knees as she observed a stable boy do once. The same kind lad who taught her to ride, before Mother Superior sent him away.

“I mean you no harm.”

She extended a hand, but the horse’s ears went flat, and her eyes widened. Suddenly, Agnes was not so sure she should try and tempt a wild horse to come closer. Perhaps he did not take kindly to folk without a Scottish accent—she thought she’d heard of such things, the folk in the villages whispering how the horses of Highlanders would never accept an English rider.

And she was sure the horse had never heard an accent like hers. Often, folk asked where she was from—if she’d grown up in England or even Wales. Agnes liked her voice, though, with its lilting hint of the Uplands and Theresa’s Gael influence, although sometimes she lamented the proper English diction drilled into her since she was a child by Mother Superior.

The horse took a step closer, its lip curling, and Agnes knew she either had to flee or make a friend. Rummaging in her pocket, her fingers brushed against her snack, and she pulled out the cloth.

Now the horse’s ears perked up, and it came forward as she unwrapped an apple and a handful of carrots, along with a bit of bread and cake.

“Here, friend.” She held up the apple to the horse.

In one bite, the horse devoured the apple and nosed at her hand for more. Agnes picked apart the carrots while storing the bread and cake, letting the handsome creature have one after the other. After he finished, the horse again nosed at her hand for more, then huffed out a breath that almost sounded frustrated.

She laughed and stroked his nose. “I know. I wish I had more, I’m sorry.”

The horse seemed to forget its stomach and sniffed her, towering over her like a giant tree, and she laughed again as it nosed at her head covering. A buzz went through Agnes, and she tore it off, holding it up to the horse, who seemed more interested in her hair, sniffing it thoroughly.

“You’re like a great dog, you know,” she said. “Where is your kin?”

There was another splash, and Agnes stepped around the horse, expecting to see another, perhaps bigger, and stopped when a figure rose out of the water.

A man.

Agnes’s lips parted, and her knees buckled as she pressed a hand to the horse’s flank to keep herself upright and ensure she was not dreaming.

Yet, there was a man, tall with a tangle of dark hair falling to his shoulders, broad and hewn, making her think of soaring mountains—though she had never seen one. Her eyes tracked the drops of water that followed the hard ridges of his bare, muscular back.

The man was half-naked .

Agnes could count the number of men she had met in her life—a few monks, a few fishermen, and some villagers—and none of them were like this, never mind without clothes.

Highlander, a voice whispered in the back of her head, and she knew she should run, for somehow this brutish warrior had not seen her yet. Indeed, he’d dived back under, as though the host of Heaven had conspired to give her time to escape.

Instead, Agnes stepped closer and looked around. She now saw the sprawl of gear on the ground beyond a big rock. There was also a curiously patterned cloth, stripes of bold gray and gold. Next to it was a long, dense strip of leather—a scabbard, she realized, for a sword. And then, something oval with curious furs attached to it.

The man emerged again and tossed his head, before pushing his hair out of his face. “Aye, and that was a fine swim, wouldnae ye agree, Fafnir?” His neck was sloped down, muscles bunching in his upper back, and a curious heat warmed Agnes’s belly. “I think the bleeding has stopped.”

He slowly turned, though his head was still down, and Agnes’s mouth went dry. She did not have the proper words to describe him, but he reminded her of the wild beauty of a brooding summer storm out at sea. She glanced down at the broad hand on his stomach and jolted when she saw a gash.

“Terrible swordsmanship,” he said, as though chiding those who had dealt him a blow.

Agnes took a step back as he splashed forward, still talking to himself—or his vanquished enemy.

“And yet the pricks still delayed us in the bloody Uplands of all places?—”

The man finally looked up, and Agnes’s hands twisted her head covering, her breathing unsteady in a way that made her wonder if she caught Joanna’s fever. For there was another more potent burst of heat, deeper in her core, followed by shock, like a dash of delicious cool water all over her body.

At first, she had thought some of his dark hair was still in his face, but no, it was covered in a curious, jagged half-mask. One that started at his hairline, swept over his brow, covered his right cheekbone, and ended just above his lips. Big and strong as he was, this lent him a terrifying aspect that made Agnes wish she’d run.

Yet, at the same time, she also noted that it made his stormy eyes even more piercing, and a pleasurable shiver ran through her.

Now her curiosity outweighed her fear, and her eyes darted down to his bare chest. It was also hard and ridged, water sparkling off tanned skin, and fine, dark hair. She blinked. Were all men so hairy? She looked back up as the Highlander tilted his head to the side.

“Did I take a harder blow than I realized?” he murmured in a deep voice, his accent a melody like the wild crash of the sea, one that pulled at her like a current. She wanted to hear him speak again. “Woah, easy, Fafnir, she means nay harm…” he trailed off as the horse gave Agnes an affectionate headbutt and nipped her shoulder, as though to ask for more snacks.

Agnes could not help the shy smile that curved her lips, for it was clear she had stunned him by charming his horse.

The Highlander made a rough sound in the back of his throat, which sent the flames inside Agnes into an unholy frenzy, and then he asked, his voice filled with wonder, “Who are ye?”