Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (7 page)

“And the nuns?”

“They were called by the abbot. ’Tis a fact the English have been ramming down abbey walls and raping the nuns within. The sisters who’ve come have a very powerful Abbess as their Mother Superior. While they live simply, their wealth is greater than most abbeys in Scotland. She also has the same privileges and rights as an abbot which is unheard of. That is all I know. But I suppose, he wants to see them protected, as a loss of Nèamh Abbey would be devastating to the churches within all of Scotland.”

Gregor nodded.

“Tell me why ye care, Buchanan. Why get into a fray with one of the church’s warriors?”

“Pride. Nothing more.”

Chapter Eight

The door to the refectory opened with a loud creak that made Kirstin’s heart race, but it did not cease the mumbled prayers of those within. A low rumbling sounded from their throats. The air smelled of ointments, herbs and something more she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The scent of a place that was generations old. As though the spirits of those who’d walked these grounds hundreds of years before had left behind a piece of themselves.

The nuns sat at rows of long oak trestle tables, hands folded on the worn tabletops, heads bent, eyes closed, lips moving.

The walls of the refectory were bare, save for a few sconces lit with tallow candles—perhaps giving the large hall some of its odd smell. There were no relics or other ornaments, only a marble statue of the Virgin Mary and her bairn Jesus that sat commandingly above a large barren hearth. Down the center of the trestle tables were lit candles, and placed before each nun was a wooden bowl, spoon and cup.

A quick glance around the stark room showed that the abbess and abbot were not in attendance, most likely eating in her private dining area. Aunt Aileen often did that when she had a visiting member of the church. Kirstin had been asked to serve them on several occasions when the matters being discussed were super sensitive.

Tiptoeing so as not to disturb those at prayer before the meal, Kirstin scanned the room, walking between tables, a sea of hooded heads, in search of Donna. She finally found her and slipped onto the bench where a spot had been saved, and started her prayers.

“That took too long, many have asked about ye,” Donna whispered, without moving, nor ceasing her prayer stance, which afforded her with a loud “Shhh” from one of the nuns on her other side.

“I am here now.”

“I told them ye were having a stomach issue.”

“Thank ye.”

Another loud, “Shh,” this time from Kirstin’s side.

A moment later, a bell rang and the murmurs stopped as everyone looked toward the kitchen. Several nuns stood and exited the refectory, returning a few beats later with large, steaming pots and ladles.

A jug was being passed from one nun to the other, so Kirstin took it, then poured the thinned, light red, watered-down wine into her cup, wiggling her nose at the vinegary scent before filling Donna’s and passing it down.
Vile.
It would sit in her stomach and burn for hours.

Kirstin watched the gruel, gray-tinged—most likely mutton—being plopped into bowls, the scent of garlic and onion overpowering. Loaves of brown bread were passed and Kirstin tore off a soft, warm hunk. She
hated
mutton. With a passion. The taste of it was foul. The very idea of eating a cute, fluffy sheep. She shook her head. Her aversion had started as a child when her father gave her a lamb on her sixth birthday. She’d raised that sweet thing and he’d followed her everywhere, her little cute pet.

Bandit she’d called him, because he was often stealing treats from the tables, slips of fabric left out within his reach, bones from the dogs. Anything he could get his little teeth on, he snatched. And when they’d try to get it from him, he’d lead them on a merry chase. Kirstin’s maid, Meg, had called Bandit’s tricks their daily exercise both physically and in patience.

When Kirstin’s castle had been attacked by the MacLeod Clan, she’d lost Bandit forever. They’d had no time to do anything other than run for their lives, and even that had not worked out. Meg had been brutally murdered, her sister lost to her until recently, and her cousin Finn, still gone. Bandit had likely suffered the same fate as the other MacNeacail animals. A fate she didn’t want to think on, and prayed that like his name, he’d stolen out into the wilderness where he lived a fruitful and delightful life.

So, nay, she’d not be eating any mutton gruel.

Luckily, her aunt and the other nuns at Nèamh had been sympathetic to her aversion. On mutton nights—which was several times a week—they allowed her to eat simply the bread and drink the wine. To some, missing supper might have seemed a punishment, but for her, it was a reprieve. And occasionally, an apple or pear would be placed on her pillow. Or, if Cook was in a pleasing mood, Kirstin could come and make a tart for dessert.

As the ladle-wielding nuns grew closer, she could tell by the scent of the gruel that it was indeed mutton. She resigned herself, no matter how hungry she was, that she was not going to be eating more than bread this night.

’Twouldn’t be so bad, her stomach was already twisted up into knots from seeing Gregor, and eating was the last thing on her mind. The way she’d felt in his arms… Och, but if she’d not been afraid someone would come upon them, or that she’d be punished for being late to supper, she wouldn’t have raced off to the refectory. It had been like finding home after being lost for so many years. His warmth, his scent, the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, all of it had been so welcoming and she’d wanted to grasp onto it forever, to hold tight and not let go. And yet, seeing him again brought back a host of painful memories she’d rather not traverse.

What brief glimpse of happiness she’d had, disappeared from her life the moment she walked away from Castle Buchanan, and Gregor. What she’d come to have, and settle for, was a measure of quite peace and solitude. Devotion. A chance to rekindle her relationship with her sister, and to work on forgiving herself for her past transgressions.

All of that was now being disrupted.

By Gregor.

This place. This mission.

Why did Aunt Aileen have to send her here?

Kirstin swallowed away her complaints and tried to find the good in it, tried to accept that she had a duty to the church, and that perhaps this was a test to her fortitude.

The vat of mutton grew closer. Kirstin’s lower lip trembled—the kind of wobbling that happened right before the contents of one’s stomach reappeared.

She put her hand over her bowl when the kitchen aid reached her part of the table, but received a hiss and an elbow from the nun beside her, “Remove your hand. We all eat the same thing here.”

“She does not eat mutton,” Donna offered, trying to help.

“We all eat what the good Lord has seen to feed us. We are his sheep, and he has provided for us.”

Sheep
… Did the woman mock her on purpose?

“Nay—” Donna started, but Kirstin stilled her with a glance, and a soft touch to her forearm.

“’Tis all right.” Kirstin obediently removed her hand and watched the grayish slop plop into her bowl, the smell, and sight, enough to make her throat constrict. She took a drink of her wine to keep from gagging aloud.

Donna leaned close. “Ye dinna have to eat it, Kirstin.”

Kirstin nodded. She didn’t plan on it.

The meal was eaten in silence. She moved the mutton around her bowl, like men moved chess pieces on a board. The bread was dull, the wine duller, but her belly was full and her mind fuller.

As the nuns finished eating in silence, each cleared their place, taking their bowls into the kitchen, and Kirstin followed suit with Donna beside her.

“What does that warrior want with ye?” Donna whispered as they walked.

“Nothing,” Kirstin said with a subtle shrug, hoping her nonchalance would bore Donna enough that she’d cease her questions.

A hope that was misplaced given Donna’s extreme curiosity. “Ye know him. From the time ye came to the mainland?”

Kirstin did not answer as memories assaulted her. Bonfires, laughter, dancing. Being in his arms.

“Is he a relative?”

“No relation.” Her voice had gotten hoarse. As much as she wanted to hide her emotion, Donna was tugging them free.

“Hmm. He seems so familiar though, to call ye Kay. Surely only a relation—”

“Stop reaching, Donna,” Kirstin snapped.

Donna giggled. “But it’s the most intriguing thing I’ve encountered all year.”

Her irritation evaporated. Donna meant no harm. She was young, inquisitive, and Kirstin couldn’t hold that against her. For certes, she wished she could be just as carefree. Kirstin rolled her eyes toward Donna, a slight smile on her lips. “I can live without intrigue.”

Donna bumped her slightly on the shoulder. “That is because ye are old, and ye’ve lived a life. I am but eighteen.”

Kirstin settled her bowl in the bucket of soapy water, slipping quickly from the kitchen before anyone could noticed it was full.

“I am only twenty and seven,” she answered when Donna caught up.

“Aye, but that is past the age of child-bearing is it not? And, did not your aunt become abbess around that age?” Donna’s voice had turned serious. She might have been young, but she was perceptive, though completely wrong about child-bearing.

Kirstin kept it to herself that her twin sister, who had borne four children with her first husband, once more found herself with child with her new husband—a man one-thousand times better than her previous mate. Seven and twenty wasn’t too old. Or too late.

She touched her belly, sensing her womb contract at the thought. There was still time.

Then she shook her head, refusing to let her mind go there. Refusing to let herself think like that. There was no time. Not for her. And she was a nun. Forever in the arms of God and no mortal man.

“I think Mother Aileen was close to that age, aye, perhaps thirty,” she answered instead, avoiding the child-bearing remark altogether.

“Ye see? Old.” Donna giggled, knowing her comment would only get a rise out of Kirstin.

“Oh, do hush,” Kirstin said, playfully, though she meant it.

Donna giggled again. So bubbly. What was in the sour wine?

“There is an orchard here.” She pointed down one of the covered walkways. “Over there I think. One I’ve heard rivals our own. The apples should be coming into bloom. Do ye want to walk with me before compline prayers?”

“Aye.” Anything to get her mind off their current topic of conversation, and the lines in which her mind kept trying to cross.

Nuns headed in all directions, some also going toward the orchard to walk through the pathways. The aroma of the sweet apples filled the dimming sky. Kirstin took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fragrance of the orchard.

“I wonder if we’ll still be here when they harvest the apples, and if their cook would be willing to make anything special. Ye always make the best apple cakes and tarts. Oh, and your breads.” Donna licked her lips, perhaps also finding the mutton gruel a bit lacking. “Maybe she’ll let ye help her.”

Kirstin smiled. She did love to bake, especially with apples. “Aye, I would be willing to ask, though I’m not certain any help on my part will be accepted.”

At Nèamh there were certainly factions among the nuns, but even with those, for the most part their arms were open wide with acceptation. The reception they’d received here at Melrose was not so. There seemed to be an air of resentment toward them from the other nuns. As though they were the spoiled children of nobles come to mix with those of the common folk, but she knew it wasn’t the case.

Kirstin rarely listened to gossip, but one of the things she did know was that abbeys were often judged on their productivity and their ability to be self-sufficient in addition to funding the church as a whole.

Nèamh far outweighed all of the other abbeys in Scotland as far as production and income, partly because of its location and reputation, they often received more daughters from wealthy households than other abbeys—which came with large dowries—but also because their abbess—Aunt Aileen—was one of the most intelligent and cunning women Kirstin had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Kirstin weaved between the trees, lush with green leaves and the perfectly shaped round globes of apples, yellow streaked with red. Her mouth fairly watered. Even if cook didn’t want Kirstin’s help with making a treat for the entire abbey, maybe she’d be willing to let Kristin into the kitchen for an hour or two to make a small batch to share with Mother Frances, as a thank you for her hospitality.

“Do ye know why we are here?” Donna asked, plucking a ripened apple from the tree and casually munching it.

“I dinna think ye were supposed to do that.”

Donna grinned and shrugged with the carelessness of youth.

Kirstin sighed and ignored her own desire to pluck an apple, and when a trio of nuns walked by talking, turned Donna so they wouldn’t see what she was doing, though the crunching noise was certain to be noticed.