Abigail shrugged, not giving it much thought as she peered at her embroidery. “I don’t know, other than he’s a MacKinnon. He was lost, and I showed him how to get to the lists. We didn’t say aught else.” Abigail’s attention returned to those around her after tuning out the other ladies-in-waiting while she reflected upon her doomed handfast.
“You mean you didn’t introduce yourselves?” Emelie’s brow furrowed.
“Nay. He strikes me as rather shy. We both needed to go our separate ways, so I pointed him in the right direction, and we parted.” Abigail shrugged again, but the nameless MacKinnon and his rugged attractiveness played through her mind for the rest of the day.
Three
Abigail kept her head down during the Sunday Mass. She was supposed to be paying attention to the Latin being recited by the priest, but her mind drifted toward the MacKinnon warrior she kept noticing around the castle. She caught sight of him during meals, but he always disappeared as soon as he’d eaten. She assumed he spent his days in the lists or with his men. He didn’t strike her as a courtier or an advisor to the king, so Abigail thought he must be a visitor.
Abigail hadn’t dared ask anyone who he was, since the last thing she needed were more rumors circulating about her. Her arrival caused a stir after Kieran removed Madeline from court. Her brother had heard several of the hateful things she spewed about Maude while they both served Queen Elizabeth de Burgh, and her lack of tact threatened their clan’s standing. People expected Abigail to be just like Madeline, and while Abigail knew she’d been on the path to becoming like Madeline, she’d mended her ways.
As she thought about her sister’s near-consecration, Abigail’s lips twitched. Kieran not only dragged Madeline away from court, he sent her to Inchcailleoch Priory, an abbey on “the island of auld women.” The priory was known for its austerity and rules of silence. Madeline had been so intimidated by the nuns upon arrival that she did whatever she was told to avoid extra hours of prayer, a hair shirt, and self-flagellation. It hadn’t taken long for Madeline to realize that behaving herself and being kind took less effort than being hateful. She’d found peace and grace during her time as a postulant and novice.
Madeline had spent four years at the abbey and had been prepared to take her vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience; but despite her reformation, the Mother Superior knew the monastic life wasn’t Madeline’s vocation. She’d recommended that the order release Madeline from service, and Kieran accepted the nun’s suggestion. Now Abigail’s older sister had a blissful marriage and was preparing to one day become Lady Grant.
“Amen,” Blythe hissed as she elbowed Abigail. Her head whipped up, and Abigail noticed that the congregation was standing for the final hymn. She hadn’t realized her thoughts drifted so far and for so long. She rose and joined in with the rest of the congregants. A rich baritone floated to her ears, and she was certain she’d never heard the voice before. It wasn’t loud and overzealous—in fact, it was just the opposite. The man’s voice was rich and subtle, but she felt like it coated her in warm honey. It was smooth and would stick with her. Abigail did what she could to shift and look back over her shoulder inconspicuously. She failed to go unnoticed when the singer smiled at her, the very same man she’d given directions to and seen in the kirk the previous week.
I canna keep thinking of him as “that mon” and “him.” I should learn his name. But why? What does it matter what he’s called? He’ll leave court, and I’ll likely never see him again. I’m too curious. I should find better things to pay attention to. Like Mass. Dammit. Och, sorry, God. The service is over, and I’m keeping the others trapped in the pew because ma mind is drifting. Again.
Abigail slid from her pew and turned toward the back of the church. She offered the stranger a nod before continuing down the aisle. When she was nearly at the rear of the nave, she slipped into a pew and kneeled. The other ladies were accustomed to her routine, and as a very devout woman, Queen Elizabeth never begrudged her more time in prayer. It was the week before the start of Advent, and Abigail recited her usual litany of thanksgiving. She tried not to think about how much she would miss richer foods, music, and dancing while trying to show her newfound selflessness to God.
I suppose nay one’s perfect. I mean, other than Jesus. I suppose Ye understand, God, why sometimes I slip back into ma auld way of thinking. But it is through Yer bountiful mercy that I have seen the error of ma ways and ma many sins. I strive to be better each day, and Ye have given me another chance for both happiness and to prove I am a worthy servant to Ye, Lord God. Thank Ye for the many blessings of this life and those who I love and care aboot. Guide me with Yer presence even when I may nae think of Ye. I place ma trust in Ye, Lord. In all things and in all ways, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Abigail glanced at the hanging crucifix and the altar beneath it one last time before rising. She genuflected as she left the pew and turned around to see the same man, with his fair hair bowed in prayer, just as he had been the previous week. This time he sat in a pew behind hers, so it was she who passed him. She offered a slight smile as she walked past. Ronan dipped his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched before he returned to his prayers. Abigail wondered what he prayed about, and why he needed more time than the Mass allowed. She knew whyshewanted more time, but she was curious about him. She reminded herself that other people’s prayers were none of her business.
* * *
Ronan was lost again. He was certain it was at least the thirtieth time since he arrived at court nearly a fortnight earlier. He seemed to find fresh places to get lost each time he ventured from his chamber or the Great Hall. He’d waited for an audience with the king, praying over and over that he make a good impression. Now he was late—extremely late. As he rushed along a passageway he believed he recognized, he wished he had a guide who could lead him from place to place. He normally had a keen sense of direction, so getting lost within the castle doubly annoyed him. He found too many of the passageways looked the same, with only closed doors lining each side. He’d grown more confident about finding his way to the lists, but he’d never been to King Robert’s Privy Council chamber.
“Are you turned around again?” Abigail called out. Ronan looked to his left and spied a shadowy figure. He realized he stood in the light, which made his appearance clear to her even though he had only her voice to help him recognize her. “Off to the lists again?”
“Nay.” Ronan shook his head and waited until Abigail stood before him. “After a fortnight of waiting on tenterhooks, I’ve finally been called for my audience with the king. I haven’t the foggiest notion how to find the Privy Council chamber, and I was meant to be there at least a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Oh, dear,” Abigail gasped before a corner of her mouth drew down. Her expression showed she knew how dire it was that Ronan was so late. She didn’t envy him. “We’d best get you there sharpish. You’ll lose your audience, and it could be a moon before the king will risk wasting his time again.”
“I ken. That’s why I’m in a bit of a dither aboot it. It’s been quite some time since I last saw the king, and now I’m late whenhesummonedme.”
“You’re here on behalf of your laird. Did he not warn you that it could be several weeks before you’re granted an audience? The king might summon you by a specific date, but it rarely means you’ll be seen in less than a fortnight.”
“For my laird?” Ronan’s brow furrowed before he smiled. “My lady, I am Laird Ronan MacKinnon.”
Abigail stopped short as she rudely looked him over from the top of his hair to the tip of his boots before she caught herself. “My pardon, my laird. I hadn’t realized you were who you are.” Abigail dipped into a curtsy before grinning. “I’m Abigail MacLeod.”
It was Ronan’s turn to stare. His eyes opened wide before narrowing as he looked for any plaid in her ensemble. Abigail chuckled, having expected his reaction.
“I’m from Lewis, not Skye. We need not try to run each other through,” Abigail’s voice was lighthearted despite her embarrassment in thinking that Ronan was a clan delegate rather than the MacKinnons’ laird. She held out her hand while offering him a shallow curtsy. Ronan’s fingers barely grazed the underside of her fingers as he leaned over to kiss the air just above her hand. Abigail stepped away and began guiding Ronan to his destination.
“I suppose I should have introduced myself the last time you guided me, but I’m afraid I forgot my manners in my frustration to find my way out of this maze,” Ronan explained.
“It’s quite all right. I recognized your plaid and your accent. I should have introduced myself as a neighbor,” Abigail replied.
“I knew you were a Hebridean, but I didn’t guess a MacLeod.”
“From Lewis,” Abigail teased.
“Aye,” Ronan returned her grin. “My men and I have sat with your guards each evening.”
Abigail waited for Ronan to continue, but when he said nothing more, she glanced at him. It seemed as though he’d used all of his words and wasn’t sure what to say next. It reminded Abigail that he’d appeared shy the previous times she’d seen him. They carried on in companionable silence until it became awkward walking together as though the other didn’t exist. Abigail didn’t want to prattle, but she felt like she needed to fill the quiet.
