Page 7

Three months later …

ROSE HURRIED UP the path toward the kirk. The new priest had finally arrived, and she, like everyone else, was eager to meet him.

Father Ross’s death had left a great hole in their community. There hadn’t been any Sunday services ever since his passing either, a weekly event that the folk of Dun Ugadale had always looked forward to.

Reaching the end of the queue of excited villagers filing into the kirk, Rose stood up on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of Father Gregor.

The priest waited before the steps of the kirk, welcoming his flock one-by-one, as they entered.

He was younger than Rose had expected, with short black hair shaved into a tonsure at its crown.

Lean, with peat-brown eyes, he was handsome—something Rose wasn’t the only one to note.

At the head of the queue, Maisie MacDonald fawned over the priest, twittering like a young lass when he took her hand in his.

Although the woman had grieved loudly and publicly over Father Ross’s death, she appeared to have recovered now.

However, Maisie moved indoors, and soon it was Rose’s turn to enter the kirk.

“Good morning, Father,” she greeted him with a bright smile. “Welcome to Dun Ugadale.”

The priest cast an eye over her, his dark gaze sharp as his mouth lifted at the corners. “What’s yer name?”

The intensity of his stare made the fine hair on the back of Rose’s neck stand up, and her smile faltered. “Rose,” she murmured. “MacAlister.”

“Rose,” he spoke her name slowly, carefully, as if committing it to memory. “Ye appear to be on yer own … where is yer kin?”

Rose’s pulse quickened. “My father is poorly,” she lied. “And my brothers are busy in the fields.” Another lie. She had no idea where Knox and Clyde were. She’d asked all three of them to accompany her to the kirk this morning. It was an important day, and they should all meet the new priest.

But they’d refused to join her.

“Make sure ye remind them to join us next Sunday,” Father Gregor said with another faint smile, his gaze still pinning her to the spot. “God’s word must reach us all.”

Rose swallowed. “Aye, Father.”

She didn’t like the way he looked at her; it was almost carnal. It certainly wasn’t priestly—and when his gaze lowered to the swell of her breasts, she fought the urge to pull her woolen shawl across her front.

Nodding to him, Rose hurriedly climbed the steps and rushed forward into the kirk, allowing the couple behind her to greet the new priest.

Flustered, she hurried down the aisle between the pews.

She usually was one of the first to arrive for the Sunday service, but she’d been delayed this morning after her brothers had left her to bring in the bricks of peat that had been drying in a lean-to behind the cottage.

That was usually Knox or Clyde’s chore, but they and their father had left the cottage before dawn.

They’d gone out early on a few occasions of late, although, as usual, they refused to tell Rose what their business was.

It had gotten to the point where she’d stopped asking.

There were few spaces left in the kirk now, and Rose squeezed into the end of the first pew she encountered where there was room.

Right next to Kerr Mackay.

Rose’s heart lurched into her throat. God’s blood, she should have looked first. Sweating now, she glanced around, frantic to find somewhere else to sit, but since this was Father Gregor’s first sermon, the kirk was much busier than usual.

“Morning, Rose,” Kerr greeted her, his voice low and polite.

She gave a stiff nod in response before casting him a sideways glance. Clad in leather, a fur mantle about his broad shoulders, the captain was a striking sight—as always. His shaggy white-blond hair curled around his face, and his blue eyes were guarded as his gaze met hers.

He looked as surprised as she was, to find her standing next to him.

They hadn’t spoken to each other since the day of his and the bailiff’s visit to the farm three moons earlier.

She’d caught glimpses of Captain Mackay from afar though, usually as he rode out on patrol with his men.

Like the other locals, she’d heard about the outlaws who were terrorizing travelers on the Kintyre Peninsula.

Unfortunately though, the Dun Ugadale Guard hadn’t yet caught them.

There wasn’t much space in the pew, and she and Mackay were standing so close their arms brushed. Without realizing what she was doing, Rose inhaled his scent: a blend of leather, spice, and pine.

Heat flushed over her as she resisted the urge to lean closer and breathe him in once more. She couldn’t stand the man, yet her body and senses reacted to his closeness. Curse her, she liked how he smelled.

“How are ye faring?” he asked then, his voice almost drowned out by the excited chatter around them.

“Well enough,” she replied coldly, shifting her attention forward.

“I know ye haven’t had an easy winter.”

Her cheeks started to burn. Of course, everyone in Dun Ugadale knew that Graham MacAlister had fallen on hard times indeed.

If it hadn’t been for the charity of others, they’d have starved during the harshest days of winter.

“No, but it’s nearly over,” she replied, her tone clipped.

“Now it’s February, Da will soon be able to sell some of the sheep at market.

There’s a market coming up in a few days at Carradale. It’s—”

Rose abruptly cut herself off. What the devil was she doing? Her exchange with the priest had clearly scattered her wits if she was babbling about her family’s business to Captain Mackay.

She kept her attention facing forward, yet even so, she could feel Kerr’s gaze still on her. Couldn’t he look elsewhere?

“Ye can always come to me, Rose,” he said after a pause, his voice roughening. “I’ll help ye, if ye are ever in need. I promise.”

She jolted as if someone had just stuck her with a pin, her gaze cutting to him once more. “Why?” she asked.

Lord, it felt strange indeed to be conversing with this man.

Their gazes fused, and the air rushed from Rose’s lungs. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. It wasn’t like the priest’s stare—which had made her uncomfortable—but a gaze that made her feel as if the ground were giving way under her.

Kerr’s lips parted as he readied himself to reply, yet he was cut off by Father Gregor calling to them. “Silence in the house of God.”

In an instant, the hum of excited voices cut off.

All gazes swiveled to where the priest had positioned himself at the pulpit.

Father Gregor’s handsome face was creased into a stern expression.

“When ye enter this kirk, ye shall do so in reverence and silence ,” he informed them, his tone sharpening.

“This is a place of worship, not an alehouse.”

Embarrassed coughs followed. Rose peered toward the front of the congregation, where the laird and his wife stood. She wondered at Iver Mackay’s reaction to the priest’s rebuke, although it was impossible to tell as the laird had his back to her.

Satisfied that his flock had settled, Father Gregor cleared his throat.

“Since this is my first sermon, I wish to begin with a topic fundamental to us all: the avoidance of sin.” He paused then, his gaze sweeping over the congregation.

“These are evils that come from within a person and defile them … sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, lewdness, envy, slander, arrogance, and folly … ye must ward yerself against these evils … for they will corrupt yer soul.”

Rose tensed as the priest continued in this vein, giving detailed examples of all the sins. This service was nothing like the ones she was used to. Father Ross had been gentle-natured with a dry sense of humor, but Father Gregor’s delivery was wooden, and it sounded as if he was reading a list.

Maybe he was nervous. He was much younger than his predecessor, after all.

The urge to glance Kerr’s way, to see what his reaction to their new priest was, tugged at her. Rose quashed it. What did she care what he thought?

Eventually, the priest broke off his sermon, and they sang a couple of hymns.

However, once the singing had ended, he drew himself up, his gaze sweeping the congregation solemnly.

“It is an unfortunate fact that evil lives amongst us,” he announced.

“We must be on guard against it. This is an isolated corner of Scotland … and ye may not have heard what goes on elsewhere, but I must be the sorry bearer of ill-tidings.” Father Gregor halted then, his gaze flicking to the laird.

There was a breathless silence before he continued, “In England and France, priests have unmasked many women as … witches .”

This comment brought a gasp to many in the congregation.

Rose’s skin prickled. Witches?

“Aye, ye have heard me right,” the priest said, shaking his head. “Ye must watch out for signs that the devil’s handmaids live amongst us.”

“What signs, Father?” A man called out.

The priest’s youthful face tightened. “If yer crops spoil, if a draught strikes, or yer bairns turn wild … these are all warnings ye should heed.”

At the front, Maisie’s hand shot up. “But how will we know who is causing these things, Father?” she asked breathlessly.

“A worthy question,” he replied with a nod. “Be on the lookout for ‘unnatural’ women. Those who shun male company or do not wish to wed.”

The urge to laugh bubbled up inside Rose.

Her gaze traveled forward to where Eara’s white-blonde hair gleamed in the light of the banks of candles lining the kirk.

She wondered what her friend made of the new priest. Like Rose, Eara wasn’t in any hurry to shackle herself to a man. Did that make them both unnatural ?

“Such women will often keep an animal—a cat, rodent, or bird—as a consort,” the priest continued gravely.

“She will have strange ways and a sharp tongue. She will also think herself cleverer than her menfolk.” He paused, surveying the rows of men, women, and bairns that filled the kirk.

“And if her hair is red or her eyes green, be wary indeed.”

Rose swallowed a snort. Surely, he was making a jape? Half the people in this village had red hair or green eyes. Everyone in her family was green-eyed, and her hair, although more brown than red, had streaks of russet through it.

However, the priest looked to be painfully earnest.

Rose’s mouth pursed. The man was a fool. The laird’s wife, who was standing but three yards from the pulpit, had flame-red hair. Was he implying that she was a witch? As Rose looked on, Iver Mackay ducked his head and whispered something to Bonnie.

Muttering started then, rippling through the kirk.

Rose couldn’t help it; she even glanced over at Kerr. He was frowning, his gaze fixed upon the priest. “God’s bones,” he growled under his breath. “If only Father Ross were still with us.”

Although it galled her to admit it, for she didn’t want to side with Kerr Mackay on anything, Rose wholeheartedly agreed with him.