Chapter 2

CRàDH PRISON - JANUARY 1, 1384

T he sound of her footsteps drowned under the cacophony of shouting men. Heart pounding, Moira hurried along the corridor, praying she'd made it in time. Father pointed to the wooden door at the very end of the passage. "Down there."

Arms aching, she hefted her basket higher on her hip. Two MacKinnon guards stood in front of the heavy door, and taking one look at Father they stepped aside. Once unlocked, Moira rushed into the windowless room, the impenetrable door thunking shut behind them. The dark sight of extinguished freedom almost caused fright to overwhelm her, but fear didn't matter now. The inmate needed her.

Courage lighting her way, she put a hand in front of her and shuffled forward a few feet, but her foot jammed beneath something solid and she sprawled seconds later, flying forward and landing on top of a heavily muscled chest.

"Unnnghhh…"

Moira lifted her cheek from the man's chest, her nose crinkling against the smell of sweat and urine. Helpless to apologize, she gave the man's rounded bicep a reassuring squeeze as she felt her way over his body and to the mouth of the hearth. Pulling Maw's basket along beside her, she felt within it for the wad of lint and straw, and her flint .

The man groaned deeply beside her. "Unnnnnngh."

Sparks shot across the darkened hearth and caught in the lint. She leaned forward and blew toward the scent of smoke until a tongue of flame licked upward. Hands flying, she fed the lit bundle of straw onto the dried brick of peat. Light leapt in the hearth and illuminated the dark entresol.

Father's voice choked out as he took in the figure of a tall, once-strong man, now reduced to a bloody mass before the hearth. "God have mercy."

Snapping her fingers, she motioned to the rush mat. Father nodded. "I'll take legs, you take arms. On three. One, two. Three."

Tightening her stomach muscles, she bent at her knees and lifted the man upward by his arms a few inches. A raw scream rent the air and echoed the man's agony and imprisonment around the tiny stone cell. Her heart broke against her chest, and she wished with all her heart that they were safely at Father's cottage where she could provide him some comfort.

Nestling him against the mat, she knelt and examined him, unable to stop herself from running a hand over his noble brow, his tangled hair, his solid neck. He had a tear to the scalp. Her fingers probed his face. Bruises yellowed along his jaw and purpled under his eye, but they were healing, and nothing felt broken. His bottom lip was split, his nose caked with blood. Her fingers worked the ties of his cuirass and tunic, but the leather would not budge.

Father tsked. "You'll have to cut it." She nodded, already searching through her basket for her sharpest blade. Regretting the damage to the expensive armor and fine linen, she ripped upwards, slicing open the luxurious cloth and leather straps. Her hands moved under the armor, traveling up the bare muscles of his stomach, and over his broad shoulders, pulling it free where it stuck to his thick arm. He whimpered, the double crease above his right eyebrow drawing down in concern.

"I'll take it." Father held out his hands and received the heavy leather armor. "We'll take it home and restore it."

The mass of dried blood concentrated at the prisoner's left shoulder trickled afresh where the scab had been ripped away. The wound was the size of a gold coin, and the skin surrounding it was swollen and hot. Sweat beaded at his forehead, but he shivered.

Moira gestured in toward her body and shook her hand back and forth.

Father repeated the word she was trying to communicate. "Fever."

She nodded. Her hands felt along his body but found no other wounds. What happened to him?

"Unnnnnngh."

Returning to the shoulder wound, she tilted him on his side. The wound went clean through but was blocked at the front and back. Propping the man on his good shoulder, she motioned Father down to him. Without saying a word, he held the man still.

After passing her knife through the fire as Maw had taught her, she poised it over the red mass. Her fingers felt along the hardened red flesh, purulent white shooting beneath the skin before growing red again. An abscess.

Hands steady, she plunged the blade down into the center of the wound. His body jerked and he cried out, but Father held him steady. Catching a river of sickness from the wound with fresh linen, she moved her fingers gently back and forth over the area until everything had drained from the front of his shoulder.

Tight as a bowstring, he jumped as she moved to his back. Sorry to cause him further discomfort, but certain it must be done, she sank her blade into the back of the wound. He howled in pain, sickness rushing out from where it had been trapped. Always better out than in, as Maw said.

Groaning in agony, he shuddered, but Father held him still. "I ken, lad. It's a horrible wound."

When it ceased draining, she searched in Maw's basket finding a cake of soap and the jar. Father brought forth the bucket of water that rested in the corner. Lathering the soap in her hands, she glided them over his shoulder, then rinsed it. Satisfied, she unwrapped a length of clean linen and eased him down on it.

Inclining her head toward the bandage, Father got her message and stepped over him, taking the ends of the linen strip and holding them away from the dirty floor. The man groaned again as she repeated the cleansing process over the front of the wound. When it dried, she upended the jar over it, sending her maggot friends into the open wound. The man squirmed and his hand came to his shoulder to swipe them away.

Grabbing his large hands, she tightened her grip, wishing she could give him audible instructions. He struggled against her for several seconds, but when the last maggot disappeared inside the wound, he stilled, his arms relaxing at his sides. She took a steadying breath and washed her hands in the bucket before taking the cloth from Father, tightly wrapping the wound.

Father waved her away. "I'll wash the lower half, then you can finish the upper half." She nodded and turned away from him, setting the cauldron in the flame and emptying a jar of broth into its dark bowl. The man groaned and she could hear the sounds of splashing behind her.

A smile tilted her mouth. Poor man. Father always had been the more stringent bather between her two parents, scrubbing her hair down to her brain with enthusiasm. Always saying,"Got tae scrub the wee beasties away." Father grunted his oft-repeated phrase as if he could hear her thoughts. The man groaned in response. After a few minutes of scrubbing and movement, Father spoke. "All right, he's decent."

A soundless laugh shook her as she caught sight of the battered, but now clean, prisoner. The man was at least a foot taller than Father, and the borrowed hose only covered to the man's calves, still pink from scrubbing. Father pulled a blanket from his bag and covered the man's lower half, tucking it around his feet. "Poor soul. He looks like Finn McCool? 1 stuffed inside leprechaun hose."

They looked at each other, then burst into chortles. No doubt the man would rather be dead than wear such a thing in his everyday life, but at least the hose were clean and fresh.

Father picked up the man's soiled clothes and knocked on the door. A panel slid over in the door and the guard's two green eyes looked back at him from the other side. "Can you take these clothes and armor and throw them in our skiff at the boat slip? They're making the room reek."

The guard's eyes rolled. "I'm nae touchin' that. Do it yourself."

The door opened and Father hesitated, looking at her and the unconscious man at her feet. "I suppose I'll be right back. Will you be all right here for a few minutes, Birdy-lass?"

Moira nodded, certain even if the man was awake and threatening her, she could easily overpower him in his current condition.

Father motioned to the guard. "Could you keep the slat open and an ear out for my daughter?"

The guard grunted but did as Father asked, leaving the slat open as the door pulled shut.

Beside Moira the man lay senseless.

Kneeling, she continued her task, cupping handfuls of water and wetting his chest, arms, and neck. He whimpered as the cold water splashed over his skin. She warmed lather between her hands before she touched him again, then glided them over his firm chest, arms, and hands. Come on, stubborn man…relax. I'll not harm you.

A strange substance covered his face and neck—dark and sticky. She worked her fingers over it until it loosened. The man whimpered again.

A curl flopped over her eyes as she stiffened her thumbs, raking them along his collarbone, kneading the muscles between his neck and shoulders, trying again to get him to relax. A heavy sigh released from his chest.

Wiping the lather away with damp toweling, she moved up to his head, forming a barrier around his eyes with her hand as she poured a trickle of water over his sticky face, washing away the black grease as gently as she could.

Her fingers caught on a chain just under his chin and she pulled it around. Heavy with gold, the chain and disc dangled from her fingers. She inspected the disc in the light. A lion, rising up on its hind legs, its mane flaring away from its head. It wore a crown and its front paws gripped a cross scepter and orb. Curious. Father had mentioned he was the laird's brother, but by the looks of the necklace he was a man of some independent wealth and importance.

Lifting his head, she untangled his sandy waves of hair from the chain and finger combed the knots and mats of blood out before washing it. It felt like silken folds of wet seaweed in her hands, and she found herself massaging his scalp as she rinsed it. He sighed again and his body became heavier as she eased his head back onto the mat .

With the blood and sticky black grease wiped away he was rather good-looking. Olive skinned, arched eyebrows, a straight nose. His mouth was full and his lips turned up slightly at the corners. Two short wrinkles creased above his right eyebrow. A trimmed beard grew along his jaw but had begun to get a little shaggy. She wondered if he was her age. She wondered what it would be like if he loved her and wanted to kiss her. How could she help but wonder? Indeed, she'd never laid eyes on a lad more handsome.

A loud snore rose up from his chest and she startled. Heart pounding, breath bursting through her nose, she shook her head, snapping out of her daydream. What a feartie she was.

He slept soundly as she gathered her supplies and organized her basket. Taking a folded cloth in hand, she removed the broth from the fire. Better to let him sleep for a few hours. They could reheat it when he woke later. She bent down and pulled the thick woolen blanket up, tucking it around him with a growing, warm tenderness in her heart.

As she eased him up to tuck the blanket under his shoulders, his thick, arched brows shot up and his lovely eyes opened—they were honey brown and seemed to glow with love. Was she dreaming? Transfixed, unable to soothe him or tell him she was a friend, she stayed there, holding onto his head. His arms yanked free of the blanket and two large hands came to her cheeks. " Je peux pas y croire. Théa. Ma Théa."

Unable to understand his words, she blinked at him, mouthing slow words of comfort. You're all right, now. I'm here, you're not alone. You're safe. Father is caring for you.

The perfect arches of his eyebrows quirked and he blinked tears away. " Tu n'es pas la Théa."

The backs of his fingers brushed against her cheeks and he stared into her eyes. " Je tombe dans tes yeux…bleu comme la mer. "

Pulling on her heartstrings, he guided her into the harbor of his soulful eyes. His fingers unwound the curls beside her face then threaded into her hair. " J'ai rêvé de toi. Je peux entendre vos pensées."

His thumb stroked her bottom lip. Gentle, he pulled her down, his bruised lips coming to hers. The large, powerful hands she'd just washed smoothed lovingly along her jaw and steered her closer. Paralyzed, she could not pull away. He was fevered and did not know what he did…did he? She had never been kissed before.

He broke the kiss, his hands tucked under her ears, his eyes holding her own, his voice now speaking her language. "Speak, I'm listening."

Moira ran a hand along his bruised cheek, then opened her mouth, her voice unable to make sound. I'm here. You're not al ? —

His lips crashed over hers again, pulling her back to him, and she lost her breath, struck dumb and unable to stop herself. Entrusting herself to him, she gave herself over, closing her eyes, savoring a long-awaited taste of love. Her heart raced as she followed his lead, losing herself in his skilled, passionate kiss. He angled his head in a new direction and his mouth slanted over hers again, and again, and again. Something in her heart burst open as her hands covered his cheeks, answering him with willing affection, imagining he could hear her voice.

Tingles shot down her spine. And then, shock. The prison walls closed in on her, and she eased him back against the straw mat, heart clamping with guilt. As his eyes closed, the door jangled.

Father studied her as the door clanked shut behind him. "Are you all right? You've gone pale, Birdy."

She nodded, and brought two fingers to each eye, moving them apart and pointing at him.

"He woke?"

She nodded.

"Did he say anything?"

The strange words, the way he'd held her, the way he'd kissed her. The first kiss any man had given in her thirty-one years. She nodded. With her hands she formed a T, then A, then Y, then A.

"Taya?"

She nodded. He raised his eyebrows. "Taya. Sounds like a lassie. Perhaps his wife?"

Heavens. She hadn't thought about his marital state. What had her foolish heart done, returning the kiss of not only a total stranger but a married man?

From the mat, the man groaned. Father rushed over. "Lad? Are you awake? Lad? "

The man's eyes flickered and he looked at Father, his expression becoming confused. "Oui. Awake."

Remembering the broth, she retrieved the cauldron. She sank to her knees and motioned to the man's shoulders and to Father's chest.

Father helped the man sit up and rested him against his chest. "My daughter is going to feed you some broth."

The man's eyes fluttered. "I'm hungry."

"Good. She's got the best broth on Skye. It'll heal you right up. The stuff might even grow back an arm."

At this, the man's eyes shot open and he looked at his wounded shoulder. Father chuckled. "Only a jest. I forgot you've been unconscious. Do you remember your name, lad?"

Moira scooped a large spoonful of broth and brought it to his mouth. His cracked lips parted and he drank. "Léonid MacKinnon. My friends call me Léo. Did you say we were on Skye?"

His deep, sensuous voice spoke Gaelic, but it was accented. She wondered what more there was to his story. He was the half-brother of Laird Niall MacKinnon, and as Father put it, the family scandal. How it was possible Léo could be more scandalous than Niall, Fingon, or Elspeth, she didn't know.

"We're just off the coast of Skye on Pabay."

"Pabay? Then this is…"

"Cràdh Prison."

Léo groaned. Not knowing what else to do in the face of such depressing news, she brought another spoonful of broth to his mouth. He drank and licked at the trickle that escaped from his full lips. His honey-brown eye opened a crack. "It's good." The eye opened farther and studied her, then slid shut again. She wondered if he was remembering their kiss.

After a few minutes of careful feeding, the broth dwindled in the pot and she backed away, replacing the cauldron in the fire to dry and season.

"What's your name?" His voice had gone warm and made a shiver travel down her spine.

Looking over her shoulder, she found him studying her again. A good question without a definite answer. She formed the letters with her fingers. M-O-I-R-A.

He regarded her with confusion. Father cleared his throat. "Moira."

Léo looked at him. "She cannot say it herself?"

Embarrassment washed over her.

Father settled onto the stone floor beside her. "No. Came down ill after a spell in the sea when she weren't but four years old. Took her voice away."

All but a hoarse, barely audible rasp. Moira turned her back and bundled the last of the supplies in Maw's basket. Feeding the soiled linen into the fire, she tuned her ear to their conversation.

"How long have I been on Pabay?"

"You arrived last night. I arrived at first light this morning. I'm the priest responsible for the holy church's benevolence mission at Cràdh. I come once a week to take care of prestigious prisoners.

Léo scoffed. "Prestigious, you say?"

"You're in bad shape. The guards sent word to me to come immediately—that means you're quite prestigious. That's why I've brought my daughter to help tend you."

Léo cleared his throat. "I thank you for your help. Are these your hose I'm wearing?"

Father gave a loud chortle, no doubt remembering the Finn McCool comparison, but politely disguised it as if he were clearing his throat. "Er—excuse me, a tickle in my throat. Aye, they're my hose. I have a tunic here for you also, but we need to wait for your shoulder to heal before we put it on. I don't think it would fit you anyway. I may need to get Moira to stitch two together to cover you."

Léo chuckled, then moaned in pain, shifting on the straw mat. She hurried back to him and helped him settle back down. The gold disc caught in the light as it rested against his muscled chest. He caught her looking at it, then him, and she blushed.

"How long until I'm healed?"

Father clicked his tongue. "I'd say at least a month. Maybe longer."

"You are a healer?"

Father chuckled. "No indeed. I'm only a priest. My wife was the healer."

Léo's eyes began to droop again. "A priest with a wife….It's good to have a wife."

"Is Taya your wife?"

He repeated the name, his accent thickening. "Théa. Yes. My wife."

Moira's stomach dropped and she settled beside Father, clinging to his goodness. What had she done? The Lord would surely smite her for allowing a married man to kiss her.

His eyelids blinked hard and struggled against sleep. " Was my wife. She died two years ago in childbirth."

Her heart clenched at the brokenness in his voice. Léo was a widower. And what of his child? What became of the bairn? A brief memory of black sea, sucking waves, the hoarse cries into the void of night assailed her and made her shudder.

"I thought—" Léo's eyes rolled back in his head. "Thought I saw her. But it was another girl. The girl from the prophecy…my dream…the flames."

Prophecy? Moira felt herself inclining forward, eager to hear more before realizing Léo's eyes were beginning to roll. He was talking feverish nonsense, poor man.

Sleep threatening to take him under, he struggled to keep his eyes open, thrusting his hand in the air, groping, before taking her hand in his own."Will you be here when I wake?"

Moira studied her tanned hand enclosed in his roughened fingers, wishing she could speak, wishing she could press a kiss to the back of his hand, to provide him comfort when he'd lost so much.

"Aye. Moira and I will be sitting right here until you wake again. Then we'll give you more broth."

Soft snoring rumbled from Léo's chest. Father removed his Psalter from his bag and angled it toward the fire, wetting his finger with his tongue and flipping to the page he last read. "Poor lad. Lost to the world."

Poor she, lost in his kiss, and now lost to him, forever.