Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  For a long time, he stood with Gifford and Piers just outside the door. Again and again, Iosobal prayed to her Great Mother, begging for her aid. A faint glow surrounded her, as if she were lit from within. Lugh fisted his hands, praying that Iosobal would succeed even as he dreaded seeing her condition if she did.

  Eventually, Iosobal’s head dropped.

  Into the silence Ailie coughed.

  Lugh couldn’t stifle his sound of dismay.

  Iosobal looked up and their gazes collided. Lugh gazed into her glittering purple eyes; and any lingering doubt he might have felt over whether Iosobal was indeed a sorceress vanished. She glared at him, contempt sharpening her features.

  “You are not to be here.” Her gaze swept over Piers and Gifford, and the two stepped back. “None of you.”

  For once, Gifford apparently couldn’t find a word to say. Lugh felt Piers’s eyes on him and straightened his shoulders. Well, sorceress she might be, but it was his precious daughter in there, Lugh told himself as he strode in the chamber. When he crossed into the pattern of candles, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He knelt next to Ailie and took her hand. “Do you feel any better, sweeting?”

  “A little,” she said, granting him a sweet smile.

  Lugh looked up and found his gaze filled with the sight of Iosobal’s slender, smooth neck, her full breasts visible beneath the sheer fabric of her chemise. He swallowed and sucked in a breath. By the saints, the woman was far too tempting. His desire for her pierced through even his concern for Ailie and his memories of Agatha. He reached out and stroked a finger down her cheek.

  Her eyes widened but she didn’t flinch away.

  “You did not succeed,” he said.

  “Nay. Not this time.”

  His finger trailed down the curve of her throat. Her pulse jumped and he smiled.

  Her lips parted and the only thing stopping Lugh from pulling her down beneath him on the floor was Ailie’s presence.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “I thank you for your effort.” He squeezed Ailie’s hand.

  “I am tired, Father,” she said. “May I go to bed now?”

  He swept her up into his arms.

  Iosobal stood. To her credit, she did not try to cover herself, though she must realize just how much of her he could see. And what he saw was a woman who wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths; the tips of her nipples pushed against the fabric of her chemise, and her eyes glowed.

  “One day, you will invite me into this chamber,” he said softly.

  She flushed but did not look away.

  He took a step closer, so that the only think keeping them from touching was Ailie. “And I shall come.”

  A tremor rippled across her skin, but she said nothing as Lugh carried his daughter out of the room.

  STRANGELY ENOUGH, THE NEXT MORNING AILIE WAS better. When Iosobal and Artemis came into the hall, the child was sitting at the table with bright eyes and cheeks full of honey cakes. The dog immediately bounded over to Ailie’s seat and stuck her nose into Ailie’s lap hunting for crumbs. Ailie giggled and slid a cake off the table, where Artemis leapt upon it.

  “You spoil her,” Iosobal said with a smile. “Soon, she will be jumping up onto the table in search of food.”

  She felt the heat of The MacKeir’s gaze upon her and fought a flush. One day you shall invite me to this chamber, he’d said last night. And I shall come. Just remembering the low, intimate tenor of his voice was enough to send a shiver through her body. Of course, she would never issue such an invitation, never be so bold, so reckless. Would she?

  “Good morning, Lady Iosobal,” Gifford called from his seat at the end of the table.

  Iosobal smiled wider when she saw how close he sat to Saraid, who appeared more relaxed than Iosobal could ever remember seeing her. “Good morning, Gifford.”

  “Sit, my lady,” The MacKeir said, indicating the empty stool next to him.

  There really was no reason she could offer not to sit next to him that wouldn’t sound like the weak excuse it was, Iosobal realized. She sat, scooting the chair a bit farther away from The MacKeir.

  He gave her a knowing wink.

  Ailie peered around him. “I am feeling much better this morn, my lady. I have not coughed even once.”

  “You look better,” Iosobal said.

  “I knew you would aid me,” Ailie said as she reached for another honey cake.

  “We are growing close to clearing your cave,” The MacKeir commented. “Mayhap a few more days time.”

  Iosobal started. “I did not realize you had made that much progress.”

  “Thanks to Piers and an idea he had,” The MacKeir responded with a nod toward the man in question.

  Piers looked at her with an assessing stare.

  What they must think of me? Iosobal pondered, remembering their expressions from the evening before.

  “Damn fine show you put on last eve, Lady Iosobal,” Gifford pronounced with a salute of his cup. “Seems to have worked as well.”

  The MacKeir narrowed his gaze. “Aye, but I donna understand. I thought you failed in your attempt.”

  “I thought I did as well.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Yes. I am never ill.”

  “Yet you sought to draw Ailie’s illness into yourself.”

  Iosobal shrugged. “It was an idea.”

  “A dangerous one.”

  “As I said, I am never sick.”

  “Which would make your body ill-prepared to fight off any illness, particularly one as serious as Ailie’s.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  Once again, Iosobal found herself wishing the man were not quite as astute. “Perhaps. ’Twas a risk I was willing to take.”

  He studied her and Iosobal shifted her gaze to find her cup of wine.

  “Come, Artemis,” Ailie said as she jumped up. “May I take her with me?” she asked Iosobal.

  “Certainly.”

  “Where are you going?” her father asked.

  The child wrinkled her nose. “Donna worry, Father. I truly am feeling fine. I am going to walk on the beach.”

  “No swimming.”

  Ailie sighed. “Verra well. I shall not enter the water unless someone is with me.”

  The MacKeir gave her a tight hug and kissed her cheek. “Enjoy yourself, sweeting.”

  “I will.” Ailie skipped out of the hall, Artemis bounding along behind her.

  Iosobal looked at The MacKeir. He watched his daughter scamper out into the sun. Such tenderness and love bathed his face that Iosobal’s breath caught in her throat. That was his greatest power, she thought, a power greater than his sword, greater indeed than anything she possessed. Anyone to receive such raw, bald devotion would never find herself cold or lonely.

  The thought startled her so much she knocked over her cup.

  Hemming rushed forward with a cloth to sop up the liquid, and Iosobal stood. You are the Lady of Parraba, she told herself. You are beyond such emotions. Liar, her inner voice shouted. Iosobal sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Excuse me. I must check on Ranald.”

  “I already did so,” Hemming said. “He is healing well, and is … anxious to leave. I gave him some spiced wine.”

  “Is that woman still outside the palace?” Piers asked.

  “Nay,” The MacKeir said. “She returned to the village.”

  Iosobal looked at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

  The MacKeir shot back a drink of ale. “Because I convinced her ’twould be better than sleeping out in the open while she waited for her husband to heal.”

  A spark of warmth whirled in Iosobal’s belly. She knew what he was not telling her. Somehow, he had persuaded Ranald’s wife that her husband was in no danger within her palace. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and stood. “I will come with you to check on the man. Perhaps we can return him home today
.”

  Iosobal opened her mouth to deny him, but inwardly shrugged. Why not, she thought. If it were possible, The MacKeir would be the best one to carry Ranald back to the village. She would certainly not set foot in the place, she decided, remembering the look of bitter resentment on Culloch’s face, his ugly accusations, which fortunately The MacKeir shrugged off. Many men would not have been so indifferent to such an insult.

  The MacKeir followed her into the small chamber she’d had Hemming move Ranald into once she’d seen to his wound. She stopped in the doorway. Hemming must have forgotten to add the henbane, she thought as she spied Ranald sitting up in bed propped against a pillow.

  At the sight of her, Ranald’s face paled and he looked down, clasping his hands.

  Behind her, Iosobal heard a grunt of contempt; then The MacKeir moved past her to stand next to the bed. “Look up, man, and say your thanks to the lady who saved your life.”

  Ranald did not move his head. Iosobal saw his lips move, but could not hear a word.

  As she moved close to the bed, The MacKeir held out an arm and stopped her. Iosobal was so stunned by his protective movement that she allowed it. “Do you wish to inspect the wound?” he asked.

  Iosobal nodded.

  The MacKeir set his jaw and stood with his arms crossed, his legs splayed. “I shall make sure this scared rabbit doesnae do something foolish.”

  He sounded so disgruntled that Iosobal had to hide a smile. Lugh MacKeir was in truth a big bear of a man, with the tender underbelly of a fawn. She peeled back the bandages and studied the skin. It was a healthy pink, the lines of stitches she’d taken barely visible.

  “The wound is much improved. Can you walk?” she asked Ranald, though she really didn’t expect an answer.

  To her surprise, the man looked up and brown eyes gazed into her own. “Aye. It pains me some, but I can manage. Thank you, my lady,” he finished in a low voice. “Thank you.”

  “I will send some valerian home with you. It should help with the pain, but you should keep off your leg as much as possible for the next fortnight. If the wound reddens or the pain worsens, send word to me.”

  His throat worked. “I … I apologize for my wife’s words. And those of Culloch. You have done me a great service and I shall not forget that.”

  “Mayhap you should tell the other villagers of the kind care you received at the home of the Lady Iosobal,” The MacKeir suggested, his gaze hard.

  “I shall, my lord. I certainly shall.”

  Iosobal straightened. “And no more hunting, dear.”

  Ranald’s face flushed scarlet, and he looked down once more. “No, my lady. I was wrong to hunt them.”

  “MacKeir?” Iosobal asked.

  He turned to her and his gaze softened. “Aye, my lady?”

  Dear Brigid, the man has beautiful eyes, she thought. Cool, like the depths of the forest one moment; and warm, like a lit candle within green glass the next. “Can you see Ranald to the village? I imagine his wife is eager to have him home.”

  He slowly nodded. “As my lady wishes.” The intensity of his gaze gave his words another meaning, and again, Iosobal was reminded of his words the night before.

  And I shall come.

  Iosobal turned and left, her senses more befuddled than she could ever remember. What a strange morning this has been, she thought. Possibly the most striking of all was Ranald’s behavior. He’d not only looked her in the eye, but thanked her in what sounded like genuine feeling. She shook her head.

  Lugh MacKeir was like a large rock tossed into the center of a placid pool, creating ripples that stretched from him and impacted everything.

  With a thrill of anticipation she couldn’t quite manage to quell, she found herself wondering what would happen next.

  AFTER LUGH DELIVERED RANALD TO HIS TEARFULLY grateful wife, he decided to stop back in the village tavern. He’d had to carry the man most of the way to the village and found he’d built up a thirst. Besides, perhaps he could find a moment with the woman he and Branor had met last time, and gain some true information from her. He walked in and found the place largely empty, but for a woman stacking cups along a sideboard.

  At his entrance, she jumped, and nearly knocked some of the cups to the floor.

  “Forgive me, mistress. I did not mean to startle you.” As he gazed at her, he slowly realized that she bore a strong resemblance to Niamh.

  She flashed him a bright smile. “Can I help you, my lord?”

  “Aye. Ale, if you please.” He glance around the room and found only two old men seated at a table in the corner playing dice. They paid no attention to him, caught up in their game.

  He took a seat and waited for his ale.

  The woman plopped down a full cup, her mouth still curved in a slight smile.

  “You remind me of someone,” Lugh commented as he took a sip. “A woman named Niamh, who lives at the palace.”

  The woman froze, and glanced around her. “Aye,” she said slowly. “Niamh is my sister.”

  “Ah. That explains the resemblance.”

  “My lord,” she began, then paused and bit her lip. “You are one of those from the Highlands?”

  “Aye. I have brought my bairn to seek the lady’s aid.”

  “You have seen my sister?”

  Lugh furrowed his brow. “Of course. A fine cook she is.”

  Her face relaxed.

  It struck him that something was not right about the conversation. He ran through the comments he last heard in the tavern, the reactions of the villagers when they arrived at the palace. “Can I be of some aid to you, mistress?”

  She sank onto a stool. “I have not seen my sister for two years.” She wiped a tear with her sleeve. “I miss her terribly.”

  “She doesnae come into the village.”

  A flicker of apprehension slid across her face and she shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  The woman looked around her with obvious apprehension.

  “I am sure that you would be welcome at the palace.”

  With his words, her face lost all color and she vigorously shook her head. “Nay, I could not. But I really need to talk to Niamh.”

  “The palace is not a place to fear.”

  Her gaze was doubtful. “Could you … could you take a message to my sister? Once in a while, Hemming carries such, but I have not seen him of late.”

  Lugh finished his ale. “Of course, but you are mistaken about the palace. I can assure you of that.” Damned, he tired of these villagers and their unreasoning fears. One would think Lady Iosobal held human sacrifices each night of the week the way they acted.

  “I could meet her where the land curves between here and the palace. I am not working tomorrow. Tell her,” her voice cracked and she gripped her skirts in fists, “tell her it is very important that I see her.”

  Lugh studied her. The woman was clearly fearful of something more than the palace. “Why will your sister not visit the village?”

  The woman stood as a group of fishermen wandered in. “She … refused to marry our father’s choice. She fled to the Lady. Please, my lord. Ask her to come.”

  “I will tell her your request,” he said, standing also.

  “My thanks,” she murmured as she rushed to the new table of men.

  Lugh walked out feeling more confused than ever. It seemed that Lady Iosobal, as much as she held herself apart from others, willingly granted refuge to those in need. Niamh, fleeing an unwanted marriage. Saraid, clearly hiding from something. He wondered what Hemming’s story was. More of the same, most likely.

  He whistled as he walked the path back to the palace.

  “I SHOULD RETURN HOME,” SARAID SAID.

  Gifford took her arm. “Not so soon. Come. Walk with me on the beach. ’Tis a fine day.”

  She rolled her eyes. “’Tis always a fine day on Parraba.”

  “Odd, that.”

  “Parraba is an unusual place.”

  “Aye, so
I have discovered. Just as Lady Iosobal is an unusual woman.”

  Saraid’s arm stiffened under his hand.

  “Be at ease, my sweet. I am not saying that I dislike the lady.”

  She stared straight ahead. “You should not call me such familiar names.”

  He grinned. “Why not? You are sweet.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  As he guided her down the path toward the sand, Gifford considered what he knew of Saraid. She was determined to push him away, but at the same time he could tell she was interested in him. “I could come up with other names. Perhaps one would meet with your approval. Hmm, my flower? My jewel? My little honey cake?”

  At the last Saraid laughed and shook her head at him.

  “You are quite impossible.”

  He winked at her. “Nay, I simply choose not to be dour and serious all the time.”

  “Are you ever serious?”

  They walked over the sand, the sun shimmering over the blue water. Overhead, birds chased the wind and Gifford saw a fish leap out of the sea. He stopped and put his hands on Saraid’s shoulders. “Oh, yes. At times, I am very serious.”

  She gazed back at him wide-eyed.

  He kissed her. Her lips trembled beneath his, then softened. Gifford wanted to shout with sheer joy when she put her hands against his chest, her fingers curling into his tunic. Good Lord, she made him feel young again. He pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, wondering if he were tasting Heaven.

  “Uncle Gifford, are you kissing Saraid?” a small voice shouted.

  At the sound, Gifford broke the kiss with a chuckle. Saraid stared back at him, looking every bit as if she’d just received the shock of her life. He was so damned happy he just smiled at her. “Aye,” he told Ailie. “I surely was.”

  “Oh, my,” the child said. “Are you going to get married?” The dog gamboled around her, chasing some unseen creature.

  Ah, the wisdom of children, Gifford thought. He put his arm around Ailie’s shoulders and hugged her. “What do you think?”