My Highland Warrior (Warriors of the Highlands #1) - Miriam Minger Page 0,1

man whose clan to whom Gabriel’s forbears had sworn fealty leaned forward in his chair and stared shrewdly at Gabriel…

“Laird?”

Father Timothy’s quavering voice brought Gabriel sharply back to the ceremony, his own voice sounding cold and hollow to his ears.

“Aye, I take Magdalene MacDougall as my wife.”

The priest audibly sighed.

Sister Therese none too subtly eased her arm from Gabriel’s grasp, although she still mouthed her prayers while the necessary documents were signed.

Indeed, as the old nun had intended, she had seen the thing done.

Gabriel was wed.

Without waiting for the benediction or any words of congratulations, he pushed through his men and stormed from the chapel.

Aye, God protect his bride…and God help him.

Chapter 1

“Heaven help us, Reverend Mother, Magdalene’s naked in the fountain!”

Sister Agnes squeezed her eyes shut against Sister Tabitha’s frantic cries. She clenched her folded hands as tightly, her head bowed in fervent prayer.

“We tried tae catch her, but she was too quick on her feet! One moment she was walking quietly with Sister Hestia—well, she first ran after a lovely wee butterfly, then splash! Water everywhere!”

Sister Agnes pressed her curled fingers to her forehead, less in supplication than that a dull throbbing had begun between her brows. Opening her eyes, she stared at the plain gold crucifix atop the altar while Sister Tabitha buzzed around her like a plump, agitated bumblebee.

“Off went her gown! She stripped every stitch of clothing from her body! Now she dances and laughs—”

“Poor crazed child. Let her laugh while she may.” With a resigned sigh, Sister Agnes rose with Sister Tabitha’s assistance from kneeling upon the cold paving stones, her knees aching.

Her heart ached, too, pity filling her.

She had prayed long and hard for guidance, wondering how best to tell Magdalene MacDougall of her marriage by proxy.

Wondering if the young woman would fully comprehend her words.

Somehow Sister Agnes must prepare her, and it seemed the time had come. After, of course, they managed to coax her out of the fountain…

“Reverend Mother, you must hurry!” Her plain, pinched features stricken with alarm, Sister Hestia flew toward Sister Agnes and Sister Tabitha as they left the chapel and turned into a walkway. “Word has just come that riders approach the convent! They’re heavily armed, too, with crimson banners flying. Do you think it’s him?”

“Jesu help us.” Sister Agnes hastened along the walkway and descended the steps leading into the courtyard with a nimbleness that belied her threescore years, the two younger women hard upon her heels. Shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, the late spring day unusually warm, she beheld a scene of pure bedlam.

A dozen drenched nuns surrounded the large circular fountain where Magdalene cavorted like a water nymph, her laughter filling the air as she eluded every outstretched hand.

“Reverend Mother, what shall we do?” cried a young nun in shrill frustration, soaked to the skin. “She’s as slippery as a trout!”

“Sister Hestia, fetch a cloak—quickly!” Sister Agnes turned back to the melee as the gangly nun rushed to obey. She winced as another nun made a valiant lunge at Magdalene only to tumble sidelong into the waist-deep pool.

Feminine shrieks echoed around the courtyard while Magdalene giggled with delight and twirled in a spray of glittering droplets.

At any other time, Sister Agnes might herself have laughed at the sight. Her indulgence of her highborn charge knew no bounds. Yet riders were fast approaching…

Swept by fresh pity, she hastened to the edge of the fountain as the other nuns stepped aside and eyed her with relief.

Magdalene spied her, too. A brilliant smile lit her lovely face, but then she jumped behind the cascading water as if to hide from the one woman who had usually been able to reason with her.

“Magdalene, I need you tae climb out of the fountain. Will you do that for me, child?”

A defiant fling of wet tawny-blond hair greeted Sister Agnes’s urgent plea. Magdalene sank beneath the pool’s surface for a brief moment only to resurface in an exuberant burst of spray, her glistening tresses clinging to her slender torso.

Sister Agnes wiped the cool moisture from her face and wondered in awe if mythic mermaids were ever so fair.

Yet what good was incomparable beauty to the poor soul? Sister Agnes had decided long ago that Satan’s own treachery had played a part in turning a young woman so physically blessed into a wretched lunatic.

Thankfully, Magdalene acted like the sweetest child most times, as easily pleased by simple delights—a butterfly, a flower, a trill of birdsong—as she went docile