Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  “My thanks. Now, where is the Lady Iosobal?”

  Niamh’s smile faded. “Lady Iosobal has retreated to her chambers.”

  Gifford frowned. “That will not do.”

  “Leave the lady be,” Niamh advised. “She prefers to be alone.”

  Saraid thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “Perhaps ’tis time Iosobal ventured into the company of others.”

  Niamh slid her a look. “Like you?”

  “Aye,” Saraid said slowly. She turned to Gifford, who glanced back and forth between her and Niamh as if he sensed he’d missed something beneath the surface. “I shall show you to her chambers.”

  Gifford held out his arm. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Niamh sliced her knife down through the onion with a loud thump.

  Saraid ignored her, put her hand on Gifford’s arm, and led him across the gardens.

  As they walked, he put his other hand over hers. It was such a strangely tender touch that Saraid forgot to recoil. “This is indeed a beautiful place,” he said. “But Falcon’s Craig, our holding, has much appeal as well.”

  “Tell me of it.”

  “’Tis in the north of England and overlooks the sea. Though we do not enjoy the sunny warmth each day as you do on Parraba, we have our own comforts.” He winked at her. “Piers even designed a bathhouse.”

  “Oh?’

  “’Tis where The MacKeir first managed to seduce my niece.” Gifford chuckled. “Must be something to all that warm water, though I’ve not had the chance to explore such myself.” He looked at her and raised a brow. “Yet.”

  Saraid fought a flush and lost. “You are a dangerous man, I am thinking.”

  “Nay, simply a determined one.”

  As they approached Iosobal’s chambers, Saraid said, “I will never leave Parraba. It is my sanctuary.”

  Gifford stopped. “From what?”

  She forced her expression blank. “Here are the lady’s chambers. I must go.”

  He didn’t release her arm. “You will come to the feast?”

  “Aye. It is good to see the child faring better.” She turned and walked away from his probing stare. Why had she used the word sanctuary? She might as well have told him she was running from something. Or someone, she thought with an inward shiver. One whose name she would never utter again in her lifetime.

  Gifford stared after Saraid for a moment, his brow creased in thought. Sanctuary, the lady had said. It slowly began to fit. Her skittishness, her desire to live alone, the many times she would not meet his gaze.

  Someone had hurt her, frightened her so badly that she’d fled to Parraba. He frowned. Though a part of him could not imagine anyone wanting to mistreat such a clearly kind and gentle woman, he had seen too many men in his lifetime who cared not who they hurt.

  Saraid thought she could hide, but she had never met him before. He straightened his shoulders as a plan began to form in his mind. He’d not been interested in a woman since his beloved Marna died; had never envisioned he ever would be.

  But something about Saraid had changed all that, and for the first time in many years, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d found someone to grow old with.

  He turned and stared at the solid door to Lady Iosobal’s chambers. It looked newly hewn, he thought as he knocked. Odd, that.

  “Who is there?” she called.

  “Gifford.”

  The door cracked open and the lady peered at him. “Is something wrong with Ailie?”

  He smiled and moved forward, forcing the lady to move back and allow him entry. “Nay, she is much improved. We are having a feast down on the shore.”

  “I thought to remain in my chambers this eve. I am … weary.”

  “Nonsense. You must come.” He threw the arm that wasn’t cradling his jug around her shoulders. He felt her flinch in response, but decided not to comment.

  “I do not think so,” she said. “But please enjoy yourselves.”

  “Ailie’s improved health is due to you, my lady. We could not enjoy our feast without your beauteous presence. I have even persuaded Saraid to attend,” he added with a wink.

  “I am glad. But still, I—”

  He sighed and pulled her along out the door. “By the saints, you remind me of my nephew, Cain. Had to drag that boy into the living too.”

  “I do not need—”

  Gifford stopped suddenly and peered around. “You do not have any ghosts here, do you?”

  Iosobal looked around and shook her head. “Nay.”

  He grunted. “Good. Naught but trouble they are.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Come now, dear. Our little fete will not be complete without you. And little Ailie would be sorely disappointed if you did not come.”

  Iosobal eyed him, Gifford gave her an innocent look.

  “You are most persuasive, my lord. And insightful.”

  “Hah! I knew you were a woman with a discerning eye. Finally, someone who appreciates my keen wisdom.”

  Iosobal rolled her eyes. “Very well. I shall go down to the beach with you.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Good decision, my lady. And I should have mentioned that I am sure the laird will be most pleased to see you as well.” He lifted a brow as the lady’s face turned just the faintest bit pink, and tucked her reaction away in his mind for further study.

  “For a short while,” she said.

  “The MacKeir needs a good woman to take him in hand,” Gifford said as they walked along the passageway. “Boy can be far too impetuous.”

  Iosobal muttered something under her breath.

  “But a fine man for all of that. One I would trust in all things. Would you not agree, my lady?”

  “I have not known the laird very long.”

  “Ah, but it does not take too long to gain the measure of Lugh MacKeir.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And sweet Ailie needs a mother in her life. Damned tragedy for both of them to lose Agatha so soon, God rest her soul.”

  He noted Iosobal’s spark of interest.

  “What was she like, your niece? Was she very beautiful?”

  So the lady was interested, Gifford thought. “Once Amice finished with her, she was indeed a bonny lass. Ailie looks quite a bit like her.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled inside at the note of dejection in her tone. “Agatha was a bit jagged around the edges, I fear. Before The MacKeir swept her away, she was forever lecturing us about one thing or another. Sour disposition, really. But The MacKeir changed all that.”

  “They must have been very happy.”

  Now she sounds wistful, he thought. There is more to Lady Iosobal than her cool surface, after all. “Aye, I believe they were. But, alas, she is gone and life must go on for everyone.”

  “Sometimes the past has a hold on a person that is not so easily discarded,” she said quietly.

  “Do you speak of The MacKeir or yourself?”

  She gave him a startled glance. “The MacKeir, of course.”

  “Hmm. Of course.”

  IOSOBAL PAUSED WHEN SHE SPIED THE HUGE FIRE ON the beach. Flames shot up into the sky, sending whorls of smoke through the air. The scent of roasted fish mingled with the ashy smell of wood burning.

  “Come, my lady,” Gifford said as he pulled her closer.

  As they neared the group, Iosobal heard the sounds of a lute. To her surprise, Branor played the instrument with no small skill. She shifted her gaze over Branor seated by the fire, Saraid setting out food atop a spread blanket, and Piers watching the scene.

  But the one who drew her was The MacKeir. He swayed and turned with Ailie in his arms as if they danced at a lavish feast instead of a simple meal on the sand. By Saint Brigid, Iosobal thought as she watched him move. No wonder he was so skilled with his sword. Fluid was the word that came to her mind. There was no hitch in his step, no stumble, no hesitation, just pure flowing movement.

  She let out a breath she’d just realized she’d been holding.<
br />
  Gifford looked at her with a smile. She frowned at him, but he just smiled broader.

  “Lady Iosobal!” Ailie called to her. “Come and dance with us.”

  “A fine idea,” Gifford said. Before she could utter a protest, he’d swept her across the sand. Iosobal found herself being twirled around, Gifford’s grip on her waist so firm she didn’t have a chance to stop.

  The MacKeir glanced at her and grinned.

  His gaze was so warm that Iosobal stumbled. Gifford caught her, but just then the logs popped and a shower of sparks landed close to the edge of her gown.

  Iosobal froze, and before she could stop herself, let out a shriek of fright.

  The music stopped.

  Iosobal stared at the glowing specks on the sand, the bitter taste of fear on her tongue, her hands facing palms backward, as if she pushed something away. She backed up and ran into a hard body.

  The MacKeir put his hands on her shoulders. “Are you well, my lady?”

  She tried to halt her trembling but failed. “I … I must go.”

  He turned her around. “So soon? We have not yet eaten.”

  Iosobal cast another glance at the fire. “I am sorry, I cannot stay. I have matters to see to.”

  “What matters?”

  “Matters. Personal matters.” She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  She felt all of their eyes upon her. Only Saraid knew of her dread of big fires. And the reason. “Enjoy your fete,” she said and rushed toward the path to the palace. Dear Brigid, she hated this weakness. Her body shook, her skin clammy with unreasoning fear. It is only a fire, she told herself. For warmth, and to cook a few fish. Nothing to harm you.

  Her efforts to compose herself failed. By the time she reached the path, her legs felt so weak she wasn’t sure she could manage the slope. Iosobal, she chided herself. It was naught but a few sparks. She stepped on a small rock, and her ankle twisted. She started to fall, but a pair of heavily muscled arms caught her.

  “Lady Iosobal,” The MacKeir said in her ear. “What is wrong?”

  “I am fine.”

  He held her by her upper arms. “Look at me,” he ordered, the implacable nature of his demand made no weaker by the softness of his voice.

  She lifted her gaze to his.

  “You are shaking,” he said.

  “I … I caught a chill.”

  He lifted a brow. “’Tis warm.”

  “It must have been a wind from the sea.”

  “You are no a very talented liar, my lady.”

  Iosobal blew out a breath. She suddenly realized that she felt calmer. Just The MacKeir’s presence lightened her qualms. “I do not like fire.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  Because people tried to burn me alive as a child, she was half tempted to say. Because they believed my ability to heal was spawned from evil. Because even now, fifteen years later, I can still see the hatred on their faces, smell the pungent smoke, feel the heat wash up my legs. “Just a childhood fear that has remained.” She nodded toward the rest of the group still gathered down on the shore. “Join your friends.”

  “Come back with me. You can sit far away from the fire.”

  “No.”

  “Iosobal, I—”

  “I said no,” she snapped. “Now, go.” She turned and began walking up the path. Go away, she silently said. Leave me be.

  Partway up the path, she heard The MacKeir laugh in response to something Branor said, and her stomach tightened. For a moment, she glanced back. The MacKeir sat with Ailie in his lap, eating a chunk of fish with one hand and cradling his child with the other. Branor stroked his lute, and she could faintly hear Gifford singing a song. Piers was grinning at his uncle, and Saraid stared at Gifford in obvious fascination.

  They look happy, she thought. And I am on the outside.

  The reminder that she’d put herself there didn’t relieve the emptiness in her heart.

  LUGH STARED AFTER IOSOBAL WITH A SPECULATIVE gaze as she climbed the rise toward the palace.

  “What is wrong, Father?” Ailie asked from her position in his lap. “You have your bothered face on.”

  He stroked Ailie’s hair. “I am thinking on Lady Iosobal, sweet.”

  His daughter’s expression turned into a frown so like his own that Lugh had to smile. “Why did she leave? She did not even try one of Niamh’s pasties.”

  “’Twas the fire,” Saraid said.

  Lugh looked at her and cocked a brow. The woman sat close to Gifford, who handed her a cup of wine. Her expression said that she regretted her words.

  Branor stopped strumming his lute.

  “Why is she so afraid of fire?” Lugh asked.

  Saraid took a sip of wine, and bit her lip, clearly unsure whether to respond.

  Piers tossed some sand into the air. “Is it true that she is a witch?”

  Ailie wriggled in Lugh’s lap, her gaze solemn. “I like Lady Iosobal,” she said, with more than a trace of defiance.

  “Of course you do,” Gifford said. “She appears to be a fine woman.”

  Lugh rubbed Ailie’s back and waited to hear if Saraid would answer Piers’s question.

  Instead of responding, Saraid stood. “I do not like to discuss Lady Iosobal. She has done much for me, and deserves naught but my loyalty.”

  “’Tis a simple question,” Piers told her. “Lugh has given the care of my niece into this woman’s hands. I would like to know who she is.”

  “She is the Lady of Parraba,” Saraid said, handing her cup back to Gifford, who now stood at her side.

  “Leave off, Piers,” Gifford said with a frown. “Can you not see you are upsetting Saraid?”

  Branor resumed his strumming, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  Lugh briefly looked at him. As of late, his friend had been quieter than usual, almost as if he were waiting for something. Branor always observed, but offered little. Perhaps a secretive nature was a remnant of his time with the Templars, Lugh thought. God knew those men held their secrets close.

  “Why is Lady Iosobal so afraid of fire?” Piers asked softly. “Why?”

  “’Tis obvious,” Branor announced. “Have you never seen a witch burning?”

  “On this isle?” Lugh asked. “I cannot see it.”

  “Mayhap the lady ventured from her island.”

  “Mayhap ’tis none of your affair,” Saraid said, her tone frosty. “The lady has allowed you into her home and agreed to aid the bairn. Do you not understand what a boon that is?” She gave a sound of disgust and whirled to tromp across the sand.

  Gifford shot Piers and disgruntled look and hastened after her. “Lady Saraid,” he called. “Wait.”

  “He is besotted,” Piers said, shaking his head.

  Ailie giggled.

  “Do you think something happened to Iosobal?” Lugh asked Branor.

  Branor shrugged. “It would make sense. Whether true or not, she would not be the first healer to be called ‘witch’.”

  But probably the first to be accurately named, Lugh thought.

  Ailie yawned and snuggled into his chest.

  “Are you ready for bed, sweet?” Lugh asked.

  She shook her head, her eyes half-closed. “I did not get to see the dolphins yet.”

  Lugh gazed out over the smooth sea, the water turning a soft gold from the setting sun. “I do not see them today. They are probably off hunting their own supper.”

  “Lady Iosobal could have called them for me,” his daughter said, sounding forlorn.

  “Tomorrow she will,” Lugh assured her.

  “Promise?”

  “Aye.” His chest tightened as he gathered Ailie in his arms and stood. “Let us return to the palace now.”

  “Lugh,” Piers said as he threw sand onto the still smoldering fire. “Be careful.”

  Lugh sighed. “I believe the answer to your question is yes, Piers. And I donna care at all if it will aid Ailie.”

  Piers blinked. “You believ
e she is—?”

  “A sorceress? Aye, I do.”

  “Shh, Father,” Ailie said in a whisper that everyone easily heard. “That is supposed to be a secret.”

  Lugh grinned and held her closer. Of course, his daughter had gleaned the information from Iosobal herself. “And that is why you will soon be healed.”

  “And we can return to Tunvegan,” Branor added.

  “Aye.” Anger at what had befallen his holding mingled with a sharp stab of regret in Lugh’s mind. He loved Tunvegan, loved the rugged harshness of the place, the unyielding spirit of his people.

  Yet … He looked around him, taking in the warm beauty of Parraba, and thought of the tantalizing mystery that was the Lady Iosobal. The woman hid so much of herself, just as she hid away on this enchanted isle. He sensed that no one had ever tried to plumb the depths of Lady Iosobal to find the real woman inside.

  But as the Lady said—she was not of his world and he clearly was not of hers.

  “SARAID,” GIFFORD SAID, CATCHING HER ARM. “LET me escort you.”

  She paused and blew out a breath. “You need not leave your gathering. I am well used to seeing to myself.”

  He grinned and tucked her arm in his. “Ah, but here I am, so desperate for one of your lovely smiles that I insist on accompanying you to the palace.”

  Her lips quirked, but she let him lead her on.

  “I apologize for my nephew’s questioning, my lady. He has become a skeptical sort of late.”

  “I understand. Parraba is a … different place.”

  Gifford sensed an opening and resolved to plunge in. “How long have you been here?”

  As they walked up the hillside, Saraid looked thoughtful. “Six years, more or less.”

  “Ailie said that you live alone.”

  “Aye. I prefer it.”

  “’Tis a lonely life for such a warm, lovely woman.”

  “When I crave companionship, I come to the palace.”

  “You are hiding, my lady,” he said softly.

  Saraid flinched, but he held her arm securely.

  “I know not why. Yet. But I swear to you, I mean you no harm.”

  “I have heard such fine words before.”

  He stopped in the palace courtyard. The heavy scent of roses surrounded them, and the palace walls glistened in the setting sun. “Saraid.”