Samantha James

Scotland
Early 1200s

“
Be not afraid
.”

The words slid past her ear, cold as a loch in the midst of a wintry freeze. Hearing it, Meredith Munro felt a chill that reached the very depths of her soul…a chill she’d known but once before.

Her prayer beads slipped to the floor.
Be not afraid
, the voice had intoned. Alas, but she
was
afraid! Indeed, she was terrified, for within her tiny cell stood three men—two hulking figures she’d caught a glimpse of from the corner of her eye…

And the one whose hand clamped tight about her mouth.

Men did not belong here at Connyridge Priory. Father Marcus was the only man who came here, and that was in order to say Mass and hear the transgressions of the nuns and novices who resided within these ancient stone walls.

Her mind reeled. Dear Lord, she was on her feet—snatched from her knees as she prayed at her bedside! The one who held her…his hand was immense. It covered her nose and mouth so that she could scarcely
breathe; all she could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears.

Fear pumped through her with every beat of her heart, a fear nourished by the dire certainty that these men meant her harm. A dozen questions tumbled through her mind. Where was Mother Gwynn? Sister Amelia? How was it possible they had invaded these hallowed walls? There were three of them…three! Had no one heard a sound? An awful thought reared high in her mind. Perhaps the others had heard nothing, for they were already dead!

Nay. Nay! She could not think thusly, for she could not bear it!

As if to remind her, the arm about her waist tightened ever so slightly.

Warm breath rushed past her ear. “A word of warning,” came the grating male whisper anew. “Do not scream, for ’twill do no good, I promise you. Do you understand?”

His tone was almost pleasant, yet Meredith sensed that such was not his intent. Scream, she thought faintly. Shock and terror held her motionless. Why, the very notion was laughable! The muscles of her throat were so constricted, nary a sound could have passed had she tried!

“Nod if you understand.”

Somehow she managed to raise and lower her chin.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “Now, Meredith Munro, let’s have a look at you.”

The world whirled all about her. He knew her. He knew her by name! How could that be?

Slowly, the man who held her lifted his hand. Meredith felt herself turned bodily so that she faced him.

As if to oblige him, the light of a full moon trickled through the narrow window set high in the outer wall.
Meredith felt the full force of his gaze dwell long and hard upon her. Though she still wore her coarse gray robe, she flushed, for she had neither wimple nor veil to cover the length of her hair. No man had seen her thus since the day she’d said good-bye to her father those many months ago.

No longer did he touch her, though they stood nearly toe to toe. She knew instinctively that this man was their leader. Gathering her courage, Meredith inched her gaze a long way upward to his face. In the frenzied brew of her mind, he embodied all manner of evil. His features were indistinct and blurred in the darkness, yet never had she seen such intense, glittering eyes, like chips of stone. Her insides turned to ice. Was this the face of death?

Her gaze dropped to the sword at his side. On the other side hung a dirk which looked just as deadly. A shudder coursed through her, for she was suddenly quite certain…

If there would be blood spilled this night, it would be hers.

One of the other men lit the stub of candle at the wooden table. “She is the one?” he asked.

Those eyes never left her. Indeed, they seemed to pierce through her very skin. “She is,” was all the leader said.

“Aye,” the man replied. “She’s the look of a Munro.”

Her mouth had gone dry, yet she forced herself to speak. “What do you here? I do not know you, yet you know me.”

He neither agreed nor disagreed.

“You mean to kill me, don’t you?”

He did not deny it. Instead he asked, “Are you deserving of death?”

Nay
, she longed to cry. Instead her fingertips crept to the small silver crucifix which hung about her throat—it had been a gift from her father the day he’d brought her here. She fingered the finely etched surface, as if to draw both comfort and strength from it. Once again she heard his parting words to her:
Remember, daughter, God will always be with you…as will I
.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “That is not for me to judge.”

His smile did not reach his eyes. “Mayhap ’tis for me to judge.”

Meredith gasped. Did the man have no respect for the Lord? Oh, silly question, that! a voice within her chided. His very presence here dictated the answer.

“’Tis for no man to judge, only God himself.” She sought hard to keep the quaver from her voice.

“Yet such is hardly the case, is it not? How many of God’s creatures die from sickness?” He did not ponder, nor seek an answer from her. “Children and the aged, mayhap. But men…ah, well, men kill other men…and sometimes women, too.”

A chill went down her spine, for this time there was no mistaking the threat implicit in his tone. Meredith could not help it—she felt herself go pale.

“The others.” Her voice quavered. “Mother Gwynn. Sister Amelia. Are they—”

“They are alive and well, and snug in their beds.”

Her breath came in and held. Slowly she let it out, trying desperately not to panic. Why had he come for her? Surely not to fetch her for her father! Oh, but she must escape this lunatic, for only a lunatic would dare to intrude into this holy place as he had done! Escape was foremost in her mind. In her heart…

She bolted.

Oh, but she should have known! Quick as she was, he was quicker. She managed not three steps and he was upon her. Strong arms encircled her, stopping her cold. She felt herself dragged backward, her entire length brought upright against his body—it was if she’d hit a wall of stone.

Her reaction was more instinct than conscious thought. She twisted and writhed, trying wildly to escape the shackle of his arms.

“Be still!” he hissed.

Nay. She could not. She
would
not. She renewed her struggle with vigor, only to hear a vivid curse resound in her ear.

“By God, cease!”

The forearm about her waist tightened, threatening to crush her ribs and cut off her breath. She could feel the strength in him, feel it in every muscle of his body. As she gasped for air, only then did the realization come to her that he might break her as easily as he snapped a twig from a tree.

Her body lost all resistance. Her head dropped. A choked sound emerged from her throat, a keening sound of despair. She hated the way she trembled…and hated the awareness that surely he must feel it, too. If she was to die—saints forgive her for being such a coward!—she prayed that death would come swiftly, a dagger sheathed in the heart just so.

It was not to be.

Without further ado, she felt her feet leave the cold stone floor. She was stunned to find herself deposited on the bench before the table.

“Now, then, you will do as I say.”

But one thought ran through her mind, like the rush of the wind through the trees. Once before she’d been dragged from her bed in the midst of the night. Would
the outcome be the same? Pray God, no. For if it was, she could not bear it…not again.

Little by little she raised her head. “If you mean to…to…” Faith, but she could not find it within her to even say the words!

Not that there was any need. “To defile you?”

She felt her skin heat with the flood of embarrassment. “Aye,” she whispered.

His laugh was mirthless…and merciless. “I think not, Meredith Munro. Were I in need of a woman, of a certainty ’twould not be you. Indeed, I must force myself to suffer your presence.”

Such assurance hardly brought her ease. She heard the snap of his fingertips. One of the others moved, producing parchment, quill, and ink. This was set down before her.

“You will write a note to Mother Gwynn, stating that, alas! you cannot give your life over to God, nor can you remain on this earthly world, for you are deeply ashamed that you are so weak in devotion and spirit.”

Meredith gaped. God above, he would have her forfeit her own life!

“Nay, I cannot do it! Why, to take my own life would be mortal sin.”

The dark stranger had only to place his hand on his dirk.

She shook her head. “I cannot write,” she began desperately.

“You lie. You keep accounts for the prioress.”

How did he know that? Who was he, that he knew all about her? Her attempt at a glare was pitiful—as
she
was pitiful!

Never had Meredith despised herself as she did this very moment! She lowered her gaze, that he would
not glimpse her despair, then reached for the quill. Her eyes misting with tears, she watched as the words took shape.

Trying desperately to still the trembling within her, she signed her name. With a crushing feeling deep in her breast, she looked up.

He
was watching her, his gaze like the point of a lance. He picked up the letter and quickly scanned it. “‘Pray for me,’” he quoted. “Let us hope that someone does.” He lowered the letter, leaving it on the table in the center of the chamber.

“Up,” he ordered.

It crossed Meredith’s mind to defy him…but only for an instant. In truth she was so relieved to still be alive that for one mind-spinning instant she feared her legs would not hold her.

“Your hands, pray.”

Mutely she obliged. At a nod from him, one of his men dutifully stepped forward. Her hands were bound together before her with a length of rope. When the task was done, the man stepped back and opened the door.

Those burning eyes snared hers. “You will come,” was all he said.

Meredith instinctively recoiled, but it was no use. His fingers curled around her elbow. She endured his touch as best she could. She had no choice but to follow, battling both a helpless frustration and a numbing fear. Who was this man? What did he want with her? Why hadn’t he slain her? Indeed, why should he want her dead? Why should he want her
alive
? Or did he truly mean for her to slay herself?

They had passed Mother Gwynn’s quarters. Meredith’s gaze skipped forward, then quickly bounced away. She bit her lip, her pulse quickening. They were nearing the door to the dormitory where the nuns slept. If she were to call out and raise the alarm, one of the sisters might awaken. Indeed, perhaps someone was already awake, for surely it was nearing time to gather for Prime in the chapel. Then the intruders would be discovered—

He jerked her against him. The notion disappeared in mid-thought. The breath was jarred from her lungs. Her heart surely stopped, for suddenly they were wedded together, breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Meredith froze, even as it vaulted through her mind that his chest was like an immense wall of iron.

Panic raced through her, for he bent his head so that his lips brushed hers. Had he not held her in his grasp, she would surely have leaped from her very skin. Sweet Christ, surely he did not mean to…

“Do not,” he warned in a voice meant for her ears alone, “for they would only be hurt should they seek to aid you. ’Tis a fight they cannot win…nor can you. I am set on this course, lady, and no one will stop me…
no one
.” The arm around her back tight
ened ever so slightly before he stepped back—oh, yes, a warning indeed! she decided bitterly.

Despairing her weakness—despising it—Meredith clenched her bound hands into fists. To deepen her humiliation even further, those hard lips pulled into a tight smile, causing her own to press together.

Her eyes found his through the shadows. “There are ways to fight other than with swords.” Where her words—or the courage!—came from, she would ever wonder.

There was a short, harsh laugh. “Aye, but there are indeed.”

With that cryptic remark, he reclaimed her arm and led her into the passageway, down the narrow stairs. His men trailed behind them.

He seemed to know precisely where he was going, leading her through the nave of the chapel. They skirted the chancel and hurried through the cloister, turned left near the refectory. All too soon they emerged into the moon-drenched freedom of the night. His bold stride never faltered. Onward they continued, past the wooden outbuildings, weaving through the gardens and into the orchard. Before long they were outside the high stone wall that enclosed the priory, and only then did they halt.

They stood before the ringed granite cross of St. Michael, a cross which had been here for centuries. The smell of the sea was pungent and sharp, but Meredith scarcely noticed, for the ache of remembrance battered her. She fought a sudden, scalding rush of tears. Her lungs burned with a pain so intense it nearly brought her to her knees. It was here, on this very spot outside Connyridge Priory, that she had said her good-byes to her father. She had beseeched him not to return, not until she asked—
unless
she asked; for
Meredith feared that if he did, she might be tempted to leave with him, to return to Castle Munro and the home of her youth. Her heart wrenched, for she could almost see him again, the blue eyes so like her own shimmering with tears he made no effort to hide. He had wept openly…

So had she.

It seemed so very, very long ago…it seemed like yesterday. She vividly remembered how she had hated herself—hated that she had disappointed him. As his only daughter, his only child, she knew it was his heartfelt wish that she would someday marry and give him grandchildren.