Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  —Love Romances

  A LOST TOUCH OF PARADISE:

  “Fans of Fairy Tales, Historical, and Paranormal Romances will find a new author to add to their shopping lists …

  With a blend of fairy tale, medieval, and highland romance, Amy Tolnitch was able to reach out and grab this reader from the opening scene; a witch burning. Brilliant characterization, stunning descriptive ability and a truly romantic hero; A LOST TOUCH OF PARADISE has it all.”

  —Romance Designs

  A LOST TOUCH OF INNOCENCE:

  “Readers will enjoy this well-written tale.”

  —Jani Brooks, Romance Reviews Today

  “A LOSS TOUCH OF INNOCENCE is a marvelous fairy tale romance that all who want that perfect ending will love. Amy Tolnitch has crafted a lovely story with interesting and believable characters. Her writing flows easily and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride. Although the third book in this series, I was able to read this as a stand-alone story without any difficulty. Of course now I have to add A LOSS TOUCH OF BLISS and A LOSS TOUCH OF PARADISE to my must have book list.”

  —Lori Sears, The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “The sequel to A LOST TOUCH OF BLISS is an entertaining medieval paranormal romance starring an interesting lead male with two intelligences battling to control his body and the innocent woman who completes the demonic triangle. Piers is a fascinating protagonist as he literally battles with an inner demon for control of his body and soul. Although Giselle adapts to life out of the abbey too easily, she risks her soul to help the man she loves win the war against the malevolent Fin Man. Sub-genre fans will enjoy Amy Tolnitch’s latest Veuxfort thriller in which hearts and souls are on the line.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  “A LOST TOUCH OF INNOCENCE is a truly unique tale with lovers with paranormal skills. It is such a tightly woven tale that it is hard to put down. Readers will enjoy the dynamic changes of primary characters and the antics of the secondary characters. This is a must read.”

  —Morgan, Novelspot

  “A LOST TOUCH OF INNOCENCE reads like a dulcet, [an] emotionally intoxicating song dedicated to innocence, redemption, and the endless possibilities when love and destiny are on your side.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “A LOST TOUCH OF INNOCENCE is the best historical book I’ve ever read in a really long time! Amy Tolnitch transports readers into another world and is quickly going to become a must have on readers’ auto-buy lists.”

  —Rosie Bindra, Fresh Fiction

  “A LOST TOUCH OF INNOCENCE has an intriguing and unique plot… This tale of paranormal romance will delight lovers of historical fiction.”

  —Amelia, Joyfully Reviewed

  DEDICATION:

  For Styrling, the best child in the

  universe. I love you more!

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Amy Tolnitch

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN:9781934755518

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  Many thanks to my family and agent for their continued support. My daughter deserves credit for helping me come up with a lot of the ideas in this book, as she has done with the prior books in the Lost Touch series. As always, Mary Lennox’s sage advice keeps me on track. I also owe a thanks to Elizabeth Ader, my relentlessly determined trainer, and Sky, my horse, for teaching me so much about horses and riding. Finally, thanks to the team at Medallion Press for doing such a great job!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prologue

  Most people believe, if they still do at all, that there was only one place like Atlantis. Only one utopian paradise filled with untold wealth, peace, and wonders we can scarcely envision. Rings of sparkling, clear water surrounding a central mountain from which the benevolent ruler governed. Columns of gold flanking grand promenades paved with pure white marble. A place blessed by the gods.

  But they are wrong. There were, and are, other such places. The hidden lands of the Tuatha de Danann. The idyllic beauty of the Druid Otherworld. And realms such as Paroseea.

  Places where life should be perfection.

  However, just as in Atlantis, there are always serpents hidden in the lush beauty of paradise, ones seeking more than their due, seeking power. Paroseea was fortunate enough to stop the betrayer in its midst, and avoid devastation. For centuries, the kingdom of Paroseea has remained well hidden from human eyes, veiled where no one would ever suspect, yet closer than anyone could have imagined.

  Until now.

  Chapter One

  Northumberland, 1213

  Cai’s warning growl came an instant before Padruig MacCoinneach found himself gazing at his sister Brona. The only problem with her sudden appearance was that Brona was dead.

  “Padruig,” she said softly, her gossamer form gaining substance.

  He stared at her, his gut clenched in shock, his heart tight with the beloved sight of her. So, it has come to this, he thought. “Brona, you have good cause to haunt me, I ken, but I would prefer to be left alone.”

  Her pale lips quirked in a familiar smile that brought back the pang of memory. “I’ve not come to haunt you, Padruig.”

  He looked down into his cup, wondering just how much wine he’d drunk this eve.

  “I am no delirium brought on by drink,” she rebuked.

  “I must be going mad at last. Mayhap I should be thankful for it.”

  “Nay.” With a tinkle of laughter, she drifted closer and settled on a stool. “You are not mad.”

  Cai growled again, and crouched down as if to leap upon her.

  “Down, wolf,” Brona said.

  Cai dropped to the floor, but didn’t take his gaze from her.

  “You must return, Padruig. At once.”

  “Return?”

  “To Castle MacCoinneach.”

  He barked out a bitter laugh. “You jest. There is naught for me there. This,” he said, gesturing around his snug home, “is where I belong now.”

  She gazed around his dwelling, taking in the living area where she perched, the tapestry spread upon the floor, the simple trunks and pegs along the wall next to stone steps, the other tapestries hung on stone walls to keep out the chill air. “You have made yourself a comfortable refuge here.”

  “It suits me,” he said, knowing the words for a lie, but also knowing there was no other place for him anymore.

  “Och, Padruig, how can you bear to be so alone?”

  The damn fire must be smoking overmuch, he thought, blinking away a touch of wetn
ess from his eyes. “I have missed you, Brona. As for the rest, I am content here.”

  “I shall always be with you, Padruig,” she said in a low tone that skittered over his skin and lifted the fine hairs on his arms.

  “You, of all people, should well understand why I cannot return.” Sorrow and regret swirled in his mind, ripening into the pain and shame he lived with each day.

  “Nay, you are wrong.” Her eyes suddenly flooded with color, the vivid blue startling in her wispy face. She traced a finger down the scar bisecting his cheek, leaving a strange coolness along his marred skin. “You are like a wounded animal seeking its den, hiding away. ’Tis not the way of the Laird of the MacCoinneachs.”

  “I am not the laird,” he told her, hating the sympathy in her eyes, sympathy he did not deserve.

  “Freya needs you. The clan needs you.”

  He frowned. “You are mistaken.”

  “Nay!” she shouted, rising in a swirl of red and gold. “You are the one who is mistaken. You must return. Grigor is laird, Padruig.”

  “Grigor? What of Alasdair?”

  “Ousted by Grigor and his followers.”

  Grigor as laird? Padruig found that hard to believe. The man had been at best a barely adequate guardsman.

  “’Tis worse than that. Grigor intends to marry Freya to Angus Ransolm. The entire clan suffers under his rule. Your clan, Padruig.”

  “Angus Ransolm?” Padruig felt the blood drain from his face and fisted a hand. “Why in sweet heaven would Grigor marry Freya to such a mon? He is naught but a foul brute.”

  “Aye. But I tell you true.”

  Padruig slammed his cup down and stood. He did not want to face any of this, did not want to face what he had done, did not want to ever face his clan again, but Brona’s expression was unrelenting. “What of Mother?”

  “She is of no aid,” Brona said slowly, her form beginning to melt away.

  “Brona, do not ask this of me. I cannot—”

  “You cannot fail Freya, Padruig,” she said, and disappeared.

  He picked up the cup and hurled it against the wall. Do not fail Freya, she’d said. She didn’t need to add, “As you failed me.” That knowledge was ever with him, ever a cold, heavy weight upon his heart.

  Dear God, how could he allow his sister Freya to be wed to the likes of Angus Ransolm? The lass was no more than fifteen years of age. Angus was at least two score, and each of those years had been spent in selfish depravity. Padruig had been a guest at Ransolm Castle once when his father considered an alliance with the Ransolm clan. As the day drew on, Angus had emptied his cup time and time again. Eventually, he ended up roughly taking a servant girl in full view of everyone in the hall, sending her off with a none too tender slap when he finished. By the reactions of those in the hall, but for Padruig, his father, and their men, such an occurrence was far from uncommon.

  Padruig grimaced, seeing the man’s expression of satisfaction, his casual attitude that using a servant such was no more than his due. When Padruig’s father had inquired about Angus’s wife, the man had dismissively announced that she was dead. Thinking back, Padruig remembered his father muttering that Angus had a habit of losing wives.

  Brona was right, though how she knew was something he did not wish to ponder.

  There was no choice for it. He would have to go home.

  Aimili de Grantham smiled in her sleep, and let out a soft sigh of contentment. Her dream swirled in her mind, the same wondrous dream she’d had time and time again. Striding across the thick, emerald-green grass, he came for her, sunlight gleaming over her very own golden man, his blue eyes tender and fierce all at once. She flung herself into his strong arms, and he laughed, twirling her in the air, before sliding her down his body, his beautiful mouth lowering to hers …

  “Wake up!” a voice intruded, followed by a rough shake of her shoulders.

  She fought the command, twisting away from the hand. Unfortunately, her shift in position put her nose in close proximity to a newly deposited pile of horse dung.

  “Ye cannae sleep in the stable, as if you were no more than a stable hand,” the voice said, which Aimili now recognized as her younger sister, Morainn’s.

  “Morainn, I am exhausted. Leave me be.”

  Morainn sniffed. “I am no surprised, given your morn with that devil horse. But you have a perfectly fine bed.”

  Aimili slowly blinked her eyes open, more than a wee bit disgruntled with her sister for interrupting her sleep, and more importantly, her dream. “I like being close to Mist.”

  Her sister gave a louder sniff. “Who nearly dumped a pile of dung atop your head. By the saints, Aimili, one would think you cared more for this horse than anything or anyone else.”

  The horse in question bent down her velvety, gray head and snuffled Aimili’s hair. Aimili stroked Mist’s soft nose and rose to her feet, choosing to ignore her sister’s unusually perceptive comment.

  “Asides,” Morainn said with a sidelong glance at Aimili, “Father sent me to fetch you.”

  Aimili groaned.

  “Ye cannae think he would not hear of this morn’s deed.” Morainn shook her head and sidled out of the stall. “I cannae understand why you take such risks. No one can ride that beast.”

  “I can,” Aimili protested, pushing away the memory of landing in the dirt more than once earlier that day.

  “Oh?” Morainn lifted one perfectly arched brow. “As you did earlier?”

  Ignore her taunt. Ye shall succeed, a gentle voice murmured in Aimili’s mind. She turned and put her face against Mist’s neck. Aye, I will, she answered silently. When she turned back to her sister, she squared her shoulders. “It will take time to earn Loki’s trust.” She spat in the straw. “Angus Ransolm abused him terribly.”

  Morainn simply shrugged. “Father is waiting.”

  Reluctantly, Aimili gave Mist a last pat and followed her sister across the busy bailey. They had almost reached the entrance to the great hall when she felt a tug on her arm.

  “My lady,” Gunnr, one of the stable lads, said on a rushed breath. “Were you wanting us to leave Loki out in the pen? He’s runnin’ awful fierce.”

  She smiled down at the boy. “Let him run. I shall return anon to bring him back in.”

  Gunnr’s thin face drew into a frown. “Are you sure, my lady? I can bring the beast in.”

  “I shall do it. He must become accustomed to me. Asides,” she said, ruffling Gunnr’s mop of red hair, “he needs to run.” She turned away and walked into the great hall, suppressing another groan to find not only her father awaiting her, but also her eldest brother, Wautier, who gave her a smug look.

  “Aimili!” her father’s voice boomed across the cavernous hall. Servants scurried about, setting up tables for the midday meal. Well used to hearing the Laird of the de Grantham clan chastising his daughter, they went about their duties, though one of the younger maids gave Aimili a quick glance of compassion.

  “Greetings, Father,” she said.

  He frowned and leaned over to pluck a long piece of straw from her hair. “Lass, what were you thinking?”

  Wautier snickered behind her father.

  Aimili gratefully accepted a cup of wine from a passing servant and took a sip. She gazed around the great hall, looking over the smoke-blackened timbers, the wall hangings depicting one battle after another, and the impressive array of blades on the wall behind the dais. Above the weapons, a wide banner hung, embroidered with the motto of Clan de Grantham. “Dare all,” she read aloud, fastening her stare on her father, whose frown deepened.

  “’Tis a war cry for the men of the clan, no an instruction to a young lass.” Her father shook his head, his shaggy, dark hair swinging back and forth. “What am I to do with you? How will I ever find a mon willing to wed such a reckless lass?”

  As her father launched into his familiar discourse cataloging Aimili’s unacceptable behaviors, in sharp contrast to perfect Morainn, Aimili stopped listening, instead
taking her mind back to the dream.

  And to the man who begat it.

  Padruig MacCoinneach, once Laird of the Mac-Coinneach clan, now but another story carved from the harsh mountains of the Highlands, floating in the mist over the lochs. Almost too comely to be a flesh-and-blood man. Kind and gentle to a young girl whose careless stubbornness led her to injury. All the things that she’d never found in any other man.

  “Lass, are you heeding me?” her father barked, breaking into her yearning thoughts.

  “As always, father,” she said, giving him a wide-eyed look.

  He snorted, but then smiled. “Go on with ye now. I’ll expect you at dinner.”

  Grateful that today’s lecture was over, Aimili hastened away toward the rear of the hall.

  “And be careful with that animal!” her father called after her.

  How I hate this ugly bastard, Freya MacCoinneach thought, glaring at her thankfully several times removed cousin, Grigor. She stood in the laird’s solar, the fading sunlight cloaking the chamber in ribbons of gold. A sliver of sun caught the gleam of Grigor’s ring. The ring of the laird.

  She fisted her hand in the skirts of her woolen bliaut. Grigor didn’t even look like a laird, she thought in disgust. His thin, angular face matched his lean form, his small eyes a colorless gray. “Nay,” she said, proud beyond measure that her voice did not shake.

  Grigor glared back at her and casually took a sip of wine. “Aye. I have spoken with Angus and it is decided.” He gave her a sly smile. “He is most anxious to gain a young bride, particularly one of your undeniable beauty.”