Читать книгу Surrender To the Highlander - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Convent of the Blessed Virgin Caithness, Scotland

Margriet sat on the steps leading up to the small chapel and held her hands over her ears. If another of the holy sisters began to wail, she would—God forgive her—be tempted to strangle her. Granted they were only novices and young at that, but already Sister Madeline and Sister Mary were caterwauling as loudly as she’d ever heard anyone scream. Sister Suisan had fainted again, so at least her crying had stopped.

The reverend mother, Mother Ingrid, overwhelmed at the sight of the warriors at their gates, promptly ran to the church, fell to her knees in prayer and would not respond to any questions or requests. Although Mother’s manner was usually one of calm and control, Margriet guessed that when confronted with such a formidable group of outsiders anyone’s calm could be disturbed. That left Margriet, as was their usual custom in recent days, in charge of the others and she was uncertain what to do.

“Lady?” a soft voice broke into her quiet cone of thoughtfulness.

Margriet looked up and realized it was Sister Sigridis and she was not whispering but shouting at her. She dropped her hands. “What is it, Sister?”

“He is calling for ye again.”

“Yes, Sister. He has been doing that for two days now.”

“Do ye think that mayhap ye should answer him? He sounds angrier than before.”

Margriet took in a deep breath and let it out before standing. Each time the warrior yelled out her name, the youngest of the nuns began their hysterics again. Lifting her long braid and tossing it back over her shoulder, she strode off toward the main gate and… him. Tugging on the thick brown gown as she walked, she prayed he would relent this time and leave them, and her, in peace. The stubborn set of his jaw in each encounter so far told her otherwise.

Truly, if it had been in a different situation, she might find him appealing. He was certainly fit and the strength in his arms—as he banged hard enough on the wooden gate to nearly shatter it—would provide strong protection to those in his care. His head, though it appeared that his custom had been to shave it of hair, was now covered with a downy layer of pale hair. Instead of marring or softening his appearance, it both gave him a dangerous look and made her palms itch to touch it and test its softness. It was the only thing soft about him for even his deep voice made her heart pound in terror at its fierceness.

Since she was the person he sought, Margriet felt mostly irritation at his behavior and his methods of attempting to gain her compliance. Sister Sigridis dropped away from her side and stood a distance from the gate as she climbed up into the guard’s tower to look over the wall.

“I asked you to stop terrifying the good sisters, sir.”

The words certainly sounded brave to her ears and she waited for his response. Margriet took a small step forward so she could look down at him. The man backed away a few paces, intent on looking up at her. With the nun’s habit on her, she knew he could glimpse only a small part of her face and not much more. The bulky robes covered her from feet to shoulders and the wimple and long veil covered everything else.

“And I asked Lady Margriet to present herself for escort home, Sister. One will surely follow the other,” he called out to her. When he stopped shouting, his voice could be quite pleasant…for a barbarian.

“Lady Margriet has taken vows…of silence…” she answered, thinking it an excellent reason for not talking to him, “and she fears for her soul if she breaks that.”

Guffaws from all the men below filled the air. Apparently the men did not think a woman capable of silence.

“Present the girl now!” He was back to yelling and banging and she feared the gate would give way soon to his strength.

“A short respite, please, sir. Let me see if I can convince her to see you,” Margriet offered.

There was a buzz of conversation below among all the men there and then an answer. “An hour, good sister. You have one hour to convince the girl to speak to me or I will burn this convent to the ground and remove her myself.”

She knew for a certainty the result that would occur because of his threat and her left eye and the brow above it began to twitch in anticipation. Scrunching her eye shut, she gritted her teeth the moment it began.

Loud, hysterical screaming and wailing began in the chapel and spread out as the novices there, as well as a few of the lay women, joined in the horrible chorus. The few men who worked there, tending the fields and doing the heavy labor that women could not, looked at her nervously. They could not defend the convent against this warrior’s attack. Other than a few knives and a bow and quiver of arrows for hunting, they had no weapons but for some farming tools.

Margriet climbed down quickly and waved to Sister Sigridis, who shook her head. The daft girl probably thought she meant to send her out to answer his demands. “Sister, please tell the reverend mother that I will speak to this Rurik and see if I can convince him to leave me here.”

“Are ye certain, lady? He might take ye by force if ye leave the safety of the walls.”

Although Sister Sigridis’s intention was to offer some consolation, Margriet sensed a feeling of relief in the girl at not having to speak to the man. She did not blame the sister for not wanting to do so, but she knew now that only she could work out a compromise and end this siege before it truly started.

“I am, Sister.”

Margriet lifted the habit over her head and pulled the veil and wimple free, immediately sending a rush of cool air around her. Her body did not handle heat well right now and it was a relief to remove it. Tossing her extra garments to one of the servants, she thought on how she could accomplish the task. What would make the man stop his harassment and go away?

Her only communication with her father over these long years had been in writing, so Margriet decided to prepare a missive that this warrior could take with him and deliver instead of taking her.

Entering the convent through the kitchen, she shushed and soothed all those working there. Although not a nun and not officially in charge, Margriet’s strong personality and innate intelligence had made it easy to “guide” the good sisters to her way of doing things here. She found that the management of people was quite enjoyable and satisfying, and knowing she was contributing to their welfare convinced her that her presence and actions were of benefit to the religious community there. With nothing to distract her, Mother Ingrid spent more hours in prayer each day and that was something that made the woman very happy. As it did Margriet.

She opened the door to the reverend mother’s chambers and searched the desk for an unused piece of vellum, or one that could be scraped and used again. Finding one, she sat and composed a letter to her father explaining how she desired to remain with the sisters in the life of a religious contemplation and prayer. Surely, he would not deny her permission to serve the Lord in such a manner?

It took nearly the full hour to complete, scraping the old ink from the vellum, carefully composing and writing her words, but once she finished and sanded the parchment, she knew it would work. Rolling it up with care, Margriet walked outside, garbed herself once more as a sister and looked around for a companion to accompany her outside the walls.

None of the sisters could be trusted to carry out her instructions in this charade, so Margriet went searching for the girl who worked in the laundry, someone who rarely spoke a word to anyone. If the warrior from the North thought Gunnar’s daughter was still a girl, she would present him with a girl— one who did not speak—and she would talk for her. When the girl, Elspeth, shook her head in agreement, Margriet walked to the gate with her in tow. As she waited for Elspeth to don the other habit she’d secured, she could hear the men on the other side. Margriet paused only to gain the promise of a truce.

“Do you swear that you will take no action against Lady Margriet?” she called out to them, to him.

“Sister, you would try the patience of the very saints to whom you pray! Bring the girl out now.”

Elspeth smiled at his words and Margriet suspected that others had said the same thing about her here at the convent. Still, she needed some assurance against their superior strength and weapons. Deciding that a man’s vanity could work against him, she tried a different approach.

“This is a house of God, sir. Surely even a mighty warrior such as yourself would agree to a truce in the name of the Almighty.”

The rude and bitter swearing that reached her even through the thick gates spoke of other interests he had, but Margriet waited in silence now. After a few minutes of fierce whispers and some laughter from the other men out there, the leader relented.

“You have your truce, Sister. Now, bring the girl out!”

His voice roared and she could hear the wailing again, so she tugged the veil lower on her face and lifted the bar from the gates. Pulling it open, she stepped out through the narrow space and Elspeth followed, head bowed as she’d told her to do.

“Lady Margriet?” he asked.

Stepping closer, he lifted the girl’s chin to get a better look at her face. Damn the man! Margriet feared that Elspeth would bolt, but the girl remained at her side and allowed him his scrutiny. It was when he glanced at her and then stared that Margriet felt faint.

His eyes seemed to pierce into her very soul, so strong and intense a gaze that she tried to turn away from him and failed. He searched her face as though looking for something and then let his eyes drop over her body, in spite of the bulky robes and veil. It was as though he was touching her, running his hands over her flesh, and every inch of her felt scorched by his examination. Their eyes met and the moment stretched on and on until the men behind him coughed loudly. Finally she pulled her wits about herself and cleared her throat.

“This is the Lady Margriet Gunnarsdottir, from Kirkvaw. She has prepared this letter to explain her situation to her father. If you would be good enough to deliver it to him on your return…”

Her pride in getting the whole message out was crushed when he tore open the seal she’d placed and began to read the words there. Then he laughed out loud, the sound of it echoing through the trees surrounding them and out into the forests. Finally, he passed the parchment onto the one nearest him, who read it and handed it back. This second man said nothing, but only shook his head as though in disbelief.

“Sirs, you scoff at something godly and spiritual that the lady wishes to do. Will you deliver it to Lord Gunnar?”

“Nay, Sister. To deliver that instead of his daughter will be a death sentence for all of us.”

He dropped the letter to the ground and smashed it under his booted foot. Margriet gasped at such wastefulness and tried to recover it. The warrior grabbed her arm and lifted her back to standing. She looked at the rough hand holding her prisoner and then at his face. No one had touched her so, no one would dare touch her in this manner, but for these few moments she was only a sister standing in the way of his mission. He seemed to realize his inappropriate hold and let her go.

“Pardon, good sister,” he said softly. “I will replace that which I have destroyed and make a generous donation to atone for my actions here. Once the lady leaves with us, of course.” The smile at the end of his words in no way allayed her fears or detracted from his seriousness.

Margriet, who should have learned the hard lesson of male guile long ago, found herself fascinated by the way his firm lips curved as he smiled. The expression softened his features, but did not take away from the masculine angles and lines of his face. When he smiled more, it revealed a more attractive man than she would have thought possible from their meetings so far.

He towered over her in height and, as he stepped toward her now, she moved back. Realizing the true danger in such closeness, she reached out, took Elspeth’s hand and tugged the girl inside the gates quickly before he could grab her himself. Leaning on the gates with all their weight, they lowered the bar and locked it. She only just dared to take a breath when his words, spoken quietly but far more dangerously then anything he’d said so far, reached her.

“Lady Margriet, I know not who that girl is, but if you do not present yourself to me, outside these gates, at sunrise, I will burn the convent to the ground.”

“Sir…” she began, but she faltered as he interrupted.

“Do not think to play me for some fool again, lady. Be outside the gates at sunrise or there will be only ashes and wailing women left here when I tie you to my horse and drag you home to your father.”

She shivered at his threat and looked at Elspeth, whose face had lost all color. Her gambit had failed. Although a stranger to her, she did not doubt his resolve in this. Without another word, she pulled Elspeth along with her as she ran to the chapel. Maybe Mother Ingrid’s desire for seclusion and to pray all the time was a better plan than hers after all?

It took some time to calm down the sisters and the others there and more time to accept her fate. Part of her simply could not believe that he would take such drastic measures to force her out, but when Sister Sigridis reported that his men were collecting wood from the forest and making a huge pile, the truth seemed plain to see. After the years of comfort the good sisters had provided to her, she would not allow them to be hurt in her stead.

As she lay on her pallet that night and considered what few choices she had, Margriet knew that they would never ask her to leave or force her to, but her conscience would not let the matter get to that. Gliding her hands over her now-rounding belly, she thought that mayhap this was God’s work after all. Finn had promised her marriage, but something had happened that forced him to leave before he could honor that promise. Surely if she accompanied these men to Kirkvaw, found him and revealed the truth of her condition to him, he would honor his words and their love.

Surely?

Margriet was certain that she’d just closed her eyes when she woke to someone shaking her roughly. Rubbing her eyes and praying that the sickness that plagued her mornings was gone, she sat up and met the very worried gazes of four of the sisters.

“What is wrong?” she asked, rising from the pallet and tugging on her low boots. Smoothing her sleep-snarled hair away from her face as she ran toward the doorway, she waited for one of them to explain.

The smell of burning wood told her more than words could. Margriet raced from the small chamber and ran to the gates. Knowing she could avoid fate no longer, she lifted the bar and tossed it to the ground. Although they stood watching, no one stopped her or tried to convince her to stay. The thickening smoke burned her eyes as she stepped outside and faced her adversary.

Five men stood with lit torches in their hands waiting on his order. A faint expression of success crossed his face and then he covered the space between them in a few long strides, reaching her before she could react. In his hands, he held not a torch but a length of rope and his threat echoed through her mind.

“Will you come willingly or do I tie you?”

Not a sound was made by any of those watching and no one moved as this Rurik waited for her answer. In that moment the blood of her ancestors pulsed through her veins, giving her a confidence she’d not known before.

“I am Margriet Gunnarsdottir and will come willingly if you guarantee the safety of those inside.”

They both knew she had no choice, but he did the most unexpected thing then. Instead of gloating as most would in such a situation, he smiled at her and she could feel his pride in her decision. Respect filled his gaze, warming her from the inside out, and then he motioned to the men to put away the torches. As one, they bowed to her.

Margriet stood stunned for a moment, trying to sort out her feelings over their actions and, in a sudden burst, the uncomfortable feeling overwhelmed her. There was no time to warn any of them and she discovered that vomiting on a man’s boots did not convey the emotion she was trying to show.

Or mayhap it did?