Page 37 of Fallen
“I didn’t,” she bit out the words. “I hated every moment.”
His eyebrows raised, and then he gave her a slow smile. “Good.”
Coira backed away from him. Once again, the walls were closing in on her. His closeness was a stranglehold. However, his hand shot out, his fingers closing roughly over her upper arm and halting her.
“When I’m done with the outlaws, I’m coming for ye, Coira,” he growled, “and if ye give me any trouble, I will have my men butcher every last nun within these walls. Is that clear?”
Coira’s breathing came in short, rasping gasps, her body now shaking uncontrollably. “Ye are a beast, MacKinnon,” she replied, choking out the words. “Curse yer soul to eternal damnation.”
He grinned at her, his gaze gleaming. “It’s too late for that.” His grip tightened, his fingers biting into her flesh. “I’m done being thwarted. Ready yerself to leave Kilbride … prepare for a life as my whore at Dunan.”
MacKinnon let go of her then and stepped back, his chest heaving. The lust on his face made Coira’s belly roil. Clamping her jaw shut, she staggered back from him. Her hands fisted at her sides.
Enough.If he dared reach for her again, she’d break his jaw.
But MacKinnon didn’t. Having delivered his terms, he favored her with one last lingering look before turning on his heel and striding from the chapter house.
A hollow silence, broken only by the rasp of Coira’s breathing, settled over the space. For a few moments, she merely stood there, body coiled. She’d almost wanted him to grab her, so that she could unleash the fury she’d smothered for over a decade. But he hadn’t given her the chance.
Once again, MacKinnon had bested her.
A sob splintered the air. Had she just made that wretched sound? Trembling, Coira wrapped her arms about her torso and staggered over to the narrow bench-seat that ran around the perimeter of the floor. She sank down onto it and squeezed her eyes shut as terror pulsed through her.
He won’t have me again. The vow was a silent scream inside her head.
The abbey had become a prison.
It seemed that everywhere Coira turned there was a man wearing MacKinnon plaid, leering at her. She was sure she was imagining the lecherous looks, and yet she couldn’t help fear that the clan-chief had told his men about her past, of who she’d been before taking the veil.
The morning following the clan-chief’s arrival was misty and cool. Coira and Sister Mina escaped the confines of the abbey with a trip to Torrin to tend on the sick farmer’s wife and daughter. Although it was a relief to be free of Kilbride, the visit didn’t provide Coira any solace. Her patients’ conditions had worsened—they both had swellings under their armpits and their bodies were wracked with fever—and the farmer had grown more agitated.
“Ye must be able to do something?” His voice rose as he loomed over Coira when she emerged from the dwelling. “They’re going to die.”
Coira faced the farmer down, her belly twisting when she saw the grief in his eyes. “I’ve done all I can I think of … but they’re not responding to the herbs that usually bring down fever. I’m sorry. I can do nothing but pray for them.”
Her words were heartfelt, and yet they felt hollow. The farmer didn’t want them. The man’s face grew hard. “Useless,” he rasped, as he turned away from her. “What good is yer God to me now?”
“It’s not yer fault,” Sister Mina murmured as they left the cottage behind and stepped onto the path that would take them back to Kilbride. “Deep down, Bred knows that.”
Coira heaved a sigh, putting away the scarf she’d tied around her mouth and nose when dealing with the patients. Her mother had often covered her face when tending those she thought infectious, although it hadn’t stopped her from succumbing to a terrible fever sickness that had swept through Dunan and the outlying settlements one winter. It likely wasn’t going to protect Coira much either, yet she had to do what she could to keep herself healthy.
“I know,” she replied, her heart heavy. “I wish I could have given him hope … but it would be a false one.”
“So they really will die?”
“Aye.”
Sister Mina’s grey eyes clouded, but she didn’t comment further. There wasn’t really anything one could say to that.
The two nuns had walked another few yards when a man suddenly stepped out onto the path before them. Tall and lean, with a sharp-featured face, the stranger wore dusty leathers and carried a longbow and quiver over his back.
Sister Mina cried out, fumbling at her belt for the knife she always carried. Meanwhile, Coira dropped her healer’s basket and brought up her quarter-staff; she gripped it two-handed, barring him from approaching further.
The man halted. His gaze widened, flicking between Coira and Sister Mina, even as his mouth quirked. “Fighting nuns … now I’ve seen it all.”
Coira gritted her teeth. She’d had enough of the arrogance of men. One more jibe and she’d jab him in the cods with the pointed iron end of her staff.
As if reading the fierce expression on her face, the stranger’s face grew serious and he raised his hands, palms faced outward above him. “I mean ye no harm.” His attention flicked from where Sister Mina now held her knife at hip level, blade pointed toward him, back to her companion.
