He watched her carefully, and Freya had the chance to look him over properly. He wasn’t quite the monstrous, looming figure she’d seen last night, but he was much taller than she was, and strong and brawny like farmers generally were. He had sharp features, including a rather long and pointed nose that elongated his features. His eyes were an unusual shade of gray-blue, she noticed, half-hidden under heavy black brows. She wasn’t sure whether he was scowling at her, or if that was just the natural resting expression of his face.
What was most surprising, which she hadn’t noticed at all last night, were his scars. Silvery, raised lines dotted here and there. Some were on his face, and others crisscrossed his exposed forearms. One long line ran irregularly over his left cheek, just below his eye, and down past his cheekbone and over his sharp, square jaw. The line climbed down his neck and disappeared underneath his shirt.
She didn’t even want to imagine what injury had causedthatscar.
It was odd to see such vivid scars on someone so young. He couldn’t be much older than five and twenty summers, and perhaps if he hadn’t been so surly and short with her, Freya might have found him good-looking. At least he hadn’t asked for her name, or displayed any interest inher.
She told herself that she was very glad about that. She’d had enough male attention from Laird Grahame to last a lifetime, and wanted no more. It didn’t matter how handsome a man was,orhow tasty his porridge was.
“Ye have to go after that, ye know,” he interrupted. “Ye can’t stay here.”
She swallowed a mouthful of porridge, and nodded. “I know. I’m grateful for yer hospitality, sir. I was a wee bit unfriendly last night. There’s no excuse for it, but I was cold, wet, and tired, and I had no idea whether ye meant me harm or not. I am sorry, though.”
He grunted. “Look, it’s none of my business where ye are going, or where ye came from. Yer reasons are ye own. But if ye have nowhere to go, I would suggest ye go to the convent.”
“A convent?” Freya snorted. “No, thank ye. I’ve no desire to become a nun.”
“It’s not that sort of place. Well, itis, but… Never mind. They take in women and children who need shelter. It also serves as a hospital of sorts for the nearby town. They’ll let ye take a few days or however long ye need to rest and recover, and plan where ye are going next. They’re a decent lot. It’s the Priory of St. Deborah, no more than five miles from here.”
Freya took her time in responding, scraping up the last of her porridge. In her experience, convents were not the most welcoming of places, but shedidneed somewhere to lie low for a while.
If she didn’t like the place, she could always flee again. She glanced up at the man.
“Can ye direct me there?”
Chapter 2
The Convent
Freya felt more and more uneasy as she approached the convent. Her father had threatened her with being forcibly placed in a nunnery if she kept refusing to go forward with the betrothal. When even that threat had stopped working, he gave it up and resorted to plain old force.
The Priory near Keep McInnes was a huge, forbidding place, with the monks and nuns gliding about with eyes like gimlets. They were sour-faced and stern, ready to find fault in anything a person did. Freya had never liked the place, and nor did anyone else. A nun had once run away, decades ago, and rumor had it that she was walled up alive when she was caught, as a punishment for breaking her vows.
Freya shuddered.
Stay calm. Ye are just a supplicant looking for a place to stay. Ye can’t afford to be choosy. They don’t know who ye are.
The stony path she followed was rimmed with scrubbed white stones. The farmer who’d let her shelter in his barn last night—whose name she hadn’t asked, for fear he might askhers—had told her that it was done deliberately, so that people could easily find their way to the Priory.
The path led through a forest, with rocky cliffs looming up here and there. The path sloped consistently upwards, and Freya soon found herself breathing heavily. She noticed that the undergrowth was neatly pruned back in places. Herbs and flowers grew alongside the road, filling the air with a mixed sweet-and-savory scent.
At long last, Freya crested the hill, and then she saw the Priory.
At least, sheassumedit was the Priory, as there were no signs. The stone building which nestled in the dip of a valley was certainly the largest building around, but certainly nowhere near the size and grandeur of the priories and monasteries she’d seen before.
Neatly fenced-off squares weaved their way down towards the building, like a spiral of petals around the center of a flower.
It took Freya a moment to realize what she was looking at. They were raised beds, each with a different fruit or vegetable or herb growing from it. In places, green, leafy stalks waved higher than her head. In other beds, barely a hint of green showed above the well-turned soil.
The white-lined path went steadily downwards, towards a domed building at the front of the Priory, doubtless the entrance. Freya stopped, staring about her, trying to gather her wits.
“Hello, there. Can I help ye?”
She flinched at the sudden voice, seeming to come from nowhere. There was a rustling in one of the raised beds nearest to her, and a young woman stepped out of the greenery, smiling.
She was the most striking woman Freya had ever seen. Tall, slim, and with a head of almost white hair, Freya couldn’t stop staring at her. The woman’s hair was twisted back into a knot at the back of her head, long strands escaping and hanging around her ears. She had a smooth oval face, her complexion creamywithout a freckle to be seen, with a pair of clear blue-green eyes peering out.
Freya wasn’t exactly sure how old she was. Five and twenty, perhaps? A few years older? She wore a long, black smock with a white shirt underneath, tied high around her neck and secured at the waist with a piece of rope. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands rough and dusted with dirt.
