“Or you could join the group where you can learn to read. Those nuns study the Bible and use their studies to teach others. Does that sound like something that might interest you?”
“Nay, sorry.”
Chop, chop, chop.
“Tell me about your time living here at the nunnery. Have you or Hildi decided if either of you are interested in taking your vows? Perhaps one of you would like to dedicate your lives to serving our Lord.”
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.
Hildi said, “I think I would prefer working at Ionaland when I’m old enough.”
“And that is an admirable vocation, my dear. Perhaps next winter we can make that arrangement for you. I am pleased you can see that in your future, Hildi.” Then the attention turned straight to her. “Brynja? What about you?”
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.
She tossed the knife down on the table. “I’ve told you many times, Sister. And I’m sorry that you do not approve of me and my ways. But I am focused on two things and two only.”
“Aye?” The nun looked at her as if she had no idea what she was about to say. As if she’d never heard her the other ten times she’d told her.
If she had to say it again, she would.
“I need to put a blade in the heart of the men who killed my mother and my aunt. And then I’m going after the man who came here for Sheona, who would have used Hildi and me after he finished with her.”
“Please consider letting this go, child.”
“Nay!”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s coming for me next!”
Brynja whirled around and ran out the door, allowing it to slam behind her.
At least Hagen hadn’t told her she needed to change her ways.
The nuns told her all the time. They just didn’t understand that she couldn’t.
Anger for their situation possessed her and wouldn’t let go until she got what she wanted.
What her soul needed.
Vengeance.
Vengeance was her soul now.
Chapter Eight
Sholto
The wound in Sholto’s thigh throbbed with every step, a constant reminder of the Norse bitch who’d put her dagger there. It has festered for nearly a fortnight, not the flesh, which had healed after a fashion, but the humiliation. The rage.
He limped to the window of the cottage they’d claimed on Tiree’s western shore, watching storm clouds gather over the sound. Behind him, Dugan sat at the table, counting coins with the focused attention of a man who worshipped nothing but silver.
“You’re brooding again,” Dugan said without looking up. “It’s tiresome.”
“She stabbed me.” Sholto’s hand went to his thigh, pressing against the scar through the fabric. “That golden-haired witch put a blade in my leg and laughed about it. Then she threatened to put another one there.”
“Aye, you’ve mentioned it. Several times a day for nearly a moon.” Dugan stacked his coins with irritating precision. “What you haven’t done is anything useful about it.”
