My Seduction (5 page)

St. Bride’s Abbey,
Scottish Highlands, 1789

“He’s no devil.” The lad with the clever face and blue eyes snickered at the boys ringing Kit. The boy who’d tried to steal Kit’s biscuit lay in a sniveling ball at Kit’s feet.

“He’s the devil’s spawn then, Dougie,” one of the other boys—Kit was too new to know any of their names yet—declared. “Or a wolf cub. I heard the brothers talking aboot him. They said he were born bad.”

Kit’s unlooked-for, and as yet unappreciated, champion scoffed. “They see wickedness everywhere. They be a bunch of priests,” he finished with unimpeachable logic.

“I say he looks wicked with them green eyes,” another young male opined from within the crowd. “Unnatural.”

How many times in Kit’s ten short years had he heard that? He balled his hands into fists, waiting for the blows that always seemed to follow those words.

“And you look stupid, Angus.” A tall, black-haired boy, a year or so older than Kit, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Kit had never seen so bonny a lad, yet there was nothing feminine about him. “But I guess there’s nothing unnatural aboot that seeing how you are stupid.”

Douglas smiled at the newcomer with obvious relief. “Ye have a fair way with words, Ramsey Munro.”

Kit stood, waiting. Like he always had. Like he had when his mum had disappeared for days on end in town after town, like when the tavern lasses played with him like some amusing lapdog, like when the men his mum went off with cuffed him across the face and told him to wait in the alley, or the stable, or somewhere where they wouldn’t have to look at him.

“What’s this about?” the black-haired lad asked. Though clearly Scottish, he spoke in smooth, unfamiliar accents.

“John decided the new lad here had had enough supper and so took his biscuit,” Douglas explained. “Only the lad here didn’t agree. Now some of the others are thinking it the devil’s work that someone half John’s weight and size should beat him so handily.”

“Yer a swine, John,” Ramsey Munro said amiably, nudging the lad with the worn toe of his shoe. John sat up, wiping the snot from beneath his nose. “And a glutton. Did ye not ken the abbot’s lecture on the Seven Deadly Sins?

“As for this lad here giving John a thrashing,” Ramsey continued, “it was only a matter of time before someone figured out that John is only half threat, the other half being bluster.”

“He’s too damn still except fer his eyes, and they be hot as hellfire and cold as North Sea ice. T’aint natural the way he looks at a body,” a new voice said.

Most of the time his mum didn’t like looking at him either, but every now and then she’d grab his jaw in her long fingers and stare into his face until tears came to her eyes. Then she’d push him away and disappear. Last time she hadn’t come back.

Instead, a large, wide-girthed monk called Fidelis had appeared one morning, and after paying a coin to the hag who’d rented his mum a bed, he’d loaded Kit into a cart and driven him away. A week later, here he was, deep in the Scottish Highlands, at some place called St. Brides with another dozen or so lads, most of them no nearer God than Kit himself. But at least they looked nearer God.

He would have run off, except St. Brides sat as clean in the middle of nowhere as a place could be. Besides, he liked the mountains and the scent of pine trees, the clarity of the air, and the colors of the sky. And he certainly liked the fresh bread he got every morning and the biscuits and cheese that came each afternoon.

Kit looked down at John, knowing he hadn’t hurt the boy near as bad as he was like to be hurt by John’s friends. That was the way of things. But now, it looked like there might not be a fight after all, because of this Douglas—who even then Kit recognized as having that aura of authority that made leaders —and the black-haired Ramsey Munro.

But… why?

“Get up, John. Yer pride’s more hurt than anything else.” Douglas reached his hand down to John and with a sullen glance at Kit, the bigger boy allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

“And don’t go glowering at our boy.” Douglas looked around at Kit. “What’s yer name, lad?”

“Christian. MacNeill.”

“MacNeill, is it? Hear that, lads? And he’s wearing a plaid,” he said, looking Kit over. “It is a plaid, in’t it? Hard to tell beneath so much filth.”

“It’s a plaid,” Kit said gruffly. His mother had given it to him a few years ago upon retrieving it from a priest in Glasgow. She hadn’t told him anything about it, except that it was his and his alone and better than nothing to keep out the cold.

“Aha! This isn’t just some Highland brat, boys,” Douglas declared to the group enthusiastically. “I remember I seen this plaid afore. Belongs to an ancient secret clan. Christian MacNeill could be one of their princes!”

Ramsey leaned toward Kit and spoke in a low voice as Douglas worked the crowd into a better mood. “Best mind John from here out, Christian—” He stopped. “Couldn’t be a more unlikely name for you, lad. You must go by another.”

“I been called Kit.”

“Devil’s kit?” Ramsey’s winged brow lifted, but with such obvious irony that Kit didn’t hold back his answering grin.

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

“You! New boy!” A deep baritone shouted from the arched entry to the cloisters. Brother Fidelis, fourteen stones of benevolent kidnapper, came charging down the pea gravel path, his brown robes flapping about his stout ankles. The boys surrounding them fled at his approach, but he ignored their flight.

“I saw it all! I saw you strike one of the other boys. That is wicked! I will not stand for that sort of wickedness here. Do you understand?” Brother Fidelis pointed one dirt encrusted finger under Kit’s nose.

“It weren’t his fault,” Douglas said.

“ ‘Wasn’t,’ not ‘weren’t,’ “ Brother Fidelis corrected.

“John was trying to filch his biscuit,” Ramsey piped in.

Fidelis sniffed suspiciously, eyeing Kit sharply. “Striking one’s brother is a sin.”

“He ain’t my brother,” Kit proclaimed flatly. He had no family. And now that his mum had decamped, he was on his own. And best that way, it was, too.

“ ‘Isn’t,’and we are all brothers here. All of us. It is how we survive. Without one’s brother, one is alone. Do you want to be alone for all eternity?”

Kit shrugged, Douglas shook his head emphatically, and Ramsey’s long eyes narrowed slightly. Fidelis sighed. “No, you don’t. But you’ll learn. As for fighting, if you are indeed wicked, I can do nothing for you. Wickedness is a matter for the Lord to attend. However, boys with too much time on their hands I can do something about. Come with me.” He chugged forth, confident his orders would be obeyed.

Wicked he might be, but a coward Kit was not, and so he followed behind the monk, noting a few seconds later that both Ramsey Munro and Douglas Stewart had fallen into step beside him.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Going with you,” Douglas answered calmly.

“I have never seen Brother Fidelis punish anyone. I’m curious,” Ramsey added.

The monk led them on a circuitous route through the decrepit abbey, some of the ancient buildings so dilapidated that the walls were caving in under the weight of their years. He ducked around the priory and headed for a high stone wall overgrown with vines, stopping before an arched wooden door and withdrawing a heavy key from an inside pocket. He fixed it in the lock and pushed the door open on a groan, turning to the trio. If he was surprised that Kit had been joined by Ramsey and Douglas, he didn’t show it, but as his little raisin dark eyes peered over their heads, his mouth pursed.

“Another soul ripe for a fall!” he murmured, pointing to an old apple tree nearby. “You! Andrew Ross, you may as well come, too!”

“Huh?” A young male voice asked from somewhere overhead.

Kit looked up. For a minute he didn’t see anyone. Then a slight rustle drew his gaze higher still, into the uppermost branches of the old tree. A pair of brown legs dangled from the leaves.

“Get down from there, Dand!” Brother Fidelis said with more volume than ire. A second later a wiry, dusty-haired boy slipped to the ground, his warm brown eyes wide with innocence.

“Come here!”

With a cringe, the boy dragged his feet toward them.

“Andrew Ross,” Ramsey whispered to Kit. “Now, there’s someone who’ll be glad you’re here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because everyone’s called him the devil’s kit.” Ramsey flashed his knowing smile. “Until now.”

“I didn’t do anything!” the tanned boy said, holding his hands out at his sides to give proof to his claim.

“You will,” Brother Fidelis snorted. “Follow along with the rest.” The monk pushed through the door. “Now, stay on the path and do not touch anything.” With a wave of his hand, he ushered the boys in, closing the door behind him.

At once, an overpowering scent assailed Kit with a perfume so heavy and exotic, it made his head swim. He stared about, dazed by a fragrance part clove and part ambrosial sweetness, both as thick as cream and slight as mist. He turned slowly around and found the source.

Roses. Everywhere, roses. Roses climbed crumbled brick and mossy stone. Roses dangled from half-tumbled arch-ways. Roses cascaded off the top of broken walls and spread in thick mats across ill-marked paths. They burst in fountains of color, and they nestled in small, furtive clusters.They blazed and they flickered, soft and bold, brash and delicate.

Scarlet and crimson, blush and cherry. Roses, pure white and shell pink, thick ivory and fresh cream. But most startling of all, most spectacular, close by where they stood, amidst an exuberance of mint green leaves with finely serrated edges, bloomed a pure yellow rose. It glowed in the bright light of day, seeming to catch some of the sun’s own brilliance in its joyous, vibrant color.

“It’s wonderful,” Kit murmured, bending closer to the saffron blossom. “As yellow as an egg yolk. I never seen a rose such a color.”

“No one has.”

Kit looked up. Fidelis was looking down at him with something akin to approval.

“Well, not many, anyway,” Fidelis elaborated. “No more than a handful in England and Scotland combined. Most rose fanciers would swear that there are no yellow roses.”

“Where did it come from?” Ramsey asked, unable to take his eyes from the beautiful thing.

“The story goes that a crusader brought it back from the Holy Land and gave it as a gift to the abbey for their care of his family during the Black Death. In return, we—” He abruptly broke off. “It’s been here ever since.”

“And the rest of the roses?” Douglas asked.

“Collected over the years. Hunted and brought back from all four corners of the world. Once St. Brides was known for its roses,” he said proudly. “But after the Forty-five, when the king had the Roman Church expelled from Scotland, roses didn’t seem to matter anymore. We here at St. Brides didn’t leave. We were so far out, you see, away from everyone. No one took note of us this far up. This place”—he swept his hand out—“while not exactly abandoned, has been ignored.”

“Pretty.” The boy Andrew bent over and sniffed. “Like to get a headache in here though, smelling so strong as it does.”

Brother Fidelis’s conciliatory mood disappeared, and he regarded Andrew dryly. “I forget what a heathen little jackanapes you are, Andrew Ross. But thank you for reminding me that you are not here to learn the history of the garden. You are here to work.”

“Us, too?” Ramsey asked in alarm.

“Oh, yes. You, Ramsey Munro, have just as much devil in you as Christian here. You just keep him dressed up in company clothes.”

Kit hadn’t any idea what that meant, but he liked the notion that someone else was wicked.

“And me?” Douglas asked, his face reflecting his grievance.

“You always take the leadership role, Mr. Stewart. I see no reason for you to forfeit it now.” He turned to Andrew Ross. “And as for you…” He shook his head without bothering to finish.

Kit didn’t see what all the fuss was about. He’d picked oakum, swept stables, and hauled water for eight hours at a time. How hard could work in a garden be compared to that?

“For how long?” Ramsey asked.

“Until the weeds are gone,” Brother Fidelis said. “And maybe a few of the walls are repaired.”

Kit felt his grin broaden. Pick weeds? Pull lovely soft, green weeds from the ground? Move a few stones? He almost laughed out loud.

Six hours later Kit’s back ached, his thighs throbbed from squatting down, his arms were covered with welts from the millions of hairlike barbs that covered the rose stems, and his hands itched from the sting of the nettles he’d pulled. His face was burned red, and his knees under his patched breeches were scraped raw. He didn’t complain, though. And he didn’t quit. And neither did the others.

Two hours later they finished. With groans and oaths, they made their way beneath the shade of one of the stone arches that decorated the garden. As one, they sank wearily to the ground.

“I should have let them beat the bloody hell out of you,” Douglas said without any real rancor.

“I should have walked right by,” Ramsey agreed.

“But you didn’t, did you?” Kit said. “Bloody fools.”

“What about me?!” Andrew Ross exclaimed indignantly. “Minding me own concerns, I was.”

“Like stealing apples.”

Andrew shrugged. “Sinful concerns, I’ll grant you,” he admitted unrepentantly, “but me own.”

They grinned at each other in sudden idiotic empathy and they were still grinning when Brother Fidelis arrived a few minutes later.

“So, you’re all done, are you?” he asked mildly.

“Aye, Brother Fidelis. Not a weed in the place. Nothin’ but roses.” Douglas scrambled to his feet.

“For today.”

“Eh?”

“For today, Douglas. Today there are no weeds, but a rose garden, like one’s soul, must be tended vigilantly, hourly.Weeds, like sins, spring up overnight. Come back tomorrow. All of you.”

“But what if there aren’t any weeds?” Ramsey burst out, momentarily losing the insouciance Kit was beginning to realize characterized this boy.

“Well then, there are paths to re-create, walls to rebuild, a well to dredge, arches to repair. Oh, we’ll find something,” Brother Fidelis assured them. “Now, I’ll let you out.”

As he held the door open, Andrew gave Kit a look that said they might as well accept their fate. But Kit didn’t want to accept his fate, especially since he wasn’t at all certain of what it was, or had become, since he’d come here, wherever “here” was.