The Touch 0f Her Hand (Highlander Heroes Book 1) Page 16

  Her breathing changed, came rather in short little bursts while his eyes lingered on her lips. He raised his gaze to hers, and this she recognized—that light in those beautiful eyes, heated and rapt. She leaned toward him, the movement so small as to almost be indiscernible. Or maybe not, as he moved nearer as well. Now Tess’s eyes were drawn to his mouth, saw his lips part and already, she anticipated the feel of his kiss. Her stomach knotted, not unpleasantly.

  Conall lifted his hand, about to touch her, she blissfully realized, when footsteps sounded on the steps behind him, quickly coming closer. Before Conall and Tess had completely moved apart, John Cardmore appeared on the landing.

  The older man’s huge paw sat upon the hilt of his sword, as it usually did while he moved, to keep the weapon from swinging so wildly. He stopped abruptly just off the top step, realizing their presence. His countenance registered only mild surprise, but Tess was quick to note that his mouth, within the close-cropped beard, quirked a bit. He sketched an abbreviated bow to Tess and turned to Conall. “Thought you’d gone for a lie-down or such,’ he harassed his laird. “The lads be waiting on you.”

  Conall nodded tightly, which should have sent John Cardmore back down the stairs, but he remained and tucked both his hands into the leather and steel belt circling his waist, over his tunic and light armor. His head swiveled between Conall and Tess, raising brows at both of them. When Conall made a noise, that might have been an annoyed growl, and swung his eyes back to Tess, the old soldier winked at her quickly before she returned her own gaze to Conall.

  “You may have the fabrics,” he said gruffly, and waved a hand to include other things, “and whatnot.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly and watched him turn to leave, followed immediately by his captain.

  She only thought she understood John Cardmore’s laughter as it drifted up the stairs to her.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Tess,” Serena called her attention from across the table.

  Tess raised her eyes, swiveling her neck a bit as she did. She truly did enjoy sewing and the creation of new things, but it made her neck weary, to be ever bent over the fabric and threads.

  “I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me come the end of the week,” Serena continued. They were perched upon stools in the main hall, which was actually no place for this chore, but the light here was so much more suitable to the task than any other chambers of the keep. “With the May Day festival, Inesfree will be host to several noble families,” Serena explained, “though certainly less than we might have seen in times of peace. However, we are of a certain expecting the Brodies, the Cockburns, and the Dunbars. Your tower room would be perfect for the Brodies, as they have several children.”

  “Of course,” Tess conceded without hesitancy. “Truly, ‘tis not mine to withhold. But recall, I do bring Bethany with me.” She held up the piece she’d been working on, pleased with the second of the sleeves she had made. This joined the first, set aside on the table, and she reached for the rest of the cut fabric to work on the body of the léine she was making for Angus.

  “It will be fun. We can snuggle under the furs and stay up late, talking about people we do not like,” Serena said with a twinkle in her merry eyes.

  “Why, Serena MacDonnell!” Tess teased a chastisement, ruining the effect by making a face and telling her friend, “I’ll bring my list of names.”

  “You will come out for the feast, won’t you?” Serena asked.

  Tess had no idea. True, she had more freedom now since she’d given her promise, but ultimately, “That would be up to your laird.”

  They worked until mid-afternoon, with Angus close by, perched as usual upon the chair near the hearth which was roundly considered his own. For a while, Bethany was found at his feet, using one of the hounds as a pillow, while Angus entertained her with muted tales of the Battle of Largs. Only once had Tess been forced to call out a caution to the kindly old man. Though his voice had been soft, nearly sing-song, Tess had chanced to hear, “...and then, when the blood of the heathen marauders’ dripped from every Gael sword, and their heads were cleaved—”

  “Angus!”

  He had been leaning forward, swept up in the tale or his own memories, but sat back again at Tess’s chiding. “Ach now, sorry, lass”, he said, tilting his head a bit as he carried on with the telling while Bethany sat enchanted underfoot.

  When the morning rains had all but evaporated, and their needlework had been put away, Tess and Serena and Angus and Bethany headed outside the walls of Inesfree to inspect the orchards. Likely, Tess was the only one who gave any thought to her actually stepping foot outside the walls, certainly while Conall was not in attendance. In her mind, she reasoned it was permissible; she had pledged to stay, and she hadn’t any plans to flee.

  The spring grasses were tall with the help of the rains of late, but they stayed mostly on the worn path from the castle. Tess inquired if it was safe to be outside the walls, but Serena had turned her back around to face the huge walls of Inesfree. Serena pointed specifically to the soldiers visible on top of the front wall, watching them.

  “They’ve their crossbows ready, should any dare to accost us,” Serena further explained, then pointed lower, toward the ground, not fifty feet behind them on the path, where two more MacDonnell soldiers trailed behind, crossbows in hand.

  They reached the orchards, larger than Tess would have expected, but in need of their annual spring clean-up of weeding, pruning, and bird-scaring. Bethany pulled her hand away from Serena’s and darted off, chasing spring buds and several busy squirrels. They would not labor today but needed to take an inventory of work needed.

  “I smell almonds. Only see those when Fynn brings them in from Spain or Italy.” Angus noted. He breathed long of the scent emanating from the blooms of the trees nearest him.

  “That’s the cherry tree flower,” Serena declared and predicted, “There’ll be great cherries this summer.”

  Angus squeezed Tess’s arm, which she’d held along the path. “Park me by that cherry tree, lass. I’ll catch me winks in the open today.” Tess obliged, settling Angus against the trunk of the nearest fruit tree. She watched him lean his head against the purplish brown bark and close his eyes.

  Serena and Tess meandered among the trees, discussing the work required for a productive orchard.

  “I don’t know much about orchards, Serena,” Tess admitted.

  “I used to be in love with the gardener’s son,” Serena confided, threading her arm through Tess’s. “I’d spend many a summer day right here in these orchards.”

  “Where is he now? The gardener’s son?” Tess wondered.

  The dark-haired woman smiled sadly. “He was killed at Falkirk. His da only passed this last winter. Inesfree has been, you may have noticed, without a gardener since then.”

  Tess had indeed noticed. “Serena, that is a terrible loss for you. I am so sorry.” Just then, Bethany darted past them, her blonde hair flying out behind her, her arms splayed wide as if she were a bird. The women smiled at her.

  “We were children, it seems now,” Serena replied wistfully. “It was so long ago. So many are gone from Inesfree—I don’t think we’ve half the souls we did ten years ago.” An air of melancholy hung about her tone. “I hope I live to see the end of this war.”

  A charging of horses brought, first, the pair of soldiers quickly to the side of Tess and Serena, and next, a double-lined column of riders into view, headed toward Inesfree. Tess gathered up Bethany; Angus was undisturbed by the clamor. Tess and Serena, and the soldiers, too, breathed easier when they noticed it was Inesfree’s own returning, with Conall at the lead. Their relief was quickly obliterated, however, when they noticed, as the army drew nearer, the grim countenances of the party, and then, sadly, several bodies draped face down over their mounts.

  Tess cast her eyes to Conall and gasped when she saw his fierce countenance. Her hand covered her mouth, her heart breaking for the anguish she
found in him.

  SUPPER THAT EVENING was both miserable and voluble. Conall sat gloomily at the head table, his hand toying with the ale-filled goblet before him. He listened with half an ear to the talk around him, while knowing that John sat close, lost in his own reverie.

  “Is no like they could’ve known we’d come,” Gilbert MacDonnell said near the middle of the room. Gilbert ignored the peasant—Ena, Conall thought her name might be—at his side, who hoped only for a scrap of his attention. “And when, tell me, did reivers start fighting like they was soldiers?”

  A chorus of agreement drenched the air.

  Donald MacDonnell called out from the next table, “Spineless, is what they are. They ain’t no soldiers! Parading and raiding, all upon them that canna defend themselves. And none to answer for it.”

  “They’ll be answering yet more on the morrow!” Claimed another. More cheers.

  And on it went, until finally it settled, and their own dead were considered.

  More solemn now, toasts were made and joined for the men who had died.

  Conall looked up to find John now standing before him. His captain drained his goblet and pounded the cup onto the table in front of Conall. He gave Conall a surprisingly clearheaded glare, infused with promise. “We’ll head out at first light and I’ll no be caring if they know we’re coming for them. We’ll chase ‘em to hell and further, if it be needed.”

  Conall nodded grimly and John stepped away, making his way between the still crowded tables and benches to quit the hall completely.

  Little by little, as the midnight hour came upon them, the room cleared.

  Conall left the hall later than usual, having drunk too much ale. He took the stairs to his chamber rather prudently, unwilling to be found passed out at the bottom come the morn. At the landing, he paused, his gaze lifting to search the passageway to the next higher floor. There was no inner debate, just action as he continued up the next set of stairs, rather than turning toward his own bed. With a guiding hand upon the wall, he reached the top floor and stood before the door to the tower.

  It was late, he knew, and she would be long asleep by now. Carefully, he turned the knob and entered. He closed the door behind him and stood silently for many minutes, surveying the entire chamber in the dim light of the deadening fire. A soft orange glow bathed the entire room, brighter near the fire itself. He liked this room now and was satisfied with the installation of the beds and those fripperies. There were also, he noted, several other recent additions—a second chamber pot, tucked under Bethany’s tiny bed, where she slept with arms and legs splayed in more than a few directions; three dying flowers, protruding from a dull silver cup, perched on the table against one wall; a crudely made trunk, of some light colored wood, piled high with dark and light fabrics, at the foot of the larger bed. He only eyed these items briefly, his gaze searching for the occupant of the bed. Conall pushed away from the door and stepped noiselessly to the side of the bed.

  Tess lie on her stomach, her arms wrapped tight around the feather pillow, her face turned away from him. He leaned over her, wanting to see her.

  Some ember in that dying fire popped loudly. Conall straightened as Tess startled and turned over, settling her head upon the pillow she only seconds ago had been embracing. Her eyes slowly adjusted and found him. She seemed to wake further, though appeared not frightened by his presence, only met his gaze drowsily.

  He just stared at her, having no particular idea what it was he sought from her. Maybe only a few seconds had passed before she moved, away from the center of the bed, turning back the furs and bedsheet. An invitation.

  With methodical movements, he removed his breastplate and sword and belt, then sat on the side of the bed, on the wood frame, and pulled off his leather boots. Without rising, he turned to find her eyes, saw only the soft, liquid green though he could assign no emotion to them. Wearily, he stretched out beside her, not bothering to pretend he hadn’t a need of her. She remained on her back, so that he only skimmed one arm and hand across her to drag her nearer, burying his head in her hair and her shoulder. The length of his body was pressed along hers. She allowed this. He was not of a mind to wonder why, but felt her hand in his hair, holding his head to her.

  Presently, this was all he needed.

  BACK ON THE TRAIL THE next morning, Conall and his army returned to the borderlands. Yesterday, he’d underestimated the reivers and had brought only a quarter of his army with him. He’d not make that mistake again, feeling once more the wrenching guilt for the loss of life. This time, more than two hundred men rode behind him.

  It would be another hour before they reached the lands of the Carruthers and Selbys and Musgraves. While yesterday had been disappointing, it had not been completely unproductive, for they’d learned from people and villages nearby that these clans were the most active and reprehensible reivers. The Scottish Carruthers were responsible for the massacre at Langley Moor. After yesterday, the Carruthers would be reiving no more. That left the English Selbys and Musgraves to deal with today.

  Conall clicked his tongue and spurred Mercury up the steep incline of Dalkeith Beinn, the steepest and tallest hill they’d ascend today. From here, they were offered a fair view of all the land south of Bonnyrigg, mostly forested and rocky, with only a few flat heaths and dampened moors. And while the windswept and striking landscape appeared inhospitable, Conall knew that a greater unwelcome waited beyond the tree line.

  As they moved slowly across the ridge of Dalkeith Beinn, he thought again of Tess. He’d risen before the sun and permitted himself only a moment to gaze upon her before departing. He had held her, or she him, throughout the short night, neither ever sufficiently wakeful to have pursued more. He’d been left only with impressions of warmth and welcome and wonder, all reasons enough to return to her.

  Down the hill, fully into the borderlands now, Conall kicked his steed into a ground-chewing gallop. His army followed suit, with John Cardmore crowing brashly within the throng, well aware what presently hurried the young laird along.

  The MacGregors and MacDonnells had barely gained a mile from the bottom of Dalkeith Beinn when there rose before them an oncoming army, easily twice the size of Conall’s troops. They came from lower ground, that one moment the horizon was clean and clear and in the next, as if salmon springing from the crisp water of Loch Earn, an army swelled before them, dust billowing out behind them as a gray and perfect backdrop.

  Conall raised his fisted hand to rein in his troops, his scowl fierce, until he saw the banner in the forefront of the oncoming horde: scratches of blue, gray, and green, highlighting the profile of a stag’s head.

  Lowering his hand now, Conall actually sped up, a grin lighting his face.

  The two armies met amidst the mountain heath and willow scrub somewhere between Bonnyrigg and Lasswade, their chiefs not reining in until they were side by side.

  “I’d have known that woodpecker from even a mile away,” said the leader of the joining army. He stretched out his hand, clasping his forearm to Conall’s, as they hadn’t done in over a year.

  Conall shook his head at Gregor Kincaid’s oft-used quip, giving an admiring glance at the eagle adorning the MacGregor banner. “I’d rather that,” he returned, tossing his head toward Kincaid’s flag, “than the rendering of a kitten your niece gave you last Michaelmas.”

  Gregor Kincaid made a face and lifted his shoulders, granting only small appreciation for Conall’s humor. Gregor and Conall were of an age, having fostered together as young lads at the castle of the mighty and still-revered Sir Hugh Rose. Of a similar height, and both endowed of legendary prowess in battle, the likeness between the pair ended there. Gregor, though impressive, was leaner where Conall was brawny; both his hair and eyes were a medium brown; Gregor was possessed of a cheerful temperament compared to Conall’s more serious nature.

  Conall nodded at Gregor’s bloody claymore and took in the Kincaid army’s sweaty horses and men, steeped in the stench of
death.

  Gregor grinned. “About your work, I’d be guessing. Came across some nasty English and they were in me way.” He shrugged, his humors fine, as if he hadn’t a choice in the matter.

  “They wouldna have been Selbys or Musgraves, would they?” Conall asked.

  “They might have been both,” Gregor told him, and explained how his army had run up against some border reivers, and while they’d had an easy time routing them, the English had been joined by another militia. Gregor grinned like a cocky devil, “Would’ve been rude no to give them some as well.”

  Conall barked out a laugh. “Near Duns and Greenlaw?”

  Gregor nodded. “The same.”

  “And where are you headed now?”

  Gregor offered up another smile. “You’d probably no ken it, some wee spot dubbed Inesfree,” he teased. “The lads want to swing ‘round a Maypole.”

  Conall grinned, shaking his head at his friend’s incredible timing and smug wit.

  CHAPTER 18

  For the first time, Tess joined Serena atop the wall, awaiting the return of the laird and his army. It was early evening, the air was cool, and Serena was wrapped up in the gray and brown plaid of the MacDonnell while Tess stood at her side, pulling the borrowed gray cloak more snugly around her.

  Tess had no idea that Conall’s army was so large. She watched many hundreds of mounted men come into view over the hills, exactly opposite the setting sun. At this distance, she could not find Conall.

  “Kincaids!” Someone called out from further down the wall, and a cheer went up with the castle yard.

  “Kincaid and Conall are great friends,” Serena explained for Tess’s benefit. “His forces are much larger in number. Conall will be happy to have him here.”

  Tess nodded and watched as the armies drew nearer. Many broke off before reaching the castle, and as the lines thinned, Tess could now distinguish two different banners, and the two men leading the pack to Inesfree. She spared only a glance at the Kincaid chief, but found herself looking anxiously upon Conall. She determined by the tilt of his head, even before he was close enough to confirm, that he was staring back at her. He was unharmed, she determined, breathing easier, but when he was close enough for her to feel the heat of his gaze, those silly butterflies commenced whirling about in her stomach.