Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  Padruig glanced at Aimili, who now stood next to him. “What does this mean?” she whispered.”

  “I have no idea,” he answered, his voice just as low.

  “You betray your father with your abuse of power just as you betray Paroseea, Sebilla stated, her voice rich with condemnation.”

  “I betray him? He did nothing for me, nothing for my mother. Never acknowledged me in any way.”

  “That is not an excuse to turn to darkness.”

  Vardon gave a bitter laugh filled with so much pain and loathing that Padruig again exchanged a glance of concern with Aimili. “By the gods, how righteous you sound. An easy thing to do when you have had everything handed to you. When the people have always worshiped and adored you.”

  “There is great responsibility attached to such treatment.”

  “Oh? Well, naturally I would not know. Niece,” he snarled. “For I had nothing I did not seize for myself, an outcast from my birth. Even when I began to display powers, I was treated with disdain, an unnatural freak of Paroseea’s perfectly ordered hierarchy.”

  “Niece?” Padruig and Aimili asked together.

  “You were evil!” Sebilla shouted. “From your birth you revealed the evil in your soul. That is why your father pretended you did not exist. Everyone knew if you developed any powers you would use them for personal gain without regard for anyone or anything.”

  She stood in front of Vardon. “Surrender to me.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Sebilla again raised her hands to the side. A nimbus of glowing, multicolored mist swirled about her body. “I commend you to live in darkness, just as you were born of darkness.”

  Vardon roared in fury and swung his sword, but it glanced off the circle surrounding Sebilla.

  “As Queen of Paroseea, I denounce you.”

  “No!” Vardon shouted. “Not this time.” From the tip of his sword spewed a black cloud that grew and enveloped Sebilla. She crumpled to the ground with a high scream.

  “Bastard,” Padruig swore and rushed him. His sword arced through the air, striking Vardon’s sword so hard it went flying, landing at the base of a wall.

  Vardon simply smiled and held out a hand. Padruig went crashing aside as if he were as light as air. He tried to rise, but an invisible force held him down.

  Across the chamber, Aimili heard Sebilla continuing to chant though her voice was weak. Her pain-filled gaze caught Aimili’s. “Daughter of my blood,” she said. “Finish this.”

  Aimili gripped the dagger in both hands. When she turned back to Vardon, he was standing over Padruig, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. Though Padruig was clearly fighting to get free, he was no match for Vardon’s power. Sweat poured down Padruig’s face, and his mouth twisted in agony.

  “No!” she shouted. The dagger thrummed in her hands, spreading a tingling feeling through her body. “Move away from him,” Aimili ordered, striving to keep her voice even.

  “Or what?” Vardon didn’t even look at her. “Ye cannot best me.”

  “Oh, yes, I can,” she swore. In her hands the dagger shimmered and glowed, widening and lengthening until it became a blinding sword.

  Vardon turned, his eyes blazing hate. “You can watch your beloved husband die first.”

  No, she thought, rushing forward. As she neared Vardon, Aimili realized all around her shimmered silver. A hum of sheer power crackled through her veins.

  She swung the sword with all her strength. For an instant, Vardon’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  The blade sliced through his neck almost effortlessly.

  Vardon’s head thumped to the floor, followed by his body.

  Drawing in a breath, Aimili stared at Padruig. Between them, blood spread over the stone.

  D’Ary burst into the chamber, utter panic etched into his features. “Sebilla!” he shouted.

  Padruig stood alone on the battlements, looking out over the empty expanse of MacCoinneach land.

  It had been three days since the battle against Vardon.

  Three days since his wife had transformed into a powerful sorceress who had chopped off Vardon’s head with a magical dagger-turned-sword.

  Three days since he’d lain on the ground trapped by Vardon’s magic, completely dependent on Aimili to save them all.

  Three days since the castle had begun to awaken, as if emerging from a deep, dark sleep.

  Three days since Aimili had followed D’Ary and a wounded Sebilla to Paroseea.

  She was not coming back.

  He knew it in his heart. He couldn’t even pretend surprise, let alone put any blame on her.

  To questions, he just shrugged and told people Aimili was away for a time. Eventually when it became apparent to everyone that she was not simply off visiting someone, he would have to bring a few into his confidence, come up with a believable story to explain to the clan why their lady was gone. An illness perhaps, one that forced her to live in a warmer clime?

  Aye, that would be best. Just let her go. Let her be happy

  Aimili sat on the soft pink sand, gazing out over the water. Bright sunlight turned the surface into a glittering blue. Far out in the sea, a pod of dolphins splashed and played, and a tiny white bird hopped along the sand just above the waterline. Some kind of sweet flower scented the air.

  It was hard to imagine that such a place of beauty could spawn the likes of Vardon. She shivered despite the warmth of the day. Many times, she had gone over the fight in her mind, and she still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened or how. When she closed her eyes, she could clearly see her sword, now a dagger again, slice through Vardon’s neck, the surprise in his eyes.

  Horrific as it was, she felt no regret. Vardon would have happily killed them all, had come perilously close with Sebilla. She was still weak, though Aimili suspected part of the reason for here slowly recovery was that D’Ary had not left her side, plying her with food and drink, even telling her stories to alleviate her boredom.

  Idly, she drew patterns in the sand with her fingertips. She’d been afforded a hero’s reception here in Paroseea. She’d lost count of the number of people who’d thanked her, the ones who pointed at her, telling others, “She is the one who saved us.”

  Sebilla had expressed her gratitude by gifting Aimili with her stone cottage by the sea. She’d offered Aimili far grander homes, but Aimili knew what she wanted and it was perfect.

  All in all it was very tempting to stay.

  “Lady Aimili?” a child’s voice asked.

  Aimili turned her head to find Sinana standing a few feet away. She held a pale blue silk pouch in one of her small hands. “Sinana.” Aimili smiled. “How do you fare?”

  “Well, my lady.” She sat on the sand next to Aimili, tucking her legs beneath her. “What are you doing?”

  “Not a thing except looking at this beautiful sea.”

  “Do you not have a sea out there?”

  “Out where?”

  “Where you are from. Scot Land.”

  “Ah. Yes, we do have seas and many lochs in Scotland. None look like this, though.”

  “What is it like, your home?”

  For a moment, Aimili didn’t speak, struck by the thought that she was no longer sure where “home” was. “Scotland is much cooler than here and very green. It is quite beautiful in its own way.”

  Sinana bit her lip and gazed up at Aimili. “Were you very afraid?”

  “Of Vardon, you mean?”

  The child nodded.

  “Aye, I was, indeed. He was a bad man, and very powerful.”

  “But you slew him,” Sinana said proudly.

  “I … I had to. It was much more than anything I had ever done before, even imagined I could do.”

  “You did it to save your husband.”

  The image of Padruig down on the stone floor flowed through Aimili’s mind, anger and frustration burning in his gaze. How he must have hated being rendered helpless, she thought. How he must resent me.

&nb
sp; “You must love him very much.” Sinana sighed.

  Aimili’s throat burned. “I have always loved him.”

  “Here,” Sinana said, handing her the silk pouch. “I brought you something.”

  Touched, Aimili gave the girl a hug. “You did not need to give me anything.”

  “I want you to have it.”

  Aimili poured the contents of the pouch into her palm. It was a pendant, Paroseea’s symbol worked in silver with pale blue stones for the dolphin’s eyes. “This is lovely, Sinana.”

  “My parents made it.”

  “Oh.” Aimili squeezed her hand. “I do appreciate the gift, but surely you wish to keep it.”

  “No. It is in thanks for your bravery.”

  “Well, then, I accept your gift.”

  “It shall remind you of Paroseea.”

  “I need no reminders, but thank you.”

  “Do you think you shall stay in Paroseea sometimes?”

  “I am not sure what I am going to do. I now have a wonderful cottage, thanks to Queen Sebilla.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “I, no, I do not.” The lump in Aimili’s throat grew.

  Sinana stared at her unblinking, and Aimili understood. She put her arm around Sinana’s thin shoulders and pulled her close. “I am no sure what I am going to do in my life right now. I love Paroseea, but my home has always been the Highlands, which I love, as well.”

  “What of your husband?”

  Aimili stared out over the sea, trying to find the words to explain the complicated story of Padruig MacCoinneach to a child. In the end, she just shrugged. “He does not share my feelings.”

  “He does not love you?”

  “Nay. He does not.”

  “Then perhaps you should stay here. With me.”

  “Perhaps I shall.”

  Padruig was in his solar working his way through yet another ewer of wine when the invasion occurred.

  The leader, not surprisingly, was Gifford. What was somewhat surprising was that he had apparently enlisted quite the group to join him. Efrika, Alasdair, Freya, and even Magnus filed in behind Gifford.

  They each gazed at Padruig as if he’d completely lost his wits.

  “I am busy,” he said.

  “You are a stubborn, prideful fool,” Gifford said with a snort.

  Nods of agreement followed his pronouncement.

  “I suppose Gifford told you all everything?”

  Efrika bustled forward and slapped a hand on his worktable. “Aye, thankfully he did. I cannot imagine what you were thinking to keep such a secret from us.”

  “He was thinking that he and only he had the ability to fix the problem,” Alasdair commented. He crossed his arms and gave Padruig a stern look that reminded him of his father.

  “’Tis my responsibility.”

  “By the saints, you are near as mule-headed as Cain,” Gifford said, rolling his eyes. “No, mayhap more. Brona, are you about? We could use aid.”

  “Gifford, ye cannae just call a ghost,” Padruig told him, taking another slug of wine and wishing they would all just go away and leave him to his misery.

  “Actually, he can,” Brona said, her form slowly taking shape next to Gifford.

  Freya squeaked and fainted. Luckily, Magnus was close enough to catch her with his good arm. He gently lowered her to the floor.

  Efrika and Alasdair just stared at Brona’s ghost openmouthed.

  “Padruig, go to her,” Brona said.

  “And say what?”

  “The truth,” Gifford said, scowling at him

  “I do not—”

  “Oh, for heavens sake,” Efrika interrupted. “Ye cannae be that thickheaded. ’Tis obvious that you love the girl. Tell her! ’Tis no such a painful thing to say.”

  Alasdair put his arm around her and smiled.

  “I …” Padruig tried to deny it, but the words just wouldn’t come.

  “Ye know now that you were not responsible for my death,” Brona reminded him. “’Twas Vardon who did everything. Once the MacVegan woman explains the truth to her clan, you can come to a peace. You are free,” she finished in a soft voice.

  “I fear ’tis too late,” Padruig said, trying but utterly failing to quash the surge of pain the thought evoked.

  Brona smiled and shook her head. “’Tis never too late, Padruig. Not for love.”

  Gifford beamed a smile at her. “Well said, my lady.”

  Padruig stood, more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. “I shall try, but Paroseea holds a powerful pull for her.”

  “Nothing is more powerful than love.”

  He stared at Brona, a spark of hope taking hold in his heart. Could they be right? Could it be that he’d not squandered his chances with Aimili, hadn’t managed to kill off any feeling’s she’d once had for him?

  You have never been a man to run from a challenge, he told himself. When you are facing the greatest one of your life, it is not the time to start.

  He strode from the room.

  Aimili was watching some of the children ride when Sinana tugged on her tunic. “Who is that?” she whispered.

  Before Aimili looked, she knew it was Padruig. She drew in a deep breath and slowly turned. He strode across the thick, green grass, the afternoon sunlight turning his hair to gold. His gaze found hers, tender and determined all at once. It was so like her dreams, her heart turned over.

  “Is that the laird?” Sinana asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Oh.” She slid behind Aimili. “He looks very fierce.”

  “He can be.” She wrapped the pieces of her heart in a protective mantle, taking strength from the other children flanking her.

  He stopped just short of them. “Come home.”

  Aimili clenched her jaw. “That is it? The great laird arrives and delivers a command?”

  “Please.” He edged closer, and Aimili pressed as far as she could against the rail with Sinana stuck behind her.

  “Why?”

  Astounded, she watched a myriad of emotions cross his face. Pain. Sorrow. Regret. And doubt. “You are my wife,” he said.

  A broken piece of her heart escaped her protection and shattered into dust. “Sebilla gave me a lovely cottage here. I am thinking to stay.”

  “You belong at Castle MacCoinneach.”

  “Do I? I am no sure anymore.” Sadness swamped her so strongly that she could barely breathe. How pathetic she was to expect more of him.

  “Aimili, I ken I have made a mess of things. I did not expect”—he paused and gestured around them—“any of this. I did not expect you.”

  “You have made that abundantly clear.”

  “You do not understand.”

  “Aye, I think I do. Finally.”

  Aimili heard a big sigh from behind her. She felt movement and Sinana stuck her head out. “Tell her you love her, ye great simpkin!” the child shouted.

  For a moment, Padruig looked as if he’d been struck by the blunt edge of a sword. He looked at Aimili, then Sinana, then back again. “I do love you,” he said.

  Aimili was sure she’d misheard. “Padruig, you need not—”

  “Damn it, I love you! I did not want to. By the saints, I have fought it as hard as I could. You are beauty and innocence. Look at me, Aimili. I am a hulking, scarred man who failed his clan.”

  Aimili started to smile. “But now you know ’twas not your fault.”

  He scowled. “Aye.”

  “’Tis hard to let go of being a martyr, I suppose.”

  He took her arms in a gentle hold. His gaze turned soft, his mouth curving in a sheepish smile. “I am willing to try if you will give me another chance.”

  “I used to dream of you, you know,” she said haltingly. “You were the man I wanted.”

  “I dinnae know. I wish I would have. Or mayhap not.” He sighed. “In truth I am not the same Padruig you met as a child.”

  “Nay. I have come to realize that.”

  “I
do love you, though. I want you to share my life. Be my partner.”

  Aimili’s smile widened, and her heart swelled.

  “And this I vow,” he said, dropping to his knees and taking her hands. “From this day forward, I shall devote my every waking moment to being the man of your dreams.”

  “Och, well, that is all a woman can ask.”

  Padruig stood and lifted her high, laughing and swinging her in his arms.

  The children started cheering.

  For the first time in his life, Lugh MacKeir, Laird of Tunvegan, finds himself in a battle he cannot win. His precious daughter is dying of the same illness that claimed his wife.

  The Isle of Parraba is a whispered legend, a place rumored to be ruled by a sorceress, an isle no one can reach. Yet, legend speaks of a powerful healer as well. Lugh MacKeir, desperate, determines to find Parraba and face its mysterious ruler.

  Iosobal is the Lady of Parraba, mystical and magical, a woman apart from the world around her. Drawn to something familiar in Lugh’s child, however, she reluctantly agrees to help her in exchange for Lugh clearing the blocked entrance to a very special cave.

  But the child’s illness defies Iosobal’s skill, and Lugh’s task proves more of a challenge than he anticipated. In the end, the secret to saving Lugh’s daughter lies in Iosobal’s ability to open her heart to a brash warrior who has invaded her tranquil sanctuary. She must find the courage to end her isolation, and the wise innocence of a child must lead them all to …

  A LOST TOUCH OF PARADISE.

  ISBN# 9781932815665

  Jewel Imprint: Amethyst

  Available Now

  www.amytolnitch.com

  I am a part of you now.

  The words haunt Piers Veuxfort, and he has only his own recklessness to blame. By touching a magic crystal, he freed the essence of a decidedly wicked Fin Man, who now resides within Piers. If that isn’t bad enough, a surprise for Piers arrives at Falcon’s Craig Castle. A bride. A bride, moreover, who was raised to be a nun, and views him as something just short of the devil. What can he do but send her back?