Page 1 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)
CHAPTER ONE
M ay, 1310
The Isles of the Hebrides, Scotland
Straining her ears to catch the sound of the others’ breathing, Davina MacKinnon lay stiffly under the rough-woven sheet on her hard pallet. There was tossing and turning as the other novitiates looked to get comfortable for the night. A sigh, a yawn, even – if her ears did not deceive her – an occasional sniffle or a sob.
She was not the only one here in the priory at Iona against her will. Only a few came wishing to take holy orders and one day become a nun. Others were sent by their noble families to learn to read and write or simply to be sheltered from clan conflict. One or two such as herself, had been abandoned here, neglected and forgotten.
As the girls’ breathing slowed and deepened one by one as sleep overtook them, Davina’s heartbeat pounded against her ribs. This night was her only chance to leave the abbey before she was forced to become a nun for the rest of her days. With only one week before she would have to make her unbreakable vows to God, this was the opportunity she had planned for. A fisherman was waiting in his boat to row her across to Mull.
In a matter of hours, she would be free.
Ever since Davina had been brought there, Dame Maria, the Prioress, tormented her as if she wished to punish the child for simply being born. Davina’s protests fell on deaf ears. The Abbess in charge, who seldom had contact with the younger oblates and the novices, chose to ignore the cruelty and the unnecessary punishments. In Davina’s case, the long periods of isolation inflicted wounds on her lonely soul, which longed for company and friends. These periods, during which she never clapped eyes on another person, sometimes extended for weeks. Like her soul, her body suffered mightily from the frequent denial of food that left her half-starved.
But instead of subduing Davina’s wild temperament, which was Dame Maria’s aim, the neglect and cruelty had simply heightened her sense of injustice. As the years had gone by, she had become more outspoken and more rebellious. She had once summoned the courage to remind the Prioress that the convent was under the rules of St. Benedict and that she was not living up to his wishes.
That, of course, had only earned her extra punishment, worse than ever. But it had been worth it to see the scowl appear on Dame Maria’s face and her shallow cheeks redden with unholy rage.
Recollections of the Prioress’s cruelty spurred Davina on, making her all the more determined escape. If she was discovered and brought back to the Abbey, she knew the woman would make her life a living hell forever.
Tonight, she would leave this place, never to return. She would not spend her days in silent contemplation and prayer, her head bowed, speaking only when spoken to, rarely leaving the forbidding stone walls of the convent, being punished for simply being herself.
Satisfied that all the others in her dormitory were fast asleep, Davina silently rose from her cot. Reaching underneath the pallet, she withdrew a small bundle and, with it clutched firmly in her hands, she tiptoed along the length of the huge room. She held her breath, praying that her feet would pass the creaky boards without a sound. She froze momentarily as one of the other girls stirred and muttered something. But she was only talking in her sleep and settled again almost immediately.
Davina had no time to waste. There was only a brief time before night prayers and Laud, the first of the day. She had, at best, three hours while the convent slept. Before dawn the nuns would be awake for another day of contemplation, prayer, and hard work.
Once safely outside the dormitory, she hastened down the stairs, making for the cloisters. On her way, as she slipped past the warming room she saw two nuns, their heads bent in prayer beside the huge fire that was kept alive day and night throughout the long months of winter. Even though spring was already bursting forth, it was kept burning so that the nuns could always find a place of warmth.
Slightly out of breath as she reached the cloisters, she looked around in the gloom, her eyes alighting on another shadowy figure. Lyra. Her friend and co-conspirator. The only person that Davina felt connected to for the past decade.
The two lasses hugged. “I wish ye were coming wi’ me,” Davina whispered.
“If we were tae leave together, we’d have little chance. It is a simpler thing fer ye tae make yer flight fer freedom on yer own,” Lyla brushed her hand over Davina’s. “Dinnae fash. I’ll be leaving here soon enough. But ye must be gone before Dame Maria forces ye tae take the vows.”
In the darkened cloisters Davina quickly divested herself of the plain woolen night-shift that made her skin itch, and donned the clothes she carried in the small bundle. These were well-worn of rough-woven wool, almost ragged, provided by one of the farmers’ wives who sometimes came to the nunnery with produce. With the promise of prayers to be said petitioning the Good Lord to fill the woman’s belly with a longed-for child, she’d willingly parted with the old clothes.
Dressed in the ragged striped kirtle and the shirt Davina tied the knitted shrug around her shoulders and slipped her feet into her boots. She wove her long, dark-auburn, braids around her head, donned a small white cap and tied it under her chin.
She bent and kissed Lyla’s soft cheek. “Thank ye fer helping me. I will miss me only friend. Who will I have now tae laugh with and dae mischief?”
“Never fret.” She squeezed Davina’s arm. “Yer bruises will fade, and ye’ll get some meat on yer bones soon enough. We’ll be together again before long, when ye’re settled on Mull.” Lyla giggled softly. “I cannae wait tae see the face on old Dame Maria when the wrinkled old walnut-face discovers ye’ve gone.”
There was still a smile on Davina’s face as she skirted the end of the cloisters, ducked past the chapel and made her silent way to the huge timber gates in the wall.
After slowly pulling free the giant metal bolt holding the gates closed, she eased them open, shuddering at the loud creaking sound they made. She stepped outside, took a deep steadying breath of the air that seemed to swirl with freedom and future possibilities, and took her first steps away from the convent where she’d been incarcerated for the past nine years.
Her heart leaped as she heard a man’s shout.
Looking around she spied the figure of a man approaching from the other end of the long wall. His shout was greeted by another and when she looked in the other direction, she saw another man advancing.
In all these years, she’d never dreamt that the Abbey was guarded by armed men. Now the realization hit her like a tree toppling on her head.
I should have planned this better. I’m nae prepared enough.
As both men seemed to be hell-bent in stopping her from escaping and were rapidly closing in, without further thought she took of as fast as her legs would carry toward the shore. She held up her skirt and sped along the path toward the water. Behind her, the guards were yelling for her to stop. Heart pumping, her cap hanging loose and her braids flying behind her she raced along the shore toward the place where the fisherman was meant to be waiting.
But there was no one there. The sandy beach was empty, the tiny waves lapping under the moonlight.
She looked around frantically, her breath heaving in her chest. Where could she go? She looked at the dark stretch of water before her and shuddered. For as long as she could remember the thought of entering water and the water rushing over her head caused her to almost shatter into a million pieces. Her teeth were chattering and her entire body was trembling. She was terrified to advance, yet the men were gaining on her and within seconds they’d be upon her. A vision of being dragged back to the nunnery and being greeted by a cruelly smirking Dame Maria was enough to bring her to desperation. She could overcome the terror caused by the thought of entering the water. Somehow, she would swim to the Isle of Mull.
Then came a shout from one of the burly men giving chase. “Hey, ye. Lass. Stop. Ye’re nay permitted tae leave the convent.”
She flew across the beach, giving thought to nothing but the dark shape of the Island of Mull looming over the water ahead of her. Surely it was not too far. If only she could swim, she could make it there.
Clenching her jaw, she flung herself into the sea. Forcing herself to accept the salty water rushing over her knees and up her legs, she waded out until she could no longer touch the pebbles and sand on the bottom. Death was better than going back she repeated to herself as a mantra.
By now the two men were standing on the shore, watching her and waving. She ignored their calls and dived under the water, pushing with her hands, the way she’d seen the seals doing with their flippers. She moved along underwater and then rose to the surface to gulp another lungful of air before diving under again, all the while flapping her hands and pushing herself forward. When she lifted her head from the water again, the shore had been left behind.
If only she could keep swimming like that, she would be in Mull in no time.
But of course, Davina was soon forced to admit to herself that she couldn’t. Although she tried hard and made some progress, her arms turned into lead weights, too heavy to push again and again. Her legs grew tired of kicking and, before long, instead of pushing her to the surface, they tangled in her ragged kirtle and slowly sank beneath her. Each time she struggled to the surface it was more difficult to catch a breath before she went under again. The terror she’d been pushing deep down in her heart, began to resurface with a mighty force.
Arms and legs aching, her lungs unable to haul in the breath she so desperately needed, she felt the pull of the water taking her down. Her hair had come loose and floated around her as she flailed her arms and legs, but no matter how hard she tried her tired body could no longer find the energy required to bring her to the surface.
Down, down, she floated, her chest aching as she struggled to draw breath, all the while her lungs filling with water. The end of her flight had come and, somehow, drowning seemed like a weightless, floating, rest from all her struggles, the end of all the cruelty and pain she’d had to endure. She closed her eyes and allowed the waters of the Sound of Iona to close over her.