Freya froze.
It was him. It was the man from earlier, who’d let her stay in his barn and brought her porridge in the morning.
“It’s ye!” Freya burst out.
Brendan flinched, and both Senga and Kyla looked curiously at her.
“Do ye two know each other already?” Kyla asked.
Freya cleared her throat, ready to tell the story, but Brendan spoke first.
“I’ve unloaded most of the supplies, Senga, but there’s a wee bit more to go down, and the empty sacks and barrels to bring up. Care to give me a hand?”
Senga’s white eyebrows flickered, but her face gave nothing away.
“Aye, we’ll help,” she said, nodding to Kyla. “And this is Freya—she’ll help too.”
Something flickered across Brendan’s face when he heard her name. Freya’s chest tightened.
Was that recognition? No, surely not. He clearly didn’t want the nuns to know that they were previously acquainted.
Senga and Kyla went down the steep stone steps into the pantry, and Brendan headed towards a nearby cart, half-full ofsupplies. Sacks of corn, grain, flour, sealed boxes, tubs of what looked like spices, beer, wine, and more. Freya hurried after him.
“I didn’t expect to see ye here,” she said at last. “Ye seem to be everywhere.”
“I bring supplies for the sisters here,” he answered. “And I try to protect them, as best I can.”
“Protect them? Who from?”
Brendan only shook his head, and did not look at her. He looked more tired than he had that morning, with a fresh smudge of dirt on his cheek. His dark hair hung in damp ringlets over his forehead. He’d been clean-shaven and sweet-smelling that morning, but now sweat clung to his temples, and there was a blue-black shadow of stubble on his jaw.
He lifted a huge bag of flour effortlessly out of the cart, muscles flexing as he did so. Freya cleared her throat and looked away. The man should invest in a thicker shirt, perhaps.
“Is there nobody else to help them?” she asked, mostly to get her mind off Brendan’s impressive shoulders. “Should I expect to see ye much more?”
“This is a nunnery,” Brendan answered, dumping the flour down beside the pantry. “Men don’t come here. Men don’t go into the Priory, not unless it’s an emergency. They’re not keen on strange men tramping over their grounds either, and they’re used to me by now, so yes, I’d say that ye will be seeing me a wee bit more,” he glanced briefly at her, then looked away. He seemed to be struggling to hold her gaze. “I hope ye have found safety, Freya.”
She bit her lip. “Aye. So do I.”
“Freya!” Senga’s disembodied voice echoed from down below. “Come down and help us with this.”
Brendan lifted his eyebrows. “I’d wager that this place isn’t what ye thought it would be.”
“Nay,” she admitted. “It’s not. But it’s early days. Maybe I will feel safe here. For now, at least.”
He tilted his head to one side. “For now? What do ye think is coming?”
She’d said too much. Freya cleared her throat again and turned away, hurrying towards the pantry.
“Nothing,” she called over her shoulder. “Forget I said anything. Just… forget it.”
When she glanced back, though, Brendan was still standing there, staring at her. She hastily looked away, trying to ignore the burning sensation in her chest.
Chapter 3
Ale and Scripture
The Drunken Tabbywas pretty quiet at that time of day. Few men could spare the time to go for a pint of anything at midday, and certainly no women had the time. The owner of the Tabby, a fat, short man and his fat, short wife—they looked almost like twins, but had the happiest marriage of anyone Brendan knew—was one of the few innkeepers who allowed women past his doors.
