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face, tugging upward at the wrinkles
     residing there. “ 'Tis true that as a man of God, they would allow me in where the gates
     'twould be barred to you. I suppose I could talk to the chit, but 'tis all I can do,” he
     warned. “I cannot force her from her sanctuary.”
    “Thank you, Bishop,” Blake said, and wondered if he might yet escape the marriage. If he
     did, he would owe the little Scottish wench his thanks. Mayhap he could send her some
     bonbons, or a bolt of fabric.
    “There 'tis.”
    Blake glanced up at Rolfe's announcement as they rode out of the trees. They were only
     about fifty yards from the stone wall surrounding the abbey. Tensing in the saddle, he
     nudged his horse and urged him forward. In the next few minutes he would either gain his
     bride or fail and continue to be a happy man. It was time to determine his future.
    Reaching the gate, Blake dismounted and moved swiftly to the bell pull. He was about to
     give it a tug when a crack between the door and the wall caught his attention. Frowning,
     he reached up and gave the wooden door a tentative nudge. It gave a squeal of protest but
     slid an inch open. Blake stilled, little currents of unease running up the back of his
     neck. This was not right, and it brought a grim frown to his face as he reached for his
     sword. “The door is unbarred.”
    “What?” Rolfe dismounted to join him.
    “Nay.” The bishop shook his head. “You must be mistaken, Blake. The gate is always barred.
     There are too many who seek sanctuary within to” His words came to an abrupt halt when a
     gentle push from Rolfe sent the door sliding open a little farther. The prelate stared in
     amazement, then muttered with disgruntlement, “Well! That is not very secure.”
    Blake pushed the door the rest of the way open. His gaze ran over the empty flower and
     herb gardens before turning to the building beyond. “Nay. 'Tis not safe at all.”
    “Damn me!” The bishop scrambled off his own horse and joined the other two men peering
     through the opening.
    “What think you?” Rolfe asked. They all stared at the lush and flowering vegetation
     revealed.
    “The gardens are empty. Should they be?” Blake glanced over his shoulder. The bishop was
     craning his neck, peering inside even as he shook his head.
    “Nay. The servants or lay sisters should be tending them at this hour. Lady Elizabeth
     Worley runs St. Simmian's, and she is a fair virago of a woman who would put up with no”
    “Look you,” Rolfe said, cutting off the bishop. “There are baskets scattered about. 'Tis
     as if they had been working and left suddenly.”
    “It sounds worrisome.” Little George's rumble drew Blake's attention to the fact that
     every single man who rode with them had dismounted and was crowded around, trying to peer
     into a sanctity they would normally never get a chance to see.
    “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” The bishop shook his head, his eyebrows turned down in
     concern. “Something is not right; something is simply not right.”
    “You said many seek sanctuary here. You do not think someone actually broke in and” Rolfe
     left the rest of his theory unsaid.
    Blake pushed the gate the rest of the way open and started resolutely inside. 'Twas one
     thing for the little Scottish wench to flee from marrying him; 'twas another for someone
     to steal or harm her. He would not stand idly by and see that done. 'Twas not in his
     nature.
    Seonaid was a bit surprised by the wariness on the other woman's face. She was a redhead,
     her skin pale and powdered with a light sprinkling of freckles. Her face was blotchy from
     crying and scrunched up in distrust as she watched them approach. Pausing before her,
     Seonaid glanced uncomfortably away. She wanted to turn around and leave but simply could
     not. 'Twas due to her one failing; in her heart, Seonaid was soft. 'Twas a fault she and
     her brother had worked hard to eradicate over the