Free Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats Page A

of numerous votive candles brightened the gloomy interior. A man stood before the stone altar, his head bowed respectfully. She could not see his tonsure, but the flowing black cappa and crisp white undertunic identified him just the same: Brother Colban.
    She halted.
    Here might be a chance to recoup the day’s losses. If she spent an hour on her knees in the kirk, visibly proving her sanctity to the friar, would he not be more likely to discount any rumors of her heathen affiliations? Surely, he would.
    Of course, an evening prayer would delay her return to the bothy.
    Ana’s cheeks warmed. After her encounter with Niall in the cellars and the teasing comments about the bed, that was probably a good thing. His attempt to defend her had softened her opinion of him most alarmingly. If she weren’t more careful, she might come to think of him as her valiant savior again. That would never do. Not while they shared an abode.
    She covered her hair with her brat and stepped over the raised threshold of the narrow kirk.
    The leather soles of her shoes tapped lightly on the slabs of granite that formed the floor. Ana drew the sign of the cross on her body as she approached the altar. She waited for the friar to note her presence, but after a long moment her impatience got the best of her.
    “Brother Colban?”
    He genuflected, then turned. Long of face, with pale blue eyes and a chin sharp as a pike, the friar could quell the blithest of souls with a simple look. Three lines creased the fleshy ridge above his prominent nose, so deep they appeared to be carved there. No similar creases flanked his mouth, though. Ana could not ever recall seeing the man smile. “Aye?”
    “I’ve a desire to pray this eve. Will you take my confession?”
    He wore his piety like stiff armor, his nod spare. “Of course.”
    Although Ana still gave ritual thanks to the heathen gods for her gift, she had accepted the Christian God as the one true god. The Church demanded she forsake all other gods in favor of the Lord Almighty, but there was no room in the Christian world for her healing magic, and she could not—nay,
would
not—forsake that. So, she begged the Lord’s forgiveness for her actions. Silently. In private.
    She slipped to her knees before the friar. The granite floor bit into her flesh through the wool of her skirts, but she paid it no heed. This was the easy part. Her knees would be throbbing by the time she was done.
    Brother Colban placed his hand atop her head, and she bowed.
    “Have you despaired of His mercy since your last confession?”
    “Nay.”
    “Have you used the Lord’s name in vain?”
    “Twice,” she replied.
    “Have you committed adultery?”
    “Nay.”
    “Have you kept holy the Sabbath Day?”
    “I have.”
    “Have you coveted thy neighbor’s goods?”
    “Aye. Just today, I coveted the food on the baroness’s table.”
    “Have you lied?”
    “Six times.”
    “Have you been lazy or idle?”
    “Nay.”
    “Had impure thoughts?”
    Ana hesitated. Not until today. And only for a man the rest of the village saw as her husband. Did that count? She glanced up. “Is it impure to have lascivious thoughts about one’s husband?”
    The friar stared at her. His pale blue eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Not if you were bound before God.”
    Ana swallowed.
Mercy.
Why hadn’t she simply admitted her sin? Instead, by asking a foolish question, she’d cornered herself into a lie.
Please forgive me, Father.
“Then nay.”
    He continued to stare at her for a lengthy moment, then said, “Have you any other sins you wish to confess?”
    Ana bowed her head again. “Nay.”
    “Do you have true sorrow for your sins?”
    “Aye.” No doubt about that—she was writhing with shame inside. Offending God upset her greatly, especially here in His house. What an unworthy wretch she was.
    “May Our Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Almighty God, through His most gracious mercy absolve you. By His authority, I