by Amy Tolnitch
The gaze that met his was filled with wariness and doubt.
“I have my faults, like any other man. One I do not have is the urge to hurt one weaker than myself. Ever.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. “I would be your champion, my fair one.”
Saraid’s face slowly softened, the hard light in her eyes fading. “You make it sound so easy to trust.”
He took her hand in his. “It is if you put your trust in the right person.”
“Why do you not have a wife waiting for you, my lord?”
“Gifford,” he said, wagging his brows. “I did once. She died many years ago, and I have not felt the need or the interest in pursuing another.”
“Oh.”
Was it his hopeful imagination, or did the lady sound disappointed? He leaned closer. “Until now.”
Her eyes opened wide.
“Fear not, my sweet flower,” he said.
A smile curved her lips.
Taking that as encouragement, Gifford pressed a kiss to her palm. “Perhaps tonight, you will dream of me.”
Saraid rolled her eyes. “You presume much, my, uh, Gifford.”
“My Gifford. I like the sound of that.”
She pulled her hand away, but gave a soft laugh to soften the withdrawal. “I bid you good night.”
Gifford watched her walk away, her hips slightly swaying, her pale blonde hair picking up the waning sunlight and grinned. Had he ever thought himself partial to red hair? “For I pray I shall dream of you,” he called.
She disappeared on the sound of laughter.
THE NEXT MORNING, LUGH AWOKE TO A FRANTIC banging on their chamber’s door. “MacKeir!” a voice shouted.
Hemming, Lugh realized, sounding not at all like his usual stiff self. Lugh jumped out of bed, pulled on a pair of braies, and flung the door open.
“I think you’d best come,” Hemming said. His gray hair stood out in spikes and he breathed hard, as if he’d been running.
Lugh took one look at him, and returned to his chamber to throw on more clothes. He grabbed up his sword and strode back to where Hemming waited. “What is it?”
Hemming’s hands fluttered to the sides. “Some of the villagers are here. They seek the Lady’s aid, but I do not like the way they are behaving.”
Branor stuck his head out of his chamber. “Laird?”
“’Tis naught that I cannot take care of,” he told Branor. “Stay with Ailie. Where are they?” Lugh asked as he and Hemming stepped out onto the walkway.
“At the entrance to the palace.” He snorted with disgust. “They will not cross the threshold.”
When they reached the place, Lugh saw Lady Iosobal standing before a group of perhaps ten villagers. He was immediately struck by the fact that not one of them looked directly at her, though he could hear them whisper among themselves. Some gazed at the ground, while others actually held a hand over their eyes. He growled his disgust as he strode to Iosobal’s side.
She did not look at him, but gazed over the huddled group with a blank face.
“Please help my husband,” a woman wailed. She clutched the hand of a man lying on the ground. Lugh walked closer and saw the arrow protruding from his leg, his braies stained crimson.
“There is no hunting allowed on Parraba,” Iosobal said. Her voice cut through the whispers with the sharp edge of ice.
The woman released her husband’s hand and threw herself on the ground before Iosobal. “Please aid him, my lady. Do not take him from me. I beg you. Do not condemn him to death.”
If Lugh had not been carefully watching Iosobal, he would have missed the flash of distress in her eyes.
“Ranald means everything to my, my lady. I could not bear it if you take him from me.”
With the woman’s words, Lugh frowned. He put a hand on the distraught woman’s shoulder. “What do you say?”
She turned tear-filled eyes to his. Stark fear was evident in the lines around her mouth, and she held a bag of herbs close before her like some kind of talisman to ward off evil.
Another man stepped forward, one Lugh recognized from the village tavern. He did not look at Iosobal but fixed Lugh with a suspicious stare. “Ranald does no deserve to go the way of poor Henry.”
“Donna be a stupid fool,” Lugh scoffed. “’Tis obvious that Henry was lost at sea, like many a man.”
The man glanced back at the other villagers, suddenly pulling a dagger from his boot. “Ranald did naught but attempt to put a bit of meat on his table.”
“That meat is forbidden, Culloch,” Iosobal said.
The man took two steps toward her, the dagger clutched in his fist.
Lugh leapt forward. “Hold,” he shouted, and grabbed the man’s wrist, giving it a hard twist. The dagger fell to the ground and Lugh tossed the man down as well.
Hemming hurried forward to snatch up the blade.
Lugh looked down at the villager, whose lips were pulled back in a snarl.
“Look at you,” the man said. “A fierce Highlander, reduced to acting the Lady’s slave.” His eyes glittered. “Does she use you to slake her unnatural desires?”
Lugh put his dagger against the man’s throat and pressed enough to raise a thin line of blood. “Say another word against your lady and die,” he said softly.
The man glared at Lugh, but said nothing.
“Leave now, or take back your dagger to fight a man, instead of an innocent woman.” He stood back.
The man fled.
Lugh glared so intently at the remainder of the villagers that they backed away. “Let us see to your husband,” he told the still sobbing woman, and knelt beside the man. “How did this happen?”
The man’s throat worked. Before he answered, Lugh knew Iosobal had come up beside him by the backward scuttling of the villagers. He frowned at each of them, but to a person, the same fear in the woman’s face was mirrored in each.
“He was hunting deer,” Iosobal said. Lugh looked up to see her pointing to one of the men in the group. “With that one.”
The object of her attention shrank behind one of his fellows.
The injured man turned as pale as sand. “I am sorry, my lady. I only meant—”
“The deer are not to be hunted. You know this.”
“I—”
“Enough excuses,” Lugh announced. “You were wrong to disobey your lady. Still, this arrow needs to come out.” He looked up at Iosobal and lifted a brow. “My lady?”
“It will have to be cut out,” she said. “Bring him into the palace.”
“No!” the woman shrieked, and threw herself across her husband’s chest. He had passed out with the prospect of actually entering the palace.
Iosobal’s gaze turned to indigo. “’Tis your choice. You came to me.”
The woman buried her face in her husband’s tunic with a keening sound.
Lugh leaned down. “Mistress, your husband is losing too much blood. If you wish to save him, now is the time to decide.”
She grasped his hand in bony fingers. “Do not let her take him,” she whispered.
“You misjudge Lady Iosobal,” he replied, and took the man up in his arms. He nodded to Iosobal. “Lead on, my lady.”
She made a regal turn and preceded them into the courtyard, leaving the sobbing woman lying on the grass outside.
Hemming closed the gate with a metal clunk.
Iosobal led them into a chamber close to the kitchen. “Set him on the table,” she directed, pointing to a wide trestle table.
“My lady?” Hemming said. “How may I serve you?”
“Fetch warm water and clean cloths. And some wine, if you please.”
Lugh heard the quiver in her voice as he lay the man down. God’s wounds, what kind of nonsense the villagers believed, he thought. “Iosobal.”
She finally looked at him.
He moved close to her and saw her tremor. “They are naught but superstitious peasants,” he murmured.
“What they think means
nothing to me,” she said in a low voice.
“Ah. I see.”
She flashed him a look. Her “I am the Lady of Parraba” look.
“I suppose you are not of their world either.”
“Nay. And I never shall be. Even in their ignorance, they know that much.” She shivered and before Lugh could halt himself, he gathered her close, her head pressed against his chest. He stroked her back much as he often did with Ailie, and felt her body relax into his. She let out a sigh, and to his amazement, snuggled closer just as his daughter did. His own reaction, however, far differed from when Ailie did such. He knew the moment Iosobal realized it. Her body stiffened and she pushed against his chest.
“You …” she sputtered.
He smiled and winked. “Want you. Aye. I do not hide it.”
Her mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged.
“Shall we tend to him?” Lugh asked, gesturing to the still unconscious villager.
“Oh!” Iosobal whirled about and put her hand on the man’s leg.
Lugh stood beside her. Very close beside her. He palmed his dagger.
“Here are the things you asked for, my lady,” Hemming said as he bustled into the chamber.
“Thank you, Hemming.” She frowned and probed the wound. “’Tis deep.”
Lugh crossed his arms and waited to see what she would do.
“Leave me,” she said.
Before Lugh could protest, Hemming did it for him. “Nay, my lady. ’Tis not wise. What if Ranald awakens?”
Iosobal laughed. “He will not harm me.”
“Keep The MacKeir with you,” Hemming urged.
Iosobal bit her lip as she continued to inspect the villager’s injury. She cast Lugh a sideways glance.
“I already know you,” he said softly, and handed her his dagger.
Her gaze gleamed. “No one knows me. But aye, you may stay.”
Lugh shared a look with Hemming, before the older man left. “Do you need aid?” he asked her. “I have some experience with such wounds.”
“Keep an eye on him while I dig out the arrowhead.” Blood spurted over her hands as she cut into flesh. “Damned fool,” she cursed.
The words seemed so foreign on her tongue that Lugh smiled. “Why do you forbid them to hunt the deer? ’Tis common enough.”
She slowly pulled the arrow free. “There is no need. Between the fish and their sheep, they have food aplenty. And the deer are beautiful, gentle creatures.”
“Careful, my lady. One might think you possess a soft heart inside that royal shell.”
Ignoring him, she set the arrow aside and poured water over the wound. The villager opened his eyes and let out a whimper. His eyes were clouded with pain and fear, his skin taut against the bones of his face.
Lugh fetched a cup of wine and poured it down the man’s throat, but most of it spilled out, the villager too agitated to drink.
“Be at ease,” Iosobal said in a cool voice, and placed her palm to the man’s chest.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
She pressed a cloth down onto the wound. In seconds, blood soaked it red.
“We must stop the bleeding, else he will die,” Lugh said.
“I know.” With a sideways glance at him, she took away the cloth and put her hand against the man’s thigh.
Though Lugh had told himself to expect it, he drew a breath in amazement when he saw the faint glow of white begin to flow from her fingertips. Like mist, it spread and blanketed the man’s wound, winding around and down over his thigh. Iosobal’s brow was furrowed in concentration, her focus so absolute that Lugh sensed she had forgotten he was even there.
Gradually, the bleeding stopped, and she stepped back, swaying slightly.
Lugh caught her in his arms and she put her hand on his forearm. The warmth of her power remained, heating his skin in an oddly sensual way. “Sit,” he said, guiding her to a stool.
Their eyes met and she stuck out her chin. “Are you not going to cross yourself? Pray to your saints?”
He chuckled. “No this time. Can you warm your hands at will?”
She slowly nodded.
He leaned closer. “I am thinking ’twould be a fine thing indeed on a cold night in the Highlands.”
Her face flushed pink, but she did not look away. “I expect you put out enough heat to adequately … satisfy whoever shares your company on such cold nights.”
“Aye, but still, I cannot help but think how pleasurable it would be to have the warm hands of a comely lass move over my skin, touching me—”
“Cease.” She jumped up. “I must fetch, uh, the other things I need.”
“I shall help.”
“No.” She held out a hand to block him. “Stay with Ranald in case he awakens.”
“Verra well.”
She stopped at the doorway, and glanced back. “Thank you for … for everything.”
Lugh nodded. “You are most welcome, Iosobal.”
“You are a … surprising man, Lugh.”
He grinned. “I have a few more surprises yet to show you.”
She shook her head and walked off. Lugh heard her mutter, “Arrogant Highlander,” and his grin widened.
He wondered if she realized she’d called him by his given name again.
Chapter
X
Piers walked along the shore, taking in the smooth, blue water, the white and black birds hopping along on the sand, and the thick green carpet of grass sloping up from the sand. Parraba was in truth an astonishing place, he thought as he lifted his face to the sun. He doubted even the coast of Italy, where his brother Cain and his wife were currently idling away their days, could be so perfect.
A definite shortage of available women, however, Piers thought with an inward sigh. Between the journey to Tunvegan and then to Parraba, it had been far too long since he’d lain with a woman. Surely, there would be a village wench, eager for some company and a few coins. Aye, this afternoon he would venture to the village. Gifford had his drink and his pursuit of Lady Saraid to amuse him. Lugh had his rock project and Ailie’s welfare to see to. Branor, apparently, did as bid by his laird.
And, per usual, Piers had nothing in particular to tend to, no real responsibilities. He reminded himself that such a state was exactly what he preferred. It gave him more time to hone his skills in the bedchamber, an admirable task for any man.
As he rounded the curve of land, he heard a sharp pitched cry and tilted his head to listen. The cry came again, and then yet again. It sounded like a cry of pain, though not a human one. Shielding his eyes, Piers gazed down the long shoreline, searching for the source of the sound.
He saw an area of churned up water down the shore, then spotted a fin. The dolphins? he wondered. But why come so close to shore?
At the sound of another shriek, he started running toward the sound. The water splashed and he heard the sounds of a dolphin’s back fin slap the water.
He finally reached the scene and nearly fell to his knees in fear. In the shallows floated one of the dolphins, remaining almost completely still while its companion in the deeper water just beyond, circled and clicked. Atop the dolphin’s long back lay Ailie, her eyes closed.
Piers slowly stepped into the water, his chest aching. Dear Lord, no, he silently prayed as he gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Ailie?”
When the child opened her eyes, for the second time Piers’s legs nearly buckled.
Ailie blinked. “Uncle Piers?”
He lifted her into his arms. She shivered and put her thin arms around his neck. “What happened?” he asked as he carried her to the sand.
She gazed up at him with big eyes in a pale face. “I wanted to see the dolphins. I called them, but they did not come so I swam out into the water.”
“Dear Lord, Ailie.”
“I know I should not have, but I so wanted to see them.” Her face fell. “I was not strong enough to swim very long.”
A series of cries f
rom behind them made Piers turn.
“You must help Amphitrite,” Ailie told him. “’Tis too shallow for her there.”
Piers hesitated, thinking he should see Ailie to the palace as soon as possible.
“Please, Uncle Piers,” she said, tugging on his tunic. “She saved me.”
“What do you mean?”
Ailie shook her head and tears filled her eyes. “I could not swim anymore, and the water was too deep. Amphitrite and Poseidon pulled me back to shore, but I was too weak to walk. Amphitrite stayed with me,” she finished in an awed voice.
There was such a large lump in Piers’s throat that he could not speak a word. He gently set Ailie down on the sand and returned to the water. The dolphins watched him through curiously intelligent eyes.
“Come on, now Amphitrite,” he said to the closest one. The other let out a whistle of encouragement. Piers bent and pushed, sliding the dolphin’s smooth body over the bottom. She was surprisingly heavy. Piers pushed again and gained another few inches.
He knew the sea bottom fell off within a few feet. The other dolphin hovered just past the drop, emitting cries and whistles. “Don’t worry,” Piers told him. “We’ll get her back in.”
He glanced back at Ailie, who sat staring at his efforts, her regard one of such belief and trust that it brought a tear to his eye. She gazed at him as if he were a hero.
With a last shove, he and Amphitrite made it over the shelf, she with a graceful slide and he with an awkward plunge into the water. He came up and shook water from his head with a laugh.
The dolphins streaked away before rising in a high arc over the water.
Piers waded back to the shore.
“They are thanking you,” Ailie said with a smile.
“Aye. I believe you are right. But ’tis I who should be thanking them.” He lifted Ailie in his arms once more and started for the palace as quickly as he could walk through the powdery sand.
Ailie burrowed into his chest, her small body shaking with coughs. “Can you take me to Lady Iosobal?” she whispered.
“Aye.” Piers broke into a run.
He came up to the entrance to the palace and halted. A woman sat on the grass outside, head bent, clutching something in her hands. No one else was about.
