Page 58 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER THREE

T he stone corridors of the priory felt colder than before. Her steps echoed softly against the flagstones as she passed familiar tapestries and burned-out sconces. The nuns she passed nodded politely, assuming she was off to prepare for her journey.

Alexandra turned left at the vestry. Down the narrow corridor near the infirmary. Then down another passage, less traveled, quieter.

Please let her be here. Please.

She checked the sleeping quarters first, rows of narrow pallets, all empty. The girls must still be in the chapel or tending to the wounded. She moved quickly, heart pounding, eyes scanning every face she passed, none of them Margaret.

Alexandra pushed open the side door to the small herb chamber… nothing.

The scriptorium… nothing.

Panic rose in her chest like bile. Where was she? Where had they taken her?

She ducked into the storage room, her fingers trembling as she opened crates, peeked behind curtains, searched any nook big enough to hide a girl.

“Margaret,” she whispered. “Where are ye…”

A creak behind her.

She spun, but it was only a novice nun, carrying a bundle of linens. The girl blinked at her, startled, then scurried off. Alexandra leaned against the stone wall, her head spinning.

I cannae leave without finding her. I cannae.

But even as she told herself that, she knew time was slipping fast. Laird Mackenzie wouldn’t wait long.

And if Margaret was gone, spirited away during the chaos, or hiding somewhere even she couldn’t find, then she was out of time. And about to be escorted north, to a life that wasn’t hers.

She pressed herself deeper into the corner of the storage room, her breath catching as footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor. A voice followed. Laird Mackenzie’s low and unmistakable, like distant thunder. Then, another. The Prioress. Sharp and clipped.

“She was meant tae be ready by now,” Laird Mackenzie said. “I dinnae enjoy delays.”

“Ye’ll find nay rebellion in Margaret MacLean,” the Prioress replied. “She kens what’s expected. She’s a quiet girl. Obedient.”

Alexandra’s nails dug into her palms. If only they knew. If only either of them could see the knot of panic twisted inside her.

Their voices passed right by the door. She didn’t dare breathe. A shadow fell across the gap beneath it, then moved on.

“Let her say her goodbyes,” the Prioress added as they continued. “She’ll nae see this place again.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the words, there was a finality in it. They were looking for her, and she was crouched like a thief in a place she’d called home.

She waited another count of thirty before slipping out, shoes silent on the stones. She would not be caught stalling. Not now.

Saints.

There was only one place left that she hadn’t searched. The chamber that she shared with Margaret. Perhaps she was there, peacefully resting. She reached it in no time, opening the door swiftly, hoping she would see another soul behind those doors.

Her chamber felt colder than she remembered. The fire had long since gone out, and the shutters rattled in their hinges, though the wind outside was calm. Everything inside was just as she’d left it that morning, basin, cot, the same cracked comb, and no sign of Margaret.

She moved stiffly, shoulders sore from riding and knees still throbbing. Isla had offered to bring her something to eat, but Alexandra had waved her off. She didn’t want food. She started packing her things mechanically.

There wasn’t much. Her habits, the carved wooden cross Margaret had pressed into her hand the first time they’d been punished together. A keepsake, nothing more. She held it a moment longer than she meant to. Then tucked it in beneath the fabric.

Her hand lingered on the edge of the satchel, the weight of the cross dragging her backward—into memory.

That first winter in the priory had been merciless.

She’d barely spoken, half-wild with grief and mistrust, shivering under the thin wool blankets.

It was Margaret who had curled beside her without a word, pressing her small, chilled hands to Alexandra’s back.

“If ye shiver too loud, the Prioress will make ye sleep in the laundry room,” Margaret had whispered.

Alexandra hadn’t answered. Not then. But the next morning, she’d split her heel of bread in two and handed Margaret the larger half. It was the start of everything.

They’d been punished together, prayed side by side, traded secrets and sweets and scars. And now she was leaving her behind. Or worse… she’d been left behind.

I should run now.

But she didn’t move. Not really. She lingered over every fold of fabric, every item she packed, dragging out the motions, as if stalling might summon Margaret. Even if she ran there would be nowhere for her to go.

Come on, Margaret. Come back. Let them see the truth fer themselves. Let me walk away from this.

But the door remained closed.

Alexandra stayed seated, the cross warm in her palm. Then she stood up and took one last look around the small chamber.

The walls were the same dull grey. The floors still cracked in the corners. The cot, as narrow and unforgiving as ever. But it had been hers. For ten years, it had been safety. Stability. A kind of quiet peace she’d never known before the priory.

Home.

She thought of the cold nights they used to huddle under shared blankets.

The sound of Margaret’s giggles echoing during kitchen duty.

The quiet patience of Sister Agnes teaching her to read by candlelight.

Even the stern, sharp-edged disapproval of the Prioress had become a comfort in its own way. Predictable. Familiar.

And now she was leaving it all behind. She was walking into the unknown with a man who didn’t believe her, under a name that didn’t belong to her, toward a life that wasn’t hers to live.

The streets had been cruel, but at least they had belonged to her, she’d known their rules. Known where the danger lurked, where to run, how to vanish when it counted.

But this? This felt worse.

Laird Mackenzie.

He didn’t trust her. And when he finally found out the truth? When he realized she wasn’t Margaret MacLean? Would he hate her? Would he cast her aside like all the others had done before?

Or worse… would that quiet steadiness in him fracture into something colder? Sharper?

I dinnae owe him loyalty.

And yet, the thought of his disappointment settled in her chest like a weight. She hated that it mattered.

She glanced around the chamber once more, as if the memories might wrap around her and anchor her in place. But they didn’t. They only whispered that that part of her life was over. A knock startled her.

The door creaked open and Alexandra turned her head so fast she almost twisted it, eyes wide, hoping.

Margaret.

But it wasn’t her.

Callum Mackenzie stood there, framed by the stone archway, tall as ever, the morning light cutting across his shoulder like a blade. His eyes flicked from her to the small, worn bag at her feet.

His brow lifted slightly. “That all ye’re bringin’?”

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, picked up the bag, and tested its weight with one hand. His expression shifted… somewhere between surprise and something more unreadable.

“Thought there’d be more,” he muttered.

“There isnae,” she replied, sharper than she meant to.

He glanced around the room, his expression unreadable as he glanced around the sparsely decorated space.

“How long did ye say ye’d been here?”

“Ten years.”

His gaze snapped back to her. “Since ye were a child, then.”

She gave a faint nod. “Since I was nine.”

He hesitated. “And before?”

Her stomach twisted. Even if she spoke the truth he would not believe her. Not when he thought her to be Margaret. How could he see or recognize the life that Alexandra had lived.

“Home,” she said flatly, turning away before he could press further.

They stepped into the hallway, the scent of incense and soap clinging to the air. Sunlight slanted through the corridor windows, illuminating the motes of dust that danced between them.

For a moment, she felt the weight of the place pressing in around her, a place that had been sanctuary, prison, and identity all at once. She was leaving it under false pretenses. And Laird Mackenzie, despite everything, had no idea who she really was.

Outside, the courtyard stirred with quiet efficiency. Stable lads moved briskly between horses and gear, tightening saddle straps and checking packs. The sun had dipped behind the hills, leaving behind the kind of twilight that whispered of long roads and colder winds.

The laird approached with the reins of a tall bay mare. “We ride fer Mackenzie lands,” he said, voice low and decisive. “Best we make haste.”

Alexandra stared at the beast as though he’d handed her a battle axe, throat tightening. It was one thing to sit on a horse with him but to ride one alone?

“She’s a calm one,” he added, mistaking, or ignoring, the horror in her expression. “Sure-footed and steady. Ye’ll manage well enough.”

“Alone?” she asked, voice higher than intended. “Ye mean tae say I’m meant tae ride meself?”

He lifted a brow, already amused. “She willnae bite, lass. Mount up.”

“I’ve… never,” she muttered, fingers tightening around the reins. “I mean, I’ve sat on a horse, aye—but only with someone, and even that was with me eyes shut most the way.”

“Ye’ll dae fine.”

She gave him a flat look, then tried to mimic what she’d seen others do—foot in the stirrup, a determined grip on the pommel, a deep breath—and heave .

The saddle shifted.

Her foot missed.

And with a yelp, she tumbled backward, skirts flying…

…straight into Laird Mackenzie’s waiting arms.

“Christ save me,” she breathed, clinging to him more than she liked.

His chest was solid beneath her palms, arms strong around her waist. He smelled like leather, pine, and something infuriatingly warm. “I’ve nae exactly spent me days galloping through fields in this place,” she muttered as he set her down, brushing at her skirts.

“Was that yer idea o’ mountin’?” he asked, deadpan.

“I…” she muttered, struggling to right herself. “That was a mistake.”

“Aye,” he said, with a glint in his eye.

“I’m nae completely useless.”

“Just around horses then.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Ye’ve a cruel tongue fer a man who’s nae even offered an apology after nearly letting me die of embarrassment.”

He gave a huff that might have been a laugh. “Clearly, ye cannae be trusted wi’ a horse. So ye’ll ride wi’ me.”

“I can learn tae––”

“It wasnae a question,” he said, already lifting her again. “Hold still.”

Before she could find a retort, she was back on the horse, this time in front of him, her spine pressed against his chest. He mounted behind her in one fluid motion, settling her between his arms as if they’d ridden like this a hundred times.

Alexandra forgot how to breathe.

Every inch of him was heat and strength and maddening closeness. Her veil of years spent behind convent walls did not prepare her for the press of a man’s body, or the deep rumble of his voice so near her ear.

“Ye’ll stay still, aye?” he said, reaching round to adjust the reins. “Else we’ll both come tumblin’ down.”

“I feel like a sack o’ barley,” she managed to groan out.

“A rather bonnie one,” he said easily.

She turned crimson. “Have ye no shame?”

He only grinned. “Aye.” “Ye blush like a lass who’s never been flirted wi’.”

If it was possible for Alexandra to turn a deeper shade of red than the one currently coating her face, she would have. She didn’t know it was possible to say such things.

“In case you have nae taken stock of yer surroundings,” she said, “I have nae spent the last decade around men, save fer the drunks that forced their way intae the Priory when it took their fancy.”

“Aye,” he said softly, with no hint of humor in sight. “Sewin’ and prayin’. Ye mentioned.”

He gave the order then, calling to the men who waited at the gate. “Arran! We’re away. The lass is found and whole. Let’s head home before night sets her claws in.”

Arran gave a short nod, a knowing look passing between him and Callum that Alexandra pretended not to notice.

A soft footfall on the stones pulled her gaze back toward the priory steps. Sister Agnes stood there, hands folded in front of her, face pale under her wimple. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Alexandra met her eyes and something inside her stuttered. The older woman gave the faintest shake of her head—no farewell, no blessing. Alexandra wanted to say something. Anything. But her throat closed. So she nodded, once. A silent goodbye.

Then the nun was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the stone entry.

Alexandra stared out at the open horizon. She was leaving, really leaving.

Ye’re Margaret now, even if ye arenae.

She didn’t know anything about the Mackenzie lands. Would they see through her? Would he? What would happen when the real Margaret was found? What would happen if she wasn’t?

Too many questions lurked in her mind. Even for someone who had survived by learning when to run, when to kneel, and when to disappear, this was dangerous. It was stepping into a life that wasn’t hers. She prayed it wouldn’t swallow her whole.

As the horses turned toward the hills, Alexandra kept her chin high and her back straight, pretending her heart wasn’t pounding like a war drum.

This was going to be the longest ride of her life.