Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  “I try not to, Uncle.”

  Gifford sighed and refilled his cup. “I pray I am still on this earth to watch you finally meet a woman who means more to you than bed-sport.”

  “’Tis unlikely,” Piers commented. He stared at Gifford, who was staring out the window with the most melancholy expression he’d ever seen on his uncle’s face. “Dear Lord, you are in love with her.”

  “’Tis what I have been trying to tell you.”

  I should have seen it coming, Piers thought. From the moment Gifford spotted Saraid, he’d been like a dog too long denied a choice bone. “Why?”

  “It’s that bastard, Sturbridge. He hurt her so badly that all she can see to do is to stay on this isle, like an animal hiding in its den.”

  “Her husband was a cruel bastard, Gifford. I saw that for myself.”

  “Tell me of it.”

  Piers shrugged. “I am sure I know but a little of what life was like for the people of Sturbridge. The earl carried a whip with him at all times. One only had to look at the faces of the castle-folk to realize the earl often used it to display his displeasure.”

  “Whoreson,” Gifford swore, and took another drink.

  “Aye. The eve I was there Saraid had displeased him.” He furrowed his brow, trying to recall the details. “Something about the color of her gown. Nothing really, but the earl flew into a rage. He smashed her in the face with his fist in front of everyone gathered for supper. She collapsed and some of the earl’s men carried her out.”

  “Someone should have taken a sword to the man.”

  “I thought of it, but his armed men filled the hall.”

  “As Saraid said, ’tis no doubt you would have been slain and the earl still would have punished her.”

  Piers remembered that evening more clearly now. Until recognizing Saraid, he’d not given it much thought. The Earl of Sturbridge was not the only man know for cruel domination over his people. “The strange thing …” He broke off, uncertain whether to mention it to Gifford.

  “What?”“

  “She never made a sound. Even though her lip was bleeding, even though the force of the blow knocked her to the floor, she never made the slightest sound.”

  Gifford’s gaze turned bleak. “How can I fight against such terrible memories?”

  “Bit by bit,” Piers advised. “You are not going to just let her go, are you?”

  For a moment, Gifford just stared back at him. Then, he straightened his shoulders and stood. “No, by God, I am not. I am going to find her right now and change her mind.”

  But Saraid was gone.

  THE MAN DREW IN SHORT BREATHS, HIS GAZE NARROWED on the group headed for the palace. Bitter hatred swirled in his gut like sour wine, and his body vibrated with the force of it.

  He would have never believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. How dare that whoreson lay his hands on her? And Lady Iosobal, cavorting in the water with him like some lowborn wench. Displaying her body under a chemise that hid nearly nothing.

  He let out a groan. Lady Iosobal had always seemed to be cool perfection, but now he know it was only on the surface. He’d seen her look at the Highlander, seen the yearning on her face. The bastard probably had already taken her.

  Images of Lady Iosobal’s soft, golden skin spilled through his mind, the curve of her bottom, the swell of her breasts, her purple eyes dark with passion. His hand fell to his braies and he freed his swollen manhood. She’d looked like a mermaid emerging from the sea, her long, dark hair hanging in a silken wave down her back, her body all soft and wet. His hand worked as he built the mental image.

  He would be the one to pull up that chemise, bare her long legs, then the folds of her sex. She would glance back at him over her shoulder, a teasing light in her eyes. “Take me,” she would whisper.

  “Ahhh,” he hissed as he bucked his release.

  When it was over, he hung his head, disgusted with both Lady Iosobal and himself.

  The attentions of the Highlander had confused her, he decided, made her forget who she was. Clearly, her woman’s weakness had led her to become beguiled by that bastard Highlander. He lifted his head and glared at the disappearing group.

  No. She must understand. He would make her understand.

  SARAID REACHED HER TINY COTTAGE AS THE SUN WAS beginning to set. She let out a long sigh of relief as she entered the cozy dwelling and put back the shutters on the windows. Her home was on the opposite side of the island from the village, and, thankfully, few on Parraba ever ventured this far.

  This is how I like it, she told herself. She looked around her home. Here was everything she needed. Soft blue and white blankets covered a wide pallet. A wooden table with two stools was just big enough for her to take her meals. Trunks and hooks held her clothing. And, thanks to Lady Iosobal, she even had a tub which she could fill with fresh water from an inland stream not far from the cottage.

  A cupboard held enough pots and spices to prepare her food. Next to the cottage, shielded from the sea air by a low wall, she had a garden where she grew carrots, leeks, onions, and even had an apple tree. Between her garden and the bounty from the sea, she had plenty of food for her needs.

  With another sigh, Saraid went to sit on a wooden bench in front of the cottage and gazed out over the sea. Her breath caught in a sob, the picture of dear Gifford’s wounded expression etched into her mind.

  Dear Lord, how she wished things were different. Had been different for her. She’d married the Earl of Sturbridge when she was only a girl of fifteen. Her pride in the match lasted only as long as her first night in the hell that the earl created for her.

  She fisted her hands, her vision blurring with tears. Memories crowded her thoughts. The snap of a whip, the sound of fist meeting tender flesh, the sickening scent of his arousal, his satisfaction at her fear. She thought she’d learned to pretend what he did to her and others wasn’t really happening, learned to put herself in a place where nothing reached her anymore.

  But when he’d whipped a young servant girl to death for bringing him a dish of trout instead of the lampreys he’d wanted, something inside Saraid had cracked open. She’d stolen a servant’s clothing, as many jewels as she could find, and escaped out of the postern gate that very night while her pig of a husband slept in his usual drunken stupor. Her journey to Parraba was something she tried not to think about.

  Gifford is not like him, she reminded himself. No, she had no doubt of that. But still … to leave Parraba would be to leave the only safety and security she had ever known.

  She’d used up what bravery she possessed to survive and escape the Earl of Sturbridge.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pictured Gifford sailing away, his hand raised in a silent farewell.

  She dropped her face in her hands and wept.

  Chapter

  XV

  Iosobal walked along the path toward her cave, breathing deeply of the salty night air. Overhead, a full moon was a glowing, white ball in the sky, relieving what would otherwise be total darkness. From out at sea, she heard a splash, and from the forest the coo of an owl and the rustle of leaves as some nocturnal creature moved through the woods.

  She paused and gazed out over the sea, its smooth surface gleaming in the moonlight. A slight breeze ruffled her hair, soft and warm. How she loved Parraba, she thought. There could be no other place so beautiful, so peaceful.

  Within a few minutes, she reached the entrance to her cave. She moved closer and peered at the piled rocks. It was just as The MacKeir said. A few days more, and she would be able to gain entrance once again.

  She sucked in a breath as relief spilled through her veins. By the pale light of the moon, she could see a faint glimmer from inside the cave. It waited for her, beckoned her.

  “Soon,” she whispered. “Soon I shall be back where I belong and all will be well again.”

  The crack of a stick sounded loud in the silence and Iosobal whirled toward the noise. “Tomas,”
she exclaimed. She narrowed his gaze but could make out little but his outline in the dim light. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I often roam at night.”

  Poor man, Iosobal thought. He must be remembering his wife and child.

  “When will the strangers leave?”

  Iosobal frowned at him. “I am not sure. Soon, most likely.”

  “Why haven’t you sent them away?”

  “What?” She took a step forward, perplexed by Tomas’s peremptory tone.

  “They do not belong here.”

  “As I told you before, Tomas, there is an ill child involved. I cannot turn my back on her.”

  “Is she not improved?”

  How does he know that? Iosobal wondered. “Aye, but I wish to make sure the child is healed.” There was no reason to discuss her cave with Tomas, she told herself.

  “You do not belong with such a man. You belong with one of your own kind.”

  Iosobal stifled a laugh. One of her own kind? Such a man did not exist. “Tomas, your concern is misplaced.” And unwelcome, she thought.

  He moved closer until Iosobal could make out his gaze. Oh Saint Brigid, she thought. Tomas’s eyes glowed with possession. “You belong with me,” he said softly.

  “No,” she said before she could soften her words. She sighed. “Tomas, where have you come up with such an idea? We have hardly spoken since we were children.”

  “As soon as I returned to Parraba, I knew. I knew you were the real reason I’d come back.”

  Saint Brigid, what could she say? The idea of anything between her and Tomas was unthinkable. “Tomas, I am flattered, of course, that you would consider me, but—”

  He took her hand.

  Iosobal was so startled she didn’t jerk away.

  “You are mine. You have always been mine. I should have recognized it years ago.” He smiled at her. “You will send these other men away.”

  His tone set her nerves on edge. “I belong to no man, Tomas.”

  “’Tis clear you need me to advise you, to remind you of the kind of behavior that the Lady of Parraba must exhibit.” His mouth turned down. “Not the kind of wantonness displayed today.”

  Iosobal was so shocked by his presumptuous criticism that she just stared at him. Wantonness?

  He patted her hand. “Do not distress yourself. I know your visitors have disrupted your life, influenced you. But that will stop. I will be here to guide you.”

  She pulled her hand free. “I need no one to guide me. Certainly not a—” She clapped her mouth shut.

  “Iosobal, be at ease. We shall be good together. All will be as it should be.”

  “Tomas, I am sorry but this is … ridiculous. I am sure you are a fine man, but I am not interested in you the way you suggest.” Indeed, the very idea curdled her gut, but she strove not to show it.

  “Why? I am considered a fine-looking man. And my wife had no complaints of my skills in the bedchamber.”

  Now, he was extolling his mating skills? Iosobal could scarcely get her mind around the idea of Tomas’s strange behavior. “As I said, I am not interested, no matter your … qualities.”

  “You refuse me?” He appeared stunned.

  “Yes,” Iosobal said firmly, blowing out a breath. “I am sorry, Tomas, but there will not be anything between us.” Iosobal started to inch away from him, suddenly eager to be within the walls of the palace.

  Tomas caught her arm in a hard grip. His gaze turned cold. “Has the bastard bedded you?”

  The question, combined with his tone, pushed whatever sympathy she might have felt for him into the background. “How dare you ask me such a question? ’Tis none of your affair what I do, or with whom.”

  He smiled then, a sly, mocking smile. “Ah, yes, because you are the great Lady of Parraba and I am simply one of your villagers.”

  “Aye. I am the Lady of Parraba. Go home, Tomas.” Maybe he’d spent too much time in the village tavern, she thought.

  “You should have turned to me when you were nearly trapped in your cave.”

  Turned to him for what? Iosobal shook her head.

  “I had such plans for us. And I was willing to give you another chance.”

  “Tomas, cease this talk.”

  “Even after I saw you out there in the sea, acting like a cheap whore.”

  At first, Iosobal thought she surely had not heard aright. As Tomas’s words slowly sunk into her brain, she stilled and glared at him. The wind picked up and swirled the skirt of her gown around her legs. “You have no right to judge me,” she said slowly.

  “They talk about you, you know, in the village.” He sneered at her. “Talk about how you look at that bastard.”

  “I care not what the villagers say of me. My conduct is no more their affair than yours. And you delude yourself, both about you and me, and about Lugh.”

  “Lugh is it?” Tomas said, his mouth curled in derision. “Is that the name you cry out at night?”

  “Enough, Tomas.” She glared at him.

  “I cannot believe it,” he spat. “You have given yourself to that bastard.”

  Anger spilled through her and the wind whipped around them. “So what if I have?” she shouted. “’Tis nothing to you.”

  “You filthy whore,” he snarled and leapt toward her.

  Iosobal saw the flash of a dagger and screamed. She put out her hands, and nearly fell as a rush of heat soared through her and erupted from her fingertips.

  Tomas froze in place, enveloped by bright arcs of gold. He howled one time and collapsed.

  Iosobal staggered back, and fell to the ground, her gaze fixed on the burned heap of flesh that had been Tomas an instant ago. Dear Saint Brigid, what had she done? She gagged and turned away. To find Lugh MacKeir standing behind her, his sword drawn and a hard look on his face.

  “Well met, my lady,” he said calmly.

  Iosobal felt separated from her body, her mind struggling to absorb what had just happened. “Well met?” she finally managed to croak out. “Are you mad? I just …” Her voice broke and she couldn’t stop herself from moaning in sheer horror.

  “Defended yourself from a murderous coward,” Lugh said as he sheathed his sword and moved toward her.

  “But … I abhor violence,” she said though clattering teeth.

  Lugh reached down and pulled her to her feet. “’Tis in truth a madman who enjoys it. But ’tis a fool who does not use it when necessary.” He glanced at Tomas’s body with obvious contempt. “Would that I might have saved you the trouble.”

  Iosobal tried to draw in deep breaths. How could he be so calm? She had just fried a man. She coughed and fought the urge to empty whatever might remain in her stomach. “Did you … hear?”

  “I heard enough. The man had clearly lost his mind. I suspect he is the same one who caused the cave collapse.”

  “I … I don’t understand this.” She gazed at Lugh, so easily accepting of Tomas’s death, and shivered. It was clear that in his world, such an event was nothing out of the ordinary.

  He put a hand under her chin. “Violence can strike anywhere, Iosobal. ’Tis what I tried to tell you.”

  Iosobal just stared at him, a part of her refusing to accept his words. Parraba was different, had always been different. Until tonight, she thought and started shivering again.

  “Come,” Lugh said, taking her hand in his. “I shall escort you back to the palace. My Ag,”—he paused—“I understand women take great comfort in the warmth of a bath.”

  A bath? Iosobal thought, fighting the urge to laugh in sheer hysteria. He thought a bath would erase the fact that she’d killed a man? She let him lead her along the path back to the palace, her mind so muddled that she doubted she could have found her way back on her own. What have I done? she asked herself again and again. She never imagined that she held such terrible power within her. As they reached the palace, she stopped. “Are you not … not horrified by me? By what I have done?”

 
Lugh grinned at her and leaned down close enough that she could see the gleam in his eyes. “I am thinking you would be a good woman at my back, my lady.”

  Iosobal blinked and wobbled away.

  LUGH STARED AFTER IOSOBAL UNTIL SHE DISAPPEARED into the palace, then turned to make his way to the kitchens. He lit a brace of candles from the low fire, found a jug of wine and a cup, and sat at the long worktable.

  Silence surrounded him as he drank and stared into the flames. By the saints, he’d never seen anything like what he’d witnessed tonight. Iosobal had been so shaken and upset that he’d not wanted to add to it by revealing just how shocked he was.

  He shook his head. What kind of woman could wield such power? For the thousandth time since their arrival at Parraba, he found himself wondering about Iosobal. Who was she really? From whence did she gain her power? What else was she capable of?

  He’d seen her heal, though her efforts with Ailie had been less successful that he’d wished. He’d felt the force of her anger when she’d flung him into the wall. He took a deep drink. “I suppose I should be thankful she did not fry me like an apple fritter,” he said to no one.

  He sat for a long time in the silence, pondering the mystery that was the Lady of Parraba. She’d expected him to be repulsed by her, by what she’d done to Tomas. He couldn’t say that he was entirely comfortable with the idea that anyone possessed such innate weapons, but the fact was that she simply defended herself.

  Just as he did, although with a sword instead of … magic. And it was magic; there was no doubt of that.

  He had the strong feeling that nothing like this had ever happened to Iosobal. Even he had never become numb to killing a man, deserved or no.

  By the saints, the woman had courage, he thought. She’d reacted so quickly he never had the chance to defend her. He smiled and sipped more wine.

  Lugh lifted his head at a rustle of movement. He peered into the shadows where a lone figure carried a lit candle.

  “MacKeir?” the voice said.

  “Aye. Gifford, what brings you here?”