by Amy Tolnitch
He stilled and frowned. No, his duty was to his daughter and to his people. Iosobal was, well, a woman different from any other. She was as much a ruler of Parraba as he was of his clan, perhaps more so. And though a tiny part of his heart roused to deny it, the day would soon come when he must leave, must reclaim Tunvegan.
There was no changing what was. No matter how he might wish otherwise, he slowly realized. Iosobal could never be more than a most pleasurable memory to bide him through the long, cold winter nights at Tunvegan … while she stayed in the warm splendor of her island paradise.
Chapter
XVI
Iosobal stood staring at the charred remains of Tomas. In the light of day, he looked even worse, a pile of bones and blackened cloth. She fought back the bile in her throat, and tried to find some sympathy for the crazed man Tomas had become.
Her gaze fixed on the dagger lying on the ground. She slowly walked over and picked it up, cradling the handle in her hand. The double edged blade gleamed in the sun. She turned the dagger over in her hand, studying it. The handle was a black spiral, each curve inlaid with silver wire, with a silver cap on the pommel.
Gradually, it sunk into her mind that this was no simple dagger a villager might carry. This was a weapon belonging to a man of wealth. Where would Tomas obtain such a fine dagger? And why?
It didn’t matter, she told herself. The dagger would remain as much a mystery as why Tomas had turned mad.
The sound of voices brought her out of her troubled musings. She quickly slid the dagger into a scabbard and tucked it into a pocket of her gown. After securing it, she held out her hands, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, there was nothing on the ground to alert anyone to what had happened.
With a sigh, she gazed out at the sea where she had cast Tomas’s remains. “Godspeed,” she whispered, then turned to face the approaching men.
Lugh led them, of course, and stopped abruptly when he saw her. Fighting a flush of heat, Iosobal managed to give him a cool smile, despite the fact that the way he was looking at her made her feel as if she were still naked and moaning in his arms. “Good morning,” she said, averting her gaze from his.
A chorus of good mornings met her words as Branor and Piers filed into the clearing behind Lugh. Thankfully, neither Branor nor Piers appeared to notice that Lugh was staring closely at her and that she was trying, but utterly failing to ignore that fact. They immediately fell into discussion over how best to deal with a particularly large boulder in front of the cave.
Lugh’s gaze passed over the spot where Tomas had lain a moment ago, and turned to her with approval in his eyes. He stopped in front of her, far enough away not to draw notice, but close enough that she could see the teasing glint in his eyes, and the softness of his smile. “And how do you fare this fine morn, Lady Iosobal?”
Iosobal was completely at a loss on how to answer. Last night had been too much a confusing combination of fear, horror, and the most magical pleasure she could have imagined. “I … fine, thank you,” she finally said.
“I would that you had stayed abed a while longer,” he murmured. “I had a fine idea on how to begin the day.”
His words reminded her of just how she’d considered starting the day herself, and heat rose up her cheeks. “Last eve … you and I, that was …” Dear Saint Brigid, she couldn’t make herself say the words. A mistake, she reminded herself. Say it!
“Quite memorable. A true taste of paradise, I am thinking.”
Iosobal waved a hand toward the cave, and was appalled to realize that it was far from steady. “You have work to do.”
“Aye, that I do. I shall labor on your precious cave for the day. But later, I shall take care of you.”
Oh no, Iosobal thought. What had she unleashed? “Nay.”
He just winked at her and went to work.
Iosobal stood for a moment, staring at his back, then shook her head and started walking toward the palace. This is not good, she told herself. This is not good at all. Now, the man feels he has the right to … to … Dear Saint Brigid, she couldn’t even say it in her mind. All she could do was picture it. Vividly.
She paused by a thick oak tree, and laid her head against the bark. “Mother, aid me,” she whispered, instinctively putting a hand over her belly. “Forgive me, but I do not want to follow your path, always looking to the horizon, hoping for the arrival of a man who will never return.” Of a father who would never know his own child.
Perhaps she should take herself to the shelter on the other side of the island. Ailie was faring better now. Hemming could bring her word when the men cleared her cave. She sucked in a breath. No, to run away would be the act of a coward.
The Lady of Parraba could face down one man, no matter how forceful and beguiling he might be. She told herself that over and over again as she made her way to the palace.
Unfortunately, all it took was the image of Lugh MacKeir’s intense green eyes as he bent over her body to turn her resolve to ashes.
LACHLANN SAT IN THE GREAT HALL OF TUNVEGAN, drinking a cup of sour wine and considering how to dispel his foul mood. The servants wisely gave him a wide berth, silently performing their duties and avoiding him but for replenishing his cup.
Just that morn, Tavish, his apparently inept garrison captain had informed him that sometime during the night, twenty head of sheep had gone missing. Tavish and his equally useless guardsmen had been unable to track the beasts to the lair of the Clan MacCaoigh, where Lachlann was sure the thieves originated.
He scowled and drank deep, then slammed down his cup. “By the saints, this is undrinkable,” he yelled at a passing maid. “Bring me something decent.”
The young girl halted and paled, then nodded and scurried away.
Surely, Lugh had something drinkable in the castle, Lachlann thought. And if he discovered that the servants had deliberately served him wine that tasted like piss, he would have to choose one to make an example of. At the thought, his mood immediately improved.
Maura sidled up next to him and sat on a stool.
He glanced at her with a hard look. “What do you want?”
She tilted her head and took a piece of cheese from the trencher in front of him. “Our food stores are running low.”
“Damned MacCaoighs. They just lifted twenty of our sheep, though I cannot prove it.”
She gave a low laugh. “So what? Go and take what we need.”
Lachlann slowly smiled back at her. “’Tis a fine idea. I am itching for a bit of sport.” He stood and realized that one of the guards stood waiting. “What is it now?”
Dougal shifted back and forth on his feet. “Einar demands to speak with you, Laird.”
Lachlann barked out a laugh. “Einar? You mean the old man still lives?”
“Aye.” Dougal grinned. “Though for how much longer, I cannot say.”
“What does he want?”
Dougal shook his head. “Wouldna tell me, Laird. Said he needed to speak with you.” He gave Maura a smirk. “Alone.”
Lachlann narrowed his gaze. Surely the old man would not try an attack, even if he possessed a weapon. Intrigued, he nodded. “Bring him to my solar.”
Maura stood and put her hand on his arm. “Let me come.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear what the old fool has to say.”
Lachlann waved a hand. “I shall tell you of it later. Perhaps.”
Her face flush and her jaw tense, Lachlann inwardly smiled. How she hated to be excluded from anything she deemed part of ruling Tunvegan. But the wench had grown overly complacent in her role, ever pushing for more power. It was time to remind her of her place.
“You may await me in my chamber,” he added. “And find some good wine, not this swill. I will take it in my solar.”
“I am no servant, to be ordered about thus,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Are you not?” He moved closer and put his hand against her throat. “Do you not honor and serve
your laird?”
She swallowed; then her eyes gleamed in a way that told Lachlann the wench was busily plotting her next move. “Of course, my Laird,” she said softly, brushing her body against his. “But ’tis a waste of my talents to put me to fetching drink.”
He laughed. A treacherous snake she might be, but he had to admire her boldness. “I donna trust these stupid servants to know the difference between a barrel of fine wine and a barrel of vinegar. Your … talents can extend to ferreting out the former.”
“As you wish,” she said, bowing her head.
The gesture of subservience didn’t fool Lachlann a moment. If not for the fact that Maura had intertwined her own fortunes with his, he would never trust her near any drink he intended to imbibe. “See to it.”
As she turned to go, he caught her arm. “And see that the fire in my chamber is stoked.”
Before she could respond, he pulled her against him in a tight grip. “I wish only to ensure your comfort, my dear. ’Twill be chilly once you divest yourself of your clothing.”
She arched into him and licked her lips. “Do not be too long,” she whispered.
He slapped her on the bottom and turned to climb the steps to his solar.
Within a few minutes, Dougal led Einar into the chamber. Lachlann stood leaning against one wall and studied him. The older man had not fared well in the dungeons. His gray hair was matted and long, his face gaunt, and one arm hung loosely at his side. However, despite his bedraggled appearance and slow gait, his eyes burned with angry defiance.
He halted in the middle of the room and met Lachlann’s gaze.
Dougal gave him a shove. “You will give a proper greeting to your laird.”
Einar drew himself up. “My laird is Lugh MacKeir.”
Lachlann saw Maura hovering in the doorway, and impatiently waved her in. She set a jug and cups down on a small table near the window slit. “May I serve you, Laird?” she asked in a silky voice.
“Leave us,” he told her without looking at her. He heard a hiss of displeasure before she swept out. “Stand outside the door, Dougal.”
Dougal nodded and retreated.
Lachlann motioned to a chair placed before the burning fire. “Sit. Would you like wine?”
“After you,” Einar said as he slowly lowered himself onto the chair.
After pouring two cups, he stood in front of Einar and took a long swallow from his own. Unlike the drink he’d been served earlier, this wine tasted fresh, with just a hint of honey. He refilled his cup before taking a seat and handing Einar a cup.
Einar drank deeply and wiped his chin with a ragged sleeve. “You will never hold Tunvegan,” he said calmly as he took another drink.
Lachlann leaned back in his chair. “It seems I already do.” “For the moment.” Einar waved a hand. “’Twill not last once the true laird returns.”
“I welcome you into my solar, serve you wine, and this is what you have to say to me?”
“You have betrayed the clan.”
“A matter of perspective.”
Einar fixed him with a steady stare. “I suggest you reconsider your course of action. When Lugh returns—”
Lachlann laughed. “And why do you think he will? He is probably long lost at sea by now, dead chasing a madman’s dream.”
“Not Lugh.”
“Your faith is … admirable, but I fear ’tis too late in any event. I hold Tunvegan now, as it should be.”
“Do you?”
“What do you mean?” Lachlann drank a gulp of wine, dismayed to find a tremor of unease unfurling in his belly.
“Your faithful men are already grumbling about not being paid. ’Tis the problem when you must buy loyalty. You never really have it.”
Damn the man, Lachlann thought. How had he found out? True, he had promised his men a share of the wealth he knew laid within the walls of Tunvegan. Unfortunately, he’d only been able to find a small portion of it. “Where did MacKeir hide the coin?”
Einar gave him a small smile. “I donna ken.”
“You lie.” Lachlann fingered the pommel of his sword. “He must have told you. What if you needed more coin before he returned?”
“Obviously, he did not intend to be gone that long.”
Lachlann unsheathed his sword and held the edge to Einar’s wrinkled neck. “Tell me, old man.”
Einar stared back at him with a calm expression. “What shall you do? Kill me? ’Twould be better than languishing in the filth of the dungeon, with only the foolish ramblings of your hired servants to entertain me.”
How could he be so calm? Weeks in the dungeons, injured, on minimal food and drink, and still the man held himself more regally than Lachlann ever could. “Tell me where the coin is hidden and I shall see you freed from the dungeons.” Lachlann smirked. “Still under guard, of course, but you would have a clean pallet, decent food and drink. I might even let you take a walk in the bailey from time to time.”
“I would not tell you even if I knew, but the plain truth is I do not.”
Damn Lugh MacKeir to Hell, Lachlann thought. Einar spoke the truth. Lachlann could see it in his steady gaze. “Get out. You are of no use to me.” He lowered his sword.
Einar stood. “I am disappointed in you, Lachlann. I thought better of you.”
Even as Lachlann told himself the old man’s disapproval mattered not, the words stung something buried deep inside him. Einar was perhaps the only man in whom Lachlann had found something to respect. Other than that damned MacKeir. He tossed back a drink of wine. “I but took the command that should have been mine in the first place.”
Einar shook his head. “Lugh knew better than to trust you with the welfare of Tunvegan. And for good reason. Your stores are low and you have failed to guard the livestock.”
By the saints, he would find whoever was loose-lipped down in the dungeons and skewer him this very day, Lachlann told himself as he glared at Einar. “I am a MacKeir.”
Einar chuckled. “As are most of us. You were never in line to be laird.”
Lachlann ground his teeth. “Get out and go back to the dungeons where you belong, old man.”
Instead of moving, Einar carefully finished his cup of wine. As he turned to go, he said, “Lachlann, there are few of us who have not tasted the bitterness of betrayal, have not seen bad things happen in the world to the innocent.” Einar eyed him closely. “But a strong man accepts such, and moves on.”
Lachlann fisted a hand and banged down his cup. How does the old man know? He gave a snort. “The time in the dungeons has addled your brain.”
“You have it in you to be a better man than this, Lachlann. Take the opportunity to do so while you still have the chance.”
Insolent old fool, Lachlann thought, stomping down a sharp prick of shame. “Dougal,” he hollered.
“Laird?”
Lachlann pointed to Einar. “See him back where he belongs.”
Dougal took Einar’s uninjured arm and pulled him from the chamber. The old man shuffled across the floor, but his back was rigid and straight, his head held high. He did not look back.
Lachlann slumped in the chair and refilled his cup, but didn’t drink. Instead, his thoughts took him back to a day long ago. The day that changed everything. The day when the difference between wrong and right turned on its head, and any belief he had in human nature vanished in the flames of a burning pyre.
Damn Einar to Hell, he thought, and flung his cup against the wall, spraying ruby liquid onto the wall and floor. He stood and sucked in a breath, then went to find Maura. He was in the mood for some rough play, and she was a woman who was always more than ready to indulge him. Whether feigned or not, he cared little. She meant no more to him than anyone else.
As he stomped down the passage toward his chamber, he pictured Maura on her knees. His face eased into a smile and Einar’s words were forgotten.
IOSOBAL FOUND AILIE, PREDICTABLY, IN THE KITCHEN, where she was attempting to persuade Niamh to
put more honey in the honey cakes, and sneak finger swipes of the sticky liquid when Niamh pretended not to look. Iosobal stood in the doorway in silence, studying Niamh. Thanks in part to the healing abilities Iosobal still apparently possessed, and Niamh’s own healthy constitution, she looked as if she’d never been beaten and nearly ravished by Calum. Iosobal frowned and thought with grim satisfaction that at least the man was gone from Parraba.
Ailie spied her in the doorway and wiped honey from her mouth with a glossy grin. “Lady Iosobal! I am … uh, supervising.”
Iosobal laughed. “I can see that.” She walked over and touched Niamh’s arm. The younger woman jerked her head up in obvious surprise. “You are well?” Iosobal asked her.
Niamh glanced at Iosobal’s hand, still on Niamh’s arm, and slowly nodded. “Aye. Thank you, my lady.”
Iosobal turned her attention to the child, ignoring Niamh’s curious expression. At Niamh’s start, Iosobal had abruptly realized that she had never in her life made such a simple gesture to anyone. “Ailie, what have you planned for the day?”
Ailie shrugged. “I donna ken. Father is busy.” She cast Iosobal a look under her lashes that clearly suggested that perhaps Iosobal might be counted upon to provide some amusement.
“Would you like to go riding with me? I thought to take Finian for a run.”
Ailie jumped up and rubbed her hands on her skirts. “Oh, yes, my lady. That would be wonderful!”
“Very well then.” Iosobal looked her up and down. “But I think we should change into clothes a bit better suited to riding.”
Ailie’s face crinkled. “I have nothing else.”
Iosobal winked. “Oh, I think I may have something you can use. Come.”
Ailie put her hand in Iosobal’s and they walked to her chamber. Ailie skipped in ahead and tilted her head. “Where is Artemis?”
“She was anxious to go out. I imagine she’s run over half the island by now.”
“I wish I had a dog like her at home.”
“Aye. She is a special dog. Now,” Iosobal said as she studied Ailie. “What is your favorite color?”
