by Amy Tolnitch
“By Saint George’s sword, we shall have to have another feast,” Gifford announced, then narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean, my lady?”
“He does not know?” Iosobal asked.
“Know what?” Gifford demanded, his mouth drawn into tight outrage.
Cain sighed. “ ’Tis Piers’s story to tell, Gifford.”
“Knew that boy was hiding something,” Gifford grumbled as he headed out of the solar. He paused at the door, his eyes softening as he looked at Iosobal. “ ’Tis indeed well to see you both, no matter the circumstances.”
“And you, old man,” The MacKeir said.
“May be old, but I’ve still got my wits about me.” The door slammed behind him.
Iosobal laughed. “I have missed him.”
“Aye. He does add a bit of color to life,” Cain said. “You must be weary from your travels. Let me find Hawis to see you to a chamber.”
The MacKeir laid a hand on Cain’s arm. “We are not fatigued. And I would see this fair bairn Amice has been gracious enough to give you.”
Cain felt his own besotted grin spill over his face. “She is a perfect beauty. Just like her mother. But … you have traveled far.”
Iosobal coughed.
The MacKeir leaned close. “ ’Tis one of the advantages of being wed to a woman of indescribable beauty as well as other talents. It took us only moments.”
Cain’s jaw sagged, and he looked from The MacKeir to Iosobal then back again.
“You look a bit pale, Veuxfort,” The MacKeir said, clearly enjoying Cain’s shock. “Perhaps we should find this Hawis and procure some wine before seeking your lady out.”
“Aye.” Cain shook his head. “Imagine that,” he said as he led them from the solar. He tried, but found it impossible to do so. Magic, he thought with an inward cringe. Still, as they made their way toward the great hall, he reminded himself Iosobal’s magic was quite possibly the only way to save Piers.
Eventually, after setting Hawis to fetching wine and a mountain of food to tide The MacKeir over until supper, they settled into Amice’s solar.
“She is indeed a comely lass,” The MacKeir proclaimed upon seeing Meriall. “As is her mother.” He pressed a kiss to Amice’s mouth, and Cain frowned. “I would like to make known my lady wife, Iosobal,” he added, pulling Iosobal to his side.
Amice smiled. “I am so pleased to meet you. Piers and Gifford have told us much of you and your beautiful island.”
“Parraba is a special place. Perhaps you and Lord Veuxfort shall come and visit it one day.”
“I should like that. And Lugh,” Amice said, “how fares Ailie?”
“Thank the saints and Iosobal, she is well. Near to driving me mad with her antics, though.”
“Hmm, some justice in that,” Cain commented.
“Hawis!” The MacKeir bellowed as the door opened, revealing the woman with a trio of servants behind her. “You are just in time. I am fair to starving.”
Hawis directed the servants to setting about platters of cold meat, cheese, bread and an assortment of smoked fish. She set a jug on a table near to The MacKeir and smiled. “Do you require aught else?” she asked, directing her question to Cain.
“Have someone find Piers and tell him he is needed in Amice’s solar.”
She nodded and herded the servants out.
“You should have told me,” Gifford said, frowning at Piers. “I knew something was amiss after you went into that accursed cave.”
“He did not tell me either, until just last eve,” Giselle told him
Piers held up his hands. “I thought to be rid of this … thing afore I would have to admit my stupidity. And, Gifford, you were so enraptured with Saraid I did not wish to bother you with my problem.”
Gifford tapped his foot and ran a hand through the white filament of his hair. “It would not have been a bother. You are my kin.” He stared hard at Piers.
But not a legitimate one, Giselle thought, her heart aching anew for Piers.
“Iosobal is here,” Gifford said.
“What?” Piers shouted. “Why did you not tell me at once?” He shot off from the stables.
Giselle had to run to keep up with him. “Who is Iosobal?” she said on a breath.
Gifford jogged beside her. “The Lady of Parraba.”
His words held a wealth of meaning, but Giselle had no time to question him further. Within moments, they burst into Amice’s solar en masse.
Giselle stopped short as Piers rushed to a strange woman. The woman was striking, with long dark hair and eyes of a purple color Giselle had never seen. She gazed for a moment at Giselle, and Giselle was struck with the thought that the woman’s appearance was the least of her differences.
“Lady Iosobal,” Piers said. “Thank you for coming. MacKeir,” he added, nodding to a huge man with black hair and piercing green eyes.
The man called MacKeir set down a jug and walked over to Giselle. He was so massive Giselle had the urge to flatten herself against the wall, but instead she made herself take a step forward and smile.
“Ah, you must be Piers’s new bride,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“Uh … aye. I am Giselle.”
He winked. “Piers, by the saints, you have found yourself an angel.”
Giselle flushed when he took her fingers in his.
“I am Lugh MacKeir, my lady, Laird of Tunvegan, and the luckiest man in the world to call Lady Iosobal my wife.”
Before Giselle could respond, he was pulling her across the solar, his meaty grip giving her no chance to refuse.
“Lady Giselle,” Iosobal said in a melodic voice. “I am pleased to see that Piers has found his match.”
The sense that Iosobal was something more than simply another woman grew in Giselle’s chest when she smiled in greeting.
“Well?” Gifford barked. “Are you going to help him?”
Giselle flinched at his loud tone, but Iosobal merely turned to Gifford with a cool look. “That is why I am here.”
“What can you do?” Giselle found herself asking, almost afraid to hear the answer.
The MacKeir slung an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Iosobal is a great healer.”
“But … Piers is not injured.” Giselle frowned.
“Giselle,” Piers said, taking her arm. “Perhaps it would be better if you—”
“She must stay,” Iosobal interrupted.
Giselle looked back and forth between Piers and Iosobal. “I do not understand.”
“I think you do,” Iosobal said softly.
Thick silence blanketed the chamber. Giselle stared at Iosobal, but felt every eye upon her. “I … I know naught of expelling spirits,” she finally said.
“Eikki is more than that.”
Piers looked at Giselle’s face, white as bone, and felt Eikki stir to life. You think to defeat me with one of my blood? he hissed. Even she does not understand all that I am.
We shall defeat you, Piers thought.
Even if you could deduce a way to be rid of me, it will be too late. Giselle will be mine.
No, Piers thought. She shall never be yours. Never. I will kill myself afore I shall allow that to happen.
Eikki chuckled. Brave words, but death is forever. He laughed again. Or, at least, that is what I have been told.
“Piers?” Iosobal was staring at him intently. “Are you well?”
He blinked. “Nay. This bastard increasingly bedevils me.”
She took his hands, and heat spread up through his arms. Concentration narrowed her features, and the heat spread into his chest.
“Iosobal,” Lugh said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“ ’Tis all right, love,” she whispered.
For a moment, lightness flooded Piers, and he felt free of Eikki. He held his breath. Could it be this easy after all?
And then Iosobal stumbled back, and ice replaced the warmth in Piers’s veins.
She gazed at him thoughtfully, then glanc
ed at Lugh.
“What happened?” Cain asked, his expression revealing he’d already guessed.
“I have contemplated long and hard on this matter,” Iosobal said slowly. “This,” she gestured with her hand, “merely confirmed my thoughts.”
Dear God, please do not let her tell me there is nothing she can do, Piers silently prayed.
“I cannot simply dispel him from your body,” she told Piers. “I am sorry, but I feared such would be the case.”
“What … what can you do?” Piers’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak.
“Kill you.”
Chapter
XVII
Giselle realized she had fainted when she looked up at Piers’s face from the floor. For a moment, she merely stared at him. “No,” she said, finding Iosobal. “You cannot mean that.”
Piers lifted her into his arms and she clung to him.
“Let me explain,” Iosobal said, accepting a cup from her husband.
A loud banging at the door interrupted her. “My lord?” a man’s voice shouted. “My lord, we have a visitor.”
“Damned poor timing,” Gifford commented.
“It always is,” Cain muttered as he opened the door.
Nyle stood outside. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lord.”
“Who is it? Has Walmesley returned for more coin?”
“Nay, my lord.” Nyle drew in a breath, glancing at Giselle who stood unsteadily on her feet. “ ‘Tis the Bishop of Ravenswood. He demands to speak with you at once.”
Giselle let out a high cry, and swayed against Piers.
“Faith, my lady,” he whispered in her ear.
Cain frowned. “To me?”
“Aye. He and his men await you in the hall.”
“Who is this man?” The MacKeir demanded.
“The whoreson who ravaged Giselle’s mother, hid Giselle in a convent, and helped himself to the estate she is entitled to by birth,” Piers told him.
The MacKeir let out a hiss. “And he dares to show his face here? Why?”
“Good question, MacKeir,” Cain said.
“Is …” Giselle swallowed, “is there a man called Donninc with him? Tall and lean, with pale gray eyes?”
“I saw no one resembling that description, my lady.”
Piers growled low in his throat. “If there is, he shall not live to draw another breath.”
The MacKeir shook his head. “ ‘Tis a good thing we have come, my love. Clearly, my aid is needed as well as yours.”
Giselle’s trepidation eased when The MacKeir puffed out his chest, put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and took Iosobal by the hand. “Let us see to this knave.”
“I look forward to it,” the earl said, and led the way.
The Bishop sat on a chair before the huge fireplace in the hall, his men gathered around him. All but the bishop were well-armed.
At their approach, he slowly rose, and his reptilian gaze flickered over Giselle.
Piers wanted to rip out the man’s throat with his bare hands. He kept tight hold of Giselle and halted beside Cain. “You are not welcome here,” Piers snarled.
The Bishop glanced at him, then away as if Piers were no more than a mildly annoying insect fluttering about his face. “My business is with the earl.”
Cain placed his hand on his sword in a pointed gesture. The MacKeir moved up on his other side. “As my brother stated, you are not welcome at Falcon’s Craig. State your business and be gone.”
“No offer of refreshments? No comfortable place to rest before we undertake our journey?”
“Nay. And your men shall await you in the bailey,” Cain said, crossing his arms. “Nyle?
“Aye, my lord.”
“See to it. Have Rauf keep a close eye on them.”
The Bishop’s mouth turned down. “I should have expected nothing more from a place on the edge of nowhere. Go.” He gestured to his men.
“Is Ravenswood not close to the Welsh border? I understand the abbey has fallen into disrepair,” Piers said. “You are no doubt anxious to retire there to rebuild.”
The look of abject hatred the Bishop sent him brought joy to Piers’s heart.
“This matter of Kindlemere has all been most unfortunate,” the Bishop said, fixing Cain with a smug stare.
“I imagine it is indeed unfortunate to find your thievery exposed,” Cain responded calmly. “Nonetheless, there it is.”
“Kindlemere is mine.”
“Not any more,” Giselle spat. Piers looked at her and wanted to cheer. She held up her chin in defiance, her eyes blazing in anger. No longer a timid nun, he thought with approval.
The Bishop took a step forward, his face mottled with color, his hand half-raised. In a heartbeat, the hiss of three swords leaving their scabbards rent the air. “You would strike a man of God?” he asked, disdain tightening his thick features.
Piers forgot to respond, he was so shocked to see his wife holding a dagger in her hand.
“You do not deserve the title,” Giselle said coldly.
“But, my dear, that is exactly who I am. An honorable man of God, devoted to the church and its teachings.”
“State your business and be gone,” Cain told him. “I tire of this game.”
“Hmm, but it has everything to do with you. Or, more exactly, with your wife, who I understand recently delivered you a daughter.”
A hard, cold seed of doubt stole into Piers’s chest. He glanced at Amice, who held Meriall in her arms, her face pale.
“Aye, your wife, who is a witch,” the Bishop spat.
Amice recoiled, but Iosobal caught her. The MacKeir moved to stand beside them, exchanging a knowing glance with his wife. “Wait,” Piers heard him say.
Cain laughed. “You jest. You came all the way to Falcon’s Craig to make such a ridiculous accusation?”
“ ‘Tis not ridiculous.” The Bishop withdrew a sheaf of vellum from a pouch tied to his belt. “I have signed statements from two witnesses. Both say that she,” he pointed a finger, “consorts with spirits.”
“Would you like me to slay him for you, Amice?” The MacKeir asked in a casual tone. “ ‘Twould be a simple task.”
“The pleasure should be mine,” Piers snapped.
Cain held out his hand for the vellum.
With a look of triumph, the Bishop handed over the sheets.
Giselle was trembling so violently her fingers dug into Piers’s arm where she clutched him. She glanced back at Amice but found her attention drawn to Iosobal, who fairly shimmered with fury. Iosobal took a step forward, but her husband held her back, murmuring something to her.
As if Padruig had his own brand of the sight, Giselle sensed his solid presence behind her.
Cain read over the two statements, then walked over to the fire and tossed them into the flames. “My wife is no witch,” he said quietly.
“Burning those shall not take away my proof.”
“Proof?” Cain raised a brow. “You shall never prove the Countess of Hawksdown is a witch. And consorting with spirits? If you dare to make such a claim, I will ensure you are treated as the madman you are.”
The Bishop glared at him, then shifted his malevolent gaze to Giselle. “You are not worthy of an estate such as Kindlemere,” he roared. “Daughter of a whore!” He advanced on her, and Giselle tried to remember to hold her dagger the way Padruig had taught her. “You are a nothing. Less than nothing. A weak girl whose soul is beyond redemption.”
“Nay! And you are a lying whoreson,” another man’s voice shouted.
Giselle whipped her head around to the source of the voice. A man of middle years strode across the hall, his craggy features set into lines of pure rage, his eyes glittering with menace.
His turquoise eyes were identical to hers.
“It is no surprise you would stoop to threatening innocent women to pursue your craven goals,” he barked.
The Bishop drew himself up and cast the man a disdainful look. “Who a
re you to cast such aspersions upon me?”
The man came to a halt and sent Giselle such a tender look her legs nearly buckled. “I am the Earl of Claybourne.”
When the Bishop said nothing, the Earl of Claybourne continued. “I have just come from the king. It is only in honor of my wife’s memory that you shall not be exposed for all of your crimes.”
“I committed no—”
“Liar!” Giselle shouted, unable to listen to another word. “You forced my mother. Because of you, we lived without any of the comforts she knew. Because of you, my mother died without her family around her. Because of you, I did not even know who I was!”
“No—”
With a snarl, Giselle lunged, but Piers caught her in an iron grip. “Nay, my lady.”
Giselle sucked in a breath and glared at the Bishop, whose face was white with shock. “Get out,” she said, her voice every bit as cold as his had been that day at Kerwick Abbey. “Crawl back to Ravenswood, and pray the king leaves you even that.”
For a moment, their gazes clashed, then the Bishop lowered his in defeat. Giselle could not resist a smile. “Nyle?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Will you do me the service of throwing this piece of refuse from the castle?”
Nyle’s face split into a wide grin. “With pleasure.” He seized hold of the Bishop’s arm and dragged him from the hall.
“Too bad it is not raining,” Giselle said.
Piers laughed and lifted her up, twirling her in the air before kissing her soundly.
“Hawis!” The MacKeir bellowed.
“Already on the way, laird,” the older woman shouted, herding servants bearing the platters of food and jugs of drink.
When Giselle could breathe again, she turned her gaze to the Earl of Claybourne.
He held out his arms, tears in his eyes. “My child.”
She threw herself into his arms.
Piers stared into Giselle’s horrified gaze, and realized he had no memory of what had transpired since they retired to their chamber. When he looked at her, really looked at her, nausea burned in his gut.
“Dear God,” he whispered. She stared back at him, her hair in wild tangle around her face, her chemise rent down the front, and her mouth swollen. “What … what happened?” He took a step in her direction, but she backed away. At the same time, Piers realized he was naked. And powerfully aroused.
