by Amy Tolnitch
Caught in her musings, she jumped when a voice said, “Iosobal.”
Tomas stepped out from the shadow of a tree, his gaze cautious, flickering away from hers when she looked at him.
She tried to remember the last time she had spoken to Tomas and found she could not. Not since he had returned to the island. She had heard the story, however, from Niamh. It was said his wife and child had died, and in despair, Tomas returned to his old life on Parraba, like a wounded animal returning to his den.
He had clearly changed much from the laughing boy she’d once played with on the sand.
“Tomas, what are you doing here?” Her heart pounded; his appearance was too sudden, too unexpected.
“I wanted to talk to you.” He still didn’t meet her gaze.
“I must be back to the palace.” She reminded herself of his past tragedy, and her attitude softened. “What did you want?”
His brown gaze briefly caught hers, and he fastened on a point above her left shoulder. “Why have you allowed these Highlanders here? In your home?”
Why indeed? she wondered. “They seek my aid for a child.”
Tomas sneered. “I am guessing ’tis not all they seek. At least the big one with black hair.”
A tremor rippled down Iosobal’s spine at his words. That a man would be interested in her as a woman was such a strange concept she could not envision it. Could she? “They shall be gone soon, Tomas.”
He fisted his hands and took a step toward her. “The Lady of Parraba is too fine for the likes of that rough warrior.”
Though Iosobal had thought the same herself, for some mad reason, she was tempted to dispute Tomas. She pasted a gentle smile on her face. “’Tis kind of you to be concerned for me, Tomas, but I can take of myself. Besides, I am sure the only thing The MacKeir is interested in is his daughter’s health.” Iosobal ignored a stab of uncertainty and maintained her serene smile.
Tomas looked at her then, truly looked at her. Iosobal caught her breath, shocked that he would do so. He had not since they were wee things, running on the sand. “I worry for you, Iosobal. You are alone, or nearly so. And you are an innocent lass, unused to the ways of men like those you welcome into your home.”
“As I said, Tomas, they shall be gone soon.”
“Be careful, Iosobal. I have met men like that one. They do not ask for what they want, they take.”
She gave a light laugh. “Then I am lucky The MacKeir does not want me.”
Tomas continued to eye her, as if he knew her words were not entirely true. He straightened before dropping to one knee, his fist against his chest. “If you need aid, I would be honored to give it.”
Iosobal was struck by the ridiculous thought that The MacKeir could probably smite Tomas in two before Tomas could even draw a blade. In fact, the whole conversation was absurd. Where had this sudden fervor come from? She tried to appreciate his concern, but found she could not. She could defend herself, if need be, far better than a simple villager she’d not seen for years. “My thanks for your kind offer, but ’tis not needed.”
He glanced up, the waning sun slashing across his plain, craggy features. For a moment, Iosobal thought she saw a flash of something else in his eyes. Something … indefinable, yet unsettling. She gave herself an inward shake. It was the play of light, no more.
“The Lady of Parraba should never belong to a bloodthirsty Highlander,” Tomas said darkly.
“Methinks you misread my guest,” Iosobal said, abruptly annoyed at his presumption.
She made to pass by him, when Tomas leapt up and grabbed her arm. Before Iosobal could think, she jerked away.
His eyes flashed. “As I said, I am ready to aid you if need be.”
Iosobal bit her lip, greatly discomfited by Tomas’s insistence. “The Lady of Parraba is well used to seeing to her own welfare.” She refused to further defend The MacKeir’s presence or Tomas’s insinuations of something between them.
As she brushed past Tomas, she head him murmur, “I hope so.”
She ignored him and walked away, carefully keeping her steps even until she was out of sight, then rushing up the path to the palace. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She’d not given a thought as to what impression The MacKeir and his companion’s arrival would have on the other residents of her island. Perhaps they feared such large and obviously battle-trained men in their midst. Aye, that must be it. Since Tomas felt threatened, he naturally assumed she might feel the same. As she made her way up the steps to her chambers, she shook off the moment of unease that gripped her when Tomas stared at her. Surely, she had misread the flash of possession in his gaze.
No, clearly, the loss of his wife and child had changed him, made him fearful and suspicious. It was no more than that.
AFTER MIXING HERBS IN WARMED WINE FOR AILIE, IOSOBAL found the child with The MacKeir sitting next to her on the window seat. His arms were wrapped around her, his head bent toward hers. While she couldn’t understand his words, she heard the soothing tone.
“How is she?” Iosobal asked as she neared them, though she quickly realized she didn’t need an answer. Ailie’s thin shoulders trembled, and her breathing was rapid and shallow.
The MacKeir lifted his green gaze to hers, and Iosobal had to brace herself against the anguish in his eyes. “She says her chest hurts.”
Iosobal put a cup in Ailie’s hands. “Drink this.”
“Thank you, my lady,” the child rasped. As she sipped, The MacKeir loosened his arms and patted her back. “I need to talk with Lady Iosobal, sweeting. Finish your drink and I shall be right back.” He stood and gestured to Iosobal to follow him.
They stopped on the walkway outside the chamber, and Iosobal waited for him to speak. Instead, he took her hand. “It is just like Agatha,” he said.
Iosobal heard him, but her mind couldn’t think of anything but the feel of his big, rough hand clasping hers. It was such a strange and oddly comforting sensation that she didn’t pull away. She gave herself an inward shake and gazed at The MacKeir.
The bold Highlander who’d breached her palace was gone.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“My wife. She died three years ago. ’Twas the same. At first, she thought she had a minor cold. Then, she began coughing. Terrible, wracking coughs that shook her body. Later,” he sucked in a breath, “she complained that her chest ached. Though she was fatigued, she could not seem to gain any rest.”
The simple pain in his first two words struck her heart like the lash of a whip. “Your healers?”
He snarled an oath. “Useless, every one. They bled her, as if that would do aught.”
“What… what was she like just before she died?”
His fierce green gaze snared hers and he squeezed her hand. Hard. “She began shaking, shaking so hard her teeth clattered together. It became nearly impossible for her to draw a breath.” He moved closer, until only their clasped hands separated them.
Even as Iosobal told herself to retreat, she held her ground, held his gaze with hers.
“At the last, she just … closed her eyes and stopped trying.”
Iosobal bowed her head. Something about the story sounded familiar. Had one of the villagers sickened so? Not under her rule. Perhaps her mother’s?
“Do something,” he said, his voice low and rough.
She thought for a moment and nodded. “Light the brazier in your chamber. Close the windows. I gathered plants earlier to burn for her.”
As she turned to go, he didn’t release her hand but pulled her back. When he spoke, she felt his breath against her ear. “The villagers claim you are a sorceress, my lady. Is it true?”
He was angry, she realized, feeling the heat of it in his body. No, beyond angry. She carefully slid her hand free and turned back to face him. For a brief, wild moment, she considered telling him the truth. Wanted to see what this man, the first to seek her out, the first to calmly meet her gaze, the first to touch her skin, would do.
<
br /> “The villagers are like many,” she said tightly. “Superstitious.”
“You’ve not answered my question.”
“Nay,” she breathed. She whirled and walked swiftly down the walkway.
ON A COOL, MISTY AFTERNOON, PIERS, GIFFORD, A score of men from the garrison, and too many packhorses laden with ale for Piers to count arrived at Tunvegan.
As they approached the castle walls, Gifford tossed back a drink and muttered, “Damn forbidding place.”
Piers glanced at him. “Maybe you should stop drinking for a time. We do not know what we will find here.”
Gifford snorted and took another drink. “My wits are plenty sharp.”
With a sigh, Piers looked back at Tunvegan. As Gifford said, it was a forbidding place. Made of dark gray stone, the castle walls rose high above the wooded outcrop. The crenellated tops of five massive stone towers sat at each corner and at the center of the far wall. The only entrance was over a narrow track that rimmed the loch and led up to the drawbridge. “Let us proceed. Owen should have arrived by now and alerted them to our arrival.” He pressed his mount forward, and apprehension slid across his skin with each stride. Something was amiss here.
“A quiet place,” Gifford commented.
“Aye.” That was it, Piers realized. It was too quiet, too empty-looking. They stopped at the gatehouse and a guard peered down at them. “Ye be of Falcon’s Craig?” he called down.
“We are,” Piers answered.
With a groan of metal, the portcullis slid up, allowing them to ride under the gatehouse and into a bailey. The bailey was immense and sprawling, containing several structures, and a training field. At the sight of the huge garden next to the central tower, Piers smiled. Agatha had clearly made her mark in this stark place. Oddly enough, though the bailey thronged with people, as was customary, their gazes were furtive, hidden, as if they were wary of appearing too curious. What goes on here? Piers wondered.
Grooms appeared to take their horses, and Gifford shook a finger at them. “Make sure none of our supplies go missing. I know exactly how many of skins of ale we have.”
Two of the grooms exchanged a glance. Piers heard one them mutter, “Auld sot,” and grinned.
Gifford scowled at all of them.
“Welcome to Tunvegan,” a new voice said. “I am Maura.”
Piers dismounted and handed the reins off to a waiting groom. A sliver of afternoon sunlight glinted off the woman’s rich, deep green silk bliaut and even deeper red hair. She gazed at him with big, dark blue eyes from a lush face. Calculating eyes, Piers thought. “I am Piers Veuxfort. The Earl of Hawksdown’s brother.” How easily the lie fell from his lips now, Piers realized. He nodded toward Gifford, who stood beside him. “This is my Uncle Gifford. We have come in search of the laird.”
A faint smile crossed the woman’s lips. “Come with me.”
“My men—” Piers began.
“Are welcome in the hall after they have seen to their mounts.” She sauntered across the bailey with Piers and Gifford in her wake.
“Red hair,” Gifford whispered.
Piers rolled his eyes. His uncle’s penchant for red hair was unwavering. He fingered the pommel of his sword, unease flitting across the back of his neck.
They followed Maura into the great hall. She crossed to the dais, and stopped to speak to a man seated there. He sat in the main chair, sprawled in ownership, a flagon of wine at his elbow. A handful of men sat at the table around him, none of who Piers recognized from The MacKeir’s visit to Falcon’s Craig.
“Who in the hell is that?” Gifford asked.
“Hold your tongue until we find out,” Piers hissed as they approached the dais.
Maura moved to stand beside the man’s chair, her long-fingered hand resting on his shoulder. “Laird Lachlann,” she said. “These men have come seeking news of Lugh MacKeir.”
Gifford’s brows rose. “Laird? What of The MacKeir?”
Lachlann gazed back at them with a cool expression. “Unfortunately, our former laird could not withstand the death of his wife.” He gave Piers a curt nod. “My sympathies to you, of course.”
“Where is he?” Piers demanded.
Lachlann shrugged. “I have no idea. The truth is that he went mad. Took off for some isle rumored to be enchanted.”
“How come you are to be laird?” Gifford sputtered.
At the question, Lachlann’s gaze turned to Gifford. The icy malice in that gaze made Piers suddenly wonder if they would leave Tunvegan alive. He slowly realized that not one man in the hall was familiar to him.
“The clan chose him,” Maura said with a mocking smile. “We needed an able leader after Lugh lost his wits.”
Gifford opened his mouth and Piers coughed. For once, his uncle paid him heed. “What of my niece?” Piers asked.
Lachlann’s gaze turned bland. “He took her with him, of course. I doubt the bairn still lives.”
Piers clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Callous bastard, he thought as he forced his face blank of expression. “Where is this isle you speak of?”
“’Tis only a legend. A fool’s quest.” He stood. “I am sorry you came all this way for naught. You and your men are welcome to stay the night, of course.” With that, he dismissed them with a cool nod, and turned to converse with one of his men. Within a few moments, Piers and Gifford found themselves installed in a barren chamber, a meager fire struggling for life in the hearth.
“Miserable place,” Gifford said. “Not right, this.”
Piers sat on the edge of a thin mattress. “I agree.”
Gifford sniffed. “I am off to fetch some ale. Mayhap I can discover more about the new laird.”
“Be careful, Uncle. I care not for the looks of this.”
“Hmph. Didn’t even offer us a drink,” Gifford muttered as he toddled out the door.
Piers pushed another log onto the fire and crouched down in front of the flames to warm his hands. Other than the bed, the chamber held only a scarred, round, wooden table and two stools. A sliver of light cut through the window slit, barely affecting the gloom of the place. Perhaps he and Gifford would be well served to sleep in the stables, he decided. They had better comforts than this with them, and they could keep an eye on their horses and supplies at the same time.
After a time, the door creaked open, and Gifford paced in, a woman behind him carrying a tray of foodstuffs. “I knew that Lachlann was too pretty,” Gifford said with a smug look.
“What are you talking about, Uncle? Who cares what the man looks like?”
Gifford took a drink from his ale skin and nodded to the woman. “Tell him.”
She moved forward slowly, casting a glance behind her. “Close the door,” she said softly. Her throat worked. “If any loyal to Lachlann hear me …”
Her expression of fear told Piers enough. He shut the door and leaned against it, his ears alert for footsteps. “Who are you?”
The woman smoothed down her skirt. She was clearly a servant, clad in an old brown wool bliaut, her hair caught up under a wimple as plain as her face. “I am Triona,” she said in a low voice. “I was maid to the Lady Agatha, afore she died, God rest her soul.” She crossed herself.
“What do you know of The MacKeir?”
Triona’s expression hardened. “Lachlann is a liar. ’Tis true that the poor lass, Ailie, fell ill.”
Gifford handed her a cup of wine. “We know that much.”
“The rest is a lie.” She took the cup with trembling fingers and swallowed a big gulp. “The laird, the true laird, was as right in his mind the day he left as always. He feared for the child.”
Piers held up a hand as the soft sound of footsteps sounded outside the door. “Aye, it is hard to believe about Lugh,” he said loudly. “But you know how he loved Agatha.”
The footsteps receded, and Piers nodded at the woman. “Continue.”
“Lachlann and his whore have long plotted against the laird. The laird was so c
oncerned for the bairn that he didnae see it. As soon as he left, Lachlann took over.”
“How?” Piers asked. “What of Lugh’s men?”
Triona took a gulp of wine. “That witch, Maura, put something in their drink. By the time they awoke, they found themselves in the dungeon.”
“Are they still alive?”
“I donna ken. Not all, I am sure, but I dare not ask.”
“Whoreson,” Gifford said, shaking his head.
“Aye, that he is.” Her gaze clouded. “You should leave at once. Ye canna trust him.”
“Aye, I see that,” Piers said, gesturing around him. “This mean chamber is evidence enough of his welcome.”
Gifford patted Triona on the shoulder and filled her cup. “Where did The MacKeir go?”
She sighed. “I know not the name of the place, but ’tis said to be the home of a powerful healer. The men who escorted the laird and Branor are gone.”
“Branor?”
“One loyal to the laird, even though he be of your blood.”
“Do you know the direction?” Piers asked.
“Nay, but,” her forehead wrinkled, “’tis possible Will knows. He is the marshal of the stable and too skilled for Lachlann to get rid of.”
Piers exchanged a glance with Gifford. “Perfect. We were just on our way to the stable to check on the horses.”
“Godspeed,” Triona said as she walked toward the door. “I pray you return with the laird soon. Lachlann is a cruel master.” She slipped out the door.
Gifford raised a brow. “Well? What are you waiting for? Let us go find The MacKeir.”
Chapter
V
The next morning, Lugh stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and crossed his arms. Niamh stood at a long worktable chopping some kind of herb with Hemming standing close. The two were whispering, but Lugh caught the word Highlander and frowned. He cleared his throat.
Hemming merely lifted his gaze in his usual cool manner, but Niamh flushed. “Where is my daughter?” Lugh asked.