Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (2 page)

Beside her, eleven pious women prayed in silent devotion. Rose prayed in abject desperation!

How had she lost the cross of St. Mary's Abbey? And why in heaven's name hadn't she noticed it right off? Not that she could have returned to the lake anyway. For what if her instincts had been true? What if a stranger had indeed been lurking in the dark woods—watching her shameful disrobing?

And what of her dreams? What of the dark, masculine figure that had haunted her sleep? He had seemed so real. So close. So disturbing and yet alluring, like a forbidden fruit.

She shivered, wondering at the eerie feelings that had invaded her peace. Had those frightening moments on the beach been no more than a product of her too-vivid imagination? But no—Silken had snarled as he always did if a stranger approached. The wildcat had been waiting by the lake, almost seeming to know she would come. But of course he could not know. She had not even known herself. Probably Silken spent many nights by the lake and it had been mere coincidence that brought them there together. Whatever the reason, it had been so very good to see the cat again and ever so lucky for her that he had warned her of another's presence.

But what now? Even if, by some miracle, the abbess didn't notice her loss, someone was bound to find the cross. What would happen when the goose girl wandered along the lakeshore, as she was wont to do, and found a fat gander pecking irreverently at the wooden cross bound with brass wire? What then?

It would be a simple matter of elimination. What lady of St. Mary's was missing her cross? And why had it been found taking a dip in the cold water of the nearby lake?

Why indeed?

She should have stayed safely within the confines of the stone walls, should have spent her time in fasting and prayer. Rose opened her eyes to narrow slits, studying Mary Catherine, who had a strange habit of swaying back and forth as she prayed. Her rosary hung securely by her hip and upon her sturdy chest rested the unique cross of their order.

Rose bit her lip, remembering her Uncle Peter's amazing sleight of hand. He could have whisked that chain from Mary Katherine's neck without...

God help her! Rose crossed herself with speedy desperation. She was devil's bait. That’s what she was. Considering pinching a sister's cross! It was scandalous. Still... She slitted her eyes again, watching the little cross sway seductively with Mary Katherine's movement.

But surely the theft of a cross would be frowned upon, both in heaven and here in their humble abbey, for in truth the Lady Abbess had yet to forgive Rose for her sojourn onto the roof. It had been a harmless little jaunt really, though perhaps she should not have tried to scale the side of the abbey, even though the squirrel had ventured down that way. The animal had been the most peculiar color—almost white with just a patch of red in the center of its chest. It had sorely piqued her curiosity and she had seen no harm in investigating such a unique creature.

She'd been within arm's length of the pale squirrel when she'd lost her grip on the crumbling stone and fallen—smack into the shaded kitchen garden. Sister Ruth had shrieked in the most high-pitched tone imaginable. Sister Frances had fainted dead away.

In truth it had been the most excitement they'd seen in years. They should have thanked her for the diversion. Instead, she'd been sent to her cell with no supper.

Rose's stomach rumbled at the memory. She bit her lip again. If her cross was found by the lake, she'd be lucky to be allowed so much as a whiff of food between now and the Lord's next coming.

She'd have to find the cross and pay penance for her shameful behavior. After all, she'd promised her mother on her deathbed that she'd become a nun. And God damn it—Father forgive her—that's what she'd do.

She'd be a model of decorum, stay discreetly out of the way, and hope the good Lord would have mercy on her, a pitifully poor sinner. But why hadn't the Lady Abbess chastised her for her tardiness to morning prayer? And how had she failed to notice the absence of her cross?

There were visitors in the village, Rose knew— two large men on fine, powerful steeds. They'd spoken to the abbess. Perhaps they'd kept the lady's mind too occupied for her to consider Rose's less-than-exemplary conduct. Perhaps it was the divine providence of God.

That was it. The good Lord had taken note of her earnest attempts at pious devotion and was about to give her the opportunity to retrieve her cross without the abbess' knowledge of any wrongdoing.

Rose said a sincere prayer of thanksgiving.

It would be simple enough. She'd slip out her window after they'd been sent to the isolation of their cells. It would take her only a moment to scale the wall and not much longer to vault the outer enclosure. She wouldn't tarry by the lake as she so wished to do, but would come back straightaway.

She scowled again, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. It was true that she'd promised the Lord never to sneak from the abbey again. But was it not also true that the Almighty knew her weaknesses? Therefore He must realize she would be unable to keep such a vow—for He knew all things.

Rose nodded once, content with her sound reasoning. The Lord knew her weaknesses and therefore counted her feeble attempts at piety more favorably than the seemingly much grander piety of the sisters.

Likewise, the Lady Abbess must forgive her also.

The bell chimed. Rose crossed herself and straightened rapidly, made hungry by her feverish rationalization—and bumped messily into Lady Sophie, the abbess.

"Oh! Mother!" Rose gasped, grabbing the Lady Abbess' frail form to keep her from tumbling over backward. "I didn't see... I'm..." She gulped, wondering suddenly at the woman's unexpected presence. "... sorry." Her knuckles, she realized, were rather white as she gripped the elder woman's robes in a somewhat irreverent clasp. "So... so sorry," Rose mumbled, finally dropping her hands to brush gently at the wrinkles she'd pressed into the other's robes.

Their eyes met, Lady Sophie's calm but patiently exasperated, Rose's wide and unmistakably panicked as she remembered the lost cross.

"So, so sorry," she repeated, wondering dismally if she should admit her loss and craft a likely alibi for the cross' strange disappearance, or pretend nothing was amiss and hope to God the abbess wouldn't notice.

"I wish to speak to you in the parlor," said Lady Sophie evenly.

"Speak..." Rose knew her voice cracked when she said the single word, which was quickly accented by the deep rumble of her stomach, set to panic at the thought of another missed meal. "Speak..."

The abbess nodded and turned.

"Yes." Rose gulped again, trying to achieve the proper stoic demeanor. "Yes, Lady Abbess."

The parlor was a sizable room. It was divided by heavy, cast-iron grillwork which reached from ceiling to floor and separated the sisters from any visitors they might receive. Rose had spoken to Uncle Peter there, before he'd been accused of stealing the neighbor's cow and thought it best to remove himself from the immediate vicinity.

She wished she would find him there now, his round, jolly face watching her through the bars, but the far half of the room was blanketed in darkness, lit by only one sputtering candle.

The Lady Abbess occupied the lone chair. The chaplain was there also, unsmiling and silent as Rose stepped into the room. For a moment all bravery abandoned her and she was tempted to flee, but she swallowed hard and prayed, pulling the creaky door shut behind her.

Why was the chaplain here? It wasn't that he frightened her. Indeed, despite all her misfortunes during her years at the abbey, he had been the one to plead for the sisters' patience and understanding on her behalf. After all, he'd reminded them, Rose was young, and so full of life. She was sure to sometimes fall short of their expectations.

Had she fallen so far short this time that she was about to be expelled?

Panic gripped her. Despite how it might seem to the sisters, she truly tried to emulate their actions, to attain their contentment, but there was so much life outside these walls. There was so much to see and do and consider, that sometimes she felt as if she would burst if she did not escape for a short while.

Generally though, she was content enough, Rose reminded herself quickly. It was true that the hours of prayer became long and tedious, but she had learned much in the way of healing in the past five years. Much that she would not have learned had she been allowed to remain with her parents on their small plot of land. But the Lord had taken them so quickly, allowing the fever to sear away their lives and leave her unharmed.

"You wished to ... speak to me?" Rose asked, clasping her hands behind her back and feeling the cool sheen of panicked perspiration on her palms.

"Yes, my child." It was the chaplain who spoke, his soft, even voice sounding worried and slightly sad.

Rose braced herself, clasping her hands harder. They knew! Or did they? Best to confess to the lesser of her crimes first.

"I'm sorry for my tardiness at morning prayer. Please forgive me," she began speedily, but the abbess lifted one fragile hand to stop her words.

"It is not that which concerns us just now," said she, rising slowly, her expression solemn.

Dear God! They did know. But of course they would. "Oh!" Rose backed away a step, hitting the wall with a muffled smack, her face going pale. "That! Well..." she mumbled nervously. "I can explain. It’s really quite simple. It was so hot, you see, and..." Rose brought her hands forward to clench them in front of her simple robe. "I know it was wrong. And I promise not to do it again if you can but forgive this one slip. I didn't mean to ..."

Her voice lapsed into silence as she recognized the identical expressions of surprise and uncertainty on her superiors' faces.

"Didn't mean to—ah, disgrace..." She sucked in her lower lip, her eyes going wide as her gaze skittered from one aged face to the other. Well, hell, she realized with mind-numbing relief, they didn't have any idea what she was talking about.

"Perhaps you should take that up with our Lord, my child," said the abbess, her pale eyes seeming to mildly chastise Rose for whatever violations she had perpetrated this time. "Just now we need to discuss another matter with you."

"A-another?" Rose stuttered, her emotions flung hither and yon with each word spoken. Had she done something even worse than losing the cross? It was possible, she supposed, for it seemed she was forever sinning in new and creative ways she'd never even fathomed were sinful. The time she'd used her rosary to tie the barn door shut, for instance. But the rope had been missing and ...

“Perhaps you know we've had visitors here at the abbey?" began Lady Sophie.

"Well..." Rose hedged, not quite certain if she should admit her knowledge. After all, it was a sin to be too preoccupied with the business of others. Wasn't it?

"The fact is, we
have
had visitors," continued the abbess. "Two men from Scotland."

"Scotland?" Rose's eyes widened even further as she allowed her hands to drop to her sides. "Barbarians?"

"Perhaps we are all barbarians in the sight of God," said the chaplain quickly.

"They have come looking for their kindred," explained the abbess in her usual gentle tone.

"Here? In England? But why..."

"It seems they have come a long and hard way in search of an English lady and her Scottish-born child."

Rose frowned, her mind working quickly. "I know nothing about..."

"The lady came here long ago, Rose. And died soon after of much the same fever that took your parents."

"Oh." The awful fever was a greedy thing that showed no mercy. Already Rose could feel her eyes fill with tears at the haunting memory. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "And the child?"

For one tense moment there was silence, then, "Dead also, I fear," stated the abbess, gripping her own hands now, as if Rose's worry was a contagious thing. "Both buried in our gravesite."

Rose cleared her throat, pushing back the pain of remembering and filling her mind with the present. She'd read the inscriptions on all the tombstones in the small cemetery and sometimes felt drawn there, as if an elusive peace beckoned to her from amongst the silent stones.

"It seems the Scotsmen have come at the request of a dying lord," continued the abbess. "It was
his
wife and child who came here those many years ago. Not knowing the two had died, the Scotsmen traveled here to find them. But..." Lady Sophie shrugged, looking old and worn. "I told them of the grave markers and—"

"What were their names?" Rose interrupted distantly, an eerie sensation gripping her chest as the hair on her arms rose slightly.

The abbess watched her silently, as did the chaplain.

"They were of the MacAulay family, I am told," said the Lady Abbess at last. "The mother was named Elizabeth. The babe—Fiona."

"Fiona," Rose whispered. She felt oddly breathless and supposed it was part of her strangeness Papa had sometimes referred to and Mama had always shushed him about. The strangeness that made the hair on her arms stand on end and her mind see shadowed, unexplained images. The strangeness Rose had promised never to mention to another living soul.

The abbess cleared her throat now, moving a step closer. "When the Scotsmen acknowledged the deaths, they were most distraught. It seems the old lord had set his heart on seeing the child again."

"After all these years?" asked Rose weakly, trying to draw her mind from the unnerving sensations that haunted her.

"Sometimes a man can only see what is important in life after he has lived a good deal of it," said the chaplain wisely.

The abbess nodded. "The old man is gravely ill."

"And in great pain," added the chaplain.

"The Scots fear he will die, or linger in agony if he is not attended to."

Realization began to dawn slowly in Rose's mind, but she said nothing and waited.

"They have asked that we send someone learned in healing," admitted the chaplain finally.

The room was silent for a moment.

"Me?" Rose's single, startled word surprised even herself.