Reckless Scotland Page 5

  The lad threw down his wooden practice sword and sprinted in the direction of the kitchen building. A few minutes later, he returned with two squawking hens followed by a cluster of tittering spectators. Word had spread quickly.

  “What do ye want me to do with them?” Duncan asked.

  “Take them back a few paces,” Domnall instructed, watching Alex with a smug smile. “Are ye ready? They’re going to flit the instant they hit the ground.”

  Alex withdrew his sgian-dubh from the sheath he wore around his leg and fingered the familiar cold metal. While he hadn’t expected such a strange challenge, after seventeen years of practice, he was confident he could do it. He nodded to Duncan. “Let one loose and then jump back.”

  The boy tossed the birds. They landed in an angry ruffle of feathers. If this were a simple target Alex could have shut his eyes and hit it, but the birds were about ten paces away and their movements were erratic as they darted hither and fro.

  Focusing on one bird, Alex crouched and waited. The instant it paused, he flicked his wrist. The spectators released a collective gasp as the knife spiraled twice through the air and impaled his target.

  “Well done.” MacAedh clapped him on the back.

  Just as Alex opened his mouth to respond, Sibylla rushed toward the bird, picked it up, and snapped its neck. With a glare in his direction, she then withdrew his knife, wiped it on her apron, and came toward him with a scowl of disapproval wrinkling her brow. “’Tis nae right for it to suffer just to prove yerself manly,” she said, offering the knife.

  “But that’s nae why…” he protested as he accepted it from her hand, only to find himself speaking to her departing back.

  “Dinna try to ken the mind of a woman,” MacAedh remarked with a chuckle. “’Tis a wasted effort. Now, let us see if Domnall can duplicate the feat.”

  Domnall stood ready with his bollock knife in hand. Slowly, he circled the lone chicken that now stood frozen in place and staring back at him.

  “’Tis an unfair advantage,” MacAedh remarked.

  “No matter.” Alex shrugged. “Either he can best me or he canna.”

  Some of the bystanders encouraged the chicken with whistles and catcalls, but it continued to defiantly stand its ground. “Defy me if ye will, but ye will surely be supper this night,” Domnall remarked with a smirk and loosed the knife, but the steadfast chick suddenly leaped out of its trajectory. To everyone’s surprise, Domnall’s blade landed in the grassy turf.

  “It appears Alexander has won,” MacAedh said evenly.

  “’Twas nae much of a challenge,” Domnall replied sullenly. “Any man can throw a knife, but it takes heart to stand in battle.” Domnall squared his stance and stared Alex in the eye, “Do ye have the courage to face a man, monk?”

  “I told ye I am no warrior.” Alex immediately understood. It wasn’t skill, but bravery, that would win Domnall over. “’Tis my mettle ye wish to test?” Alex walked a few paces to retrieve a wooden targe. “I willna fight ye, but that doesna mean I fear ye.” His body shook but he refused to be cowed. With his blood pounding in his veins, Alex unsheathed his sgian-dubh and steeled himself to defend against Domnall’s assault. Was this another test of his character? If so, he was determined not to waver.

  But just as Domnall reached for this sword hilt, MacAedh stepped in to clamp his big hand atop Domnall’s. “Enough of this pissing contest, Domnall! Alexander won fairly. Ye must hold to yer vow.”

  Domnall’s face colored with a baleful flush before he dropped his hand back to his side. Reminded of how Isaac must have felt when God commanded Abraham to withhold the death blow, Alex released a great lungful of relief.

  Domnall turned back to Alex. “I dinna believe there is aught of value ye can teach me, but honor compels me to keep my word. I will come tomorrow morn for my lessons.”

  As Alex prepared to replace his knife back in its sheath, he became aware of MacAedh staring at the blade. “May I see it?” he asked, hand extended.

  Unable to refuse, Alex offered it up reluctantly. The sgian-dubh was the only thing that still connected him with his family. Had he endangered himself with his thoughtlessness? Had his male pride overcome his caution?

  MacAedh’s mouth compressed as he examined the worn inscription on the blade. There was a flash of recognition in his gaze, but this reaction told Alex to hold his tongue.

  MacAedh’s gaze snapped up to meet his. “Where did ye get this?”

  MacAedh’s interest was far too acute to be just idle curiosity. Recalling his mother’s desperate plea never to reveal himself, Alex sensed he should proceed with great caution. “I dinna remember,” he answered.

  MacAedh’s expression hardened. He knew the lie for what it was. He handed the knife back to Alex with an ominous look. “Be sure that we will speak more of this later.”

  Alex left the training grounds with myriad questions flooding his brain—questions he thought he’d buried years ago because he had no answers. MacAedh obviously knew something that Alex didn’t, but there was danger if he tread on this ground. Although it tormented him, Alex refrained from openly probing in that direction. His only choice was to wait and see what information MacAedh might volunteer.

  Crossing the bailey, Alexander encountered Sibylla outside the kitchens, hanging the dead chicken. She purposely turned her back to him as he passed. Although common sense told him to keep things simple and continue walking past, he couldn’t bear the idea that he’d upset her. Even worse, that she believed he’d killed the bird just to show off. He had to set things straight.

  “Please,” he began softly, “Ye dinna give me a chance to explain.”

  She spun to face him, hands on hips and eyes flashing with indignation, reminding him of a summer storm on the Tarbat Ness. “A’right. Pray explain why ye felt the need to kill my hen when ye’d already caught fish for supper, and ye eat nae the meat?”

  “Yer hen?” He’d had no idea. Damn. Damn. Double damn.

  “Aye,” she sniffed. “She was the best layer of the lot. What was so important for ye to prove? Why did ye do this… this… murder, Alexander?”

  “Murder? I-I’m sorry,” Alex stammered. “The chicken wasna my idea when I made the challenge. ’Twas yer brother who suggested it.”

  “Why did ye make such a daft challenge to begin with?” she demanded. “I thought ye were different from the rest.”

  “Different?” He wondered what she meant. What exactly did Lady Sibylla of Kilmuir think of him? “How?” he asked.

  “Less prideful and arrogant perhaps.” She shrugged, averting her gaze from his. “More sensitive and thoughtful.”

  “Aye?” he replied, feeling strangely warm inside. “I would like to think that I am.”

  “Yet, ye just proved otherwise,” she replied with a snort.

  “Will ye nae let me explain, Sibylla?” Her Christian name slipped thoughtlessly through his lips as he gently grasped her shoulders. He didn’t know why it mattered so much but it was vital to regain her good opinion of him.

  Her gaze still avoided his. “Ye challenged my brother to a daft contest and killed my hen. What more is there to say?”

  “’Twas for a far greater purpose than male pride,” he insisted. “’Twas my hope that by winning yer brother’s respect, I could accomplish what I came here to do. I told him if he could best me with the knife I would go back to the monastery, but if I beat him, he’d have to attend his lessons.”

  “And he agreed to this?” Her gaze flickered back to his, clouded with doubt.

  “Aye.” He nodded. “With yer uncle as witness.”

  “And ye won.” She glanced up at her dead hen with a frown, but the anger was slowly easing from her face. “Then perhaps ’twas worth the sacrifice of a few dozen eggs.” She released a long sigh. “Then I suppose I’ll have to forgive ye.”

  “Thank ye, my lady.” Suddenly aware that he still held her, Alex let his hands slip from her shoulders. He turned to leave, but halted his
steps the moment she uttered his name. “Alexander?”

  “Aye?” He turned back.

  “How did ye learn to throw a knife like that?”

  “I’ve practiced since I was a wee lad.”

  She wound a finger around a stray curl the color of morning sunlight. “Do ye think ye could teach me? Like ye taught me how to fish with my hands?”

  Alex briefly considered her request before shaking it off. Spending any more time alone with her was a very bad idea. He’d nearly kissed her at the burn. He could not take a chance on a repeated incident for fear he’d be helpless to resist the next time, but when he drew breath to deny her request, somehow the right words eluded his tongue.

  “Aye. I could teach ye,” he said.

  “At the armory? In the morn before anyone’s awake?” she suggested.

  “At the armory,” he agreed with a nod. Once more, it was not the answer he’d intended to give, but he found himself unable to say no to her. He couldn’t comprehend his own actions. Why the de’il was he so helpless to resist her? Was he bewitched? Or was this another trial of his faith and self-restraint? He’d never thought himself a weak man, but if Sibylla was a test, he feared he was doomed to fail.

  Chapter Five

  Taking care to avoid waking Ailis and Fiona, Sibylla slipped stealthily from her bed, silently cringing as her bare feet hit the cold, stone floor. After donning her green, homespun kirtle over her shift, she plaited her hair and bound it with a matching green ribbon. Green was her best color. She was always told that it set off her eyes.

  Had he noticed the color of her eyes? She’d certainly noticed his. Slate gray with thick, dark lashes. She’d noticed many more things about him, but was still sadly ignorant of his history. She didn’t even know his age, although she guessed he was only a year or two ahead of her and Domnall. She wondered what had led him to the monastery and why he’d decided to pledge himself to priesthood. Did he truly like it there? How certain was he about taking monastic vows? Was she wasting her time and effort trying to engage his interest? That was the question that plagued her most.

  Was she really trying? She paused to consider it. Yes, for the first time, she wanted a male’s attention. At first she’d only wanted a kiss because Ailis had been kissed, but then she realized she didn’t want just any kiss. She particularly wanted Alexander to kiss her. But why him? It was perhaps a foolish pursuit, but there was something between them that she’d never experienced with anyone else before.

  She’d seen the hesitancy in his eyes when she’d suggested their meeting at the armory, yet he’d agreed. Maybe it was just guilt for killing her hen, but she suspected it was more. She was quite certain he felt something, too.

  Having finished primping, Sibylla donned her shoes and stockings and then crept quietly out of her room. The grass was still damp with dew and faint shards of light had only begun to break through the lingering vestiges of night as she slipped through the armory gate.

  At first, she didn’t see him leaning against the wall, his hooded robe having effectively melted him into the lingering shadows. He pushed off from the wall and came slowly toward her.

  “Good morn,” Alex greeted her with a brief flash of white teeth that might almost be described as a smile.

  “Good morn,” she answered.

  “Did ye bring a knife to throw?”

  “I have no knife,” she said. “I thought to learn with yers.”

  “I can teach ye with mine,” he said. “But ye’ll want one of yer own. They’re all different.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “The weight, the balance, the feel.” Alexander retrieved his knife and offered it to her in his open palm. “Yer brother carries a bollock dagger, but this type is far better for a lass.”

  “It has writing on it,” she remarked. It was a deadly weapon but also one of beauty. “What does it say?”

  “Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae.” The familiar Latin words rolled easily off his tongue.

  “I dinna ken what it means,” she said.

  “’Tis Latin. Truth, Valor, and Vengeance.”

  “Where did ye get such a knife?” she asked, her curiosity growing. “Surely nae at the monastery.”

  He gazed down at the knife and pensively caressed the lettering on the blade. “I canna say.”

  “Because ye dinna remember?” She studied him closely as his eyes clouded.

  “I remember well enough, but I made a vow ne’er to tell anyone.”

  “Ye have secrets, Alexander?” She wondered what they could be. “Do ye trust no one?” She searched his eyes hoping for some clue to decipher him but, like a closed door, he revealed nothing.

  “Trust?” He hesitated, seemingly to consider the word. “I trust in God and in myself,” he answered.

  “But no one else?” His cynicism surprised her. He was far too young to be so disillusioned. “Someone betrayed ye? I ken verra well how it feels,” she said.

  Her own father had turned his back on them long ago, not that she cared overmuch about him. She’d barely known the man, but his actions had stigmatized both her and Domnall.

  “’Twasna so much a betrayal as a broken promise,” he answered.

  She’d hoped for further elaboration but he seemed unwilling to confide more.

  “The hour grows long,” he said. “Everyone will soon be awake and breaking their fast.”

  He placed the knife in her right hand. She could barely think about anything beyond his warm fingers on her skin as he proceeded to explain his technique. “Ye must hold it by the blade, like this…” Sibylla tried to focus on his instructions, but his subtly musky scent and the heat of his body standing so closely behind hers made it difficult to concentrate.

  Releasing her hand, he stepped away to demonstrate, going through the motions several times before urging her to try. Taking the knife, Sibylla squinted at the wooden targe that stood only a few feet away. Biting her lip, she flicked her wrist precisely the way he had shown her, only to have the knife stray far wide of the mark!

  Sibylla released an exasperated sigh. “How could I have missed it by so much?”

  But she knew the answer. It was Alexander’s physical proximity that had unnerved her. Why did he have such an overwhelming effect on her? “Did ye see where it went?” she asked.

  “Over yon.” He pointed. “Ye dinna throw it far. We’ll find it.”

  They spent the next few minutes on hands and knees scouring the grass. “I found it,” Sibylla declared in triumph as she closed her fingers a bit too eagerly around the cool steel. “Ouch!”

  “Ye cut yerself?” His gaze darted to her hand with a look of concern.

  Embarrassed for him to see her injury, she returned his knife with her other hand. “’Tis but a scratch.”

  “Let me see it.” Alexander took her hand in his to examine her wound. Prying her fingers open, he lightly probed the cut. His hands were large with big palms and long, tapering fingers, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.

  “’Tis nae deep,” he reassured her. He then proceeded to cut a length of fabric from the hem of his robe which he used to bind her hand.

  “I’ve ruined yer tunic,” she remarked in dismay.

  He shrugged. “I have two others.”

  “And that is all ye own?” she asked.

  “I can only wear one at a time,” he replied with a hint of a grin. “My life is simple, Lady Sibylla. I have few possessions—this sgian-dubh, the clothes on my back, and a psalter. ’Tis all I need.”

  “It might be all ye need,” she said, “but we all have wants and desires beyond the mere necessities.”

  “I’m nae accustomed to thinking in those terms,” he answered. “In the monastery, we are taught to put away our personal desires to pursue the will of God.”

  “But I have ne’er believed that He desires us to live in privation,” she said. “The scriptures prove it is so. Abraham was a verra prosperous man, and Solomon was said to have surpassed all the
kings of the earth in riches and wisdom.”

  “If ye canna read, how is it that ye ken so much of the scriptures?” he asked with a puzzled look.

  “I canna read, but I’m nae daft,” she replied. “I have perfectly good ears and, since I was a child, I have loved to listen to stories. The old priest was a great storyteller.”

  “Where is he now, this priest?” he asked. “I have been nearly a sennight at Kilmuir and havena missed a single hour of prayer, yet I find no priest attending the chapel.”

  “The old priest, Faither Fergus, died after a long sickness,” she said. “A replacement was sent by the Abbot of Dunkeld, but my uncle believed him a Cenn Mór spy and sent him away. We have had no priest since.”

  “As Thane of Kilmuir, doesna yer uncle have a care to his people’s souls?”

  Sibylla shrugged. “My uncle is nae a verra religious man… which is why ’twas such a surprise he sought out a monk to be Domnall’s tutor. Ye still havena answered my question, Alexander. Surely there must be something more ye want from this life.”

  “I am nae a self-seeking man,” he replied. “I dinna dream of fame or riches if that’s what ye ask. I have no great aspirations other than perhaps to become a scribe. I believe the work would suit me.”

  “So ye’ve already decided?” she asked. “Ye will go back and take the vows?”

  “I dinna ken,” Alex replied, eyes still transfixed on her hand. “Faither Gregor would have me wait another year.”

  “Much can happen in a year,” she said softly. “Ye could even change yer mind.”

  He brusquely tied off the bandage. “Mayhap this wasna the best idea.”

  “I’m nae always so clumsy.” She didn’t dare to say it was he that made her so awkward—first the fall in the burn and now the accident with the knife.

  He shook his head. “Nae more knives. I think books would serve ye far better.”

  “Books? What do ye mean?” Was he mocking her? “I already told ye I canna read.” Sibylla searched his face but found no sign of ridicule.

  “Tis ne’er too late to learn,” he said. “Do any of yer kinswomen read?”