Chapter Two
Mhàiri squeezed the knife she held in her hand behind her back as she watched the lone rider slowly come closer. He was not yet close enough for her to see identifying features, but even at a distance, she could see that he was not Father Lanaghly.
Unlike her older sister—who would shock all her fellow nuns if they knew how much Shinae enjoyed wielding a blade—Mhàiri hated to use weapons.
Her father had known of her dislike and had not cared.
Their nomadic lifestyle had involved a constant, though usually minimal, level of danger; therefore, he had insisted both his daughters learn how to protect themselves.
As a result, they had become exceptionally good at being able to handle a dirk.
A skill Mhàiri had re-sharpened over the last two weeks while hunting for food.
So, if the stranger approaching meant her harm, she could do enough damage to make him regret it.
He was close enough now to make out some details, and Mhàiri was certain she had never before seen the rider.
Whoever he was, the man was huge, even for a Highlander—that much Mhàiri could tell.
The black beast he rode was similarly massive and would have dwarfed practically every man she had met since she had come to this region, but not him.
He had dark hair and rode with not just confidence but an air of authority.
It cloaked him like a second skin. Mhàiri had seen such men when she had lived with her father.
They used their stature to intimidate those they encountered, and any show of nervousness signaled either vulnerability or that one had something of value.
In her case, both were true. She was very vulnerable, and she possessed something of enormous value.
While many may not recognize the worth of the items inside her small home, it was incalculable to her.
Hoping to give the impression that she neither desired company nor was frightened by his unwanted arrival, Mhàiri took a deep breath and slowly crossed her arms, careful to keep the dirk hidden.
The change in stance did nothing to change the stranger’s expression, which she could now see was not menacing, or any of the other myriad things she expected to see with such an imposing figure. He looked . . . oddly bored.
The large Highlander tightened the reins and pulled his horse to a stop.
Smoke-gray eyes stared down at her for several seconds.
The man was much older than her, at least twenty years her senior.
Small wrinkles formed across his forehead and under his eyes, and gray hair was slightly visible at his temples, but neither took away from his masculine appeal.
Compared to most of the rough-hewn farmers she had encountered in the past couple of years, this man was exceptionally good looking.
And refreshingly, he looked to be completely uninterested in her.
Too often, her unusual combination of dark hair and pale green eyes pulled to the dark, lustful side of men—especially in this rural part of Scotland.
Even married men had a hard time concealing their lust. The large Highlander, however, was definitely not one of them.
“You Mhàiri?” he inquired.
Mhàiri blinked and was about to return his question with one of her own when she saw another rider coming into view.
He was approaching more quickly and possibly related to the large Highlander.
A much younger, and—if possible—better-looking relation.
They were of similar height and build, and both possessed the same shade of dark brown hair as well as chiseled features.
The younger man pulled his horse next to the first man and stared down at her . . . and smiled. Instead of gray eyes, his were a brilliant shade of blue and his smile accentuated deep dimples that should have been appeared feminine, but instead, made him even better looking.
Mentally Mhàiri checked herself and was relieved to know that her jaw had not inadvertently fallen open. Unlike his older friend, the younger Highlander was far from disinterested and was blatantly ogling her as if she were a piece of prized meat.
Mhàiri almost gave him her most withering scowl, but she decided that would be too expected—though she doubted many women had ever spurned this man’s advances.
She instead opted to assume the look of his older relative and pasted on the most bored look she could muster, coupled with a sigh that only hinted her disgust.
His blue eyes widened with shock. Maybe she had been the first to be unappreciative of his admiration.
Mhàiri started to smile triumphantly at the idea, which would have totally ruined the point she had made.
Thankfully, at that very moment, she spied the white-haired priest for whom she had been waiting for nearly a week as he rolled into view driving a large cart.
She let the grin take over her face and rushed out to greet the one person who had understood her need and vowed to bring back help.
Mhàiri had known Father Lanaghly was a good man the first time she had met him, but when the church had given her no option to continue living with her sister without taking vows, he had become her savior.
No one else had understood or appreciated her predicament.
Worse, the leaders of the church had been apathetic that her whole life and plans for the future had been unexpectedly uprooted when the fire burned the small priory to the ground.
Her sister, Shinae, had understood but had been powerless to help as she was being ordered to an abbey down south.
Mhàiri, who was just shy of twenty years, could have joined them but only if she agreed to take the same vows Shinae was taking.
The structured, stifling life of a Catholic nun might have been acceptable for her sister, but not her.
Even the offensive idea of marriage would be preferable to a life dictated by the church.
Wife and nun were two titles Mhàiri never intended to have.
If marriage had been an option, Mhàiri could have had her choice of local farmers as husbands.
Some had been both moderately attractive and quite prosperous, with large stretches of land.
But to their shock, she had remained adamant with her refusals.
The reason Mhàiri had no desire for a husband was the same reason she had not capitulated to the church’s demands to take vows.
Accepting either would mean a loss of the one thing she valued most. Freedom.
One wanted her on her knees praying and doing someone’s bidding. The other wanted her on her feet cooking and cleaning until it was time to do her husband’s bidding. Both had no appeal, and Mhàiri found it strange that anyone ever intentionally sought out either circumstance.
Before the fire, Mhàiri had been on the verge of regaining the freedom she had relished but had been too na?ve to appreciate as a child.
The only thing that kept her from losing what little semblance of sanity she retained was that the priory’s tiny cottage, which held all her most precious belongings, had been upwind of the flames, escaping the priory’s sad destiny.
The priory had been one of the few remaining places in Scotland whose members followed a monastic way of life that focused on helping the local community, not the church.
But the Culdees’ way of life was disappearing and unless something changed, it would soon all be brought under canonical rule.
But it was not other Culdees who had come and emptied the priory.
Priests associated with the Premonstratensian order of the Catholic church had arrived almost a week after the fire.
They had been traveling north visiting the Fearn Abbey when they heard about the devastation and came to see if they could offer help.
The austere order followed the Rule of St. Augustine as well as several additional statutes that made their life serving God one of great austerity.
The life they offered was very different than the one enjoyed by the Culdees at the priory.
And it was they who, upon Mhàiri’s refusal to join them, had abandoned her to the lonely consequences of her decision.
A decision she might have not been able to make if not for Father Lanaghly.
He had arrived as those of the church were about to leave.
He had heard her story, agreed that vows should never be entered into under pressure, and gave her hope.
Father Lanaghly promised to send word to the chief of the clan he supported and ask if he would not only keep her things safe, but offer Mhàiri a place to stay until she could get word to the man who could ensure her life of freedom. Her own papa.
That had been nearly two weeks ago.
When Father Lanaghly had left to retrieve a cart and seek out additional help for the journey, Mhàiri had expected him to return within days.
She had known deep down that the priest had not forgotten his promise, but she had begun to wonder if the laird Father Lanaghly had sworn would help her was as agreeable to the idea as he had believed.
Seeing the kind old priest driving an empty cart immediately restored all the hope he had given her a fortnight ago.
“Father Lanaghly!” Mhàiri cried out and ran out to welcome the priest as he pulled the cart to a halt.