by Amy Tolnitch
Ailie gave her a sly look. “My father thinks you beautiful too.”
Iosobal rose and walked to the water’s edge, her emotions whirling. She bent down and picked up a pink shell, then walked back and put it into Ailie’s hands.
If possible, the child’s eyes widened even more. “’Tis the same color as your castle.”
Iosobal suppressed a smile. It should be, she thought. I created it myself.
Ailie held the shell to her ear with an intent look on her face. “I cannot hear it,” she said, clearly disappointed.
“Hear what?”
“The sea.”
Iosobal wrinkled her brow. “Try again.”
Ailie listened once more and a smile slowly spread across her face. “Now I hear.”
“Ah. Perhaps ’tis a lucky shell.”
“I hope so.” For a moment, Ailie’s gaze met hers and Iosobal saw the fear in her eyes.
Iosobal sat next to Ailie and took both of her hands. The child just stared trustingly at her.
“Sometimes,” Iosobal began, then stopped, wondering how to explain. She’d never done so before. “Sometimes I can sense what is wrong with a person. And how to fix it.”
Ailie’s mouth formed an oval. “Can you see ghosts too?”
Iosobal blinked. “What?”
“There was a ghost at Falcon’s Craig, where my mother was born. My father saw her too, before Lady Amice helped her find a way to Heaven.”
“No, I … I have never seen a ghost.”
Ailie said in a sad voice, “I wish I could. I wish I could see my mother again.”
Iosobal’s chest lurched. “Mayhap one day you will.” She closed her eyes and focused on the child. Show me what is wrong, she said silently. Show me what to do. But though they sat together for some time, Iosobal learned nothing.
When she opened her eyes, Hemming was there with a basket. “I heard someone was looking for honey cakes,” he said.
Ailie jumped up and promptly began coughing so badly she ended up in a heap on the sand.
From the water, the dolphins clicked noisily, as if they sensed her peril.
Iosobal met Hemming’s troubled gaze and shook her head.
“Perhaps you should go back to the palace,” he said.
“Aye,” Iosobal agreed. “If you will carry Ailie, I shall get the basket.”
Hemming picked Ailie up. Her body heaved with coughs, and her eyes teared.
Iosobal followed them, beset by an awful feeling. What if she could not cure the child? What if she died? Within the span of a day, Ailie had already enchanted her. And she knew one more thing. She would not wish to be the woman held responsible if Lugh MacKeir lost his daughter.
PIERS VEUXFORT, BROTHER TO THE EARL OF HAWKSDOWN and temporarily in charge of Falcon’s Craig, stared down at a row of numbers and frowned. How is Cain managing to keep track of all this? he wondered. And when would his brother return from idling away his days in Italy with his new bride?
The door crashed open, and his Uncle Gifford barreled in, holding a folded piece of parchment in one hand and a jug of ale in the other. His white hair stood out in wavy strands and his green eyes sparkled. “Piers!” he shouted. “We received a message from The MacKeir. Pack your bags.” He plopped down on a stool, and took a big slug of ale.
“What are you blathering about? And pass over that jug.”
“Read it yourself,” Gifford said as he pushed the parchment across the table. “If you want ale, have one of those women always fawning over you get it. I have to do for myself.”
Piers looked down at the broken wax. “This is written to me,” he commented.
Gifford waved a hand. “Can’t expect me not to want to know. We need to go after Lugh. Ailie is sick.”
“I cannot leave Falcon’s Craig, Uncle. I have responsibilities.”
Gifford smacked his head with his palm. “No! Another Cain in the making. Before the boy found his reason, that is.”
Piers had to grimace at that. It had taken the combined efforts of him and Gifford, Lady Amice, and two ghosts to turn his brother back into a human being. He picked up the parchment and unfolded it.
My greetings, Piers. I am taking Ailie in search of as legendary healer who is said to inhabit an isle off the coast. I have no choice. Ailie’s sickness worsens just as our beloved Agatha’s did before she died. I shall not lose Ailie too.
Say a prayer for her.
MacKeir
As Piers read, his concern deepened, until he finally looked up at Gifford, who raised a brow before taking another drink.
“We leave tomorrow for Tunvegan,” he said.
“That’s my boy,” Gifford said with a grin. He stood and started out the door. “I’d better make sure Hawis knows to send enough ale with us. Who knows what kind of stuff the Scots brew.”
Piers could see it now. He, Gifford, and twenty packhorses laden with nothing but ale to keep Gifford afloat until they returned to Falcon’s Craig.
Though he worried for little Ailie, he found himself looking forward to the trip. Managing an estate as large as Falcon’s Craig’s was damned tedious business. Let Nyle, his steward, take charge of it for a while.
An isle inhabited by a legendary healer, Lugh had written. It was too intriguing to miss.
Chapter
IV
After settling Ailie back into bed, Iosobal headed out of the palace. Though her destination was the dense growth in the center of the island, she found her feet moving toward her cave.
I’ll just check on him, she told herself. Make sure he’s working on the task I’ve set him to. She paused at a ledge overlooking the cave, and quietly peered down. Sunlight spilled down onto the pile of rocks and the two men, momentarily clouding her vision. High above, the predatory call of a gull shrieked through the soft breeze against the incessant rumble of waves lapping at the sand.
She blinked and scarcely suppressed a gasp. Lugh MacKeir stood legs spread and chest bare, pouring a skin of water over his head. He shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water, his inky hair gleaming in the sun.
Dear Brigid, she thought. No wonder Niamh was impressed. Never in her twenty-five years had Iosobal seen a man’s bared chest, but she very much doubted another’s could look like The MacKeir’s. He was simply beautiful, she thought. A stunning combination of raw masculine power, intentness, and ease in his own skin.
She started to draw back, but at that moment he glanced up, as if he sensed her scrutiny. For the briefest instant, the sun, the sound of the sea, the salty scent of the air faded, tunneled into a vision only of the man standing boldly beneath her.
“How fares Ailie?” he shouted, mercifully shattering the odd moment of connection.
She shook her head. “The child still struggles.”
He scowled. “I thought you were a powerful healer.”
His tone grated on her skin, like the tiny needles of a plant growing on the island. She started to say that she was not able to work miracles, but stopped herself with a jolt of surprise. In fact, she was, but not in Ailie’s case. So far. “I am,” she shouted down and disappeared.
Lugh stood staring at the spot Iosobal had occupied an instant before, and scanned the surrounding countryside.
“How does she do that?” Branor asked. “’Tis as if she vanished into air.”
“Fleet of foot, no doubt,” Lugh said with a grunt. He refused to consider anything else.
“Mayhap.” Branor reached down and flung a rock to the side.
“We have done enough for today,” Lugh told him, eyeing the spot where he’d last seen Iosobal. Where had she gone? And how so quickly? And damned if the woman didn’t hold herself like a queen, a very wary and watchful queen. Who was she?
Branor stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead. “We should try the horse.”
“Aye. Tomorrow. But now, I am thinking we should see what we can discover about the Lady Iosobal.”
Branor snorted. “I doubt you will draw much i
nformation from either Niamh or Hemming.”
“Nay. They are clearly loyal to their lady. I thought to visit the village.”
“Do you trust her, Laird?”
“I am no sure. There is something very different about the lass.”
“She is said to be a sorceress.”
Lugh stamped down a twinge of unease. “Would that she is,” he announced. “And one with the skill to heal my Ailie.”
They strode up the hill to the palace. After checking on a sleeping Ailie, Lugh and Branor sought out Niamh in the kitchen. “I need directions to the village,” Lugh told her.
Her brown eyes widened and lowered to the dough she punched and kneaded. “Why? There is little there.”
“Where do you get your supplies?”
“Well, of course, we obtain some of our supplies from the villagers, but you need not concern yourself with that. I shall send Hemming for more food.”
Lugh narrowed his gaze. It was becoming increasingly clear that the girl did not want him venturing into the village. Which meant, of course, that he would do so with or without her directions.
“We shall be happy to fetch food for you, mistress,” Branor said smoothly.
Niamh suddenly looked up, her gaze flashing. “The villagers know nothing of Lady Iosobal. She has never gone to the village.”
“Never?” Lugh asked.
Niamh shook her head.
“But why?” He’d realized the lady lived a solitary life, but to never have visited the one village on her island? It was inconceivable to him. As laird, his clan was both his responsibility and his strength.
“She has no need to.”
Another strange puzzle, Lugh thought. The lady’s isolation made as little sense as this odd island and rich palace.
“Does this village boast a tavern?” Branor asked.
Niamh’s face relaxed. “Of course. And the alewife is quite skilled.”
“How do we find it?”
With a sigh, she gave them directions, her hands busily stretching and rolling dough as she spoke.
“Come, Branor,” Lugh said when she finished. “I’ve a powerful thirst upon me. Mistress,” he said with a nod toward Niamh. “Shall I tell the alewife to send more barrels to the palace?”
Her gaze slid away from his once more. “Nay. Hemming will see to it.”
Lugh shrugged and walked out of the palace, Branor beside him. They followed a winding path that followed the edge of the island, eventually opening up into a neat village. Two rows of whitewashed structures straddled a wide sandy road. From the hills above, Lugh heard the soft bleat of sheep. Overhead, a dusting of clouds floated across the sky. Fishermen called back and forth as they gutted their day’s catch. They stopped at the first dwelling, where a woman tended an overflowing garden, a babe clinging to her skirts.
“Good day, mistress,” Lugh said. “Could you direct us to the tavern?”
The woman looked startled for a moment and pointed down the street. “’Tis about halfway down, on the harbor side.”
“My thanks.” He and Branor set off, the weight of the woman’s gaze following them. Lugh nodded greetings to people as they walked. Without exception, expressions of surprise and disbelief greeted their appearance.
“You would think they have never seen strangers before,” Lugh muttered.
“Perhaps they have not,” Branor replied as he sidestepped a man pulling a wagon full of bread.
At last they came to a squat white building overlooking the water. Stools and plank tables sat outside, half-filled with men and women. “Let us go inside,” Lugh said. He and Branor entered a dimly lit room, filled with yet more stools and tables.
Lugh grabbed a seat facing the door and sat.
Within moments, a short, barrel-chested man approached. His eyes were gray slits in his face, and he did not smile. “What may I do for you?”
“Ale, and plenty of it,” Lugh said. “A bite to eat if you have it.”
The man nodded and headed toward a back room.
Curious stares of the other patrons shifted over them, but no one spoke.
Shortly, the man returned and set a plain jug on the table with two cups. Behind him, a woman walked with a tray of bread, cheese, and fish. Unlike the man, she gave Lugh a bright smile. “Where do you lads hail from?” she asked. Conversation in the tavern ceased.
Lugh took a sip of ale. “I am the Laird of Tunvegan, in the Highlands.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “You came across the sea?”
“Aye. To seek the Lady Iosobal.”
The tray teetered in her hands. “Why?”
“To heal my ailing bairn.”
“Oh.”
“I am most curious about your island,” Lugh continued with his most engaging smile. “Would you do me the favor of joining us?”
The man gave her a sharp look, which she ignored. “You can do without me for a short time,” she said as she set the tray on the table and pulled up a stool.
“Have you lived here long?” Lugh asked.
“All my life. I was born on Parraba.”
Lugh gestured with one hand. “Is it always like this? Warm and fair?”
“Oh, yes. The lady—”
“What of her?”
“I do not know her, my lord. She does not come to the village.”
Lugh drank more ale. “I have heard she is a great healer.”
For a moment, the woman’s gaze clouded, and she nodded. “She takes care of all of us,” she said softly.
“How, if she doesnae come to the village?”
The woman shrugged. “It is as it has always been.”
Lugh leaned forward. “Is it true that she is a sorceress?”
The woman’s face paled and she jumped up, knocking over the stool. She backed away. “I … I must return to my duties.” She turned and fled out a back door.
“Aye, she is indeed,” a man called out, his voice slurred with drink. “You’d be best to stay away from her and her lair.”
“Why?” Lugh demanded, catching the man’s gaze.
With that, voices spilled out.
“Janie’s boy went to her and we never saw him again,” an older woman said.
“My dog won’t go anywhere near the place,” another man said.
His companion elbowed him in the side. “How would you know? You never leave the village.”
The first man’s face split into a wide grin and he lifted his cup. “Why should I? Here, my sheep fatten, the land and sea yield more than enough to eat, and Beatha makes fine ale.”
An old man slowly stood and walked over to Lugh and Branor. His face bore the deep lines of a life in the sun, his black eyes smoldering like buried embers. “You should return to your Tunvegan,” he said in a raspy voice. “’Tis an unholy magic the lady possesses.”
“Magic?” Lugh scoffed. “’Tis naught but a child’s tale.”
“Not on Parraba.”
Lugh frowned and drained his ale. “Superstition.”
“Nay,” another voice said. A small woman with bright red hair and intense black eyes. “The Lady sees to our care, true, but just as she gives so she can take away.
“What do you mean?”
The woman’s gaze intensified. “My Henry dinna care for magic. He made no secret about what he thought of Lady Iosobal.”
Lugh shrugged. “Many do not believe in magic. Myself included.”
“Aye, but he took his boat out to sea one morn and never returned.”
“I am sorry for your loss, but he would no be the first to suffer such a fate.”
The woman stood. “It was a day just like this one—warm without a cloud in the sky. And then, like a vengeful tide, a dark storm descended upon us. A storm she summoned.”
“Ye cannot be sure of that,” Lugh said, even as he remembered their own experience.
“Aye, I am,” the woman said, her lips curled. “Curse her soul.”
Branor gave him a look as the woman reto
ok her seat. “’Tis as if they hate her,” he said.
Lugh snorted. “Fear. ’Tis the same as I saw years ago. An old crone lived alone in the forest near Tunvegan. People whispered about how she was a witch, even as they secretly sought her skills at healing.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. She was simply an old woman with knowledge of herbs and such. No magic to stave off death.” He rose. “Let us return. There is no more to be learned here. I would speak to Lady Iosobal of Ailie.”
IOSOBAL RIPPED UP A CLUMP OF COLTSFOOT. HOW could she have just stood there ogling Lugh MacKeir? She pulled another bunch from the ground. And he, the impudent knave, had stood there ogling her right back. How dare he?
She scowled, and made herself look around for the angelica she knew grew nearby. Focus on the important things, she told herself. Find a way to aid Ailie. Even over the distraction of The MacKeir’s sculpted chest, she noticed he and his companion had made progress clearing her cave. Not enough yet, but still, it was something.
Dear Brigid, how she longed for the idyllic days of her usual life. Hemming and Niamh took care of the household, leaving Iosobal free to her pursuits. Pursuits like riding her horses, swimming with Amphitrite and Poseidon, and basking in the magical serenity of her cave. Not trying to avoid a man whose mere presence tilted her world out of balance.
She found the angelica and cut off a stalk with her knife, slicing her finger in her frustration. A line of blood welted up and she glared at it. The blood disappeared and the cut healed in an instant.
Well, at least I can still do that, she thought. So why can I not heal Ailie? The child’s lack of response to her ministrations was unprecedented.
By the time she’d gathered up a basket of needed herbs, the sun was beginning its slow descent against the blue sky. With a sigh, she realized she needed to go back.
Still, her feet moved slowly though the inland forest, a part of her both anxious and fearful of what her next encounter with Lugh MacKeir would bring. Get rid of him, her inner voice whispered. Send him back to his Tunvegan. She could do it. Easily. Yet … the image of his tormented face floated into her mind. Nay, it would be a coward’s way out. She could tolerate the man until her cave was open and his daughter well.
