Page 2 of His Runaway Bride
Chapter 1: Sanctuary
The rain hammered downupon Ewan MacNeil's woolen cloak with relentless fury.Each droplet struck like a tiny dagger, soaking through layers of wool and leather until the cold seeped into his very marrow.His destrier's hooves churned the sodden earth into a treacherous mire, yet he pressed onward, his jaw set against the tempest raging within his chest.
The wind howled, driving the rain sideways in sheets that made it nearly impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.Only the steady rhythm of hoofbeats broke the monotony of wind and rain.
Sanctuary.The word tasted bitter upon his tongue, carrying with it the sting of humiliation.
"Bloody stubborn lass," he muttered through gritted teeth, water streaming from his dark blonde hair into his green eyes.The words were lost in the howling wind, but they carried the weight of three months of suppressed anger and wounded pride.
Behind him, his two most trusted men—Grant MacLeod and Patrick Wallace—followed in equally miserable silence.The three of them had ridden together through countless campaigns, yet none had ever faced a challenge quite like this one.
Three months.Three long, humiliating months since Lileas MacDonald had vanished from her father's keep just seven days before their wedding, leaving behind a hastily scrawled note with a feeble apology.Three months of scouts confirming that his wayward bride had taken sanctuary at St.Agnes Abbey, the one place in all of Scotland where even a Highland laird's authority meant nothing.
Three months of Ewan's carefully composed letters going unanswered.He had started with formal requests for an audience, progressed to attempts at negotiation, and finally descended to what could only be described as pleading.All had been met with the same stony silence.
The humiliation had been almost unbearable.His own clan looked at him with barely concealed pity.Village folk whispered behind his back.The alliance between MacNeil and MacDonald lands hung in the balance, and everyone knew it.
But perhaps worst of all was the growing certainty that he had somehow failed before he had even begun.What manner of man inspired such revulsion in a woman that she would abandon everything she knew rather than marry him?
Her open rejection had shaken his confidence and strengthened his resolve to hunt her down and bring her to heel.No woman was going to jeopardize the welfare of his clan or thwart his carefully laid plans.
The abbey loomed ahead through the driving rain, its ancient stone walls rising from the mist.The structure was old, built by monks who had sought isolation on this windswept coastline.Its towers disappeared into the low-hanging clouds, giving it an otherworldly appearance that seemed fitting for a place where earthly authority held no sway.
Even through the storm, smoke rose from several chimneys.The sight should have been welcoming, but instead it filled Ewan with dread.Somewhere within those walls was the woman who held his future in her delicate hands, whether she knew it or not.
As they drew closer, he caught the faint scent of something being distilled.The sisters of St.Agnes were renowned throughout the Highlands for their brewing skills and healing arts.
Ewan and his men moved their horses under an awning and out of the rain.He dismounted with movements stiff from hours in the saddle, his boots squelching in the mud.He approached the gate and pounded against the wood with enough force to rattle the hinges."Open in the name of Clan MacNeil!I would speak with yer abbess!"
Long moments passed before a small wooden panel slid open at eye level.A pair of shrewd brown eyes appeared, studying him with calm assessment.
"What business have ye with the sisters of St.Agnes, warrior?"The voice was steady and unimpressed by his show of authority.
The casual dismissal made his jaw clench.He was Laird of Clan MacNeil, a man whose word was law across thousands of acres of Highland territory, yet this woman spoke to him as if he were some common soldier seeking alms.
"I am Laird Ewan MacNeil," he replied, forcing his voice to remain level."And I've come for my betrothed, Lady Lileas MacDonald.I ken she has taken sanctuary here, and I would speak with her."
The eyes regarded him with that same infuriating calm, neither showing surprise at his identity nor any particular deference to his rank.
"Ye are not welcome here armed, MacNeil.This is a place of peace."He noticed she did not acknowledge his title.
Ewan's hand moved instinctively to the sword at his hip before his mind caught up with his reflexes.He'd expected this, of course.No abbey would allow armed men within its walls, particularly not men who came seeking to retrieve unwilling women.
"I'll surrender my weapons if ye grant me audience," he said, his voice carefully controlled."My men can make camp beyond yer walls."
The eyes studied him for what felt like an eternity, weighing and measuring.Finally, heavy bars could be heard lifting on the other side of the gate.
The portal swung open with a groan, revealing a tall, austere woman in the black robes of a Benedictine abbess.Her face bore the lines of someone who had seen perhaps fifty winters, yet her bearing was that of a queen.
"I am Abbess Bethóc," she said simply."Yer weapons, if ye please."
