Page 10 of Fallen
Sister Elspeth ignored her. Instead, she stepped back and started unbolting the gates. “Help me, would ye?” she snapped.
Irritated at having orders barked at her, Coira reluctantly stepped forward and aided Sister Elspeth. Together they gripped one of the heavy wooden and iron gates, and hauled it back.
A thin, milky mist breathed in, its tendrils twisting like crone’s hair. A jingling sound filtered through the damp air then, and a harsh command cut through the dawn. “Open the gates … I have business with the abbess!”
Coira’s breathing slowed.The Saints preserve us … I know that voice.
She peered through the fog, where shadowy figures now emerged. The nearest was a lanky, round-shouldered figure: a monk garbed in black who’d just knocked upon the gates. Behind him clustered a group of his fellow monks, who suddenly parted to admit a heavyset figure atop a pony.
Only, it wasn’t a pony but a mule. The creature was bedecked in bells, ornaments, and tassels; the bells tinkling as the burdened beast swayed forward. The man astride it wore a truculent, pinched expression, as if his arse pained him.
Coira heaved in a deep, steadying breath, even as her belly dropped.
Father Camron.
The Abbot of Crossraguel was paying them another visit.
4
Thwarted
Dunan broch
MacKinnon territory
Isle of Skye
DUNCAN MACKINNON SLAMMED the goblet down upon the table, his gaze fixed on the blond man standing at the foot of the dais. “This isn’t good enough, Broderick … the bastard can’t have disappeared into thin air!”
A tense silence settled upon the Great Hall of Dunan—retainers and kin swiveled in their seats, their attention settling upon their clan-chief. Everyone was halfway through their noon meal of blood sausage, braised leeks, and hefty loaves of oaten bread when MacKinnon’s right-hand, Carr Broderick, had entered the hall.
MacKinnon glared down at the warrior, irritated that his outburst hadn’t moved the man at all. His rugged face was set in an unreadable expression. Although not overly tall, Broderick made up for it in breadth and strength; his stocky frame was pure muscle. His close-cropped blond hair just added to his severe, unyielding appearance.
“We’ve combed yer lands over and over again,” Broderick said when the silence between them started to crackle with tension. Like his expression, his voice gave nothing away. “There’s no sign of the outlaws.”
“But I saw my bastard brother take an arrow in the side,” Duncan exploded. “He’ll be injured … he won’t have gone far.”
“Maybe he’s dead?” A cool female voice interjected then, and MacKinnon swung his gaze left to where a dainty woman with rich brown hair piled up onto the crown of her head had just spoken. Undaunted by her brother’s outburst, Drew MacKinnon’s sharp grey-eyed gaze met his. “Have ye not considered that?”
“I’ll not believe Craeg’s dead till I see his rotting corpse with my own eyes,” Duncan snarled back.
“Lady Drew has a point,” Broderick rumbled. “That might be why we can’t find him … he’s buried under six-feet of dirt somewhere.”
Broderick hadn’t moved from his position. He waited before the raised platform at the end of the Great Hall, where the clan-chief and his kin took their meals. The warrior stood, legs akimbo, in an arrogant stance that grated upon MacKinnon. His previous right-hand, Ross Campbell, had been an arrogant man too, but he’d also been clever with words, and had known how to ease a tense situation or offer explanations that would appease MacKinnon.
Carr Broderick was charmless and disarmingly blunt at times. Duncan watched the warrior, gaze narrowed. Campbell’s betrayal had made the clan-chief wary of the men who served him. He knew the two men had been friends, and initially after Campbell had run off with the woman Duncan had planned to wed, Lady Leanna, the clan-chief had suspected Broderick of somehow aiding them. However, the man had been off fetching a priest for the marriage ceremony when the incident occurred.
MacKinnon’s attention shifted back to his sister. He didn’t trust her either. Drew swore that on the night Campbell and Lady Leanna escaped the broch, she’d heard nothing. Duncan didn’t fully believe her at the time—and he still suspected she was hiding something. However, he had no proof against her.
The memory of that humiliating night still burned within him, and his chest constricted whenever he recalled it. He’d underestimated Leanna it seemed, and shouldn’t have drunk so much wine before attempting to claim her. She’d been cowering against the wall as he explored her lithe body, and then she’d kneed him in the cods—twice.
The wee bitch had put every ounce of her strength into the attack too. In the days that followed, Duncan had wondered if he’d ever father another child; although Dunan’s healer had assured him there had been no lasting damage.
He’d been curled up on the floor, retching from the pain, when Campbell burst into the bed-chamber. He’d trussed Duncan up like a capon, and then the pair of them had fled, locking him inside the room.
“I repeat,” MacKinnon growled, shoving aside the memories that made him break out in a cold sweat. “Until I see my bastard brother’s body, I’ll not believe he’s dead.” He leaned back in his carven chair then, drawing a deep breath as he sought to master the rage that made his pulse thunder in his ears.
Wisely, Drew didn’t argue the point with him. Dismissing her, he pinned Broderick with a hard stare. “Ye have already failed me once … if ye let Craeg slip through the net, I won’t give ye another chance to redeem yerself.”
