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“Aye. They’re due to arrive soon to negotiate the contract, so I must ask Father Nicholas if he needs anything prepared for that. Will ye come to talk to Laomann soon?”

Raghnall sighed and looked around. “Aye. I must, hey?”

“Aye. Ye still want him to give ye yer lands back?”

“I do.”

“Mayhap the wedding would be a good point to do that. All goes well, God willing, and we will have a powerful family ally in the Rosses. He may feel forgiving.”

Raghnall chewed the herring as they walked. “Aye. But ’tis nae his place to forgive me. My disagreement was with our father, who disinherited me and chased me away from the clan. Nae Laomann.”

Angus’s fists clenched. He wanted to help his brother. He did think that he’d redeemed himself and deserved the land. He’d fought greatly for Robert the Bruce and had grown since his rebellious youth. All the siblings had dealt with their father’s terrible wrath in different ways.

And that would be what he’d do for Raghnall. “I’ll back ye up when ye talk to Laomann. Make sure to call me for the talk.”

Raghnall squeezed Angus’s shoulder. “Thanks, brother. I must take my leave now. Someone is looking for a sword for hire, and I’m meeting them to talk.”

“Aye. God be with ye, brother.”

As Raghnall’s tall and muscled figure walked away, Angus wondered at how much his brother reminded him of a lean wolf, used to running and hunting long distances.

He entered the church, the scent of dust and incense reaching his nostrils. How many times had he been here for the communion and service? He looked around the dark building, illuminated dimly by the light coming from the small windows near the ceiling. The floor before the altar was swept and clean, the space feeling empty without the usual crowd who came to Mass.

And then, in the shadows by the altar, he noticed a female figure leaning over the wooden pulpit with the open Bible on it. Behind her, a large wooden cross hung on the wall, and between her and the cross was a simple stone altar with candles on both sides. Carved wooden icons hung on the wall.

It was strange to see a female leaning over the Bible in this familiar, calming room. Was she reading? Or just looking?

He’d rarely seen a woman interested in letters and science, apart from Catrìona. Mostly, they were busy with the womanly tasks of weaving, embroidering, rearing the children, and running the household.

His own father hadn’t cared about teaching his children to read, calculate, and write. And as a result, only Laomann, who’d always been an arse-licker, got some sort of education. He could write a letter or read slowly, but he wasn’t a great scribe, either.

Angus, Catrìona, and Raghnall had never learned letters. Something Angus had always deeply regretted, as he did have interest towards the written word and wished he could read the Holy Bible for himself, as well as the important letters and messages that came from the king, allies, and others.

But the task of recording the chronicles of events and wars, births and deaths and marriages, as well as writing letters, was most often given to priests and monks anyway, as the most educated people.

So seeing a woman studying the book with such concentration was surprising. Something told him she didn’t want to be disturbed, but he wanted to find out who she was. Perhaps she knew where Father Nicholas could be. Soundlessly, he moved through the empty space towards her.

Lord, she was pretty. The light from the window high above fell on her profile, leaving her dark hair in the shadows. He admired her high cheekbones and straight nose, her lips, with her lower lip fuller than the upper one. Her dark eyelashes concealed the color of her eyes… Her hair was done in a simple style, with the upper part held with a leather string and the long, wavy strands cascading over her shoulders and back. She wore an old wool dress with patches and seams. It didna exactly fit her slender frame, which was obvious from the baggy parts that hung around the belt.

She looked familiar, he thought distantly.

And then it struck him. It was her! The woman he’d found in the cellar of the keep.

The woman who—as her slap had taught him—was not a whore, even though her attire showed more than any decent woman would want to show in public.

The woman, thanks to whom he’d lost his grandmother’s wedding ring, which he wanted to give to Euphemia.

He’d lost his grip on it, thanks to her slap, and it had rolled away into the darkness. He hadn’t been able to find it despite a careful search with a torch.

He was now so close to her, her scent reached him. Yes, that was her. Even through the slightly sweet scent of old clothes, undoubtedly coming from the dress, he could still smell her own aroma of exotic fruit and herbs—something like meadowsweet, and perhaps, lilac.

He yearned to reach out, take a lock of her hair, and inhale her scent…

As if sensing this desire, she went completely still, whirled, and bumped into him. She seemed to lose her balance for a moment, and he took her by the shoulders to steady her.

Brown, he realized. Her eyes were brown. So dark, they seemed the color of twilight when a warm summer day changed into night, and it was time to let go of his worries and sit by the fire with his family.

Her lips were close to his, so pretty and pink and inviting.