Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

A few days later, Agnes told herself to be grateful that she was no longer limping, even as she struggled to lift a pot from the floor to the table, the burn and ache in the muscles of her back causing her fingers to slip. She groaned.

"Here." Joanna appeared, fair and well again, and grabbed the other side of the pot, helping Agnes lift it on the table.

"Jo, you are not supposed to be helping me," Agnes whispered, struggling to catch her breath.

Joanna shrugged. "I was ailing for two weeks. Perhaps I have not yet heard such a thing." She winked at Agnes, who offered her reluctant smile. Joanna's face contorted in concern. "How are you?"

"Better," Agnes fibbed and tried to smile.

"You don't think—" Joanna paused. "No, they wouldn't…"

"Send me away to the Casteric?" Agnes asked and tried to grin.

The Casteric was one of the harshest, most austere convents, far to the north. It was often mentioned as a threat, which Agnes had taken to jesting about with Joanna. Yet, deep down, Agnes knew that threat was far from an idle one. The Casteric was a place without laughter, gardens, or any warmth.

It was nothing but cold stone and the endless dirge of penitence for daring to be born a woman.

"I think they'd be bored without me to scold, don't you think?" Agnes asked, even as her heart misgave her.

"Agnes, you should not say such things," came Sister Theresa's soft voice as she appeared in the doorway.

"I spoke only in jest," Agnes said quickly, her heart lurching at the way Sister Theresa's eyebrows were drawn together. "I'm so sorry."

"Dear, sweet girl," Sister Theresa said and lifted a weathered, gentle hand to Agnes's face. "Do not apologize. But…"

Agnes's heart clenched with fear. For all her rule-breaking and sneaking outside the convent, she did not want to be sent away, especially not to the Casteric. Did she not always return? Joanna and Sister Theresa were here. And this was her home, the only place she'd ever known.

"You must come with me," Sister Theresa said.

"They cannot send her away!" Joanna cried.

The clamor of the kitchen beyond faltered as the staff gathered at the door.

"Oh, child." Sister Theresa shook her head and held out a hand. "‘Tis simply a change in the wind—it's been a long time coming."

Agnes's heart leaped into her throat as she took Sister Theresa's hand. In silence, they walked past the wide windows looking out on the gardens. She thought she could see the years in green-smudged fingertips, ink-stained palms, and bruised limbs, followed by the scent of musty bibles, freshly tilled soil, and blossoms.

Sister Theresa led her to the front rooms, quiet yet intense. Agnes kept wanting to speak to her, the old woman who'd looked after her for so long.

When they reached the door, Sister Theresa paused and then swiftly embraced her. "I have loved you as the daughter I never had. Be brave, Aggie."

She put her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.

As the door opened, Agnes felt a thrill of prescience, as though she knew her entire world was tipping on its axis. She stepped forward, her heart now thundering in her ears. She looked first at Mother Superior, who was sitting in a chair, with a hand on her heart.

Then she heard a gasp and saw a beautiful woman standing in front of the windows, with a heavy mass of dark hair and sparkling, bright green eyes.

The same eyes that Agnes saw every day in the small mirror in the shared room upstairs when she tucked in her head covering.

"Oh, child," the woman whispered. "May God forgive us…" She pulled out a silk handkerchief and lifted it to her trembling lips.

Agnes's heart stirred with pity for this woman, but she was too confused to offer comfort. "Pardon?"

"Aggie—Agnes," Sister Theresa said in a shaky voice and took her arm, pulling her forward. "Greet your mother, Lavinia Wells, the Countess of Cumbria."

My—what?

The woman tried to smile.

My mother?

Agnes yanked her arm free and stumbled back, shaking from head to toe. "No, no ." Her gaze darted between the two women. "I am an orphan."

"Sweet girl, you were made to think that, and for that, I am heartbroken. If Matthew—" Lavinia's lips thinned, and she took a deep breath, drawing herself up. "You are Lady Agnes Wells of Cumbria and Fairisle Lakes."

"Lady? Me ?" Agnes wanted to laugh. "No, you are mad . You must be."

"Aggie," Sister Theresa said with soft reproach. "She speaks the truth. I recognize your family's crest from the ring your father wore when he gave you to me twenty years ago."

"And by law, by an Edict of Queen Marianna," Lavinia said in a hushed, strange voice, "I must claim you as my blood, my kin, my legacy."

"I'm dreaming," Agnes said through numb lips. "I must be."

"I promise you are not, my darling," Lavinia said.

Agnes's anger flared. Who did this stranger think she was to call her so?

"You must come home, for all able kin must be in attendance to see the Queen's Edict executed." Lavinia paused as Agnes shook her head in confusion. "Your sister is to wed a Highlander."

"My sister?" Agnes asked, picturing Joanna. "A Highlander ?"

In her mind, she saw a flash of keen gray eyes, a curious black mask, and water running down a hard male body. Then she shook her head, trying to focus on what Lavinia was saying.

"—strict customs of the Scots… A way to unify the people…"

A roar started at the base of Agnes's skull. Yes, she had heard of such a thing. But still, none of this made sense. She was a novice; she was meant to become a nun. She was not a lady—it was inconceivable.

Who was this noble bloodline to suddenly claim her, as a cat might corner a mouse?

"You cannot fight this fate, child," Sister Theresa said in a low voice, and Agnes turned to her. She reached out and gently touched Agnes's cheek. "Why do you think your heart always longed to see the world beyond these walls?"

" No ," Agnes cried and jerked back, her body thudding into the wall.

A pained cry tore out of her mouth as the stone hit her bruises, and Mother Superior shot her a guilty look. But Agnes did not even notice.

"No. This is my home."

"It was, for a time," Sister Theresa said, her tears falling now. "But no longer."

Only a fucking English Queen would have the audacity to force a Scotsman to cross the border into this hellish country. Then, to add insult to injury, have him marry one of her so-called ladies. Leo snorted as he gave Fafnir his head, galloping up the long, smooth drive of the Earl of Cumbria's ridiculous estate.

He knew what these Englishmen said—they had not bothered to keep their voices down the last time he'd been forced to come here. Calling him monstrous , a beast even among Highlanders.

Perhaps that's why the Earl himself stood with folded arms on the wide stairs.

"Beautiful horse," he said, coming down the stairs.

He was a tall, strapping man, with the look of someone who rode horses and hunted, rather than a soft noble who sat inside. But he was still nothing like the men Leo knew. Instead of rough-hewn features, broad shoulders, and tanned skin, this man had a shock of blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a fine-boned face.

No one had ever broken his nose, Leo was sure.

"Dray? Destrier?" the Earl asked.

"Dray, courser, and destrier," Leo said. "Or so the story goes." Even though it burned him, he inclined his head and gritted out, "Me Lord."

"Hail, Laird MacLarsen," the Earl said, and inclined his head, surprising Leo. At least this English bastard had some manners. "Welcome to my estate. I trust your journey went well?"

Leo's mind flashed to the bandits who set upon him in Galloway Forest, the sting of steel, the gurgle of death as he dispatched them, Fafnir's thunderous hooves across the hills, and then the keen glance of green eyes over low water…

"Fine," he grunted. He noticed the Earl's eyes were fixed on his mask, his scars. "Where is me lass?"

He wanted to collect his bride and get this whole bloody business over with. If he was lucky, he'd be back across the border in two days.

"Come in first, man," the Earl boomed and ran a hand through his hair. Leo's eyes narrowed as he noticed the small tremor. "Sup and drink."

Leo allowed himself to be led inside, even as he pressed a hand against his dirk and readjusted his sporran. What was this canny old earl up to?

At that moment, a group of stable hands came forward, and Leo heard a gasp as they saw him. They fell back, muttering, and only when the Earl barked an impatient order did they come forward and take Fafnir. Leo bit back a smile, knowing his fierce-hearted horse could look after himself and might teach those English a thing or two.

Still, if these men of the field were startled by him, what of his future wife? He could not ignore how low his heart sank, though he knew he should not have expected otherwise. The further he had gotten from his home in the Highlands, the more people stared and avoided him.

Even at home, Leo sometimes wondered if his people did not breathe a sigh of relief when he left a room.

Not a single bloody person, save for those bandits, had even dared to approach him since he'd left the Highlands.

Except for that wee green-eyed woman, yer nae-yet-a-nun, whispered a voice in his head. She didnae run.

Leo touched his right shoulder, where, until yesterday, he'd left the bandages the woman wrapped around his wound.

She didnae even think to run. Charmed Fafnir, too.

In his pocket, too, he'd kept three leftover strips of cloth she'd offered him. It was not sentiment, he kept telling himself sternly. It just seemed wrong to throw away a gift from an almost holy woman who clearly had so little and yet had offered so much.

A flicker of warmth rose in his chest, which he tamped down. But he could not forget how her green eyes would not leave his own, how she would not look away.

She'd been a fair thing, an armful of womanly curves despite her short stature—Leo could tell even under that gray sack she wore. He'd bet anything he had that her waist flared nicely, that she had a rump a man could grab onto while winding his other hand into her long dark hair and kissing that smooth, creamy neck.

Christ, nae again.

Leo swallowed hard. If he hadn't been sure he was going straight to Hell before, God would be obligated to send him now for lusting after a convent novice, no matter how bonny she was.

Leo allowed the Earl to lead him to a fine room, to pour him wine and offer him food, to blather on about the Queen's Edict and the dowry, until almost an hour had passed. The man was not without sense and seemed to know that Leo's patience was waning, that he'd only offered a few words to his many.

"Let me ask ye again, Me Lord," Leo said in a soft voice. "Where is me bride? I mean to get this over with tonight."

The Earl fidgeted with his glass and shook his head. "You will have to forgive us, Laird MacLarsen. I know that is your wish, but it will have to be tomorrow."

Leo stood up, the Earl did too, and a shadow moved in the doorway. A bloody guard. He sneered at the Earl, wanting to taunt him. He kept his mouth shut with difficulty.

"Enjoy our hospitality for one night. I promise you will be wed on the morrow." The Earl looked down. "My tender-hearted wife needs one more night with our daughter. And I must organize a wedding breakfast, as is the custom in my house."

"Shall I meet her then, too?" Leo asked sarcastically.

The Earl huffed out a short, grating laugh and took a long sip of his wine. "Yes."

Leo surged to his feet and leveled his blade at the man. At the same time, the guard leaped forward, only to have his sword tossed into the hall and fall hard on his back.

"Stay down," Leo snarled, then glared at the Earl, who seemed to shrink in his seat. "D'ye take me for a fool? Where is me bride?"

"Not ready," the Earl rasped. "That's all." He slowly put down the wine, which ran in bright red lines across his hand and wrist. He dragged his clean hand over his face. "Do you think we can go against the Queen's Edict any more than you can, Aitken?"

The use of his surname softened Leo slightly, and he sat down heavily, his naked blade resting on his knees.

"I'll hold ye to that," he said. "Or we shall have a far different conversation come tomorrow." He slid a thumb up the flat surface of his blade, gratified when the Earl's face paled. "After all, ye ken me reputation as a beast in the north. What d'ye imagine such a man might do in the south?"

To that, the Earl had no answer.

"Bring me me bride, Me Lord." Leo stood up and sheathed his blade. "Or we shall have blood."