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  “Teach me what he taught ye.” Sylvi’s voice exploded from her with the same force as her blows. “Ye know how to kill and ye willna show me.” Her strikes matched her words, which were heavy with a rough lilt Ariana had never noticed in her speech.

  Tension snapped in the air and alarm jolted down Ariana’s spine.

  Delilah uttered a soft curse and ran toward the two with Ariana following closely behind, but they both stopped short against the whipping of Sylvi’s blade.

  “Sylvi, stop this,” Delilah hissed.

  But Sylvi did not stop. Her blade lashed out at Connor, but he blocked it with his own.

  “Ye dinna know what ye ask for.” Connor parried and ducked smoothly.

  Ariana’s body tensed watching the two. Connor was strong, yes, but Sylvi had never been so out of control, so reckless.

  “And ye dinna know what I saw. I want to kill them, every last one of them.” Sylvi’s bellowed words were raw with unmistakable pain, her attacks blind and wild. “Ye never knew what I had to endure to be here. Ye’ll never understand.”

  Connor leapt at her then, like a cat descending on its prey. He dodged the flash of her sword and slammed her back to the ground, where he pinned her.

  The breath was pulled from Ariana’s chest, but she forced herself to stay where she was.

  “I understand far more than ye think,” he said in a low growl. “Killing them willna make the pain go away. Nothing will ever make the pain go away. That is what ye need to understand before ye’re ready.”

  There was something unguarded in his voice, something hoarse and hurt. Ariana knew she should turn away from the exchange, but found she could not.

  Sylvi glared up at Connor. “My Lady never would have held back.”

  He scoffed. “Ye’d be even more heartless if ye’d been under her this whole time.” He shoved off of Sylvi. “If this continues, or if I see one more of the girls with another injury from yer rage, ye’re gone.”

  Delilah gasped and ran toward Sylvi, mumbling something to her in soft words.

  Sylvi’s ribbon lay crooked on her neck and revealed a bit of smooth pink skin beneath. A scar?

  Connor stalked off across the field to where the shadows left the grass tipped with fuzzy white frost.

  Ariana stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure where to go, what to do. And then, before she could think on it further, she chased after Connor.

  He stood with his hands on his hips and his head lowered.

  “Ye dinna need to check on me,” he said. “I dinna lose control so easily.”

  “I know you don’t.” Ariana stepped closer. “You were there for my heavy thoughts. I’d like to be here for yours.”

  He turned toward her. His face was grim, a tired line etched deep in the center of his forehead. “Lass, if only ye knew how heavy my thoughts truly were.”

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. The muscle there was impossibly hard, his flesh hot beneath the thin fabric of his léine.

  “You could tell me.” She said it softly, half hoping he would hear her sincerity, half hoping he might not, lest he think her a foolish girl.

  He stared down at her, and though he said nothing and kept his face impassive, something in his eyes burned deep to the pit of her own burdened soul. And she welcomed it as readily as he’d welcomed her words the night before.

  She moved her hand from his shoulder, her action thoughtless and automatic, and touched his cheek. His whiskers prickled against her palm.

  He closed his eyes.

  Brazen and breathless, she curled her fingers slightly to caress the hard line of his jaw. He swallowed and opened his eyes once more before wrapping his warm hand around her wrist.

  His gaze lowered to her lips.

  Ariana’s pulse ticked faster and heat rose in her cheeks.

  But he pulled her hand from his face and unfurled his fingers from her wrist. “Ye have lessons to attend.”

  Ariana nodded mutely and turned from him with great hesitation. But it was not pity tugging at Ariana’s heart as she left him in the darkness of his own shadows—it was then she knew he understood pain so much better than she’d realized.

  Connor, for all his bravery and strength and all the women he’d saved, was just as broken as her.

  Chapter 8

  Connor waited until he’d passed over the stone bridge above River Clunie before urging his horse into a full run. The wind shoved at them, its merciless edge leaving a burning cold sensation tingling at his face.

  He welcomed it.

  Let it numb his flesh and erase the memory of Ariana’s touch.

  God, but her touch had been sweet.

  And he did not deserve it.

  Where he was everything evil and wrong, she was everything innocent and right. Even her downfall from court had been born out of necessity.

  Her gaze lured him with the promise that somehow just holding her, kissing her, would make him feel right—if only for one blissful moment.

  He tightened his grip on the reins until his muscles ached and he rode as hard and as fast as possible to clear his mind of Ariana.

  Only when he saw the small gray frame of the nunnery did he begin to slow. It had been the perfect place to put Cora, nearby enough to see her, and remote enough to not warrant many visitors. While he would have liked to have placed her in a wealthier convent, the poorer ones were more likely to escape notice.

  As Connor made his way up the narrow trail leading to the entrance, a man on a large white destrier emerged from the small courtyard. He did not seem to notice Connor.

  But Connor noticed him.

  Wild, dark hair and a familiar face now lined with the effects of age and war… Angus MacAlister.

  And within the walls of the abbey, where Cora was supposedly safe.

  Fear gripped Connor in a chilling embrace.

  He forced his pounding heart to slow and did a careful sweep of the courtyard, seeking evidence of nearby warriors waiting to ambush. Seeing none, he eased his boots from the stirrups of his horse for easy dismount. Just in case.

  But there were no other warriors. Not that he could see… None hidden in the shadows, no fearful-looking nuns attempting to continue in their duties in a rigid pass at appearing normal.

  Surely MacAlister would not travel without a retinue.

  Connor leapt from his horse and handed the limp reins to an aging nun he’d seen before. “Where is she?”

  The nun turned her head toward the small garden. “Where she always is.”

  Connor nodded a stiff thanks and stalked toward the large plot of dirt where a pathetic show of plants coiled low to the warmth of the ground.

  Every scenario spiraled through his mind, each one ending in the garden absent the one person in the world who mattered most to him.

  But no—there, safe, and kneeling in the dark soil, was his sister.

  Relief washed over him with such poignancy, it threatened to choke him.

  “Cora.” It came out strained, but saying her name, seeing her safe, all of it eased the spike of fear jammed into his heart.

  She looked up, then jumped to her feet and ran toward Connor as she’d done when she was a girl, arms wide and with fearless speed.

  He caught her before she could slam into him and squeezed her in so fierce an embrace it lifted her feet from the ground.

  But if MacAlister hadn’t taken Cora, then why the hell had he been there?

  Connor set Cora on her feet and tried not to stare too hard at her. “What was MacAlister doing here?”

  She brushed some dirt from Connor’s jacket and only succeeded in smearing more into the wool. “Who?”

  She wasn’t looking at him, which made it impossible to tell if she was lying or not. Which she well knew.

  “MacAlister,” Connor repeated. “The man who just left.”

  Cora gave a nonchalant shrug. “I dinna know a MacAlister.”

  Connor’s insides tightened. With fear, and frustration, and rage
, and all those helpless feelings he’d discussed the very night before.

  “How did he find ye? How did he know ye were here?” Connor clenched his fists at his sides in an effort to control his desperate, protective anger.

  “I dinna know what ye’re talking about.” The warm happiness cooled from her eyes and an angry line showed between her brows. “Ye finally come here and ye want to accuse me of something?”

  Cora never got angry, unless she was feeling defensive.

  “I’m accusing ye because I see it in yer eyes. I see it in the way ye’re acting now. Ye’re lying and I know it.”

  A gust of wind shoved her hair into her face. She pushed it back and crossed her arms over her chest, mute.

  “Ye were there that day, Cora,” Connor said, trying to keep his voice level. “Ye saw what they did to Da. Ye know what they almost did to ye.”

  Cora closed her eyes slowly, as if the action pained her, and nodded. “I know,” she said.

  “There could be others still seeking us out.” She looked so small with her petulant stance, and he was reminded of when she’d been such a wee, innocent thing. Like the time he’d told her she couldn’t follow him around all the time, and she’d put her fists on her hips, declaring she only did it because she loved him.

  Pulled toward her by such memories, he put his arms around her and hugged her to his chest.

  Her hair smelled soft and sweet, like chamomile flowers, the same as it always had. The familiarity warmed him. “I keep ye here so ye’ll be safe.”

  She pushed away from him, and the warmth they’d shared went cold. “But what is a life that isna being lived? I havena any friends. I have ye, aye, the few times ye come to visit. Look at me, Connor.”

  She’d once been a proud laird’s daughter in fine clothes, a happy girl with a ready smile on her lips. But her gown was a dull brown, muddy with black dirt from where she’d knelt on the ground. There were lines on her face he’d never seen before, and the glint of her eyes had faded.

  Even the gleam of her hair was not as he remembered.

  Like all of the life was draining from her.

  She looked like Liv.

  His heart went heavy.

  “I canna let ye die like Da,” he said softly.

  “And yet ye canna let me live,” she replied.

  He knew what she wanted—placement in a castle where she could be restored to her former glory. Hell, Connor wanted that too. But it wasn’t safe.

  Perhaps he might be able to find another abbey, one with more wealth. “I’ll find ye another place,” he conceded. “If ye tell me why MacAlister was here.”

  She gave a hard smile—an expression he’d never seen cross her sweet face. “Another abbey, I’m sure,” she said. “Where I’ll be safe.” The last word was cold and brittle.

  Desperation tightened Connor’s chest. “I need to know why he was here. I need to know who else has been here.”

  Damn it, there was a reason MacAlister’s name had come to him, why the king wanted him dead.

  What the hell had Cora gotten herself into?

  She looked up at him. “No one else has come, and no one else knows I’m here. I’ll say no more.”

  Her face was open and honest. And characteristically stubborn. He’d never get the reason for MacAlister’s visit from her. The realization was like a blade being driven into his gut.

  Connor reached for her, but she stepped away from him and grabbed a sack from where it lay propped against the fence. The clink of tools sounded from within.

  Their visit was done.

  He didn’t want it to be. He wanted to make this right, to promise she could live a life with fine gowns and a home and a clan again. He wanted to see the gleam of happiness in her eyes and the smile restored to her face.

  But he was helpless to do so.

  Seven more years.

  “I only want to see ye safe,” he said. “I love ye, Cora.”

  She slid him a look from the corners of her eyes. “Just go.”

  Then she turned her back and walked away.

  He waited until she had sunk to her knees in the dirt and begun working before he turned away. Why he waited, he had no idea.

  Perhaps for her to turn to him, to be grateful for the dismal position he was leaving her in.

  Perhaps for her to tell him she loved him with the same exuberance she had when they were children.

  But they weren’t children anymore, and the life they knew then, all the safety and happiness and wealth, had been shattered. He’d clearly done a shoddy job of repairing it.

  The abbess approached him as he emerged into the courtyard.

  “Good day, laird.” She nodded respectfully.

  He hardened his heart against the title, the one that had once been his. The woman insisted on calling him laird out of respect for his father.

  “How did MacAlister find her?” he asked.

  The nun straightened, clearly affronted by his curt tone.

  “She’s supposed to be safe here,” he said, more softly. “Yet I see a man leaving. How did this come to be?”

  “By accident.” Her thin mouth turned downward in a slight frown. “She was in the garden when he came to see about a place for a cousin of his. He has come to visit several times and…” The old woman tapered off.

  “And?” Connor said with measured patience.

  The lines of her face crumpled deeper in a heartfelt look of sympathy. “And I hate seeing her youth and vibrancy fade here. She’s happy after she sees him, aye? He’s an ally to my clan, and a good man.”

  Connor drew in a slow, deep breath. “Ye’re to keep her safe.”

  “I would no’ ever do otherwise.” She pushed her gnarled hand against his and something warm and heavy settled against his palm. “I have this for ye too.”

  He looked down to find a gold signet ring shining in his palm, the etched burning hill more deeply grooved than he remembered. It’d been three years since last he saw this ring.

  It had been collateral for the coin he sent every month to see Cora safe. He’d been saving to buy it back and had almost accumulated enough to do so.

  “I kept it for ye, like ye asked.” The nun said. “MacAlister has been sending coin for her. I think he intends to marry her.”

  She smiled then, so widely it bared her fragile teeth and all the hope for goodwill only a nun could possess.

  But Connor was not smiling. The insult was a slap in the face. “Had I no’ been sending enough?”

  “Nay, it’s been fine. But he wants to see her in fine gowns.”

  Fine gowns garnered attention. And attention did not always come from good places. And sure as hell not from MacAlister.

  The nun’s face fell. “Forgive me, I’d sent a message and dinna hear back. I assumed ye were fine with it.”

  “There was no message,” Connor said. “She’s to see no one but me.”

  The nun nodded, but he did not miss how her shoulders slumped.

  The time had come to move Cora from the small abbey.

  And the time had come to kill MacAlister.

  • • •

  Ariana knelt in front of the door with a narrow tool in her hand, seemingly too small for her task.

  Still, she held her breath to keep her fingers from trembling with nerves, and slipped the pick into the dark cavern of the lock.

  The bit of metal moved blindly inside. She traced the outline of the invisible parts within, seeking out the little latch Delilah had described.

  Sweat prickled at Ariana’s brow despite the cool room.

  Where was the latch?

  She moved the piece carefully once more, pressing harder this time.

  Something gave, just the slightest bit.

  But it was enough.

  She tightened her fingertips on the pick, sacrificing dexterity for strength, and pushed.

  A victorious click sounded from the large metal lock. Ariana tried the handle and the door swung open with ease. Deli
lah sat on a bench within the room, fingers buried in her thick light brown tresses.

  She gave a mock pout. “I didn’t even get to finish plaiting my hair.” The pout gave way to a wide grin. “That was fast.”

  A shadow fell over Ariana.

  “Connor wants to see us in his solar.” Sylvi’s brisk tone sounded over Ariana’s head.

  Ariana looked up in time to see the other woman stalking down the hall. Sylvi’s shoulders were squared out like a warrior’s, and the small braids framing her face had been twisted into a mass of blonde hair at the back of her head.

  Delilah raked a hand through the beginnings of her own braid, which slipped free and left her hair falling around her shoulders like a silk curtain. “Connor probably has a mission for us.”

  Ariana’s stomach did a little flip. Two months of training and now she might finally use what she had been learning. Her heart thudded a little faster.

  Delilah got up from the bench and took the pick from Ariana. “Put that in your hair and we’ll put it up after we go see Connor.”

  “In my hair?” Ariana asked.

  Delilah took the pick from her hands, folded it in half, and handed it back.

  It did resemble a hairpin. The side where Ariana had held her thumb earlier was etched with a series of whorls and flowers. She slid it into her hair with the patterned side out.

  Delilah adjusted it slightly and smiled. “Perfect. Percy really is amazing with her creations.”

  Before Ariana could ask more, Delilah caught her hand in hers and pulled her toward Connor’s solar. Not that Ariana needed pulling. It was all she could do to not run up there.

  This…this was what she’d been waiting for.

  And yet curiosity dragged her back.

  “What happened with Sylvi at practice today?” she asked, giving voice to the question wearing a hole in her mind.

  Delilah stopped, but did not drop Ariana’s hand. “Sylvi is very different from us. She…” Delilah pursed her lips. “She is here because she found out about the woman who used to do what we now all do together, before Connor came here and found us to aid him. Sylvi wanted to learn.”