Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” Sebilla asked, immediately unsure why she stooped to voice the question. Or why it mattered.

  “You are my queen.” D’Ary fetched another goblet from a nearby cupboard and poured himself wine from the flagon.

  “That is not an answer.”

  “I do not like most people,” he said, before fixing her with his amber stare. “And I do not know you well enough to like or dislike you.”

  “You blame me for Caradoc’s death. I understand that. I blame myself.”

  “Nay. Caradoc was a man, a warrior. He made his own choices. I blame Vardon, as should you.”

  Sebilla held his gaze, discomfited by words of support coming from such an unlikely source. “Have you found him?”

  “Nay, but he is there. I can feel his presence, but he cloaks it well. And there are many at the castle.”

  “The laird? He is well?”

  “For the moment. As is his bride.”

  “Aimili.”

  D’Ary looked at her in surprise. “Aye, that is her name.”

  “She is different.”

  “That she is. Her fey blood is obvious to me. Possibly to Vardon, as well.”

  Sebilla considered telling him of her vision, but held back. She would see to that matter herself. And she wanted to meet this Aimili MacCoinneach.

  “I have attempted to befriend her.”

  “Why?”

  “I like her. And she needs a friend. The laird …” D’Ary tossed back a drink of wine. “He cannae see what he has.”

  “Could it be Vardon’s doing?”

  “I dinnae think so. The laird is a tough man, but inside he is hiding something. I haven’t yet discovered what it is.”

  “You’ve not felt any threat?”

  “Worried for me, Sebilla?” His gaze warmed.

  “I …” By the saints, she was blushing, she thought with increasing embarrassment. “I did not give you leave to use my given name.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  Sebilla took another drink of wine, hoping to calm her jangling nerves. The men of Paroseea simply did not speak to her this way. Not even Lucan was so familiar. “Of course, I have concern for your welfare. I am your queen.”

  “I thought perhaps ’twas a bit more than that.”

  “You are impertinent.” Heavens, she sounded like a stiff, snobbish noblewoman.

  “I find it makes things more interesting.”

  Scrambling for a way back to safe ground, Sebilla asked, “What do you plan from here?”

  “For now, I am trying to just blend in, learn the clan members. Vardon will do something eventually. I want to be around when he does.” His teasing expression hardened.

  “You are not to battle him alone.”

  He just stared at her.

  “We have not yet discovered a way to return Vardon to his prison,” Sebilla admitted. “But we will.”

  “I dinnae care if the bastard returns to prison. He should pay for Caradoc.”

  “Agreed. If need be, I shall see to Vardon myself.”

  D’Ary cocked a brow. “You?”

  Irritation danced along her nerve endings. “There is a reason I am queen of Paroseea, D’Ary. No one’s power matches mine.”

  “I ken you are a powerful woman, but your powers are more of a peaceful sort.”

  “Not all. Just because I have not had to use the others often, they are still there. I will use everything I have to defeat Vardon.”

  “As will I.”

  “Good.”

  D’Ary tilted his head toward the waning sunlight. “I should be back for supper. ’Tis a good time to observe people.”

  “Be careful, D’Ary.”

  He rose and took her hand, pressing a kiss on her palm before she found the sense to pull away. “I intend to.” Whistling he walked into the palace.

  Sebilla stared after him, then shook her head, sipping wine. What an enigmatic man, she thought. Hard and remote at times, impertinent and flirtatious at others. And far too intriguing to lose to Vardon’s evil.

  On the morrow, she would find a way to deliver the dagger to Aimili MacCoinneach.

  “I am not going to ride you today,” Aimili told Loki as he trotted around the grassy ring.

  Good.

  But tomorrow I will.

  Why bother?

  Because I think you can be a very fine horse. If you cease throwing tantrums.

  Loki snorted and turned to trot the other way. You probably have not noticed, but my balance is not as it should be.

  I noticed. Aimili watched Loki trot and recalled how bouncy he felt. She’d never been able to stay on long enough to figure out why.

  I didn’t used to be this way. I can still sire a good horse.

  What happened?

  Angus Ransolm happened. The man can’t ride, and whenever he fell off balance, which was most of the time, he hauled on my mouth, kicked me, and if he was in a mood, added the whip. As you’ve seen.

  I don’t use a whip. And the only times I’ve hauled on your mouth have been when you are trying your best to throw me off.

  Just give me the mares and leave me alone. ’Tis best.

  Oh, no, you’ll have to earn that. If you’ll trust me, I can help your balance.

  Help me canter without feeling I am going to fall over?

  Yes. You need to find your feet and get them and your hind end under you.

  I don’t know what you are talking about.

  I will show you. Aimili grinned. This was what she was best at, why the horses she trained were so sought after.

  I shall think on it. Loki stopped running and blew out a snort. What progress have you made with your husband?

  None. Nor am I likely to. He avoids me unless he is criticizing me or asking me to be the “lady of the castle.”

  So you are just giving up?

  What else can I do?

  Quit hiding behind your hurt and talk to him. Tell him what you want. Don’t let him avoid you. Stop being so polite. It doesn’t suit you.

  Aimili thought about that. Loki was right. Somehow, between finding Padruig MacCoinneach in her father’s castle and wedding the man, she’d let her pain over Padruig’s treatment strip her of her spirit.

  I believe I shall do just that.

  Chapter Seven

  That night Aimili did not go to bed. Instead, she curled up on the window seat, clad only in her chemise, and cracked open the shutters to let the cool air help her stay awake. She knew Padruig wouldn’t come to the chamber before he thought she would be asleep.

  She glared at the thick fur piled on the floor in front of the fire. The moment she’d entered the chamber and seen that, she knew she could wait no longer to confront him.

  I am not an ugly woman, she told herself. My hair is thick and fine, my eyes big and dark, and the rest of my features, if not beautiful are not unattractive. I may not have breasts like Beatha, but my body is toned, not soft and flabby. I have all of my teeth. I bathe every day, if only from a basin.

  I can embroider even though I usually don’t have the time for it. And I breed and train good horses, very good horses, the kind to bring in coin.

  Well into her litany of attributes, Aimili scarcely heard the door creak open. She snapped her gaze to the doorway and found Padruig in midstep back.

  “I didnae think you would still be awake.”

  “Obviously.” Her expression dared him to back out of the chamber.

  He was carrying a candle and a flagon of wine, which he set on the table. “Is there aught wrong?” he asked as he sat.

  “May I have a cup of wine?”

  “Of course.” He poured and delivered the cup before returning to his seat.

  Aimili took a bracing sip. “Why do you hate me?”

  “What?” He blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  She ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “You avoid me during the day, you barely speak to me at mealtimes, and yo
u sleep on the floor.”

  “Aimili, I—”

  “You criticize me at every turn, and treat me like a wayward child.” By the saints, it felt good to say it out loud. Aimili sipped more wine.

  “I do not hate you.” Padruig rose and paced across the floor.

  “Then, what is it? What is it about me that is so abhorrent to you?”

  When his gaze met hers, Aimili forgot to breathe. For a moment, just an instant in time, his eyes flashed silver heat that seared her blood. Then the moment was gone, his expression once more impassive.

  “I seem to recall you cursing the day you wed with me,” he said.

  Aimili flushed. “Words spoken in anger. I am sorry. One of my many flaws, as you have no doubt noted, is that on occasion I can have a bit of a temper.”

  Was that a quirk of lips she saw?

  “As can I, lass. But the fact remains that we are ill suited. ’Tis more my fault than yours.”

  His words stirred a memory. In one of her father’s early attempts to find her a husband, he’d arranged a visit by a distant cousin and his son, Roger. Roger had been handsome and charming, and for a time Aimili let herself consider the possibility of marriage. Unfortunately, the visit had ended with a seemingly heartfelt proclamation by Roger that he could not marry her. It had nothing to do with her, he’d assured her. It was he who was lacking, who just wasn’t enough man for a woman like her. Horse dung, she’d thought.

  With Roger, she’d simply nodded and let him go. Not this time. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Padruig appeared startled by the question. “Well, we are very different.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything.” He sighed. “I know you are impatient to have your horses here, and I appreciate your taking a hand with the castle. Soon, you will have your horses to occupy your time and all will be well.”

  “Padruig, this is not about my horses. This is about my marriage.”

  “I think it is going fine,” he said.

  She stared at him, vaguely aware that her mouth was hanging open. “Have you no interest in lying with me?” Part of her could not believe she was brave enough to ask, but the other part didn’t care a bit.

  He peered at her as if she’d lost her wits. “We discussed this.”

  “Do you not want sons? Children?” Aimili held her breath waiting for his answer.

  “’Tis not possible.”

  Her eyes widened, and her gaze dropped to his groin. “Did you suffer an injury?” Could that be it? she wondered. Maybe he was unable to perform.

  “Nay! That is not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant that it will not happen because I have enough control not to force myself on you.” His voice was low and harsh.

  “I am your wife.”

  “And, as such, to be treated with honor and respect.”

  “What if I want children?”

  “You do not understand what you are asking. You are little more than a child yourself.”

  Aimili slowly set her cup down, stood, and walked until she stood but a handbreadth away from Padruig. “I am not a child!”

  He flinched as if she’d struck him.

  She cursed the tears spilling down her face.

  “Aimili, I do not mean to cause you pain.”

  “Then stop treating me like a bairn. Sleep in the bed with me tonight.”

  He backed away. “That I cannae do, lass.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  The soft click of the door shutting behind him was his answer.

  Aimili picked up her cup and flung it at the door. Why she was surprised at how badly their conversation went she didn’t know, but she was. Surprised, disappointed, and unaccountably hurt.

  Padruig did not want her. He could scarcely make that fact plainer, even dressed up in talk of “sparing” her. More horse dung.

  Now, he most likely thought her brazen, as well. She shuffled over to the bed and sat, gazing into the fire. I wonder what Loki will make of this, she thought, then crushed a hand to her mouth to keep from letting out a sob.

  If only she could let it go, accept the terms that Padruig offered, be glad that she was wed to a man who let her pursue her passion and demanded little of her. It could be much worse she knew. She was not so isolated growing up that she hadn’t heard stories of much more ill-fated unions. She could have ended up with someone like Angus Ransolm, she thought with a shiver of revulsion.

  She’d been so strong for so long that she herself had almost forgotten a young girl’s dreams. Almost. Still, there was a part of her hidden deep inside that longed for the things people would expect a woman like Morainn to covet. A husband who adored her, who cherished her differences and her strength, but enfolded her gently in the protective cocoon of his own power. Love. The swell of her belly as her child grew, the soft touch of tiny hands, the gurgle of a first smile.

  Her dream seemed so far away now. Images spilled through her mind. The grass green and lush, beneath a clear blue sky. Fragrant flowers in shades of pink and yellow. A man with golden hair and silvery blue eyes reaching for her, laughing as a little girl darted between them, her own mop of flaxen hair shining in the sun.

  Time to put away such dreams, Aimili, she told herself, recalling the cool look in Padruig’s eyes. Time to put them away.

  Padruig nearly ran down to the great hall. By the saints, how had he gotten into this mess? His child bride had just boldly asked him to … He couldn’t get his mind around it, though his body seemed to understand quite well.

  When she’d stood, with the fire behind her, he’d felt as if she’d just leveled him with the blunt edge of a sword. Young she might be, but Aimili’s body was far from childlike.

  Dear Lord, give me strength, he silently prayed as he neared one of the chairs set up in front of the hearth.

  Images bounced around in his head. Full, uptilted breasts just the right size to fill his hands. A narrow waist tapered to hips perfectly flared. Firm thighs leading down to graceful feet.

  “Padruig?”

  He stopped, abruptly aware that he was fisting and unfisting his hands. “Magnus. Do you have any more of that drink from the monks?”

  His friend swept up a flagon from the floor and handed it to Padruig. “Sit, Laird.”

  For a few minutes, Magnus let him sit in silence, letting the warmth of the drink flow down his throat and warm his belly. “The pine marten you took from Grigor’s chamber too hot?” he finally asked, his tone suspiciously innocent.

  Padruig slanted him a look.

  Magnus just smiled.

  “Do you not have a warm bed to find, Magnus?”

  “Ah, I imagine the comely Kenna would welcome me, but I find myself oddly disinclined to visit her tonight.”

  “What of your own quarters?” Padruig knew Magnus had a small stone dwelling near the stables. He’d seen to its construction himself.

  “I have been traveling so long it is sometimes difficult for me to settle back into being in one place.”

  Padruig had a feeling it was more than that, but he didn’t ask. He certainly didn’t want Magnus prying into his personal affairs, dismal as they were, though he doubted he would be spared. “Will you be leaving again?”

  “Nay. One day I may wish to wander, but now that Grigor is gone there is no urgency.” He looked at Padruig. “Asides, I would support you as I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Magnus nodded. “You will have to come to terms with her, you know,” he said softly.

  “Aye, I ken.” Padruig sipped more of the potent drink. “I am no sure how.”

  “Mayhap you should give this husband role a try.”

  “She is—”

  “Not a child, Padruig, though at times she looks like one. She is a woman of age.”

  “Well, I know,” Padruig answered, gritting his teeth. The insistent pressure in his groin told him that. Loudly.


  “The lass is brave, as well. Impressive the way she dispatched Grigor’s whore. And anyone who is willing to ride that devil horse of hers does not lack ballocks.”

  “That beast is a menace.” Padruig shot back another drink.

  “Aye, but I think your lady will tame him.”

  His lady, Padruig thought, unable to suppress a tinge of pride. “Mayhap.”

  “I would wager on it.”

  Padruig stared into the fire. “Magnus, have you ever seen something so pure, so unsullied, that you feel if you touch it you will irrevocably defile it?”

  Magnus was quiet for a time, then said, “Aye.”

  “Then you understand.”

  “Nay. The things I have seen like that are things, objects, places, not living, breathing people.”

  “’Tis the same.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye.”

  Magnus yawned and stretched. “I believe I shall seek out my bed. You may keep the flagon.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Padruig,” Magnus said as he stood and put a hand on Padruig’s shoulder. “Think well upon the life you are creating for yourself. And for Aimili. There may come a day when you cannot change it.”

  “I’ve no wish to,” Padruig said, wincing inside at the baldness of the lie.

  The next morn, Aimili lingered after mass, wanting to be alone in the chapel. Efrika also hung back, obviously waiting for Aimili, but eventually gave up and left. Aimili kept her head bent, waiting for the chapel to empty.

  When the chapel quieted, she let out a breath and gazed up at the ornate, golden cross atop the altar. Thought she didn’t always agree with the priest, she loved the peaceful feeling of being in a chapel, loved the sense of being in a place where someone, even if you couldn’t see him, loved and looked after you.

  “He is a murderer, you know,” a woman’s voice spat.

  Aimili whipped her head to the left. An older woman stood there, her hair a mix of gray and brown, her green eyes alight with something that caused Aimili to scoot back. “Who are you talking about?”

  The woman’s mouth curved into a snarl. “Padruig, of course. Your husband.”

  “Padruig is not a murderer.”

  “What do you know? You have been here less than a fortnight.”