by Amy Tolnitch
“Did I hurt you?” he finally managed to ask.
Her eyes were huge, pale jewels in her white face. She shook her head, the movement jerky. “Nay, not really.”
Piers drew on a pair of braies, wincing when the fabric rubbed against his skin. “What happened?”
“You do not know?”
“Giselle, please.” His gaze fastened on the tear in her chemise, and raw fury erupted in his veins. Eikki, you bastard, he swore inwardly.
“You … I do not even know how to say it. ‘Twas as if you became him. Your eyes, your voice, everything was different.” She pointed to a mound of fabric on the floor. “You tore off your clothes. And then … then you began ripping my own.”
Ignoring her expression of distrust, he gathered her in his arms. “Giselle, it was not me, you must know that.”
She drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I do know, but ‘twas so frightening.”
“Go to Kindlemere. Leave on the morn. I shall send a score of men with you to ensure your safety.”
“No.” Giselle twined her fingers in his hair. “I shall stay.”
He drew back and gazed at her, pain searing his eyes. “Do you not understand? I do not remember any of it! That bastard took control of me.”
“I understand. I saw it all.”
“Then you see you must go.”
She smoothed a hand over his shoulder. “You stopped. Piers, you stopped him.”
Frustration and fear ate at his gut. “This time. What of the next?”
“Iosobal—”
“Has a plan, aye, but …” He dropped his arms and walked to the window to gaze out at the star-filled night sky. “Will it succeed?”
“If not, we shall find another way.” She stood beside him. “Look before you. Listen to the pounding of the sea. All of this is God’s gift to us. He is where true power lies, not with a long dead and cursed man.”
“Your faith humbles me.”
“My faith sustains me. And it is why I know you shall banish Eikki for good.”
“You should go. Leave me.”
“I cannot.”
He smiled at the fierceness in her voice. “My little nun has become a warrior.”
She smiled back at him. “Aye, that I have, and I tell you it feels very good inside.”
His angel, he thought, staring down at her, ethereal in the light of the stars and the moon. “I do not deserve you, Giselle. I never did.”
“Well then, you shall have to work on that.”
“I am not sure I possess the raw material. Go to Kindlemere. Make a new life for yourself.”
“Cease. I am not going anywhere.” She pulled at his hand. “Come to bed. In the morn, we shall see what we can do to dispatch Eikki to the hell where he belongs.”
Exhausted, he let her tug him into bed. Once there, he gathered her in his arms and closed his eyes, his mind full of prayers and the desperate hope that a God he’d never paid sufficient homage to would hear him.
Giselle’s eyes snapped open. The chamber was still and dark, the fire burned to embers. She listened for sound, but heard nothing.
Go back to sleep, she told herself, absorbing Pier’s warmth. She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. Breathing deeply, she pressed closer to Piers.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Shadows gradually parted, revealing a man lying on the floor, a woman crouched beside him. A heavy herbal scent hung in the air. Beyond the two, others stood in the shadows. Waiting.
Piers turned his head to someone just out of sight. His gaze was cloudy, the sound of his shallow breathing audible.
Iosobal knelt next to him, her palms on his chest, her face drawn into fierce focus.
Around them, a deep purple mist grew and swelled.
“Do something!” a voice cried. Giselle’s voice.
No one answered her.
Piers writhed on the floor, his skin taut over the bones of his face. Tears spilled down Iosobal’s cheeks as the mist thickened and grew colder.
“No!” a voice shrieked.
And Piers let out a long sigh, his eyes abruptly lifeless.
Giselle lay in bed staring at nothing for the remainder of the night, the cold dread of what she’d seen spreading across her limbs. The image of Piers’s vacant gaze would not leave her. He had died. And she had watched it happen.
Dear Lord, if you show me the future, why can you not show me how to change it?
Lugh sat back in his chair and studied the man called Padruig. Other than sleeping servants, they were the only two left in the hall. “I am told you are most skilled with a sword.”
“Aye.” Padruig looked at him, his blue gaze wary.
“Perhaps you will indulge me in a bit of sword play on the morrow.”
“Of course, laird.”
“These Veuxforts cannot offer a mon good sport. Not Highlanders.” Lugh leaned forward. “Like us.”
“I left the Highlands long ago.”
“Why?”
Padruig looked away. “I can still remember the crisp air of a fall morn, the sweet scent of heather on the spring air, the bracing chill of the loch.”
“Which loch?”
“There are many, as you well know.”
Lugh growled under his breath. “There is something familiar about you, Padruig.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Your clan?”
“I have no clan.”
No clan, the man said. It was unthinkable. Lugh slowly turned Padruig’s words over in his mind. “You forsook your clan,” he finally said. “And hide away here in the forests of England.”
Padruig stood. “ ‘Tis my own business, laird.”
“Had to be a lass involved.”
At that, Padruig sent him a grim smile. “Is there not always?”
“I can use a skilled man at Tunvegan.”
For a moment, a spark of utter yearning lit in Padruig’s gaze, but then he shook his head. “My thanks for the offer, laird, but I shall never return to the Highlands.”
Lugh frowned. “But—”
“There is naught for me there anymore.” He nodded. “I shall bid good eve to you.”
Lugh watched as Padruig left the hall, his stride long and assured, his shoulders broad and squared. That is no simple clansman, Lugh thought. He grinned and took a sip of wine. Reminds me a bit of myself.
Which would make Padruig the laird. Laird of a clan he’d abandoned. Lugh tried to envision ever doing so, and failed.
Still, the man had rendered aid to Lady Giselle. More than once, it seemed.
Lugh tossed back the last of his wine and left to seek out his wife. Perhaps Iosobal could divine the man’s story. He smiled when he thought of the woman his wife had become. It was all he could do to restrain her from striking the odious Bishop down where he stood.
He was more than fair tempted to do the same himself.
Bad business, that. And Piers, wed to a lass who’d spent most of her life under the control of a convent. He laughed as he climbed the steps to their chamber, then sobered when he considered the dilemma Piers found himself in.
Though Iosobal refused to admit it, even to him, Lugh could tell she was concerned. Nay, more than concerned. His wife was afraid.
Chapter
XVIII
Piers stared at Iosobal, wishing he’d misheard her, but realizing with cold certainty he had not.
She gazed back at him, her purple eyes filled with a disturbing blend of apprehension and compassion. “ ‘Tis the only way,” she said softly.
“Nay,” Giselle cried, catching at his arm. “You must not do this!”
“Giselle—”
“Nay!”
“I have to try, Giselle.” And he did, he knew it in his soul. Knew it when he looked at Giselle, wild-eyed and fearful for his safety. Knew it when he’d come back to himself last eve to see Giselle gazing at him in horror.
“You cannot. Piers, I must speak to you about this.”
“You may speak plainly. I
have no secrets from my family.” He cracked out a bitter laugh. “Not anymore.”
Giselle looked around the solar and licked her lips. Her shoulders slumped, but she soon straightened them and lifted her chin. “I … sometimes I see things.”
When no one disputed her, Piers saw her blink in surprise. He put his hand over hers. “What did you see?”
Anguish cloaked her lovely face. “I saw you die. Piers, I saw you die.”
“Well, that is the idea,” he told her.
“No. You died, Piers. Lady Iosobal was crying.” She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You cannot do this.”
“I cannot live with Eikki. Can you?”
“There must be another way,” she insisted. “Lady Iosobal? Surely, there is something else …”
Iosobal’s grave expression gave Giselle the answer. With a high cry, Giselle turned back to Piers. “Do not do this! You will die!”
As he gazed into Giselle’s eyes, another truth smacked into his mind, leaving a twisted mass of warmth and dread. By Saint George’s sword, he’d fallen in love with his little nun.
Nay, he told himself. It could not be. He’d grown fond of her true, but … love?
Yet there it was.
He would not destroy her by allowing Eikki to remain within him. Last night had taught him he was no longer able to control the bastard. How long would it be before Eikki took over more and more, subjecting Giselle to his depraved desires, his need to dominate? Not long enough.
“Piers,” Iosobal said. “ ‘Tis your decision. I can make no promises.”
“Do it,” he told her, ignoring Giselle’s gasp of distress. “As soon as possible.”
Cain put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure?”
“Aye.” Piers looked down at Giselle and managed to smile. “I am sure.”
“Come to the east tower at dusk. I shall be prepared by then,” Iosobal said.
Piers nodded. “As shall I.”
Giselle knelt in the chapel and clutched her rosary. Though she appreciated his counsel, she was glad Father Michael had gone to the village. She needed to be alone with God.
She gazed at the gold cross atop the altar, but saw only Piers’s face, ravaged by poison, the look in his eyes when he finally realized he was going to die.
“God, please aid me. Help me find a way to save him.”
A pool of blue light from the window overhead shifted across the floor.
After she’d fled the solar where Iosobal had delivered her plan, The MacKeir had sought her out. Believe in Iosobal, he’d told her. She is the most powerful healer I have ever known. He’d gone on to tell her stories, the first how Iosobal had saved his daughter.
With magic.
Giselle wanted to believe, but despite the Abbess’s frequent exhortations that magic was of evil, Giselle had never really accepted its existence at all.
There was something odd about Iosobal, however. And The MacKeir did not appear to be the kind of man to give in to delusions.
Still … Giselle bent her head to pray. God, please deliver us from this evil. She shivered, remembering the man Piers had turned into the night before.
Eikki was evil. She had no doubt of that now. If Piers had not regained control … She clutched her rosary tighter, her body trembling. She would have been at the harsh mercy of a condemned being, one who had gazed at her from Piers’s face with the kind of hunger that had made her skin turn cold.
Go to Kindlemere, Piers had said. As much as Giselle wanted to flee this madness, she could not leave him. That realization surprised her more than anything.
She gazed up at the window, the blues, yellows, and reds of the glass spilling colored light into the chapel. Have faith, she told herself.
Calm settled into her, and she stopped shaking.
Faith. Have faith.
Piers looked around the east tower chamber, and the import of what he was about to do took hold. Earlier, someone had pulled some stools into the empty chamber, lit a fire, and opened the windows to the cool night air.
Gifford shot him an anxious glance.
“Do not worry, uncle.”
“How can I not worry?” Gifford’s white hair, never smooth, floated around his face like a cloud. “You are placing your life in peril.”
“My life is already in peril.”
The door opened to reveal Cain. Behind him was Father Michael.
“Father Michael,” Piers said slowly. “What do you do here?”
The priest put his hands on Piers’s shoulders. “Your brother told me everything.”
“You must think me mad.”
“Nay. Reckless and brave. Not mad.”
Iosobal stood by the window, her gaze upon the priest. The MacKeir flanked her, his arm around her waist. “Father, I am no sure you should be here,” The MacKeir said, frowning at Cain. “ ‘Tis more than prayer we are about this eve.”
Father Michael nodded. “Aye, so I understand. To my mind, ‘tis all God’s work.”
Giselle stepped forward. “To mine as well, Father.”
“Well,” Piers said, his throat suddenly tight. “Then let us be about it.”
You are a fool, Eikki growled. This woman’s magic is nothing to one such as me.
Go to hell, Piers told him.
Never.
Iosobal set the golden chalice on the floor. Piers made his feet move forward to look. Nestled within, just as when he first saw it, lay the purple crystal.
“Are you ready?” Iosobal asked.
“Aye.” Piers pulled Giselle to him and held her close. He felt her body shaking and she clutched his tunic in both hands. He tilted her chin up and took her lips in a long, lingering kiss that left shadows in her eyes. “Pray for me,” he told her.
She blinked. “Always.”
Iosobal handed him a cup. “Drink.”
He drained the cup.
Giselle put her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry when Piers collapsed to the floor, Cain catching him just in time to lower him gently.
Iosobal rushed forward and knelt beside him. Her vision, Giselle thought. It was exactly like her vision.
Dread cramped her belly, but she couldn’t look away.
“It is taking effect,” Iosobal said calmly.
Piers’s gaze caught Giselle’s and held. His face was pale, his brown eyes fixed on hers. Eyes that abruptly turned black.
“You shall not defeat me,” he snarled.
Somehow, Giselle found courage and held the gaze of the one she knew was Eikki. “We shall,” she said. “Leave my husband alone.”
Though Piers’s breathing was shallow, the being inside him laughed. “Nay. You shall be mine, Giselle. Mine to do with as I please.”
“Dear Lord,” Cain gasped.
Iosobal put her hands on Piers’s chest. A faint, then opaque glow of white spread from her fingertips.
Piers’s body jerked, his eyes shifting back and forth from brown to black.
Around the chalice, purple mist rose, just as Giselle had foreseen it. Cold mist that spread through the chamber.
“Iosobal?” The MacKeir asked.
“Eikki fights me,” she said, her voice shaky.
Father Michael dropped to his knees and began to murmur prayers.
No, Giselle thought as she watched.
As much as the white glow from Iosobal spread, the purple mist swelled to meet it.
Piers’s breathing turned to rough rasps, and his legs twitched.
“Nay!” Iosobal shouted. “Begone!” Her eyes glowed with fierce determination, but Giselle could see the truth in them.
It was not enough.
“Iosobal!” Cain shouted. “Do something!”
“I am trying. Eikki is taking Piers with him, though Piers is fighting him.”
Dear God, no, Giselle prayed. God, aid us. Help him. Tears streamed down her face, her gaze still locked with Piers’s.
“Giselle,” Iosobal said. “Aid me.”
; Giselle looked at her in shock. “Me? But, how? I have no magic.”
“Aye, you do. The greatest magic of all.”
“I do not understand.” She sank onto the floor across from Iosobal.
“ ‘Tis love, Giselle. That is true magic.”
Father Michael caught her gaze and nodded. His words streamed through Giselle’s mind. What do you think is the most important of God’s teachings? ‘Tis love.
“Join with me,” Iosobal urged. “ ‘Tis the only way to save him.”
Love? Giselle stared down at Piers. His eyes cleared to golden brown, burning with determination. “But I don’t …”
“Giselle,” he rasped.
She gazed into his eyes, and then up at Iosobal, who eyed her with a knowing expression. Dear Lord, Iosobal was right. The realization crashed through Giselle like a searing bolt of lightning. Love. Sucking in a long breath, she slowly put her hands atop Iosobal’s and closed her eyes.
Warmth shot up her arms and through her body. Images crashed into her mind’s eye. Piers grinning at her. The fierce, yet tender expression on his face when he loved her. Teaching her how to ride while teasing her. Challenging her beliefs. Standing by her when she discovered the Bishop’s perfidy.
Aye, love, she thought, and felt a surge of pure power unwind in the chamber. She opened her eyes.
Bright, white light lit the room, pulsed with power and magic. Iosobal was chanting something, but Giselle could not hear her over the pounding of her heart. Piers’s eyes were shut, but she could feel the even rhythm of his heartbeat beneath their clasped hands.
“No!” a voice cried. Eikki’s voice. Giselle flinched with the rage of it, but held onto Iosobal.
Light flashed and filled the chamber, blinding Giselle.
“Nooooooooo!” Eikki’s voice howled, fading at the end.
When Giselle could see again, Iosobal lay slumped in her husband’s arms, her face wan with fatigue. Her heart in her throat, Giselle looked down, terrified she would find Piers’s eyes closed in final surrender.
Instead, he grinned and sat up.
