The Touch 0f Her Hand (Highlander Heroes Book 1) Read online

  This lazy vigilance prompted Conall to ignite some other emotion. "Take off your clothes."

  She frowned at him, more confused than leery.

  "I'll no have you filthy when I take you."

  And here was the fear he’d courted. Those pretty eyes, now highlighted by spiked lashes, widened. Her bottom lip trembled. She began to scoot away from him. Conall lunged for her, catching the front of her soaked kirtle as she fled, yanking her up so that she fell upon him, forcing them both down into the water. She kicked and screamed as he circled her waist with one arm and hauled her out of the water, suspended at his hip. With as much care as the limited amount he'd shown her today, he dropped her onto the bank of the stream. She cried out and Conall forced her onto her back and rent her wet kirtle in a single stroke. He stared for a moment at her shape, outlined by what remained of her sodden chemise, a savage fire burning within his eyes. Her nipples were all but completely visible to him, hardened circles of rouge beneath the transparent material.

  Easily, he gathered her striking hands, pinning them above her head as he came fully atop her. He pressed his lips to hers, holding her mouth despite her squirming. She sobbed and he pressed on, refusing to be dissuaded, despite the ache it brought.

  TESS WENT LIMP BENEATH him.

  She cried still, but not for what he was doing to her.

  I am not afraid. He will not hurt me. He will not. She cried because he thought he needed to do this. He needed to bark, but he would not bite, she knew. She just knew this was true.

  He stopped, just dropped his head into her neck and her hair and stayed very still, save for his heavy breathing. Her eyes remained closed as rain continued to pelt them.

  Long seconds later, Conall shifted just as Tess put her hands on his shoulders. When his face was above hers again, when the rain was blocked, she opened her eyes, saw the struggle in his. Placing one hand on either side of his face, she asked, her words slow and laced with sorrow, “Is it anger? Or is this really you?”

  His nostrils flared and some noise came from his chest, but he did not answer.

  “Riders a comin’!” Came a call, through the hard rain, from the castle wall.

  Conall pushed off the ground and rose to his feet.

  Tess let her shoulders relax, and felt the tension leave her body.

  He stood over her, sluicing rain from his face with his hands, as large and fearsome as he had ever been. He stared down at her for a moment, their eyes locking. She did not shrink away, though surely her relief had become a physical thing for him to perceive, and watched his eyes darken. There was still a fierceness about him as he reached out a hand to her.

  "Get up," he said, pulling her to her feet. He was abrupt and curt, once again stomping swiftly along the path, through the rain, ignoring her as her bare feet slipped and sputtered in the wet grass and mud. Her clothes, what remained, hung in shredded rags, her hair no doubt as filthy and bedraggled as the rest of her, and still, she suspected, there was the light of panic in her eyes. But Conall paid no heed. The gate was lifted at his call and lowered as they cleared it. Tess was pushed onto the ground at the foot of the wall with the admonition, "If you move, you will never leave the tower again," which Conall had to shout to be heard above the now pounding rain, before he stalked away, up to the battlements to view the arriving party. He returned momentarily, to find Tess huddling yet in the hard rain, against the wall. "I'd have recognized him anywhere," he said, his mood still dark. "Your betrothed arrives, Tess. Shall we greet him?" he raised a brow at her.

  She had thought the timing to be perfect. The riders might have saved her from his furor but now knew she had been mistaken. The coming of Alain now, while she looked as she did, was beneficial only to Conall. She would be disgraced. Alain would take one look at her, and that which he had perhaps only wondered at, he would now believe to be true.

  "Open the gate!" Conall called, his deep voice carrying over the torrent of rain. "Come, Tess. Greet your betrothed."

  It would have been easy to have disobeyed him then, but Tess feared she would, in this hunkered down position, appear even more broken than she actually was. She stood and clutched the shreds of her gown together and walked stiffly to his side. Let Alain see her. She would hold herself proud. She had betrayed no one.

  Alain's party rode slowly through the open gate, Sir Arthur's banner flying high above the standard bearer, though against the rain, it did flounder. Tess was able to pick out Alain immediately. Despite the helm that shielded all the oncoming faces, Alain's person was obvious. Even amidst such inclemency, his attire seemed undisturbed, not shot with mud, nor drooping with saturation. The group halted and Alain raised his helm.

  In different circumstances, Tess might have snorted with laughter at the comical expression upon her betrothed's face. He was shocked, to say the least, at her appearance. And true, standing straight and bold when dressed only in one's chemise and torn asunder kirtle, and soaked through at that—which no doubt showed Alain and any who thought to stare a great many parts of Tess—was scandalous and deserving of censure. But what struck Tess was only that Alain appeared not so much distressed at what horrors she obviously faced at the MacGregor's hands, but that she had been reduced to this unsightly and offensive state.

  "Take her inside," Conall said, quietly, and one of his men hurried to do so. Only then did Tess allow herself to yield her brave stance, giving Alain a pleading look that surely bespoke of her fear and hope for salvation.

  She was grabbed none too gently, the show of brute force must be carried through, and hauled away into the castle. Quietly, she went, abandoning all her hopes to Alain.

  She was taken to the tower room again, left alone behind a locked door in her ruined garments, her body once more chilled to the very core. She prayed fervently that whatever Alain was about, he would prove successful

  Tess sank to her knees, wondering truly if she would ever be warm again, and considered Conall's earlier behavior. Some dam within him had broken today. Though Tess on occasion believed him to be the very devil, she would have never imagined that he’d have behaved as he had. Her dismay was also born of sadness, she realized. She honestly examined her emotions in regard to this: despite everything—their status as enemies, his kidnapping of her, his initial harshness toward her, her own attempts to escape him—she’d truly and naively thought that there existed between them some inexplicable connection and certainly a desire for things that had nothing at all to do with captor and captive.

  Exhausted and cold, Tess collapsed on the fur throws. Absently, she wiped mud from her arms and from her face, pulling her wet hair up above her, away from her skin.

  She would forever hate the rain.

  CHAPTER 15

  "Parading Tess before me in such ungodly condition has answered the first of my few questions," Alain Sinclair said when he and Conall were alone, seated at the lord's table in the hall. Alain had been offered wine and food, which he had declined. He slapped his gloves onto the table, showing an anger which Conall believed might actually be real. "I take it she has been used, well and good."

  "She is a hostage," was all Conall said.

  "Then you had no plans to wed her?" The younger man looked affronted.

  "Wed a Munro? For what purpose?" Asked Conall.

  Alain only shook his head. "What are your terms for release?"

  "There will be no release," said Conall, lifting his tankard to his mouth. He drank deeply, then swiped the back of his hand across his lips, happy to let this fop think him a barbarian.

  "No release? Then why did you take her?"

  "To harass Munro."

  "You have stolen a man's daughter only with intentions to harass him?"

  "The first of many harassments, to be sure."

  Alain frowned at this. "That is between you and Sir Arthur. I should tell you, however, that this first harassment, has done little in the way of nettling the man. Sir Arthur cares not much for his daughter. I come here of my ow
n accord. Her father thought Tess not worthy of saving."

  It was quite a feat for Conall to contain his ire over this. "You mean he thought it impossible to rescue her."

  Alain shook his fair head. "Not at all. I impart that it was considered that a plan should be created to have her killed—for reasons which I am not at liberty to discuss."

  "Munro instigated these plans?" His tone was quiet, controlled.

  "He would have, save that circumstances changed and he—well, there was no longer a need."

  Conall mulled this over. After a thoughtful moment, he asked, "And why is it that you have come, if no at Munro's behest?"

  "I was betrothed to Tess—"

  "Was?" Conall lifted a brow.

  "The betrothal was forfeited when Tess was abducted."

  "By you?" He was quite aware of the muscle ticking within his jaw.

  "By Munro. As I have said, circumstances changed."

  Conall leaned forward, elbows upon the table, hands around his tankard. He stared not at Alain, but straight ahead, his gaze fixed upon nothing. "I know of the clause which cedes Marlefield to her mate upon her marriage."

  "Then why haven't you—?"Alain began.

  Conall cut him off. "Are you saying, with your cryptic and garbled speech, that Munro has somehow managed to have that dictate nullified?"

  "Yes. As soon as Tess was taken, he sped directly to the council. He convinced the council that Tess had taken it into her head to marry an Englishman. The council has no idea she is here and immediately agreed that it was of utmost importance that a Scots castle not possibly fall into English hands due to the fickle mind of a lass."

  Conall nodded. After another long moment, he asked again, "So why is it you have come, Sinclair?"

  Alain offered a harsh, self-deprecating chuckle. "Even I, and I fancied her not at all, could not have lived with myself if I'd done nothing to try and help her."

  "Munro knows that you have come?"

  "No."

  "If she were to be returned, would he kill her?"

  Alain shrugged his shoulders. "No reason to—or he'd have set his original plan into motion."

  Conall leaned back to study the man. Alain Sinclair's eyes were without guile. Truly, he had no reason to lie. As he had said himself, he had no desire for Tess, and as effeminate and toady as he was, Conall had a pretty good idea where Sinclair’s interests did lie. It was possible that good conscience alone had brought him to Inesfree, that and perhaps a virulent dislike of Munro, as his voice, when he'd been forced to say the man's name, had emerged as a snarl.

  But then, Conall couldn’t exactly be sure. Were his answers just too perfect?

  Conall stood. "You may take shelter at Inesfree tonight until you depart in the morning." And he left the dais, walking away.

  "Do I not at least get to see Tess? Will you not even consider releasing her to me? I am willing to—"Alain sputtered, clearly unprepared for this hasty departure, faced with his own fruitlessness.

  "No." Conall called back without breaking his stride.

  "Dammit, MacGregor! You cannot keep her thus, abusing her as you do..."

  But Conall heard no more as he rounded the corner and advanced upon the stairs to his chamber. He'd learned much tonight, most of which was disturbing to his cause. There would be no bloodless return to Marlefield. Munro had anticipated his motive and had rallied, and prevailed. Conall had never anticipated that a supposed traitor would have been able to even convince a council that the sky was blue, let alone to void a contract parcel.

  He ran into Serena in the passageway outside his chamber. It was obvious, as she leaned against the wall beside his door, that she waited for him.

  "Conall, tell me. Who is that man? Are you letting Tess go?"

  Conall reached for the door handle. "That man is her betrothed and no, Tess will no be released." His other hand kneaded the back of his neck.

  "What happened today, Conall?" Serena asked, apparently desperate for some reassurance that he wasn't as dishonorable as he'd almost proved himself to be. "What did you do to Tess?"

  "Nothing she didn't deserve," he snapped, but at Serena's cry of horror—over Tess’s supposed abuse or his fall into indefensible wickedness, Conall could not guess—he added harshly, "I did no rape her, Serena. She is still as pure as the fucking driven snow."

  Serena straightened with indignation. "Oh, Conall—"

  He waved her off, with an order for a bath and a meal. He paused, then added as he pushed open his chamber door, "And have a bath sent up to Tess. She'll need food as well. And wine." He watched Serena nod though she moved not at all. But Conall ignored her, entering his room, closing the door behind him.

  Inside, he leaned heavily against the door, tipping his head back upon the thick wood. He closed his eyes, his thoughts mayhem. Nothing—not one goddamn thing—was proceeding as planned.

  Marlefield was falling through the slight grasp he'd had upon it. Tess—good God, he'd done nothing right where she was concerned. He'd not started out as he meant to continue. His plan from the start had been to instill fear as a way of coercion. But he'd found himself, time and again, looking into those perfect green eyes and losing all his aptitude to effect terror. After her initial refusal to wed, and though he assured himself he would never reduce himself so much as to actually woo the child of his enemy, all his subsequent actions had amounted to just that. He would defend it as strategy, but understood it was more about want and need. In short, his desire for Tess had begun to override that of his desire for Marlefield.

  And just when he'd found anger enough to re-establish the fearfulness in her, he was slapped in the face with information that made him ache for her.

  No one would save her. None save the ineffectual Alain would even try. Her own parent, bound by blood, had plans to murder her lest she cost him something that had never been his anyway. She should never know this. Never find out how quickly and easily she had been cleaved from Sir Arthur's life, and doubtless that of every Munro.

  While she waited in vain, perhaps prayed daily for deliverance, she was, and had been from the moment of her abduction, dead to any she imagined might support her.

  Conall was the only person to whom she might have proved useful.

  And now, he too, no longer had any need of her.

  SERENA SOFTENED TOWARD Tess after a fashion, though Tess stalwartly refused to apologize for escaping, as she deemed it her duty. After what Conall had almost done to her, she felt she owed no apology to anyone. As it was, Serena had come to the tower room several times more, offering a bath and nourishment and even clean furs, but Tess ignored her, likening her to Conall, and his cruel intentions. After a few days of this, only Dorcas, and sometimes even lesser persons, delivered her food. The witch, when she came, only thumped the tray heavily upon the table, saying not a word, as if any attention to Tess was beneath her. Tess didn’t care. She didn’t even bother to ask after Alain. Whatever his mission here, he’d not been successful, or she’d not still be locked away in the tower.

  Whenever she thought of Angus, she cried. She would never tell Conall—if she ever saw him again—but she would never again risk someone else’s life to save her own.

  The death of Angus might be the one thing that broke her, she decided. She didn’t know how to make that better. There was no way to undo what had been done, and there was no way to forget about it, either. It gnawed day and night at Tess.

  She considered actually marrying Conall, but to what end now? He’d done—nearly—his worst. If she hadn’t capitulated when threatened with her own death, what might marriage gain her now but a possible release from the tower?

  Tess’s muddled thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. She was crouched in the far corner, in the shadows of the tower room. Usually, she heard footsteps before the door opened.

  The shadows hid her face, she knew, and thus her surprise, at finding it was Conall himself who entered. She felt herself pressing further into the corn
er. She wrapped her arms around her drawn up knees.

  He said nothing but walked over to the lone window, from which Tess no longer looked out. After a few minutes of silence, he turned and leaned his hip against the stone beneath the window. He crossed his arms over his chest and considered her.

  Tess didn’t move. She didn’t need to; he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t even need to avert her gaze. His eyes were dark still, but they were not the eyes she remembered, being neither struck with anger nor brightened by purpose, and certainly not lightened with the intent of kissing her. They were tired, she decided, weary. Indeed, his entire body and posture screamed this as well.

  “I will apologize for my behavior,” he finally said, his voice deep and low.

  Tess could only stare at him. When it became apparent that he would say no more, she wondered if she was expected to reply? To... what? Forgive him? She felt, above the unease churning in her belly, a formidable anger rising.

  She started to speak, but having not done so in many days, had to clear her throat when no sound immediately came forth, and begin again. “Do you speak to the murder of Angus? Or your treatment of me?”

  He wasn’t baited, indeed seemed unperturbed by her brashness.

  “At the water’s edge.”

  “Oh, that.” She struggled for indifference but feared she hadn’t quite hit the right note exactly.

  His eyes darkened. He pushed away from the wall and strode to her, stopping when only inches separated his feet from hers. His hands were fisted, though they only hung at his sides.

  “I—I have never in my life behaved like that. I wouldn’t have—” he stopped. He shifted his weight. “I am sorry, Tess.”

  “Your apology, I fear, is likely for your benefit, rather than my own.” She strove to maintain an even tone in the face of his growing annoyance. “My mother used to say an apology is a fine means to have the last word.”