The Touch 0f Her Hand (Highlander Heroes Book 1) Page 10

  She woke almost immediately, her initial reaction confusion, stiffening in his arms, until she heard his voice against her lips. "Just one taste, Tess." And he covered her mouth completely, hoping to swallow any dispute. There was none. Whether this was due to her sleep-shrouded mind or her liking of the kiss, Conall did not know. She relaxed against him. He forced her mouth open with his own by means of gentle persuasion, aware that her hand now touched his bare shoulder. His tongue sought hers, played against it. Conall shifted on the bed, bringing his head fully over hers, stretching a hand out upon her stomach, where it made a slow journey upward until it settled on her breast. She stilled but did not protest. Conall cupped his hand entirely over her breast, wishing for much less clothing, turning the budding peak between thumb and forefinger. She whimpered, a sigh of pleasure really, and Conall was nearly undone.

  On the other side of Tess, stretched out along the wall, Bethany squirmed in her sleep.

  With a sigh of his own, one of resigned disappointment, he placed his forehead against Tess’s brow.

  "Now I am doubly sorry for the child's presence but you, I imagine, are feeling well protected," he said. "Go to sleep, Tess."

  ARTHUR MUNRO ROSE NAKED from the bed and thoughtfully poured himself a goblet of wine from a tray left earlier. He cared not that the whore in the bed no doubt cringed at his bare form, which had over the years, expanded while it drooped. He cared not for any of her thoughts; she was merely a body to use. He offered her no drink, but in fact bade her leave. "You may return to that husband of yours," he said coldly, knowing as well as she that her spouse, a Munro soldier, had a very keen idea of where she spent her evenings.

  She'd thought to raise her own position at Marlefield by giving Arthur what she, in her ignorance, believed to be the foundation of all his desires—gratification, domination. Arthur Munro knew of her scheme, had read well her ambitions in such hopeful, transparent eyes, but gave little heed to her plans. He would use her well and good, so long as she suited his present desire. When he tired of her, she would be dismissed, replaced. She was of no consequence.

  Accustomed to his changeable moods, the woman, Meyra, slunk from the bed and dressed herself, neither quickly nor quite slowly.

  "Perhaps tomorrow—?” she hinted, leaving the question hanging between them, as she neared the door.

  "If I want you," Arthur said from the window, "I will send for you." He heard the hollow soft thud of the door closing and drank deeply of his wine. An excellent cellar, had MacGregor, from which Arthur still benefitted.

  This brought to mind his daughter, still bound by the younger MacGregor. That the boy had survived at all had been something of a shock to Arthur when he'd learned of it several years ago. And that the boy had landed on his feet—not only finding a home with the old fool, MacDonnell, but actually benefitting from his association with the man, to become his heir, now chief of the MacDonnells.

  Arthur's lip curled. He'd never, not once in his life, been handed anything so fine as a ready-made kingdom. He had to work ceaselessly for all that was his. And now, it seemed, his work had yet to be finished. Marlefield only remained his for the time being until Arthur removed this threat that could take it away from him permanently.

  He sipped again, drawn into his own thoughts, recalling a time when he'd been impressed with the daring of the 'little MacDonnell' as MacGregor had been known while he raided the border English, before his fame had grown enough to have his true name known far and wide. That was when Arthur had learned the truth, which he'd feared for many years.

  A survivor.

  The name bandied about, the legend that grew, the man Arthur himself might have admired for his daring, was none other than Douglas MacGregor's spawn, fighting beside men like Wallace and Andrew Moray.

  Arthur had seen him from afar, at Falkirk not so long ago, before he'd turned his own men away from the carnage that was to be. It had occurred to him, that just as he'd discredited the father, so, too, could fall the son. It had been relatively easy to convince those Scotsmen worthy of the purpose that Douglas MacGregor had been a traitor to them all. That it was Douglas MacGregor and not himself who had supported secretly Edward I and England; that he’d regularly recruited, financed and dispatched men and arms and gold to England. That Scotland indeed was better for his death.

  None had questioned Sir Arthur. Some might have congratulated him, ferreting out such disloyalty, ridding the world of such a scourge upon humanity as a traitor. Happily, they had agreed that Marlefield was certainly best suited in Arthur's hands— though it had been proposed and agreed upon that it should not remain a Munro estate as Arthur was well compensated by his own holdings and castles in both England and Scotland. It was then that the contract had been first drawn up, ceding Marlefield to his first son-in-law upon Tess’s marriage. This had—until now—never presented itself as a problem. Marlefield would always be his, as he knew that Tess would only marry whom he deemed acceptable.

  Arthur chuckled briefly to himself now. Perhaps, it was best termed as whom he deemed most malleable. Alain Sinclair was perfect. A second son of immoral character, he had few prospects, which was precisely why marriage to Tess so appealed to him. He had no interest in either running an estate or ruling a clan. He cared only for his entertainments, which he happily found in Edinburgh. This, too, pleased Arthur. Marlefield would, in essence, remain his forever.

  Tossing back the remainder of his wine, Arthur placed the goblet on the tray and sought his bed. Stretched out, arms folded beneath his head, he stared blindly at the ceiling and thought of Tess and the MacGregor.

  He'd not been able to dishonor or discredit the younger MacGregor so easily as he'd hoped. Apparently, the boy's honor was strung like chain mail around his person. A planted seed here or there, as he'd craftily done many years ago against his father, had not injured the boy, as he was championed in many areas by many people. But Arthur was not a man given to casual efforts. He would succeed, 'twas only a matter of time.

  Tess, on the other hand....

  Likely, the twit had already been forced to wed and had been well bedded for her trouble. But there was a hope that the stubbornness he'd tried to break in his daughter, had served him well now in her captivity. Arthur knew her not well at all, having had little interest in her very existence until she had proved useful—but he knew this: Tess Munro was set to stubbornness as only her mother had been. And her mother, God rest her wretched and wavering soul, was as willful a person as were the great warriors of their time. With this recollection, it was easy to believe that Tess had refused and somehow evaded marriage to the MacGregor.

  Arthur knew well enough of young MacGregor's honor—he’d tried long enough to vanquish it—to believe that MacGregor would not kill Tess over her refusal. This afforded Arthur a lean bough of hope on which to cling. If he could not regain Tess, but if she had managed thus far to elude marriage, there was still time to save Marlefield.

  He found it nearly distasteful to contemplate the murder of his own daughter—but necessary to his desires. It was unfortunate that Tess remained his only legitimate child and heir, but it wasn't to be helped. He'd not planted a fruitful seed in almost a decade, despite the advent and subsequent departure of a second wife and then a third. It was therefore unlikely that now, at the age of two score and nearly ten, he'd sow so fertile a field—even if he had a mind to take another to wife.

  "You know what needs to be done," he spoke to himself, scratching his head. He rose quickly and dressed himself.

  Though he knew it to be nearing midnight, he quit his chamber and found his way to the steward's room. There, he found the sharp-eyed little man busy counting coins into a leather satchel. "Tis as you said, a thousand pounds to Edward. His man awaits."

  Arthur nodded. "Quickly, then, for we've other business to direct."

  The steward nodded, his raw, bony fingers quickening their pace. When all was counted, the satchel was closed by a drawn cord and set into a small woode
n chest, packed tight with linens.

  "See to it," Arthur said impatiently when the steward had looked to him for further instruction. The little man hefted the chest with great difficulty onto his shoulder and left the room, returning in only a few minutes, empty-handed.

  "Where is Sinclair?" Arthur asked.

  "Within the castle, my lord," the steward answered. "Abed, likely, at this hour. Nothing here to hold his interest." Sly and sunken eyes glittered at his quip.

  "Mm," Arthur murmured, agreeing. "Fetch him. I've a job which perhaps only he can perform."

  "Could it not, my lord, wait ‘til morn?" The factor dared to ask.

  Arthur cursed. "Like as not, it could, man! But I've a mind to discuss it now. Fetch him!"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Arthur watched with hard eyes as the aging man scurried away, much as a rat, Arthur thought absently.

  Another thousand pounds would slight his coffers not at all. He laughed at his own mad cleverness, wondering if instead he should offer Sinclair thirty pieces of silver to get the job done.

  TESS AWOKE THE NEXT morning, as she often did since coming to Conall's chamber, alone. Initially, she gave this little thought until an inkling, just a shadow of something began to form in her head. Conall had slept beside her last night. But there was something else.... A dream. She had dreamed of kissing Conall. He had risen over her and claimed her lips and touched her body and dear Lord, she had relished it. She had shown him secret longings by answering his kiss with little restraint. The dream had been short-lived, but its memory was etched upon her, indeed, still caused a fire to sweep throughout her.

  Tess shook her head, chiding herself in the wake of such traitorous thoughts, be they only dreams. She was not so wanton as to crave such carnality.

  Was she? He was the enemy, for the love of all that was holy! He was to be loathed and reviled and... and not desired. Tess mentally shook herself.

  When Serena came, Tess asked after Bethany and asked if she might return to the tower today. Her knees were all but healed. They pained her not a great deal. She would even return to her garden chores to show she was entirely healthy to be gone from the beast.

  “Bethany is in the kitchen,” Serena answered first and then shook her head sadly. "I am sorry, Tess, but Conall says you are to remain here... indefinitely."

  "For what purpose? That I may not escape again?" seethed Tess.

  Serena did not answer, only assisted Tess with her morning ablutions and settled her at the handsome table in Conall's bedchamber where Tess angrily shoved food around the trencher but pushed little into her mouth. Serena tidied the bed and opened the tall doors which led out onto the battlements. "'Tis a lovely day, Tess," she observed, and Tess tilted her head in Serena's direction, though she saw nothing of the blue sky or bright green of spring.

  After a while, Serena left, offering to bring Bethany up to keep her company later in the afternoon. Tess nodded at this, losing a bit of her anger, which truly had no place in Serena's presence.

  She stood and walked stiffly to the opened door leading outside. Curiously, she stepped out onto the battlements, the long and narrow balcony that stretched along this wall of the keep, entirely surrounding the castle's inner bailey. It was a beautiful day indeed, but the air, as always, was chilled and Tess re-entered the chamber to search through the trunk at the foot of the bed—Conall’s trunk, containing Conall's belongings. She gave no thought of trespass, finding several tunics and trews and hose. At the bottom of the trunk she spied one of the MacGregor's plaids and pulled this item out to consider its worth. Too long, by far, but if wrapped properly, it would provide ample warmth. With no care for proper pleats, Tess swung the plaid around her shoulders and again took herself out into the fresh air, pulling the tall doors closed behind her. She had never been afraid of heights and so leaned over the stone wall.

  Below, there was little activity. Tess saw only a pair of young boys, playfully sparring with their wooden swords until a passing woman swatted one boy upside the head and tugged him by the ear away from the other, who had himself quite a fit trying to control his laughter over his friend's trouble. Tess smiled despite herself and looked farther. In a far corner, there was laundry being done, a huge boiling pot the centerpiece for this labor and several household serfs attending. Tess found Dorcas among the women washers and her smile faded. This explained the tired woman's rough hands. Further down the wall, away from the center of activity, Tess saw two older boys, pages perhaps throwing something against the wall. She straightened and walked down along the balcony until she stood directly over them and leaned again over the embrasure between the rising teeth of the merlon.

  They were dicing, she determined, spying the crudely made cubes of animal knuckle bones. Tess watched as the smaller of the two, a blond-haired lad, dropped coins into the other boy’s hand. The other, perhaps a year older with darker hair and a lanky frame, then tossed the dice, crying jubilantly when he took more coins from the blond youth.

  Tess watched for quite a while, finding herself rooting for the smaller boy as the other was too peacock-like in his strut. She could not see so well as to read what dice came up at each roll but could easily discern the winner and loser by the boys' reactions.

  She spied something that drew her attention away from the boys dicing below. Further across the yard, at the rear wall of the castle, she noticed a gate not much taller than herself. Tess straightened and wondered how often it was used. She wondered if it were difficult to open, maybe rusty with age and unemployment.

  “Oh, my.”

  CHAPTER 11

  At that moment, Conall was thinking on Tess. He'd done little else since rising this morn, having much to consider. He'd awakened to the feel of Tess beside him, recalling instantly their kiss during the night. What manner of man was he, he wondered, that he was able to resist her charms? Resist? No, he'd not been strong enough to do that. But he had somehow managed to stop what he had started, despite the swelling belief that so much of what he wanted might be found in her arms. Forbearance such as this was often the memory a man called upon when faced with future hardships. He had withstood—with great steadfastness, he decided—the lure of Tess in his arms. He could, no doubt, slay dragons. He could do anything.

  That brought a rare smile to his face. He shook his head at such fancy. Doubtless, Tess recalled nothing of their embrace last night. She'd been imbued with sleep, troubled not at all by their intimacy. It was altogether possible that she imagined she'd dreamed the entire episode, if she were indeed affected by any shred of memory at all.

  Serena had suggested that he might consider explaining to Tess his dictate that she was to remain within his chamber from now on. Serena had informed him that when told of this decision, Tess had appeared ready to do battle. With this in mind, Conall approached his chamber, giving Gilbert MacDonnell, charged with guarding the door when Ezra was otherwise occupied, leave to seek his ease for a while.

  Conall entered, his eyes going directly to the bed, where of late he was accustomed to finding Tess, narrowing dangerously at the empty space upon the mattress.

  "Tess?" he called, his tone instantly suspicious. He spun around, taking in every corner of the room in one quick, swiveling glance. "Tess!" Louder now as she did not appear before him. He cursed when it was obvious that again she had managed to escape him.

  Gilbert, apparently not having gone too far, barged into the solar, sword drawn.

  "Put that damned thing away, boy!" Conall growled. "Did she pass you?"

  "Nay, laird." Gilbert's face was blank, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

  His lip curled up in displeasure, Conall noticed that his trunk had been opened. Someone had rifled through his belongings. Frowning heavily enough to move the hapless Gilbert several feet out of his reach, Conall stalked toward the balcony and swung open the doors. He looked left and then right and immediately he breathed again, spying Tess at the far corner of the battlements, leaning over th
e embrasure.

  He straightened and bumped into Gilbert, who had followed him and peered around his shoulder.

  "What the—?" Conall spat. "Go. Leave."

  "Aye, laird," gulped Gilbert and he left.

  She hadn't escaped. She hadn't tried.

  But his anger was still heightened, if only because of his reaction to her supposed disappearance. He had feared... and not the loss of Marlefield.

  Quietly, Conall approached Tess. Hung over the wall as she was, her upper body and face between the alternating merlons, she was not aware of his presence. As he neared, Conall frowned at what he heard. She was talking to herself, quite animated. He heard her small hands clapping nearly soundlessly. Intrigued, Conall peeked over the wall, still a few feet away from her, and saw what held her interest.

  Two boys—who would be severely reprimanded later—diced at the wall at this far corner of the bailey. Tess cheered or groaned, obviously championing one of the two.

  Conall came up behind her, and still she did not turn. When he finally noticed what was different about her, he liked at once the sight, the very idea of Tess wrapped in his plaid. It was several lengths too large for her, and likely outweighed her even, but it suited her and absurdly thrilled him.

  Tess stilled and Conall thought she realized his presence. But she only stared ahead and not down, no longer watching the gaming lads now. He placed one hand on each merlon on either side of her just as she straightened and whispered, “Oh, my.”

  Then a voice boomed—Conall would know John Cardmore's voice anywhere—hollering at the boys to see to their duties. Tess jumped as did the derelicts below her, coming up hard against Conall's chest.

  Startled, she pivoted quickly, so instantly frightened in fact, she seemed near relieved to find Conall. She placed a hand against his chest—he was that close—and smiled in relief.