Page 55 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER ONE

The bells tolled their usual mournful song, a sound that had once made Alexandra flinch. Now, it barely stirred her. What did make her stir, rather violently, was the sight of Lady Margaret MacLean snoring into her pillow, blissfully unaware that she was ten minutes late for prayers.

Alexandra threw back the threadbare curtain surrounding the cot and leaned in close. "Margaret, if ye dinnae get up this instant, I swear on all the saints, I'll pour this basin over yer head."

Margaret groaned, rolling onto her back. "Ye're bluffin'."

"Aye?" Alexandra lifted the washbasin from the stand with both hands and tilted it just enough to let a droplet fall. It splashed against Margaret’s forehead. The girl shrieked.

"Saints preserve me!"

Alexandra grinned, setting the basin down with exaggerated care. "Sweet morning tae ye, too, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret groaned again, this time with more theatrical flair, and sat up. "Ye ken, sometimes I think ye enjoy this too much."

"Only sometimes?."

They moved quickly now, slipping into their coarse wool habits and fastening the simple rope belts at their waists with practiced ease.

Alexandra adjusted Margaret’s veil, her fingers deft and a little rough as she tucked the last strands of hair beneath the stiff linen coif.

Margaret, still muttering under her breath, reached over to smooth Alexandra’s wimple into place.

It was an odd kind of intimacy they’d developed over the years. A sort of friendship, with one girl living as the other's shadow. Alexandra had never once let Margaret take a punishment meant for her, and Margaret, in return, never questioned Alexandra’s orders. Not when it counted.

When they stepped into the main corridor, the mask slipped into place.

Other girls greeted them… "Morning, Alexandra," to Margaret, and "Lady Margaret," to Alexandra.

It had taken years for Alexandra to answer to the wrong name without flinching.

Now, it was second nature, it fit like an old boot.

Too worn to replace. Too snug to shake off.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever answer to her real name again, if she would ever truly remember who that girl had been.

The sun hadn't yet chased the chill from the air, and the harsh cold of the priory clung to the stone like a stubborn curse. Alexandra pulled her shawl tighter as they made their way to the courtyard garden. Chores awaited, as always; back-breaking, finger-numbing, soul-wilting chores.

"Dae ye think they’ll ever stop punishin’ us fer a war we didnae start?" Margaret asked as they reached the weed-choked beds.

Alexandra crouched beside a patch of stubborn thistle. "If they dae, what would the Prioress dae with all that spare time? She might have tae find joy in her life. Imagine that horror."

Margaret snorted. "Blasphemy."

They worked side by side, knuckles grazing dirt, silence settling between them like old cloth.

Other women joined them, some cloistered, others like them, temporary ghosts in the church's care.

The scent of wet soil and morning dew clung to the air.

Birds chirped cautiously, as though they too feared the wrath of the Prioress.

Margaret had been assigned to laundry duty that morning, but as always, she’d wandered back over to gossip. Alexandra gave her a sideways glance as Margaret sank to her knees beside her in the garden.

They looked enough alike that most didn’t question it.

Same chestnut-brown hair that frizzed in the damp, same pale skin that the sun hadn't touched in years, same quick mouth and stubborn chin. But where Margaret’s eyes held softness, curiosity, mischief, Alexandra’s had learned how to guard themselves. How to flinch without moving.

It had worked too well. They’d played the parts for so long that no one questioned who was who anymore.

Not even Margaret.

But Alexandra would guard that secret with every fiber of her soul, not out of fear, but because she owed Margaret more than she could ever repay.

Margaret’s family had placed her there to be hidden, but in doing so, they'd saved Alexandra too. Without that twist of fate, Alexandra would’ve died cold and forgotten in some alley.

Instead, she’d been given a name. A bed. A second chance.

And in return, she’d made herself into Margaret’s shadow. Her shield.

"Did ye hear about Sister Brigid and the cook?” Margaret snapped Alexandra out of her reverie, “I swear on the Virgin’s toes, I saw her sneak two tarts right into her habit yesterday."

Alexandra snorted under her breath. "If ye’re caught idle again, they’ll hang ye up by the heels and make ye sweep the bell tower. And ye ken ye shouldnae swear."

"Oh hush, ye always fret like an old maid. Besides, I like yer company better."

Alexandra arched a brow, her voice a low mutter. "Flattery willnae save ye when the Prioress––”

"Alexandra!"

The voice cracked through the garden like a whip.

Margaret scrambled to her feet. Alexandra rose with her, shielding her instinctively.

"Back tae yer post," the Prioress snapped. "This is the third time ye've been caught slackin'."

Margaret ducked her head and fled.

The Prioress turned her flint-hard gaze on Alexandra but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Alexandra lowered her eyes and resumed her weeding.

She hated the Priory most in those moments.

The endless watching. The judgment. The fear carved into every corner of the stones.

She remembered too well the last time Margaret had been found gossiping instead of working.

Alexandra had taken the blame, claimed she’d asked for help.

She'd scrubbed the chapel floors for a week, knees blistered, palms raw.

Even now, she didn’t regret it. It was what she was brought there to do: protect Margaret. And she'd do it again.

As she toiled, the sharp clap of footsteps echoed behind her. Alexandra didn’t look up, she didn’t need to.

Margaret.

She could never stay away when there was a tasty morsel of gossip to be shared. She crouched down beside her, a tinkle already making its way to the corner of her eyes.

"Lady Margaret," The Prioress. barked, voice like a whip crack, she had come back. "That root bed should've been cleared by now. Or are ye waitin’ fer divine intervention tae weed it fer ye?"

She turned to Margaret “What are ye still daeing here?”

Margaret startled, fumbling her grip on a spade she had quickly grabbed.

Alexandra straightened, dirt-streaked and tired. "It was me fault, Prioress. I asked fer her help tae work the roots properly. I’m nae used tae thick thistle."

The Prioress narrowed her eyes. "Ye speakin’ fer her now, Lady Margaret?"

"Just takin’ responsibility fer me own actions, is all."

"Hmph." The woman turned her stare on Margaret, who wisely kept her eyes low. "I’ve half a mind tae send ye both scrubbing the privy tiles."

Alexandra stepped forward, chin high. "Aye, then best send me alone. She's?—"

She stopped herself. Nearly too late.

"She’s sensitive tae the smell, she will faint again, is all."

The Prioress stared long and hard before muttering a prayer under her breath and walking off.

Margaret exhaled shakily. "Ye didnae have tae dae that."

"Didn’t I? One more minute of her glare and ye’d have burst into tears and confessed yer lineage."

Margaret grimaced. "I was fine."

Alexandra smiled, returning to her weeding. "Of course ye were. Brave as a lion."

But her hands trembled as they returned to the soil.

The Prioress's words, the memory of beatings long past, settled like frost in her bones. She’d learned young what happened to girls who couldn’t hold their tongues, and younger still what happened when ye tried to defend someone who didn’t understand the cost. A crow called from the chapel roof, ominous and loud.

Alexandra’s knees throbbed with every shift of weight, her palms blistered and raw beneath layers of grime, and her back pulsed with a dull, angry fire. But still, she worked. Because that was the only thing she’d ever known how to do.

Life had never offered her softness. No silks, no soothing words, no shelter from the storm.

It had offered her bruised knuckles, an unyielding will, and the stubborn marrow-deep grit to survive.

She had learned young that comfort was not a gift, it was a gamble. One she’d lost too many times to count.

So now, even the smallest mercies felt like riches. A clean room. Warm porridge in the morning for her aching belly. Walls of stone thick enough to mute the biting wind that had chased her while she was on the streets. A bed with a blanket…

That one I say me hail Mary fer every day.

Here in the priory, these things were more than blessings. They were currency.

She had only just returned to her duties, delicately weeding the herb garden, when she heard it.

The thunder of hooves.

Not one. Not two. Too many. They came fast and hard, descending the hill like a wave of fury.

Alexandra’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled tighter around the spade as her head jerked up, eyes straining toward the priory gates.

Men.

The kind of men whose arrival never brought good.

A chorus of drunken shouts echoed after the hooves, rough, slurred, aggressive. There was steel in those voices. And spit. And something worse… intent .

Her breath hitched.

Nay. Saints, nay. Nae again. Nae like last time. Please, nae like last time.

That time had been bad enough, three men from the nearby town, slurring and shoving, trying to rip open barrels and find something worth taking. But they’d been stupid. Loud and easily frightened off by the sudden arrival of the village watch.

But this, this was different. Alexandra could feel it in her bones. There were more of them now.. And no one was coming.

The priory had no guards, no gates that could truly hold. Just prayer, stone walls, and women. That was all.

Then came the sound.

The creak of iron hinges being forced. And then, a slam.