by Amy Tolnitch
“Iosobal, cease.” He took her hands and turned them over in his. “You shall be at my side when I retake Tunvegan. But these, these are not the hands of vengeance. I must do this. ’Tis my duty and my right.”
“Stubborn man,” she grumbled.
“Do not worry. And I would not have my people’s first sight of my lady sending a man to his death.”
Though she recoiled at the thought, her fear for Lugh outweighed it. She could not bear the thought of losing him. The very idea made her stomach clench in terror. “But, Lugh, I—”
“He is right,” Piers said. “He is the Laird of Tunvegan. He is the one who must defeat Lachlann.”
Iosobal scowled at him, and then rolled her eyes. “Men,” she said, with a meaningful look toward Saraid.
“An obstinate lot,” Saraid agreed.
Lugh quirked his lips, but didn’t dispute her. “Rest now, my love. ’Twill not be long.”
Iosobal gave up and settled onto a blanket next to Ailie, who had Artemis sprawled over her lap, snoring softly. “Do not fear, my lady,” Ailie said. “The Laird of Tunvegan is always victorious.” She gave Iosobal a sunny smile.
“Aye,” Iosobal finally agreed. “I suppose he is.”
LACHLANN KNEW HE WAS IMBIBING TOO MUCH WINE, but he didn’t care. He was surrounded by loyal men, with the possible exception of Branor, whom he intended to keep a close eye on.
And Lugh MacKeir was dead.
It was a night for celebrating.
At the end of the dais, one of his men pulled a servant wench atop his lap with a leer. The girl shrieked in protest, but no one came to her aid. The other men didn’t care, and the servants had learned to know better. Lachlann caught a glimpse of bare leg and grinned as the man staggered to his feet and bore the girl off to a corner of the hall.
Maura pressed her thigh against his. “Are you ready to retire, Laird?”
He glanced around, and noticed that a number of his men were so sotted that they’d passed out where they sat.
Maura’s skillful hand slid down his tunic to his braies. He tossed back another drink of wine. “What did you have in mind?”
She whispered in his ear and Lachlann laughed. For all of her many faults, the wench was creative. And his for the taking. He drew her up from the table, anticipating what she’d promised.
“Lachlann!” a voice rumbled through the hall.
Lachlann started and whirled to look at its source.
Maura gave a murmur of dismay and edged away from him.
Lugh MacKeir stood in his hall glaring at Lachlann with utter contempt. Beside him stood a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Seize him!” Lachlann shouted.
When no one moved, Lachlann’s gaze shot to the other tables. Most of the guardsmen were completely unresponsive; some were slumped on the floor, others over the tables. The few who remained awake looked away. “Damn you,” he swore and unsheathed his sword.
“This is between you and me, Lachlann,” Lugh snarled.
Lachlann caught Branor’s mocking glance and fury ripped through him. By God, Lugh would not take Tunvegan from him. He moved from behind the dais and strode down the pathway between the tables toward Lugh. “Then, let it be done. I would have preferred it this way.”
“Aye. I suspected the fine hand of your whore behind this.”
Lachlann heard Maura cry out from behind him, but did not turn. The wench could fight her own battles.
“Stay back,” Lugh told Iosobal. He glanced at her and saw the set of her mouth. “This is my fight,” he reminded her.
“For now,” she said, her eyes flashing fire.
“I love you,” he said and turned to face Lachlann. They neared each other and circled, each looking for an opening. Neither wore mail or carried shields. There was no question that this was a fight to the death.
“You betrayed our clan,” Lugh said.
“My clan.”
“You were never in line to be laird.”
“I should have been. ’Twas my birthright.” Lachlann swung his sword toward Lugh’s head, but Lugh easily danced aside.
“Why? Because my grandfather bedded a village lass before he died?”
“He loved her.”
Lugh laughed. “That old bastard never loved a single soul, not even his true son.”
Lachlann lunged and Lugh batted his sword away. He changed direction and left a bloody trail along Lachlann’s chest. “You plotted against me,” Lugh charged as he caught Lachlann’s shoulder with his blade.
“Aye.” Hate filled Lachlann’s eyes and he brought down his sword. Metal met metal in a whining crash of steel.
Lachlann had grown stronger, Lugh noted. But it would be of no avail. He swiped his sword toward Lachlann’s knees but the man jumped over it. “You think to beat me with that old trick,” he taunted. “You shall have to do better than that.”
Then how about this? Lugh thought as he arced his blade up to Lachlann’s. For a silent moment, they stood there, swords braced against each other, each man trying to force the other’s sword to give. Slowly, inch by inch, Lugh pressed upward, making Lachlann back up.
“No,” Lachlann grunted with a mighty shove.
His blade broke in half.
A hush fell over the servants gathered along the walls in the hall.
“Now, you die,” Lugh said, raising his sword.
Lachlann’s eyes were wild with fear. He took a step back and nearly stumbled, horror and disbelief drawing his features taut.
“No!” Iosobal cried.
Lugh halted his sword but a hairsbreadth from Lachlann’s neck.
“Wait,” she said and stepped into Lachlann’s line of vision.
His eyes bulged; then his face went slack. “Oh my God, ’tis you.”
Lugh looked back and forth between them.
“Aye.”
“Iosobal?” Lugh asked.
Lachlann’s expression changed to wonder. “You did not die.”
“No.”
“But how? I saw it. I saw them light the fire.”
By the saints, was that a tear he saw in Lachlann’s eyes? Lugh wondered. He lowered his sword slightly.
“I escaped.”
“I thought … All this time, I thought the angel who saved me had died for her trouble. That the world had punished the only soul to have ever shown me true kindness.”
Understanding dawned in Lugh, and he glanced at Iosobal. “He is the boy you healed?”
She nodded, sorrow in her gaze. “Aye. The look on his face is the same as I remember.”
Lachlann slumped against the edge of the table. It was as if everything abruptly drained out of him. “My life … everything I believed changed that day.”
Iosobal laid her hand on Lugh’s arm. “Do not kill him. Can you not see? That one event shaped him even as it shaped me.”
“I was really looking forward to it,” Lugh told her.
She smiled.
Lachlann fell to his knees. From behind the dais, securely held by Branor, Maura wailed, “No. Fight, Lachlann.”
He ignored her and looked up at Lugh. “Kill me. You have the right.”
With a grunt of discontent, Lugh sheathed his sword. “My lady bades me otherwise.”
“I shall accept any punishment you decree.” Lachlann bowed his head.
Lugh took the time to study the men unconscious in the hall and saw that he recognized only a handful of them. “Where are my men?”
“Most of them are in the dungeon,” Lachlann answered in a low voice.
“Einar?”
“Still lives last I saw him.”
“Piers?”
“Gladly.” Piers walked to Lachlann and ripped the keys from his belt.
“You are banished,” Lugh told Lachlann. “Never to set foot within the lands of Tunvegan. All of my allies shall know of your treachery. None shall give you welcome.”
Lachlann’s shoulders shook. “’Tis better than I deserve.”<
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“Aye, it is. But for my wife’s merciful heart, you would be a dead man.”
“Wife?” Iosobal whispered.
Lugh heard the murmurings of the servants and lifted a brow. “You will be soon enough. Go now,” Lugh told the kneeling man.
Iosobal whispered in his ear.
Lugh rolled his eyes. “By the saints, woman, you shall make me soft,” he whispered back. “Branor,” he called out.
“Aye, Laird.”
“Toss that troublesome wench into the dungeon. See that Lachlann gathers his belongings and rides out of Tunvegan within the hour.
Lachlann stood and gazed at Iosobal. “Thank you, my lady.”
She nodded.
The hall filled with cheers.
Chapter
XXI
Iosobal walked through the chilly hall, fingering her moonstone necklace. She didn’t need the insight of the necklace to read the people around her. Their whispers said enough.
She’d been at Tunvegan for a sennight, and far from being welcomed as the laird’s lady, his people had greeted her with a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and superstition. Lugh’s grand announcement praising Iosobal for healing Ailie had only reminded his people that he’d returned with none other than the Lady of Parraba.
Even Lugh’s men who had been imprisoned had reluctantly accepted her aid. Thankfully, it turned out that their captors had treated them fairly well, unbeknownst to Lachlann.
Nights with Lugh were like a dream. Aside from the sheer pleasure of joining with him, the feeling of being wrapped in warm, strong arms each night was so foreign and so cherished that Iosobal wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to it. But her days were empty. Lugh was too busy tending to the many matters at Tunvegan that Lachlann had either mismanaged or left undone.
A laundress passed her with a pile of dirty sheets. Iosobal made to smile at the woman, but she averted her gaze, and Iosobal suppressed a sigh. Whispers followed her across the vast hall.
“Did you see her eyes?”
“’Tis said she comes from a magical isle.”
“Has she enchanted the laird?”
Iosobal shot the speakers a glare, and they fell silent. As she turned away, she saw out of the corner of her eye that one of the women made the sign of the cross. Ignorant fools, she told herself, but the truth was that it hurt.
Lugh had been so accepting that she’d foolishly expected his people to react the same way. What would they do if she gave them a demonstration of her power? she wondered. No doubt flee for the castle priest in terror, a man she had been sure to avoid so far.
She stepped into the kitchens. A servant chopping onions noticed her standing there, and as if by silent communication, the room abruptly quieted. The cook, a middle-aged man with a shock of red hair, and watery eyes gave her a wary look. “Is there something you require, my lady?”
Iosobal was tempted to come up with a list of things she’d heard witches supposedly used for their potions. A scaly toad, she could say. Or the eye of a newt. You are the Lady of Parraba, she reminded herself.
“Not particularly,” she told him. “I am just exploring the castle.”
To a person, everyone working in the kitchen stared at her until Iosobal felt her ire rise. Dear Brigid, she was soon to be wed to the laird. She had saved his daughter. The very least she deserved was their respect.
“Actually, I would like you to serve a vegetable other than peas for supper,” she informed the cook. “I am not fond of meat.”
For a charged moment, she thought he would refuse, but ultimately he gave a short nod. “As the lady wishes.”
“I do,” she said in her best Lady of Parraba voice and sauntered out of the kitchen. Dear Brigid, this was a cold place, she thought as she walked into the gardens. Both the climate and the people.
She was inspecting a fairly pathetic clump of betony when she heard a voice behind her. “They will never accept one like you.”
A young woman stood in the garden, hostility evident on her face. She was pretty, in an overblown, obvious kind of way, with pale hair, blue eyes, and big breasts.
Iosobal snapped off a piece of betony and held it to her nose. I wonder how smug she would be if I made her clothes vanish, Iosobal found herself thinking. Though the idea lightened her mood, she knew she wouldn’t do it. She did not misuse her power that way. “Oh?”
The woman’s lips parted in a disdainful smile. “You are not one of us. You never will be.”
“I am to marry your laird,” Iosobal reminded her.
The woman shrugged. “So you say. I have not heard of any wedding preparations.”
Lugh has been too busy, she started to tell the woman, but stopped herself. She did not need to explain anything to this creature who radiated such resentment and jealously that Iosobal’s necklace fairly burned with it. She gave the woman a smile of her own. “Our plans are of no concern of yours.”
“They are of concern to all of us at Tunvegan. You have bewitched him. Do you think we will tolerate a … witch as our laird’s wife?”
Iosobal crushed the betony in her fist, and a cool wind blew through the garden, ruffling her skirts. “You have no choice,” she said coolly. She would not dignify the woman’s accusations with an explanation. “Lugh loves me as I love him. You and the rest of the people of Tunvegan shall have to accustom yourself to that fact.”
The woman’s face turned red, and she took a step toward Iosobal.
“Lady Iosobal!” Ailie cried. “There you are. I have been looking everywhere for you. I have something to show you.” The child skipped to her side and put her hand in Iosobal’s.
With a final glare, the woman departed.
Ailie wrinkled her nose. “That Brona. She is most upset that father refused her his bed.”
Iosobal found herself chuckling at Ailie’s disgusted tone.
“She has always been a sour woman.” Ailie cocked her head toward Iosobal. “She did not say anything to upset you, did she?”
“Nay.” Iosobal squeezed Ailie’s hand. “Naught of importance.”
“Good. Now, come. I want you to meet my new kittens.” Ailie led her off to the stables, and while Iosobal managed to make the right enthusiastic praises for the tiny kittens, her mind was back in the garden.
You are the Lady of Parraba, she told herself again. Do not let these small-minded people bother you.
But no matter how many times she repeated the words, the truth remained that it did bother her. Very much. She had left Parraba hoping to have love and a family, to be part of a clan, to belong. Instead, aside from when Lugh came to her at night she was more alone than ever.
Whatever the reasons behind her cruel words, Iosobal knew Brona was right.
And, with a sinking heart, she knew what she must do.
IOSOBAL STOOD IN THEIR CHAMBER, GAZING AT LUGH’S sleeping form bathed in the moonlight. For a long time, she watched the rise and fall of his chest, even when tears blurred her vision. She reached out her hand, but then stopped, fearful if she gave into her temptation to touch him, he would awaken.
She donned a gown and boots and turned back toward the bed. Tears blinded her once more, and she impatiently swiped them away. There really was nothing else to do. Despite their love, despite everything, she’d been right from the beginning. She did not belong in his world, and his own people knew it. They would never look at her with anything but suspicion, and she could not live another day surrounded by it.
Slowly, she slipped her moonstone necklace from her neck and laid it on the bed. Ailie would know that Iosobal meant it for her. She would leave Artemis with Ailie as well. Iosobal bit her lip as her chest ached with such agony it nearly brought her to her knees. She could barely breathe through the pain.
“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered on a ragged breath, then turned and crept out of the room.
She slipped down the stairs and walked into the silent hall. Shadowed piles of blankets revealed where some slept close to the low
burning fire. Go now, she told herself. Leave afore someone awakes.
Instead, she edged out of the hall, and walked down to the bailey, breathing in the crisp, woodsy air of Tunvegan, so different from Parraba. “Farewell,” she whispered, thinking of the sleeping man she’d left behind. “I love you.”
She drew a mantle around her body and envisioned Parraba.
But before she completed the thought, shouts rang through the night air. Iosobal paused, peering through the gloom. Above the gatehouse, torches dipped and moved. Had someone seen her? she wondered.
“Dear God,” a man shouted. “Lift the portcullis! ’Tis Branor.”
Iosobal moved closer to the gatehouse, trying to make out what was happening. Iron groaned as men lifted the portcullis.
“Fetch the laird,” someone shouted.
The marshal ran from the stables, his tunic flapping around him. “What is it?” he asked Iosobal, who stood frozen in the center of the bailey. She shook her head.
More people emerged from shelters along the curtain walls, rubbing their eyes and murmuring among themselves.
A guardsman ran past Iosobal. The expression on his face sent a deep tremor of alarm through her.
A woman screamed as Branor rode into the bailey. Iosobal took one glance and ran to his side. In the torchlight, she could make out the dark stain of blood on his clothing, and he hung halfway off his horse. He gave her a crooked smile and passed out.
“Bring him into the hall,” Iosobal ordered the gathering. When no one moved, she crossed her arms. “Now!” she yelled, realizing with a twinge of irony that she sounded quite a bit like Lugh.
By the time the men carrying Branor reached the hall, a crowd had gathered. “Lay him on the table,” Iosobal ordered.
As the men gently laid Branor down, someone lit candles, illuminating his ravaged body.
Iosobal gasped in dismay. Branor’s leg was a mangled twist of flesh and bones, his blood quickly soaking the cloth on the table. “Someone bring warm water,” she said as she began plucking away the tatters of his braies.
A woman wailed, and one of the guardsmen glanced at Iosobal. “Can you help him?” He looked doubtful.
“Yes.”
