Out on a Ledge Morag St. Claire was a nun in desperate need of divine intervention. Within the next five minutes she was destined to become the first fallen nun of Saint Carag’s Abbey. Not just in some vague spiritual or ethereal way, but quite literally. She was standing on a crumbling ledge outside her bedroom window, high above jagged rocks and foaming sea below. Flattening her arms against the rough stone walls of the Abbey, she tried to maintain her balance on the narrow ledge as she pointed the toes of her right foot and gently tapped, searching for a way out of her latest predicament. As she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, she heard small pebbles skitter as the sandstone ledge began to give way. No more than six inches wide, the ledge was not meant to hold the weight of a human. Sweat beaded on her brow. She tried to calm her breathing. There was no going back; the ledge outside her window had fallen away shortly after she’d landed on it. She must get to the next window. “Think! Think,” she said to herself desperately. And then, because she was a nun, she thought to call on a higher power for help. “Lord, I need help. If you get me out of this one, if you can see your way to helping me escape this, I promise I’ll be better. I’ll never do anything wrong again. And I promise, I’ll never utter another curse.” Again she scooted to the right, slowly. Again pebbles showered down the rocky face of the hundred-year-old Abbey. “Damn!” She froze. “That doesn’t help my cause, does it?” she whispered, looking up into the night sky. Even if she stood still on the ledge hoping someone would come by her cell and find her gone, she would have to wait hours. And then, no one would think to look outside her window. “Why, oh why, did I have to go chasing that scurrilous wimple?” She really didn’t need to ask. She knew the answer. Because explaining the disappearance of yet another head covering to Mother Superior would just be too painful. She tried so hard. Morag wanted desperately to fit in among the nuns at Saint Carag’s. She wanted to prove she was worthy to be a true nun. This was rather ironic since she was a nobleman’s daughter and not in truth a full-fledged nun. While she was still a novice, Morag thought of herself as a nun because truly that’s all she desired in the world. Her father had brought her to Saint Carag’s two years ago when civil war broke out in England. The year was 1140 and the Empress Maud was in England reclaiming the throne from Stephen of Blois, her cousin, who had stolen it from her. The countryside was not safe. So Morag’s father, a nobleman and knight, had brought his daughter to a convent on the outer edges of nowhere—Wales—to keep her alive and safe while he was off fighting for Maud. Mother Superior was never going to believe this one! Stuck out on a ledge? Even Morag didn’t believe this one and she was living it! She groaned inwardly. If she survived this mishap, she knew she’d have to listen to a lecture on the sin of the flesh. Her wicked desires that prompted her to sleep with the window open! Morag rolled her eyes heavenward. “For pity’s sake, surely not?” she asked, not quite believing God would punish her for enjoying the elements He’d created. Morag slept with the windows open at night. The older sisters had warned her against it, saying it was wicked and indulging the flesh. Yet, she’d continued. She loved the fresh air and sound of the ocean below pounding the rocks. The savage rhythm was soothing to her. There was something about the violent intercourse of rock and sea spray against a peaceful backdrop of inky sky punched with stars that spoke to her soul. But tonight, she’d heard a sound in the hallway outside her room. The west wing of the abbey was deserted, her room being the only one occupied. There was no good reason for anyone to be in the hallway at this late hour. When Morag had opened the door to investigate, a tremendous draft of air burst through the room. Looking behind her, she had seen her wimple—which was draped over a chair near the window—go tumbling out the opening. Forgetting the sound in the hallway, she had rushed to the window and before thinking—which was a common theme in Morag’s life—she found herself out on the ledge trying to grab the offensive head covering which had snagged on an iron nail in the stone wall. Breathing slowly, she whispered again, “A little help would be greatly appreciated.” She paused, searching the night sky for something, anything! “If I could just get to the next window.” Her flowing dove-grey gown whipped in the strong wind. “I know I don’t deserve it, Lord, but…” her voice trailed off as she remembered her daggers. She slowly reached down to her thigh with her right hand and inched up her gown. Grabbing the dagger strapped to her thigh, she slammed it into a crevice between two stones within reach of her fully extended arm. Using the dagger as a handle to steady herself, she did the same to recover the twin dagger strapped to her left thigh. Slamming that dagger into the wall on her left side, she resembled a crucified Christ, well kind of. Holding on to the handles on either side of her, she eased her weight from the ledge, moving her feet to the right. She pulled the knife on the left out of the wall and repeated the motion a few feet over. Doing this, she was able to move several yards along the ledge until she saw another window. It was open. She moved. Again pebbles skittered from the crumbling rock beneath her feet. “Please, oh please. I’m almost there. Help me! Help me. Help me,” she begged in a whisper as she inched along the ledge slowly, using the daggers to support her weight. After another particularly intense bout of mumbling, Morag was within reach of the windowsill. Easing her grip on the dagger at her outstretched right arm, she slid her fingers across the rough wall to the stone casement, pulling herself closer. When she had a secure hold, she sheathed the dagger she’d held in her left hand and scooted another step to the right. She whipped around, slamming her stomach into the stone wall. Air rushed out of her lungs in a loud thwamp. She thought she would faint. She held onto the stone windowsill as if her life depended on it—because really it did. The window was set into the stone at the height of her chest. Throwing her arms over the sill, she heaved herself up. Her toes found holds on the wall as she squirmed to pull her body up. Throwing her leg high for the opening, she missed. With a grunt, she tried again. This time her leg made the opening, her foot and calf making it through; she began to hoist herself into the window, leg and arms first.  Dangling half in and half out the window, Morag was surprised by a menacing growl and the distinct sound of a sword being unsheathed. “Oh, God, no!” she implored. “Timing would be everything,” she muttered in despair. “You will stop,” a deep male voice commanded. With sweat dripping in her eyes, and long red hair hanging in her face, Morag was having a hard time seeing the man she knew was a mere foot away from her in the dimly lit room; she knew he was close because the cold steel of his sword pricked her neck. “Ah, good sir. You don’t want to do that. This isn’t what it seems. I promise,” she said weakly, trying to think of any good reason she’d be entering the abbey from a window hundreds of feet above the ocean cliffs. “And how would you know? Where did you come from? The sky?” he asked incredulously. “Surely you are no angel.” His sword point moved from her neck to her bare leg flung over the window, exposed to the thigh. His disbelieving tone did not sit well with Morag. She was tired. She was still in dire threat of falling to her death and this man used a tone of superiority with her that irritated her weary spirit. She might be a nun, but she didn’t take orders from this stranger. “This room is not supposed to be occupied,” she huffed indignantly. “There is no one else in this wing.” This comment slipped out before she realized the danger. Covering her mistake, she asked defensively, “Who are you?” “I guess you don’t know all the secrets of the Abbey, my dear girl. And you are in no position to be asking questions.” “Please put your sword down. I am a sister here. Please let me come in before I fall to my death.” He laughed outright at her claim. “You? A nun, here, at Saint Carag’s?” he scoffed. “If you’re a nun, I’m a saint.” “Yes, well as skeptical as you are, I need help. If you are saint or sinner, I have no care. I am a woman in need. I will not be picky. Please,” she panted, “I cannot hold on much longer.” Scrabbling to keep her grip on the window, her torn sleeve fell open to reveal a silver-worked armband clasped to her upper arm. Stepping forward, the man grabbed her arm just below the ornamental piece. His thumb brushed the burnished silver, finding the large fire opal marking its center. The stone glowed warm, pulsing under his thumb. Regan McAllister had seen this piece of jewelry one other time. It marked this woman as royalty as surely as any crown or scepter. And it would not do for him to let her fall to her death. He’d have to explain her death, whoever she was, to the queen to whom he’d pledged fealty. There would be hell to pay. His sword clattered to the rough-hewn stone floor as he hauled her through the window. His large hands easily gripped her waist, pulling her quivering body steady against his broad chest. He settled a heavy cape around her shoulders that still carried his body warmth and spicy scent. Morag didn’t care if he’d only saved her to steal her arm circlet. Her father had warned her to keep it hidden at all costs. It was worth a small ransom. And in the wrong hands could be used to leverage the sovereign in power. At the moment she didn’t care. The enveloping cocoon of the warm cape was heaven.  She’d worry about the ramifications later. For now, her life was worth it. And she was tired, so tired. Morag pushed weakly at his chest. Shock had begun to set in. Her whole body ached and quivered. Her teeth began to chatter. “I m-must g-go,” she stammered. Exhaustion was rapidly beginning to take its toll. Her eyes began to droop. Pulling her closer, Regan growled in her ear. “You aren’t going anywhere. I don’t save a damsel in distress to have her run away, take a chill, and die of fever.” She smelled of sea spray and lavender. A heady combination. He roughly rubbed her arms under the cape. Picking her up, he walked into an adjoining room where a fire was lit. Sitting in a chair pulled close to the hearth, he held her in his lap. All the fight had left her. She was as limp as a wet rag. Her head bobbed. Her eyes dropped. And moments later, she actually fell asleep. “No my fallen angel, you are not going anywhere until I find out who you are and why you’re hiding here at Saint Carag’s.” His lips brushed the wild red curls at the crown of her head. He could not imagine a more unsupposing nun if he’d tried. Her pale skin peppered with freckles begged for kisses. Her warm curves pressed into his thigh, groin, and chest. The woman he held in his arms was made for passion and vigorous bed play. This woman was no nun; at least like no nun he’d ever known. She should not be hidden away to molder in the solitude of a dank nun’s cell. This woman had been created to live life to the fullest, fill a house with romping baby boys. Run in the surf that skirted the abbey walls. Swim in the depths of the ocean, water cooling her fevered flesh. Or was that his fevered flesh? Shaking his head, Regan pulled back, a half grin on his face. No woman had ever had this affect on the seasoned warrior. Leaning his head back against the chair, he held her in his arms. Regan finally fell asleep, his thumb idly rubbing the warm fire opal at the center of the maiden’s armband, his thoughts on her mysterious identity at the forefront of his mind. His dreams were riddled with whispers of an assassination plot, hooded monks chasing a young woman dressed in grey with long flowing red hair and luminous amber eyes, and fevered promises that left his body wanting more. And so Morag slept in Regan’s arms the first fateful night of their meeting. Morning would be soon enough to untangle the web divinity had wrought. The bells of morning vespers startled Morag awake. Her body felt unusually stiff and the bedding under her was oddly lumpy. Wiggling her bottom, she tried to move off the hard dagger that must have slipped to the back of her thigh. Reaching down, she grabbed the strap at her thigh to realize it was exactly where it should be—in front. Since when had her bedding been littered with rocks? Stretching, her elbow came into contact with something hard. Her eyes snapped open at the deep “Oooaaff” close to her ear. It all came rushing back to her. She whipped her head around. Her elbow had just hit the jaw of the man who had held her at sword point the night before. He’d apparently been sleeping as well, because his hazel green eyes slitted open sleepily. His head must have snapped back at the impact of her elbow. Because he sat, at the moment, holding her with his head leaning back as far as possible from her still bent arm. His lean, rugged face was handsome. She had not seen him clearly the night before in the darkened room. She’d been overwrought and exhausted after her ordeal. But she noticed him now. Her gaze dropped to his lips, sensual and dusky rose; mere inches from her own face. She could imagine his lips at her ear, on her neck, kissing a trail to her own mouth. The image that flashed in her mind mortified her. She was a nun! Scrambling from his lap, she ended up in a heap on the floor. Standing up, the warrior extended his hand to help her up. She sat for a moment, her eyes hungrily taking in the man before her. From toe to glorious head, every inch of his six-foot frame was battle-toughened warrior! It had been quite a while since a man—well a man other than the brothers from the neighboring priory—had stepped within the walls of the Abbey. Taking his hand, she stood slowly, her eyes riveted to him in curiosity. Shoulder length brown hair hung around his handsome face, one side tucked behind his ear. He wore a short-cropped beard. And his hazel eyes sparkled green. A blue and white jerkin covered a short tunic that hung to his mid thigh, the bold colors and white cross marking his participation in the recent crusade. White hose covered well-muscled legs that stood slightly apart in a defensive stance. He wore soft black leather boots that laced mid-way up his muscled calves. Her eyes moved to where his tunic tented above his thighs, and then darted away. She clasped her eyes shut firmly against the images and heat that raced through her body—tingling and prickling from her heated core outward. “I am a nun,” she stated firmly. “I am a nun!” she stared at her toes. “Yes, Sister, we established that last night,” his voice was patiently amused. Her head snapped up. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. Heat flushed her cheeks. “I am Regan McAllister. And you, are Morag St. Clair,” he stated in a lazy draw as he pushed the hair out of her eyes, catching it behind one ear. Tracing his finger lightly along her jaw to end at her pointed chin, he lifted her face so she had to look him in the eye. Her eyes were captivated by his. A bolt of electricity shot through her. His thumb brushed her full bottom lip. His hands rested on her shoulders. “I, I did not tell you my name,” she hesitated in confusion. “You are newly arrived. There is no way you could know me. I am Sister St. Claire here. No one, even in formal introductions, utters my Christian name; we do no use Christian names here. No one but Mother Superior knows my given name.” This man was handsome; he was also dangerous. Morag tried to move back, out of his light grasp. “Don’t.” His command stopped her in her tracks. “I will not harm you.” Removing his hands, he turned his back on her and walked to the hearth; he revived the fire. Turning again, he ran his fingers through his long dark hair, clearly agitated. “This may sound crazy, but I heard your name in my dreams last night.” He rolled his shoulders and shrugged uneasily. Her eyes grew wide. “Are you a prophet, then?” Her tone was incredulous. “No,” he said stonily. “A sorcerer?” “Absolutely not,” he scoffed. “I cannot explain how I dreamed of you. I am not a man given to fancy. I don’t often dream. I have waged war in Jerusalem and most parts between. I am a seasoned warrior, a knight pledged to the establishment of the queen’s court. But as sure as I’m standing here before you, I heard your name in my dreams. I also know there is a plot afoot to find you. You are a valuable pawn. Someone wants to use you to harm the queen.” Morag stepped nervously back. His words scared her, their veracity piercing her heart. She didn’t know what to think of this warrior who stood in front of her. While he was dangerous, he had kind eyes. He spoke the truth. What harm could come from trusting him? Yet, look at Lucifer. Much harm had come from his half-truths. The bells for morning vespers rang their final summons. She’d worry about Regan McAllister later. For now she had other concerns. “I must go or there will be trouble.” She turned to leave, almost running to the door. Her heart thundered in her ears and her hand trembled as she reached for the latch. “Wait!” Again, his command halted her. He came to her. Turning her gently, his hands resting on her shoulders, he said, “I will not harm you. I do promise you, Morag St. Claire, I will protect you. I do not know all your secrets, but I will. My calling from this moment on, until you are rejoined with your father, is to protect you. I heard it in my dream as clearly as when the queen commissioned me to the Holy Land. You are my destiny.” Leaning forward, he brushed his lips softly against hers. She gasped in surprise. He deepened the kiss, his tongue finding the soft interior, lush and warm. Pulling back, he looked deep into her eyes. His hand gently caressed the nape of her neck where he held her still. He brushed his lips once more gently across hers. “You, Morag St. Claire, are no nun. And I am no saint. This kiss is my seal, my promise to you!” Morag stood speechless. Her chest ached, her lips tingled, and her knees were weak. No man had ever spoken to her thus. Or touched her person in such ways. She was in awe of this warrior knight. She was in deep trouble. She began to shuffle backwards toward the door. “You may want this,” he said, his mouth quirked into an ironic smile as he pushed her wind tattered wimple into her hands. “Now, go!” Morag ran from the room. A sob tore from her throat as she ran down the darkened hallway towards morning prayers. There was no way around it; Mother Superior would notice her tardiness and the shabby appearance of her head covering. Morag prayed the insightful woman wouldn’t be able to see that her soul had been seared by the handsome warrior who had just marked her as his own, whose mission now seemed intertwined with hers whether she liked it or not. “God, help me,” she uttered as she slipped into the chapel to join the sisters already kneeling in prayer at the hard wooden benches. For the first time since she’d come to St. Carag’s Abbey, Morag’s desire to be a nun was being overshadowed by another altogether unfamiliar desire! And this was a foreign concept for a young woman who had believed a monastic life was all she needed for contentment.   More to come.... Back to Home