Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  By the saints, he realized with horror, he was so jealous he could scarcely stand it. It wasn’t just the contact, but the way they spoke so easily, the smiles they exchanged. Every conversation he had with Aimili seemed to end in discord.

  And whose fault is that? his inner voice taunted.

  He knew he should be gentler with the lass, but each time he tried he found himself unable to do it. It was as if he stood atop a sharply sloped fell, fearful that if he took the first step, that step would become another and another. Eventually, he would be unable to stop himself from doing the one thing he’d vowed not to—taking his child-wife’s innocence.

  Unless she had already given it to the pretty new stable hand.

  Padruig forced himself to unlock his jaw and take a deep breath. Do not act the jealous fool, he chided himself. D’Ary is helping her with the horses, naught more.

  Still, he lingered, watching to see Aimili reappear. When she did, he ducked behind the stable, feeling even more foolish but not wishing her to know he spied on her. She ambled across the bailey, and disappeared into the smithy’s.

  Cease skulking about like a half-wit, Padruig told himself. You’ve no time for such nonsense. He headed for the training field.

  Magnus finally found Alasdair deep in conversation with a young man surrounded by grazing sheep. “Good, then,” Alasdair said. “I shall discuss matters with Cook myself.” He turned and spotted Magnus.

  “I had forgotten how much work this is,” Alasdair said as he approached.

  “Particularly when there is not enough coin.”

  “True.” They began walking back toward the castle walls. “What brings you out here on such a fine day?”

  “’Tis the kind of day that bids me set out for warmer climes.” A misty drizzle dampened everything, the sky was slate-gray, and the breeze carried the bite of fall with it.

  “’Twill just make you soft.”

  “Alasdair, I have been thinking about the day Brona died.”

  Alasdair crossed himself. “A dark day for all of us.”

  “Padruig blames himself, but I am no convinced ’tis that simple.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “It haunts him, Alasdair. I fear he will never be free of it unless we discover the truth.”

  “Many who were there that day died.”

  “Aye, but there are those who remain. I spoke with Culloch. Though he is old, he still remembers the day well.”

  “We all do.”

  “Aye, but he remembers something that strikes me as odd. Did you know that it was Brona’s own maid who told Padruig Brona had gone off with Malcolm? And where they had gone.”

  “Brona’s maid?”

  “Aye.”

  “I assumed it was one of the guardsmen who saw them leave.”

  “As did I. I find it strange that Brona’s maid would go against her mistress’s wishes. Surely she knew that Brona wanted to be with Malcolm.”

  “Their feelings for each other were no secret.” Alasdair furrowed his brow. “Where is the lass now?”

  “Dead. Her body was found by the loch the day after we fought the MacVegans.”

  “Probably killed by one of them.”

  “It seemed so at the time, but now I am not sure. ’Tis too convenient.”

  Alasdair halted. “What are you saying?”

  “I am wondering if all of it was just too opportune. Padruig arrived just in time to find Symund standing with a bloody dagger next to Brona’s body. Within moments, the MacVegans descended upon us, armed for battle.”

  “You think someone set it up? But who? And why?”

  “I dinnae ken. Brona had no enemies, and Malcolm was well liked by the clan.”

  “Mayhap it was aimed at the laird.”

  “Grigor—”

  Alasdair snorted. “Lacked the wit to concoct such a scheme.”

  “The maid’s sister still lives in the village. I thought to talk with her.”

  “Let me know what you find out. If someone intentionally tried to either have Padruig killed or driven from Castle MacCoinneach, they will no be happy at his return.”

  The same thought had occurred to Magnus. “Nay. They will try again.” He frowned. “’Tis a shame that Brona has not shared the truth with Padruig.”

  “From the grave?” Alasdair laughed.

  “Padruig told me that she has appeared to him many times.”

  Alasdair’s smile abruptly disappeared. “Truly?”

  Magnus shrugged. “I have not seen her, but Padruig is definite on the matter. ’Tis why he returned.”

  “Ah.” Alasdair shook his head. “Ghosts. Still, it makes sense. I wondered what brought him back.”

  “Mayhap she does not know who was responsible.”

  “Or maybe it is as we believed at the time.”

  “I hope not. Padruig is a fine mon, but he has long stood alone. He continues to do so even though he has a comely young wife.”

  “To whom he pays little attention.”

  “Aye.” Magnus sighed. “All the more reason for us to find out the truth of that day.”

  After working with Loki, and making sure the stable was ready for her other horses, Aimili felt as if her throat was filled with dust and grit. She paused on her way across the bailey and looked toward the gatehouse. Though the portcullis was up, guards patrolled the upper battlements, guards who would no doubt notify Padruig if she dared to venture out alone.

  A part of her understood Padruig’s concern, but she had spent too many years of freedom not to bristle at such restrictions.

  Reluctantly, she returned to her chamber, and splashed water on her face. Someone had carefully folded the length of pine marten Padruig used as his covering and placed it on the bottom of the bed. Aimili smoothed a hand over the thick fur. The maid probably thought Aimili and Padruig had sat before the fire upon the fur.

  Aimili snorted, recalling the shock in Padruig’s gaze at the idea of sharing her bed. She walked over to the window and swung open the shutters. The window opening looked down upon Loch Moradeea. The surface looked cool and blue, with a slight mist dancing across the water.

  Come, a voice whispered.

  Aimili glanced back into the chamber, but saw no one.

  Come, the voice said again. Aimili could not tell if it was male or female, but the soft tone held clear command. She peered down at the loch, and saw the water ripple as if something stirred beneath its depths.

  Aimili let out a breath and shook her head. You are being fanciful, she told herself, but even as she had the thought, she was moving toward the door. Hot, by the saints, she was hot. A swim in the cool waters of the loch would feel good. She scooped up an extra set of garments and a length of linen and crept out the door.

  She hesitated at the top of the steps. How was she to escape the castle walls without a guard noticing? Disguise herself? As who? And how?

  The image of a small, wooden door sprang into her mind. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the image, willing it to become clear. Of course, she thought. The postern door.

  Watching carefully for patrolling guards, she made her way across the bailey, somehow managing to act as if she were simply strolling about the castle. No one paid her any particular heed, just kept attending to their duties. She smiled when she saw the pile of filthy rushes outside the great hall. At least nothing would crunch beneath her slippers tonight as she walked to supper, she thought.

  Within a few moments, she slid through the postern, leaving the door slightly ajar to allow her reentry. The door opened onto a steep, rocky slope that led down to the loch. Aimili quickly scampered down the hill where it flattened out next to the water.

  She gazed out over the loch, and breathed in the fresh air, heavily laden with the verdant scent of grass, moss, and the plants surrounding the loch. It was a beautiful spot, lush and green, with the water a platter of deep blue. A flock of colorful kingfishers made cheerful squawks as they skimmed the water looking for fish. After
stripping down to an undershirt and braies, she ran and jumped in, unable to stifle a yelp as the coolness wrapped around her skin.

  She swam a ways from the shore and floated on her back, looking up at the clouds overhead, stretching her arms out to the side. Water lapped against her cheeks, and quiet enveloped her. She closed her eyes and let her body drift for a bit, soaking up the sensation of being cocooned. The water was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and it soothed her. If only she could stay this way forever, floating on a soft pillow, the demands and noises of the world far away.

  When she opened her eyes, she blinked in surprise. The mist had thickened into a dense fog that surrounded her in drifting white. It was so thick that she could no longer see the shore. Shoving a twinge of panic aside, Aimili began swimming in the direction she hoped the shore lay, when the mist retreated, exposing a glimmering, pale blue circle of water in front of her.

  Before she could finish a prayer for salvation, Aimili watched as a woman emerged from the depths. The woman floated motionlessly in the water, her long silver hair spread out around her, her deep blue eyes fixed on Aimili. Into the air blew the faint scent of some flower Aimili didn’t recognize.

  The woman wore a white robe embroidered with a strange turquoise pattern, and her skin was pale gold. She was absolutely the most beautiful woman Aimili had ever seen.

  Aimili’s mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to ask, “Who are you?”

  The woman smiled. “I am Sebilla, Aimili MacCoinneach, bride to the Laird of the MacCoinneachs.”

  “Where did you come from?” Aimili glanced around, looking for a boat, but could see nothing beyond the fog.

  For a moment, the woman studied her and Aimili had the clear sense she was deciding whether or not to trust Aimili. “I am of Paroseea,” the woman said.

  “What? I have never heard of such a place.”

  Sebilla laughed, a soft tinkling sound. “No, you would not have.”

  “You talk in riddles, my lady.”

  “Have the animals always spoken to you?”

  Shock rolled through Aimili. How did this woman know her secret?

  “I know, just as I know you are special,” Sebilla said.

  “Special.” Aimili twisted her lips. “Odd.”

  “Perhaps in some eyes. Not in mine.”

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” Aimili nervously eyed the fog. Was it even thicker than before?

  “As I said, my name is Sebilla. I am … Queen of Paroseea.”

  She is mad, Aimili thought. There is no kingdom called Paroseea.

  “Oh, there is, indeed.”

  Aimili frowned. “Stop reading my mind. ’Tis rude.”

  Sebilla’s mouth quirked. “My apologies. Paroseea is my home.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The way is hidden. It is at the same time far away and very close.”

  “More riddles.” Aimili shivered.

  “I have seen you in my visions.” Sebilla floated closer until tendrils of her silvery hair touched Aimili’s arms. Wherever the hair touched her, warmth followed. “You are destined to aid us.”

  “I … I do not understand.”

  “Nor do I. Not fully. Yet.” Sebilla drew a short scabbard from the folds of her robe and lifted it to Aimili. “This is for you.”

  Aimili stared down at the elaborately engraved silver scabbard, and foreboding cascaded down her spine. “I don’t—”

  “Take it. And guard it well.”

  Slowly, Aimili reached out and plucked the blade from Sebilla’s hands. Warmth washed through her, spilling down her body and into her cold toes.

  “’Tis a powerful weapon, Aimili.”

  “Why …” Aimili swallowed and tried again. “Why do you give such a prize to me?”

  “’Tis fate.” Sebilla put both her hands on Aimili’s shoulders. “There is danger at Castle MacCoinneach. You must take great care. But you know that,” she finished with a knowing smile.

  “Danger from whom?”

  “I do not know his name.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “When it is time, you shall help us defeat him. ’Tis your destiny.”

  Aimili blinked and found herself back on the shore, sitting on the grass and holding the silver dagger in its scabbard. If not for the dagger, she would have thought it all a dream, but the metal was very warm and real in her hands.

  Water dripped from her lank hair, added to by the onset of a light rain. Though Aimili wasn’t cold, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking, turning the odd dagger over and over in her hands.

  Who was that woman? Queen Sebilla, she’d called herself, as if that explained everything. And Paroseea, what kind of land was that? Why did it sound so much like the name of the loch spread before her?

  Danger, Sebilla had said. Now, that Aimili believed. She gazed around her through the falling rain. A cool breeze fanned her cheeks, and she could still smell a faint floral scent in the air.

  There was something beyond her ken here, she thought. Far beyond. Still trembling, she gathered up her bundle, carefully shielding the dagger.

  Her throat tightened as she climbed the slope. How she wished she could confide in Padruig, but she had no doubt he’d deem her mad. He’d already suspected something when he’d come upon her in the woods. No, she could not confide in him. Asides, what would she say? I snuck out of the castle for a swim and met a woman who simply emerged from the depths of the loch? He would probably bar her in their chamber for “her own protection.”

  No, she had no ally here. Her thoughts drifted to D’Ary. There was something different about him, too. She hadn’t imagined that tingly feeling at his touch. As she slipped through the postern, she wondered if he knew Queen Sebilla, then derided herself for her stupidity.

  With a sigh of relief, she saw that no one was close to the door, and sprinted for her chamber.

  Vardon stared across the training field at the laird and fought the urge to sneer his contempt. Padruig fought well for a simple mortal, but from the other men’s worshipful looks and comments, one would think they had battled a god.

  At the moment, Padruig was laughing at something a young, moonfaced guard said, standing with his sword in one hand and a cup of ale in the other. His very stance shouted arrogance and command.

  “Laird,” Vardon called out. “I could use a bit of practice. Would you indulge me?”

  Padruig turned to him with a grin. “Of course.”

  Vardon forced himself to return the smile, though inside hate bloomed for the descendant of the man who’d helped crush him.

  Padruig didn’t wait, but attacked at once, clearly intending to put Vardon on the defensive. Vardon easily blocked his blow and advanced. His blade landed against Padruig’s shield with a loud thwack.

  “Well done,” Padruig said, dodging to the left and coming at Vardon again.

  As if you are worthy to judge my abilities, Vardon scorned silently. He jumped toward Padruig and swung his sword once more.

  Back and forth across the field they went, trading blows. Soon, sweat ran into both Vardon’s eyes and Padruig’s, yet despite previously battling four other men, Padruig displayed no fatigue, his expression totally absorbed in the fight. In spite of his hatred for the man, Vardon found himself reluctantly impressed.

  Stubborn bastard, he thought as he evaded another of Padruig’s blows. As Vardon twisted around, he saw an opening. Padruig had left his right side entirely exposed.

  Time stopped. One thrust, he screamed to himself. One and the whoreson is dead! He raised his sword, his lust for revenge overtaking him.

  And met Aimili’s gaze.

  The sight halted him in his tracks, and he put down his sword. She stared at him as if she knew him, knew exactly what had gone through his mind, but no, that was impossible. She was naught more than an innocent young girl.

  There was a strange aura about her, though, almost as if she … No. Vardon discarded the thought tha
t the girl could be more than she appeared. He forced an open smile to his face, and nodded to her.

  “You fight well,” Padruig said as he swiped sweat from his brow.

  “Thank you, my laird. ’Tis good practice for me to go up against one as skilled as yourself.”

  “Hmph. Methinks you belittle your abilities.”

  You have no idea, Vardon wanted to tell him, but held his tongue and pasted a mild expression on his face. “I see that your lady has come to watch.”

  Padruig’s head snapped around so fast that Vardon’s eyes widened. So, the laird was not so indifferent to the lass as everyone said. No, he thought as he studied Padruig. Not in the least. He put the information away for further consideration, pleased that he’d not given in to the temptation to “accidentally” slay the laird.

  He watched Padruig walk over to Aimili, watched the stiff way Padruig held his body, his slow steps. Oh, yes, there was more to be done here before he finished off Padruig MacCoinneach.

  Much more.

  “Aimili,” Padruig said. “Do you need something?”

  “I thought to maintain my skills with a blade.” Nothing in her eyes or her tone suggested that she mocked him, but Padruig knew it all the same. She wore her usual attire, a green tunic and braies, with sturdy-looking brown boots. Her hair was plaited in one long braid down her back, and she wore a belted scabbard around her waist. In one hand, she held a battered, triangular-shaped shield.

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. As you so … forcefully reminded me, now that we are wed, I could be a target for your enemies. I must be able to protect myself.”

  If a lass could appear more guileless, Padruig had never seen it. Nor did he believe it for a moment. Not in this case. “That is why you are not to go outside the castle walls without a guard. Or two. Or more.”

  Aimili sighed. “Surely you agree that ’twould be a good idea for me to be able to defend myself, as well.” She fixed him with a wide-eyed look. “What if my guard is overcome?”

  “You are an excellent rider. I’ve no doubt you can outrun any pursuer.”