Page 1 of The Vicious Laird
CHAPTER ONE
Spring, 1232
Iona Nunnery, western coast of Scotland
“Please, Imustspeak with the Mother Superior. ‘Tis a matter of urgency.”
The words tore from Isolda’s throat raw and desperate, her voice nearly lost beneath the howl of wind battering the nunnery’s stone walls. Rain lashed through the open doorway behind her, soaking the hem of her cloak and pooling on the ancient flagstones worn smooth by centuries of faithful feet. The young novice who’d answered her frantic pounding stared at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Me lady, the Maither Superior has already retired?—”
“Please.” Isolda forced the word through numb lips, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I wouldnae ask if it werenae urgent. ‘Tis a matter of life and death.”
Aye. Me life.
Something in her expression must have convinced the girl, because the novice’s expression shifted from hesitation to concern. She nodded once, sharply, and gestured for Isolda to follow.
The corridor stretched dark and cold, lit only by flickering lights that threw dancing shadows across the bare stone. Isolda’s boots squelched with each step, leaving wet tracks in her wake. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each breath a drum counting down the seconds until her father’s men realized where she’d gone.
Let them find me already sworn… let this work…
The novice stopped before a heavy wooden door bound with iron and knocked softly. “Maither? Forgive the intrusion, but there’s a lady here who insists she must speak with ye immediately.”
A pause. Then a voice, calm and measured. “Enter.”
The door swung inward to reveal a small chamber made smaller by the shadows pressing in from every corner. A single candle burned on a desk cluttered with correspondence and ledgers. Behind it sat an elderly woman, her face wrinkled but serenebeneath a wimple of undyed linen. She studied Isolda with the kind of penetrating gaze that seemed to see straight through skin and bone.
“Leave us, sister Margaret.”
The novice curtsied and withdrew, pulling the door closed with a soft thud that felt horribly final. Isolda stood dripping on the rushes, suddenly aware of how she must look—her dark hair plastered to her skull in lank strands, cloak soaking, mud splattered halfway up her skirts. She’d ridden hard until her poor mare was foam-flecked and trembling.
At barely over five feet, her slender frame was exhausted from days of riding and the short boat ride to the nunnery. When she raised a shaking hand to push a wet strand of dark hair from her face, she caught a glimpse of her gray-green eyes reflected in the window’s dark glass—wide as a deer’s. She looked small, bedraggled, and half-drowned.
“I’m Lady Isolda MacGregor,” she said, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacGregor. I’ve come tae?—”
“I ken who ye are, child.” The Mother Superior’s expression didn’t change. “Yer letters have been received and read.”
Hope flared bright and hot in Isolda’s chest. “I ken ‘tis unusual tae request immediate vows, but I must take them. Taenight.” She stepped forward, her sodden skirts clinging to her legs. “I’ve been writin’ tae ye these past weeks, beggin’ fer sanctuary. WhenI heard rumors of the Pact, I feared me faither might… Well, as I never heard back from ye, I came meself. Please. Icannaego back. If I dae, he’ll force me intae marriage. He daesnae care about me. About what I want. He’s never cared.”
The words came measured despite the fear clawing at her chest, years of being overlooked teaching her to mask her desperation.
The Mother Superior folded her hands atop the desk, the gesture somehow more ominous than comforting. “Sit down, child.”
“With all due respect, I dinnae need tae sit. I need ye tae accept me.Please.” Her voice cracked. “This is me last chance tae choose me own life. Once I’m sworn tae the Church, nay one can claim me. I’ll finally be free.”
“Sit. Down.”
The command carried enough weight that Isolda found herself sinking into the small wooden stool opposite the desk, her legs suddenly numb. Water trickled down her cloak while outside, thunder rumbled low and threatening—as if the very heavens mourned for her.
The Mother Superior studied her for a moment, and in that silence, Isolda felt the first cold fingers of dread wrap around her heart.
“The matter has been decided,” the older woman said quietly.
“Naethin’ has been decided. I havenae consented tae anythin’.”
“Och, yer consent was never required, dear child. Yer family entered intae a bindin’ agreement withThe Laird’s Pact.When yer faither learned of yer plans—dinnae look so surprised child—he sent word immediately. The agreement was signed and sealed a fortnight ago. That path was closed tae ye before ye ever left yer faither’s hall.”
The room tilted. Isolda gripped the edges of the stool, her knuckles going white. “Nay… they cannae… he has nay right?—”
