by Amy Tolnitch
Her face crinkled in thought. “Well, I think perhaps you should.”
Gifford looked at Saraid, who had yet to say a thing. She shook herself and gazed at Ailie. “Just because two people … kiss does not mean they will marry.”
“Are you not lonely?” Ailie asked.
Gifford made a mental note to ensure the child had all the honey cakes she wished.
“I … I am used to my solitary life on Parraba.”
“My mother used to say that Uncle Gifford was a bit mad, but much fun all the same. He makes me laugh. You should laugh more,” Ailie finished in a certain voice.
“A bit mad?” Gifford asked.
Finally, Saraid’s face relaxed and she looked at him with a soft smile. By the saints, how he loved that smile, he thought. “You cannot deny the child’s words.”
Gifford shrugged. “Nay, I suppose not. It’s been up to me for a long time to keep things at Falcon’s Craig from being too dull to endure.”
Ailie giggled as Artemis came to a stop and nudged Ailie’s hand.
“What have you been doing, child?” Saraid asked.
“Exploring,” Ailie pronounced. “Artemis and I are explorers today.”
“Ahhh. And have you discovered anything in your travels?”
“Not yet, though I did see the dolphins.” Ailie scuffed her bare foot in the sand. “They were too far out to see me.”
Saraid bent down and took Ailie’s hands. “It is so wonderful to see you feeling better.”
Gifford smoothed a hair back from Ailie’s forehead. “Aye. I was about to invade Lady Iosobal’s stores to make my own healing potion.”
“Do you know aught of healing, Uncle Gifford?”
He shrugged. “I know many things.” With a pointed glance at Saraid, he added, “I particularly know what I want.”
Ailie giggled again. “I do not think you are talking about potions.”
“No, indeed.”
Saraid held his gaze for a moment and lowered her head. “I am … flattered, my lord, but ’tis impossible.”
“Why?”
When Saraid looked back up, her gaze was bleak and empty. “It just is.”
Ailie pulled at his tunic. “Uncle Gifford?”
“What is it, little one?”
“Can we go back to the palace? I am hungry.” She patted the dog’s head. “And so is Artemis.”
“’Tis a good idea,” Saraid answered. “You do not want to overtax yourself.”
As they returned to the palace, Gifford mulled over Saraid’s words. Impossible, she’d said. But why? Fear? No, he discounted that. She was obviously afraid, but it was more than that. And she’d certainly kissed him back. He looked over at her, in idle conversation with Ailie and resolved to question Lady Iosobal. Iosobal was not the only mystery on Parraba, and he was determined to unravel the one who in a few short days had become more important to him than anyone or anything in a very long time.
Chapter
XII
Following her unsettling encounter with Ranald, Iosobal went to the stables. A long ride was what she needed, she decided. Finian greeted her with a happy nicker. “I have been neglecting you of late, boy,” she murmured to him, stroking his soft nose.
“My lady?” Art said, backing out of Argante’s stall with a pitchfork of dung. “Can I aid you?”
“’Tis not necessary.” Iosobal glanced over at him and inwardly sighed. Even after five years in her service, Art still could not manage to look her in the eye. Did she truly appear that intimidating, she wondered. That frightening?
As she saddled Finian, she thought if anyone on Parraba was intimidating, it was The MacKeir. He had been even-tempered on Parraba, other than brief flashes of frustration over Ailie’s health, but Iosobal sensed the ruthlessness beneath the surface. Her first sight of him was never far from her thoughts. He’d been such a force of passion and rage that she’d relented and allowed his boat to land.
She waved to Art and rode out of the palace gates, still pondering the situation with the villagers. Had her mother ever experienced such behavior from them? Not that she could recall. They had always dwelled apart from the village, but it was a comfortable coexistence for as long as she could remember.
Finian stomped his foot and Iosobal sent him into a smooth canter over the sand. The salty breeze blew her hair back behind her, the sun warm as it always was.
The fragment of a memory slowly stirred in her mind. The only time her mother had ever displayed anger toward Iosobal. It had been soon after the “burning incident” as she thought of it. Her one and only visit to the mainland. Her last visit, she thought with a sting of resentment.
She’d been resentful then too. And angry. So much so that she’d made a mistake. Memories of that day crowded into her brain. She’d gone into the village in search of an old woman who was rumored to have the gift of knowing things.
The woman, Grainne had been her name, was kind and welcoming. Iosobal had soaked up Grainne’s warmth and acceptance after what had happened to her on the mainland. Grainne had told her wondrous things, telling of an exciting destiny waiting for Iosobal. She could no longer recall the details, but remembered the feeling of being special, of facing a wonderful future.
She’d been so thankful that she’d asked Grainne what she could do for her. The older woman’s house had been a plain, thatched structure with little in the way of comforts. With a wave of Iosobal’s hand, all of that had changed. By the time she said farewell, Grainne had a large two room cottage filled with thick, wool blankets, embroidered tapestries, and a bed finer than the one Iosobal herself slept in.
Unfortunately, the sudden transformation of Grainne’s cottage had not gone unnoticed. And while the villagers had no doubt suspected that the Lady of Parraba possessed powers not known to the rest of them, Grainne’s change from a bare holding to one of comfort provided the proof.
We do not flaunt our powers, her mother had said, her expression disapproving.
Is it a secret, then? Iosobal had asked.
Aye, it is, or it was. It is better if who we are remains a mystery. Better for everyone, her mother had finished in a dark tone.
After that, Iosobal learned to keep to herself, to hide her magic from outsiders. But the villagers were never the same with her. From that day, they avoided her and eventually she did the same.
She rode Finian aimlessly through the forest, winding deeper and deeper into the innermost part of Parraba. The stillness seeped into her veins and she felt some of the tension that had taken hold with the arrival of The MacKeir ease. The man was far too disturbing, she told herself, ignoring the warm feeling in her belly.
One day, you will invite me into this chamber.
And I shall come.
“Damn him,” she told Finian. “I cannot get those words out of my head.”
The horse curved his neck around to eye her.
“It will never happen,” she told him. Finian blew air out of his nostrils with a loud snort, as if to mock her certainty.
“Come on, boy,” she said, turning him. “Let us head back to the shore.” They picked their way through the trees and brush, Iosobal letting Finian choose the path.
No, it could never happen. She could not give her body to The MacKeir and keep her heart uninvolved. It had been the same for her mother, and the shadow of sadness had never left her gaze.
Finian whinnied and Iosobal came out of her musings. She stared in front of her and gasped in shock. A small graveyard sat in front of her, one she knew well. Sunlight filtered through the trees and highlighted the scene of destruction.
She hopped off Finian and left the horse to hunt for grass. “Dear Brigid, who would do such a thing?” The stone markers were broken, pieces scattered to the side of old graves. A chill ran down her spine as her boots crunched over the burnt expanse of grass. Most of the names on the stones had long been worn off, but Iosobal knew who lay buried here. Her ancestors.
Who would dare desec
rate their gravestones? she wondered in growing disbelief. And why? She fisted her hands and held them out in front of her. In a swirl of dust, the markers became whole once more.
What is happening on my island? Could it have been nature? No, she told herself. Parraba has no violent storms, no harsh weather.
This was the work of man.
For the first time in her life, Iosobal felt a tingle of fear for her own safety. Something had arisen on the island, something or someone with evil intent.
And it had awoken at the same time as Lugh MacKeir’s arrival.
ON HIS RETURN TO THE PALACE, LUGH STOPPED BY THE kitchen to deliver Niamh’s sister’s message. For a moment, he feared the usually composed girl would burst into tears. She scrubbed the same spot on her worktable over and over but said nothing.
Finally, Lugh put his hand atop hers. “Niamh. Can I be of aid to you?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “You already have, my lord. Thank you.”
“’Tis no a bad thing to wish to have a say in who you marry,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
He winked. “I have always preferred to choose my own women.”
“It is often not the case for a woman.”
Lugh snorted his disgust. “Any man who would want to force an unwilling woman is no an honorable one.”
Niamh’s mouth slowly curved into a smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
He shifted on his feet. “Where is your mistress?”
“She went out riding, I believe.”
“Alone?” He narrowed his gaze.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” he muttered. “The woman thinks herself invincible.”
Niamh blinked. “Well, aye, I suppose she does.” Her tone said it as fact.
Lugh gave her a sharp look. “No one is unassailable. Not even me.” He stomped off toward the stables. Hadn’t he warned Iosobal not to venture beyond the palace by herself? Someone may well have tried to kill the woman, and here she was, off riding who knows where. By the time he reached the stables, he’d worked himself into a temper. “Art!” he called.
The groom scurried out of a stall. “My lord?”
“Help me saddle Argante.”
Within a few moments, they had the mare ready to go. Lugh leapt on her back, but before he could get out of the palace gate, Iosobal rode in.
He gave her a stern look, which she completely ignored. Clenching his jaw, he followed her into the stable.
She looked over her shoulder and gave him a perplexed look. “Are you not riding?”
“Not now.” He handed Argante over to Art and crossed his arms. “I was coming to look for you.”
As she slid the saddle off Finian’s back, she glanced at him. “Why?”
In his mind, Lugh counted to ten. Slowly. “I thought we had discussed the dangers of your venturing out alone.”
Her chin came up and Lugh braced himself for Queen Iosobal.
“You discussed it.”
He took a step closer. “Iosobal, I explained to you what we found. There is a good possibility that someone on the island wishes you ill.” Art’s gasp of surprise filled the taut silence.
“I do not believe that,” Iosobal said, finishing with Finian and leading the horse into his stall.
Lugh frowned. Was it his imagination or did he detect a note of uncertainty in her voice. He walked to the door of the stall. “Did something happen on your ride?”
“Nothing to concern you.” She gave Finian a pat and opened the stall door.
When Lugh didn’t move, she scowled at him. “Get out of my way. Please.”
He cocked a brow and moved to the side.
She stalked by him and headed into the courtyard.
“Do ye truly think someone would harm the lady?” Art asked him.
“I donna ken, but the collapse at the cave was no accident. And the lady shows little concern for her safety.”
“Parraba is not the Highlands,” Art commented.
“Nay. But the fact remains that the lady has no protector and no defenses.”
“What of you?” Art turned and busied himself with Argante, obviously not expecting a response.
Lugh let out a sigh and followed Iosobal. He caught up with her just before she entered the doorway closest to her chambers. “Iosobal,” he called, catching her arm.
She turned, her dark hair swirling behind her, her violet eyes glittering in obvious annoyance. “You overstep yourself, MacKeir.”
In response, he pulled her close. “I do not wish to see you hurt,” he said softly. “’Tis as simple as that.”
“Ailie appears to be on the mend. Soon, you shall have no need of my aid.” She yanked her arm, but Lugh held firm.
He studied her, the fast pulse at her throat, the flush in her cheeks. “Is it so hard to imagine that I might care for your welfare?”
“I am of use to you. No more. Do not pretend otherwise.”
He chuckled. “Pretence is not in my nature, my lady.”
She stared intently at him. “You have made it clear that you are interested in …” her voice trailed off.
“Touching you? Loving you?”
“Bedding me,” she said, her lips curling slightly.
“Aye. I make no secret of it. And methinks you are more than a little bit … interested yourself.”
She stiffened. “I have heard that Beatha in the village is … most accommodating. Perhaps you should seek her out for your amusement.”
He bent close enough to kiss her, but did not, instead staring into her eyes. “Make no mistake, Iosobal. It is not any woman I want to lie beneath me, not any woman I want to hear sigh in pleasure. ’Tis you.”
Her eyes darkened to deep violet, but he felt her body withdraw, as if she wrapped herself in a protective, impenetrable cocoon. “Leave me be,” she said as she stepped back.
Lugh watched her walk away, her back stiff and straight, her head held high. She did not glance back.
How does she do it? he wondered. Though she had no palace defenses, the curtain walls around her were high and thick. From time to time, he opened a crack, but she always managed to quickly mortar up the breach.
He sighed. Agatha had been a prickly bit of a thing when first they met, but it had not taken long for her to soften. By the saints, how he missed her. Was it wrong for him to desire another woman? Nay, he told himself. Agatha would never want him to live like a monk. And it wasn’t as if his heart was engaged, he told himself firmly.
Perhaps it as simple as the fact that Iosobal does not want you, he thought, then immediately dismissed the idea. Contrary to Ailie’s view, there had been women, though few, who had, surprisingly, said no to his attentions. But though Iosobal’s words said no, her eyes said yes. Loudly.
Still, for some reason she refused him, sought to distance herself. There was no one to enlighten him. He would have to discover the lady’s secrets himself.
He stared at the doorway through which she vanished and grinned. “And fear not, my lady,” he whispered. “I will.”
THAT EVENING AT SUPPER, PIERS LISTENED TO AILIE happily telling of her explorations on the island and sat back with a feeling of contentment. With the exception of Lady Iosobal, everyone at the table seemed in a jovial mood. The lady quietly observed, as he noticed her doing often, sipping wine and picking at her food.
Though he also saw her gaze drift to Lugh time and time again.
The lady may be beautiful, but Piers was not sure she was the right woman for Lugh. She was clearly trying her all to aid Ailie, but this place was too strange, the lady herself too odd. Whether it was truly magic, or just longstanding devotion to the ways of those who had come centuries before, he could not see a woman such as Iosobal ever finding a place at Tunvegan. Nor could he fathom Lugh abandoning his holding to the likes of Lachlann.
“Did you find any shells on the beach, Ailie?” he asked.
The child beamed a smile at him. “Aye.” She dug in a pocket of h
er gown and reverently lifted a tiny shell in her palm for his inspection.
He gently took it in his hand. “A true find.”
Lugh peered over at the shell. “By the saints, Ailie, it looks like a mermaid.”
Piers turned the shell one way and then the other, realizing that Lugh was right. Even the ripples on the shell’s edge could have been the long tresses of a woman, the bottom flaring out in what appeared to be fins. “Amazing,” he said.
“I saw many others, but I thought this one was the best,” Ailie said, her pride evident.
“You may take as many as you like,” Iosobal told her, gracing the child with a rare smile. “Hemming!” Gifford called out. “We need more ale to toast my niece’s wondrous discovery.” He threw his hands wide, nearly toppling Saraid in the process.
And he would have, had the lady not ducked with uncommon speed. Fear flashed across her face, and the thud of recognition suddenly rang through Piers’s mind.
“I remember you,” Piers slowly said.
The table fell silent.
Saraid’s face paled. “You must be mistaken, my lord. I am sure we have never met.”
Gifford put an arm around her, and filled her cup. “What are you talking about, Piers?”
“’Tis true, we never met, but I remember seeing you at Sturbridge Castle.” She had looked different then, he thought, a pale, wary reflection of the woman who sat across the table from him obviously trying to regain her composure.
“No, I—”
“You are the Countess of Sturbridge,” Piers said.
Iosobal jumped up. “That is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Saraid is from York.”
Saraid looked down.
Piers had the feeling he should have kept his knowledge to himself, but it was too late now.
“Is that not what you told me?” Iosobal asked, the edge of doubt creeping into her voice.
“Aye, that is what I told you, my lady.”
Iosobal looked at Piers, then back at Saraid. “But it is not true, is it?”
Saraid stood so quickly she knocked over her cup of wine. The wine spread across the white tablecloth like a red wash of blood. “You do not know me,” she said to Piers, her expression beseeching. “Excuse me, my lady. I must go.” She started to back away from the table, and Gifford rose as well. Before his uncle could reach Saraid, Piers rushed to her and caught her arm.
