Chapter One

May, 1310

The Isles of the Hebrides, Scotland

Straining her ears to catch the sound of the others’ breathing, Davina MacKinnon lay stiffly under the rough-woven sheet on her hard pallet. There was tossing and turning as the other novitiates looked to get comfortable for the night. A sigh, a yawn, even – if her ears did not deceive her – an occasional sniffle or a sob.

She was not the only one here in the priory at Iona against her will. Only a few came wishing to take holy orders and one day become a nun. Others were sent by their noble families to learn to read and write or simply to be sheltered from clan conflict. One or two such as herself, had been abandoned here, neglected and forgotten.

As the girls’ breathing slowed and deepened one by one as sleep overtook them, Davina’s heartbeat pounded against her ribs. This night was her only chance to leave the abbey before she was forced to become a nun for the rest of her days. With only one week before she would have to make her unbreakable vows to God, this was the opportunity she had planned for. A fisherman was waiting in his boat to row her across to Mull.

In a matter of hours, she would be free.

Ever since Davina had been brought there, Dame Maria, the Prioress, tormented her as if she wished to punish the child for simply being born. Davina’s protests fell on deaf ears. The Abbess in charge, who seldom had contact with the younger oblates and the novices, chose to ignore the cruelty and the unnecessary punishments. In Davina’s case, the long periods of isolation inflicted wounds on her lonely soul, which longed for company and friends. These periods, during which she never clapped eyes on another person, sometimes extended for weeks. Like her soul, her body suffered mightily from the frequent denial of food that left her half-starved.

But instead of subduing Davina’s wild temperament, which was Dame Maria’s aim, the neglect and cruelty had simply heightened her sense of injustice. As the years had gone by, she had become more outspoken and more rebellious. She had once summoned the courage to remind the Prioress that the convent was under the rules of St. Benedict and that she was not living up to his wishes.

That, of course, had only earned her extra punishment, worse than ever. But it had been worth it to see the scowl appear on Dame Maria’s face and her shallow cheeks redden with unholy rage.

Recollections of the Prioress’s cruelty spurred Davina on, making her all the more determined escape. If she was discovered and brought back to the Abbey, she knew the woman would make her life a living hell forever.

Tonight, she would leave this place, never to return. She would not spend her days in silent contemplation and prayer, her head bowed, speaking only when spoken to, rarely leaving the forbidding stone walls of the convent, being punished for simply being herself.

Satisfied that all the others in her dormitory were fast asleep, Davina silently rose from her cot. Reaching underneath the pallet, she withdrew a small bundle and, with it clutched firmly in her hands, she tiptoed along the length of the huge room. She held her breath, praying that her feet would pass the creaky boards without a sound. She froze momentarily as one of the other girls stirred and muttered something. But she was only talking in her sleep and settled again almost immediately.

Davina had no time to waste. There was only a brief time before night prayers and Laud, the first of the day. She had, at best, three hours while the convent slept. Before dawn the nuns would be awake for another day of contemplation, prayer, and hard work.

Once safely outside the dormitory, she hastened down the stairs, making for the cloisters. On her way, as she slipped past the warming room she saw two nuns, their heads bent in prayer beside the huge fire that was kept alive day and night throughout the long months of winter. Even though spring was already bursting forth, it was kept burning so that the nuns could always find a place of warmth.

Slightly out of breath as she reached the cloisters, she looked around in the gloom, her eyes alighting on another shadowy figure. Lyra. Her friend and co-conspirator. The only person that Davina felt connected to for the past decade.

The two lasses hugged. “I wish ye were coming wi’ me,” Davina whispered.

“If we were tae leave together, we’d have little chance. It is a simpler thing fer ye tae make yer flight fer freedom on yer own,” Lyla brushed her hand over Davina’s. “Dinnae fash. I’ll be leaving here soon enough. But ye must be gone before Dame Maria forces ye tae take the vows.”

In the darkened cloisters Davina quickly divested herself of the plain woolen night-shift that made her skin itch, and donned the clothes she carried in the small bundle. These were well-worn of rough-woven wool, almost ragged, provided by one of the farmers’ wives who sometimes came to the nunnery with produce. With the promise of prayers to be said petitioning the Good Lord to fill the woman’s belly with a longed-for child, she’d willingly parted with the old clothes.

Dressed in the ragged striped kirtle and the shirt Davina tied the knitted shrug around her shoulders and slipped her feet into her boots. She wove her long, dark-auburn, braids around her head, donned a small white cap and tied it under her chin.

She bent and kissed Lyla’s soft cheek. “Thank ye fer helping me. I will miss me only friend. Who will I have now tae laugh with and dae mischief?”

“Never fret.” She squeezed Davina’s arm. “Yer bruises will fade, and ye’ll get some meat on yer bones soon enough. We’ll be together again before long, when ye’re settled on Mull.” Lyla giggled softly. “I cannae wait tae see the face on old Dame Maria when the wrinkled old walnut-face discovers ye’ve gone.”

There was still a smile on Davina’s face as she skirted the end of the cloisters, ducked past the chapel and made her silent way to the huge timber gates in the wall.

After slowly pulling free the giant metal bolt holding the gates closed, she eased them open, shuddering at the loud creaking sound they made. She stepped outside, took a deep steadying breath of the air that seemed to swirl with freedom and future possibilities, and took her first steps away from the convent where she’d been incarcerated for the past nine years.

Her heart leaped as she heard a man’s shout.

Looking around she spied the figure of a man approaching from the other end of the long wall. His shout was greeted by another and when she looked in the other direction, she saw another man advancing.

In all these years, she’d never dreamt that the Abbey was guarded by armed men. Now the realization hit her like a tree toppling on her head.

I should have planned this better. I’m nae prepared enough.

As both men seemed to be hell-bent in stopping her from escaping and were rapidly closing in, without further thought she took of as fast as her legs would carry toward the shore. She held up her skirt and sped along the path toward the water. Behind her, the guards were yelling for her to stop. Heart pumping, her cap hanging loose and her braids flying behind her she raced along the shore toward the place where the fisherman was meant to be waiting.

But there was no one there. The sandy beach was empty, the tiny waves lapping under the moonlight.

She looked around frantically, her breath heaving in her chest. Where could she go? She looked at the dark stretch of water before her and shuddered. For as long as she could remember the thought of entering water and the water rushing over her head caused her to almost shatter into a million pieces. Her teeth were chattering and her entire body was trembling. She was terrified to advance, yet the men were gaining on her and within seconds they’d be upon her. A vision of being dragged back to the nunnery and being greeted by a cruelly smirking Dame Maria was enough to bring her to desperation. She could overcome the terror caused by the thought of entering the water. Somehow, she would swim to the Isle of Mull.

Then came a shout from one of the burly men giving chase. “Hey, ye. Lass. Stop. Ye’re nay permitted tae leave the convent.”

She flew across the beach, giving thought to nothing but the dark shape of the Island of Mull looming over the water ahead of her. Surely it was not too far. If only she could swim, she could make it there.

Clenching her jaw, she flung herself into the sea. Forcing herself to accept the salty water rushing over her knees and up her legs, she waded out until she could no longer touch the pebbles and sand on the bottom. Death was better than going back she repeated to herself as a mantra.

By now the two men were standing on the shore, watching her and waving. She ignored their calls and dived under the water, pushing with her hands, the way she’d seen the seals doing with their flippers. She moved along underwater and then rose to the surface to gulp another lungful of air before diving under again, all the while flapping her hands and pushing herself forward. When she lifted her head from the water again, the shore had been left behind.

If only she could keep swimming like that, she would be in Mull in no time.

But of course, Davina was soon forced to admit to herself that she couldn’t. Although she tried hard and made some progress, her arms turned into lead weights, too heavy to push again and again. Her legs grew tired of kicking and, before long, instead of pushing her to the surface, they tangled in her ragged kirtle and slowly sank beneath her. Each time she struggled to the surface it was more difficult to catch a breath before she went under again. The terror she’d been pushing deep down in her heart, began to resurface with a mighty force.

Arms and legs aching, her lungs unable to haul in the breath she so desperately needed, she felt the pull of the water taking her down. Her hair had come loose and floated around her as she flailed her arms and legs, but no matter how hard she tried her tired body could no longer find the energy required to bring her to the surface.

Down, down, she floated, her chest aching as she struggled to draw breath, all the while her lungs filling with water. The end of her flight had come and, somehow, drowning seemed like a weightless, floating, rest from all her struggles, the end of all the cruelty and pain she’d had to endure. She closed her eyes and allowed the waters of the Sound of Iona to close over her.

Chapter Two

Everard, the Laird of the MacNeils, flicked his night-dark hair across his shoulder. His blue eyes were fixed on the menacing barrier of grey clouds building out at sea. His men had almost finished loading his big birlinn riding at anchor in the lee of the Island of Mull and, with any luck, they would safely returned to his home in Kiessimul Castle, on the Isle of Barra, before the storm struck.

As the last crate of chickens and two barrels of wine were lugged on board by the crew, he gave the order to unfurl the big sails and one-by-one his men took their places at the oars.

Everard’s aide and advisor, Hugo MacRae, untied the mooring and, as he pulled the rope on board, the ship slipped away, the oarsmen straining and the breeze filling the sails. Everard took the rudder and within minutes the village of Fionnphort was nothing more than a tiny dot in the distance.

He would be glad to return home. His stay on Mull had been necessary, but not enjoyable. Although his negotiations with the Laird Alexander MacDougall had been cordial, they were always far from friendly. He’d never been comfortable around the man, although he professed a hearty kind of comradeship with much back-slapping, hand-shaking and shared jugs of ale. Everard suspected MacDougall to be allied with the English king, Edward, the son of Longshanks, the man who was Scotland’s greatest adversary, while the MacNeils were loyal subjects of the true Scots king, Robert the Bruce.

He smiled to himself. The trade route between the Isles was of utmost importance as Barra and the Small Isles depended on their trading. Although the seat of MacDougall’s territory was Lorne, on the mainland, Laird Alexander MacDougall kept control of large swathes of the western Isles as Lord of Argyll. It seemed word had come to him that Everard was in league with privateers from the Island of Canna. After much discussion and a great deal of flattery and many lies, a truce of sorts had been declared between the two lairds. As with many such truces between clans, it was a shaky affair that could change at the whim of the powerful laird.

His reverie was abruptly halted as Everard’s searching gaze lit upon something floating in the water. As they drew closer, he saw that the object was a body.

“Hold,” he ordered. The rowers put up their oars and he turned the rudder so that the ship sailed close to the object. As they drew alongside, he saw it was a woman, her long chestnut tresses floating around her.

Without a moment’s thought for his own safety, Everard undid his belt and let his great kilt fall to the deck as he dived over the side of the birlinn. Within a few short strokes he was beside her, turning her face from the water.

“The lass is near drowned,” he called to the men assembled on the deck. “Help me lift her on board.”

As Everard held her up, a dozen hands helped to pull her from the waves. He hauled himself on board and pulled his plaid around him, shivering, while the crew laid her on the boards of the deck. Water spilled from her nose, her ears and poured from her mouth. He rolled her over, pressing his hands on her back pumping her free of the water that had deluged her insides.

Hugo kneeled beside Everard, and with a linen cloth he dried her eyes and mouth, keeping the tangle of her hair from her face. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Everard had no eyes for her beauty, he was too busy clearing the water from her chest. After what seemed like hours but was, in reality, mere instants, the lass gulped in a breath, her chest heaved, she spat up yet more water but, this time, after she’d choked and gasped as the water flowed, she gave a loud moan.

“She lives,” Hugo called to the assembled crew.

Everard, still kneeling beside the lass, yelled. “She’s like ice. Bring blankets.” At once two crew members appeared bearing two woven woolen rugs. He wasted no time in tearing off the wet ragged skirt that was twisted around her legs binding them tightly, and quickly swaddled her in the cloth. He held her limp body against him, using his own body-heat in an effort to warm her frozen blood.

The lass was almost gone.

She lay prone in his arms, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she fought for breath. But despite the hopeful signs that she was returning to life, her eyes remained closed and her face as white as a seagull’s wing. He pressed an ear to her chest. Her heartbeat was faint but steady.

Everard looked down at her face. Hugo spoke true, she was beautiful, her features were even in a heart-shaped face, her nose short and straight, with only the tiniest upturn and the faintest sprinkling of pale freckles. Her mouth was wide, her teeth white and even. He imagined that mouth smiling as she talked, her lips plush and rosy, not blue and deathly as they were now. Her lashes were long and dark, and although her eyes were hidden, he imagined them with golden lights, sparkling and joyous as she laughed.

He shook his head to dispel his fantasy of this lost waif. He would wait until she was fully awake and then find out who she was, where she had come from and what she was doing afloat and near drowned in the Sound of Iona.

The ship had turned when Everard had ordered it to change course to retrieve the lass and the breeze was driving it back to shore. The oarsmen had resumed their benches and were holding up their oars, ready for their orders.

“We return tae the Isle of Mull. Tae Fionnphort,” he signaled to Hugo, who took his place at the rudder, turning the ship, and the men began to row. The birlinn, its sails full, skimmed the water while Everard held the lass close to his heart, breathing gently into her mouth to aid the rise and fall of her chest, striving to steady her ragged breath.

Once they’d returned to their mooring, Everard waited with the lass, while Hugo stepped ashore to seek out lodgings. They needed some place where they could warm the lass and provide her with the nourishment that would help her regain her strength. And, with any luck, they might find a healer whose tisanes and remedies would strengthen her.

Hugo returned with a stout good-wife who he introduced as the Widow Lachlan. She took one look at the fragile form in Everard’s arms, rolled up her sleeves and took charge of the situation.

“Come with me,” she ordered. “I have a comfortable room in me house where the poor lass will be warm. I have broth heating on the fire, which will put some color back in those pale cheeks.”

She led them up the hill from the shore toward a substantial stone house. Everard carried his charge upstairs to a warm and comfortable bedchamber and laid her gently on the bed while Widow Lachlan stoked the fire. A serving maid hurried in with a covered pot containing hot coals and inserted it between the sheets to warm the bed.

“First, we must get her out of those wet clothes. She’ll never warm up while she remains sodden.” The widow unwrapped the still form from the rugs. “Look away, lad. Ye’ve nay right to see her naked.”

Everard obediently turned away. Moving toward the small window he kept his gaze on the road where a farmer was leading a large bull by a rope attached to a ring in the animal’s nose. His two dogs nipped at the bull’s hooves, keeping it moving as they hurried through the village.

He kept his ears tuned to the murmurs and encouragement from the widow as she tended the stricken lass.

“Ye can turn back now.” The Widow Lachlan said, a satisfied note in her voice. “I’ve dried the lass and tucked her under the quilts. The bed’s nice and warm. I’ll leave her in yer care while I see tae the nourishment.”

As she left the room, Widow Lachlan handed what was left of Davina’s clothes to the serving maid. “These are ruined, she’ll never wear them again. Throw them into the big fire downstairs with the other rubbish.”

Everard pulled up a timber chair beside the large bed, keeping his eyes fixed on the lass, acutely aware that she was naked under the covers and that her only clothing had been consigned to the fire.

As she warmed, her eyelids began flickering and by the time the widow had reappeared with a trencher and a bowl of broth, the lass was moving her head, looking around the room.

When her eyes came to rest on Everard she gasped, her eyes widened and she plucked at the bedcover as if she was trying to hide herself.

“Who… are… ye?” Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper and Everard had to lean forward to catch her words.

“I am Laird Everard MacNeil of Kiessimul Castle on the Isle of Barra.” He kept a formal tone as he spoke. “And, may I enquire who are ye lass, and how did ye come tae be half drowned in the sea?”

The terrified expression on the lass’s face was replaced by a look of blank puzzlement. She shook her head on the pillow. “I’m nae sure who I am. I ken me name is Davina, but I ken aught else.”

“Ye dinnae recall how ye came tae be underneath the waves?”

Davina spent a few moments pondering his question. “I recall I was mightily afeared.” She thought some more and shook her head. “Mayhap it will take a while fer me tae recall something more. Me head daesnae feel right.”

Widow Lachlan took a chair beside the bed next to Everard and spooned the broth between Davina’s lips. “Dinnae fash, lass. Ye’ll soon get yer strength again. Take some more broth.”

The door opened a fraction and Hugo’s worried face appeared in the doorway.

“Me Laird, if we’re tae sail on the tide, we cannae delay any longer. Otherwise, we’re here until the next high tide.”

Everard rose to his feet, strangely reluctant to leave the lass. He reached for the purse at his belt and withdrew several gold coins which he handed to Widow Lachlan.

“I thank ye fer yer care and fer yer kindness. If ye can see tae the lass until she’s well enough tae travel I’d be much obliged t’ye.”

The widow placed the coins in the pocket of her apron. “I have freshly laundered clothes fer her and when she is well enough, I’ll see her on her way.”

A small cry came from Davina and all three looked up.

“Please.” She was shaking her head and trying to sit.

Everard reached an arm around her and helped her upright, while Hugo piled pillows behind her for support.

Clutching the coverlet under her chin, she looked from one face to the next, as if gauging whether they could be trusted. She turned to Everard, speaking in a low voice.

“I ken ye’re a kind man and ye’ve helped me this far. But I must be on me way. I cannae stay here.”

She reached a hand out to clutch his sleeve and, in doing so, that coverlet fell away, revealing her naked shoulders. She gave a shriek and pulled up the cover. “Me clothes…?”

Widow Lachlan gave Everard a disapproving look. “I’ve another kirtle fer ye, lass, if ye wait awhile the maid will bring it.”

Davina kept a tight hold on Everard’s sleeve. “Ye mustnae leave me here. I’m in danger. There are people chasing me…” She trailed off, an expression of horror coming over her face.

“Lass, I cannae take ye with me. I’m soon tae be sailing across the sea tae the Isle of Barra. I’ve given Widow Lachlan enough coin tae care fer ye until ye feel well enough. Who are yer kin? They’ll be searching fer ye.”

Davina was shaking her head fiercely. “I dinnae remember it all, but I ken there are men who wish me ill. I think I may have been running from them when I entered the water.” She looked up, her eyes beseeching him. “The water terrifies me, yet I ken if I went into the waves, whoever was hunting me must have made me even more afeared.”

The situation was becoming more and more difficult for Everard. He was fully aware of the turning tide and the need for their birlinn to be sailing before long. But there was something in the lass’s desperation that touched his heart. She clearly feared for her life and all his protective impulses were shouting at him to take care of her. Leaving her there to meet an uncertain fate did not sit well with him, his honor wouldn’t let him leave a lass in need. He glanced over at Hugo who was frowning at him, signaling with a movement of his head that they should be on their way.

“Can ye think hard, Davina. Trawl through yer mind. Where were ye when ye entered the water? Who were the men pursuing ye? Think on it.”

Davina sat up in the bed clutching the covers about her. She took in a deep breath, shaking her head. “Where am I now, me laird? Mayhap if I ken where ye found me it might bring back a memory.”

“Ye’re in Fionnphort. It’s a small village on the Isle of Mull. There are few people who live here, mostly fisherfolk. It lies across the water from the Isle of Iona.”

She listened intently to Everard’s words. He could see her mind working as she rolled her eyes, straining to remember. When he came at last to the mention of Iona she startled, gasping, her hand flying to her mouth.

“D’ye recall something of Mull and Iona?”

She nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis Iona. I recall the nuns…” She moaned again. “I was meant tae take me vows.”

“Ye’re tae become a nun?” Everard blinked. Helping a novice to run from taking her vows at the abbey on Iona was the last thing he wanted to be involved with. He needed to get to the bottom of this puzzle. “Was it the nuns at the convent ye were running from?”

“I recall something now.” She buried her face in her hands, as if whatever she recalled was causing pain. When she looked up, her eyes were desperate, pleading. “I wasnae at the nunnery of me own free will. It felt like I was a prisoner.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as the memories came roaring back. “I cannae recall all of it, but there was one… Maria… I’m certain she was sent tae Iona by the devil, tae torture the likes of me.”

She reached for Everard’s hand, imploring him. “I cannae go back. If I had ended me days in a watery grave as I thought was me fate, it would be better than returning tae the nunnery. And me punishment.” She sniffed, but the tears kept on flowing. “Please, I beg ye tae take me wi’ ye. If ye leave me here and they come fer me, me death will be on yer hands.”

In her agitation she tossed back the covers and threw her legs to the floor, trying to lever herself upright with her hands on the side of the bed.

By all the holy saints! “Lass where d’ye think ye’re going?” Everard glimpsed bare white skin, pink-tipped breasts and a dark triangle between her thighs before her hands shot up to cover herself as best, she could.

She uttered a loud, embarrassed, wail and flung herself back under the covers, her face blushing bright red. “I forgot I was nae dressed.” She moaned wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

Everard couldn’t help the little quirk of amusement on his lips at the moment of unexpected pleasure. She looked delicious, her eyes wide, her bright chestnut hair flying across her shoulders and down her back. His blood ran hot at the sight of her and he felt a tell-tale twitch in his groin even as he silently admonished himself for his unseemly lust.

The lass was an innocent. A novice, fer God’s sake! Her shock at her own nakedness was real enough and, he was certain, she had no idea of the picture of female beauty she presented to him.

The situation was saved from further awkwardness by Widow Lachlan bustling into the room. Draped over her arm was an assortment of various items of clothing. She held up first a petticoat, then stockings, a long-sleeved shirt with laces at the front, a deep-blue linen kirtle, a woolen cloak, boots, a scarf, a knitted cap and other items which Everard did not recognize.

The Widow looked Davina up and down. “Ye’re tall but I reckon these will fit ye well enough. Give or take an inch or two. Ye’re thin, so ye’ve nae need of stays.”

Davina looked at the clothing in bewilderment. He guessed that from her time in the nunnery she’d dressed in nothing but the plain habit worn by nuns. A rough-woven all in one garment that covered them from head to toe along with assorted veils and coverings. Now, confronted with all these different items, she would scarcely ken where to start.

The good widow turned to Everard. “If ye leave us, I’ll help the lass tae don these garments so she’ll be ready tae travel wi’ ye.”

Everard got to his feet and strode through the door where Hugo was waiting.

“Well?”

Everard groaned, tussling his fingers through his long dark hair. “Mayhap it will dae nae harm tae let the lass accompany us. At least she’ll be safe from whatever harm she fears. When she’s properly well, we can find her kinfolk and take her home.”

Hugo nodded. “Bring her wi’ us if ye must. But we’ve nae time tae waste if we’re tae catch the tide.”

They were chatting about the plans, when the door to the bedchamber was flung open and Widow Lachlan emerged holding Davina’s hand.

Davina took Everard’s breath away. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, her hair had been combed and flowed down her back in thick chestnut waves and she gazed at him with amber-colored eyes fringed with dark lashes that started a mysterious pounding in his heart. She was a rare beauty, indeed.

After thanking the widow and compensating her for her trouble and for the clothing, they set off for the mooring, two of Everard’s men accompanying them.

Everard tucked Davina’s arm in his, enabling her to lean on him and be supported as she gained sufficient strength to keep pace with them.

As they drew near Everard’s birlinn, two men waded ashore from a small rowing boat. Davina looked at them, her eyes widening fearfully, clutching his arm.

“Those two…,” she croaked gesturing toward the men. “They were the ones pursuing me. I’m certain of it.”

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