The Touch 0f Her Hand (Highlander Heroes Book 1) Page 18

  This overwhelming crowd and frantic pace prevented Tess from noticing Conall’s arrival. So often, a room seemed to still at his entrance, but there was so much to be done, that barely a soul had their head turned away from their chores. Indeed, while the room bustled, there was little noise, save for the clanging of pots and the sound of knives slapping down onto wood, or sometimes Eagan’s harried voice giving instructions.

  She did not realize Conall’s presence until she turned at the touch of his hand on her elbow. His bright blue eyes showed no lack of good humor. Her smile, though weary, was reflexive but her hand went immediately, nervously to the kerchief in her hair.

  “Come with me, lass,” he said, the hand at her elbow sliding down to her hand.

  Tess faltered, desire and duty sparring inside. She cast anxious eyes to those around her, saw their sidelong glances, some upon her hand held in his, and understood it might not be well received if she abandoned her position. She shook her head, “I cannot. There is much to do—”

  “Aye, and there are plenty to do it,” he countered, tugging at her hand.

  Tess was torn. She sent her gaze to Moira, the girl who had shared the kerchief with her. That girl moved her face and eyes in such a way as to express that she did not relish being put into the position of giving Tess leave, or denying her.

  “You can return in a wee bit,” Conall cajoled, as Tess had never heard him do before.

  Tess set her small knife upon the table and followed Conall. He led her out the nearest door, past Eagan, who only stopped his own work long enough to consider the pair and then Tess’s empty spot among the workers.

  Conall propelled her into the bright sunlight, despite Tess’s unease. Outside, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they pushed their way through the throng of people. Smells of dead animals and well-tanned leathers and too many bodies flooded her nose. The local peasants were given the preference of setting up their stalls and tents within the walls, though these spaces were few, and Tess was delighted to see such handsome and varied wares from Inesfree’s own.

  A woman hawked woven baskets and an old man sold grotesque necklaces made of both human and animal teeth. A lad shouted that he had “the finest fabrics this side of Edinburgh”. Tess grinned at the fraudulent advertising as the fabrics looked like any other gray and brown wool she might see in any village from here to London. Another lad in brightly colored garments strolled by, juggling flaming torches. Tess drew closer to Conall, squeezing his arm, sure that his size was all that kept them from being jostled about by so many moving bodies.

  Conall glanced down at her, his eyes so light and trouble-free at this moment, Tess felt an immediate pleasure.

  “This is magnificent.” She smiled up at him.

  He nodded, alight with pride, then quickly pulled her out of the way of a man walking upon long wooden legs, standing twice as tall as Conall. Tess stared, aghast and amused, and they laughed together.

  Tess sensed that people stared as she and Conall walked about. Their eyes were hard yet, unwilling to like her. There was no question in their eyes about who she was. Obviously all knew of the Munro prisoner. Were she to make eye contact with any, she would know immediately if they be Inesfree’s own or not, depending upon their returned gaze, be it friendly or not.

  They rounded the entire outer bailey and Conall steered her outside the castle walls, where stood dozens more booths and stalls and still so many people, crushed near to the castle itself. Beyond the mob and the grounds of the festival itself, tent after tent stretched almost to the tree line. There was only marginally more space out here and Tess held tightly onto Conall’s arm. He spent some time talking to the tinkers and tradesmen and vendors, as well the chief was expected to do. He purchased sweet rolls and ale for her, which she happily accepted; once he picked up a gaily colored scarf and held it up to her cheek, considering, then laughed as she frowned, thinking the piece too garish for her tastes. Tess began to wonder if he paraded her around intentionally, trying to foster some measure of acceptance among his people. Would her presence be tolerated for having found such favor with the chief of the MacGregors and MacDonnells? Tess immediately dismissed the idea. In all probability, the people would only assume their laird played now with his toy, his leman.

  They had been about the fair for several hours when they came upon Gregor Kincaid, who carried a cup in his hand, and appeared to have sipped often. He was surrounded by Kincaid and MacGregor and MacDonnell soldiers alike, a boisterous bunch who pounced upon Conall and drew him into rambunctious conversation. He was asked to settle a debate about the strongest of the men, which he tried to shake off with a few glib remarks. They carelessly ignored Tess and her hand slipped away from his arm.

  “Do you enjoy the fair, Lady Tess?” Gregor asked, having sidled next to her.

  She pasted on a pretty smile, somewhat uncomfortable outside the safety of Conall’s reach. “It’s rather remarkable,” she told him.

  Gregor paused, watching a pretty peasant girl saunter by, her own eyes returning Gregor’s admiring stare, her wide lips tilting upward until she turned her head away. Gregor seemed to catch himself, responding to the amused lift of Tess’s brow with an exaggerated shrug and a devilish gleam in his eye.

  “You dinna fit in here, lass,” Gregor said, seeming suddenly sober.

  Tess lowered her eyes. Even Gregor had seen it, the rather universal dislike of her.

  “I promised not to leave,” was all she could think to say, as he appeared to wait a response.

  “A promise made under duress,” he said, the hand and cup swaying with his words, “is no really a promise at all, is it?”

  Tess lifted her gaze and stared at Conall’s friend, trying to read his brown eyes. She said lightly, “I wasn’t aware there were degrees of promises, or that the keeping of them could be optional.”

  Gregor barked out a laugh, spilling a bit of his ale. “Aye, Conall has excuses too—why you’re still here though you’d no wed him yet, why he needs to watch your every bluidy move, why he suddenly has no taste for war.”

  “I did not—”

  He made a show of waving his hands, spilling more ale, staving off her argument. Curiously, Tess was not frightened.

  “Lass,” he said and stopped moving, pinning her with his sharp eyes, “you may no belong here, but it is where you are. He will no let you go, and I’m wondering if you truly want to be let go.” He surprised her by wrapping one big arm around her shoulders, giving her a rough squeeze and laughing yet more. “’Tis verra good, lass. Verra good.”

  And then he was gone, entering the circle of the soldiers surrounding Conall, calling out loudly, spiritedly, “I’ll take on any man here!” He thumped his chest. “C’mon you feckers! Who’ll take me?” A great and encouraging cheer went up and they closed around him, the pack growing.

  Tess caught sight of Conall deep in the midst of these rowdy men as his gaze turned toward her. She pointed toward the rest of the market they’d yet to see, letting him know where she’d be. He nodded, his head risen slightly above those around him. She understood there were expectations for him, as laird, to participate, to judge, to partake, and was not bothered by this at all.

  Carefully making her way alone through the congestion, Tess approached the line of vendors. She strolled amiably about, perusing the handcrafts. She stopped to envy some beautifully detailed embroidery upon crisp white scarves. The scarves themselves, though fresh, were indistinct, but the sewn designs, some tone-on-tone, some subtle pastels, were outstanding.

  "These are remarkable," she commented absently, giving no thought to the fact that once having spoken, her words—despite their kind intent—invited the people to speak to her.

  "And not for sale to the likes of you." The merchant, a stout woman with short, beefy hands, glowered at Tess.

  Inwardly cringing but outwardly hoping to remain unperturbed, Tess lifted her hands in resignation. Obviously, this merchant was one of Inesfree's o
wn. "I've no coin to make purchases, mistress. I only admire your work."

  "Move on, jezebel," the woman snarled. "Me work is no concern to you."

  "I am sorry to have troubled you," Tess murmured and stepped away, strolling with greater trepidation to a hastily erected stall several booths away from the unwelcoming woman, to find that vendor pointedly turning his back on her.

  She continued to walk on, leery of making eye contact with any person now. Glancing around, it seemed she was beginning to draw a crowd. Forced to admit she would indeed find greater welcome at Conall's side, she turned and began to walk his way, looking about for the sight of his dark head. She had strayed farther than she had intended and could not even see that large group of soldiers, or even the main gate of the castle.

  She was roughly bumped from behind, stumbling with the force of the shove. Her heartbeat quickened as people rapidly began to close in on her, knocking and elbowing and bumping. Her kerchief was torn from her head. She was too small to see above the people pressing suddenly and madly around her and was now completely unsure of even which direction she faced.

  Unexpectedly, a gap cleared, and Tess breathed easier, considering that panic had almost set in. She moved on, but her eyes continued to swivel, as she tried to get her bearings. Something sharp and unyielding smacked down upon her head. She cried out, and her vision blurred. She reached a hand up to where she’d been struck and felt the wet stickiness of blood at the back in her hair. With her other hand, she reached toward the ground, as her legs buckled. She struggled to remain upright, watching people walk past her, all now with eyes focused with great malevolence upon her, it seemed. True horror crept into her chest.

  Conall would come for her, she thought, hanging on to that surety.

  A rock, not too large, but thrown with sufficient force, struck the back of her leg. When she instantly turned around, shocked, another struck her arm, followed immediately by several more striking her face, chest, and the hands she held up to defend herself. The stones kept coming, some thrown with such malice as to make her cry out, others seeming only a rude nuisance. They ripped open skin and gouged red welts into her arms and legs and head, one heaved with such intent and power that when it connected with the side of her head, she stumbled again, the scene before her blurry and gray.

  Of course, she had heard of stonings. She imagined them to be a singular ambush accomplished by a riotous mob, shouting and cursing, branding the victim with an alleged crime, wishing them loudly to hell or worse. But this was frighteningly surreal. No circle of evil formed around her. No calls for death could be heard.

  Tess sank to the ground as the stones and rocks continued to pelt her, eerily aware of their attempts to inflict pain without being noticed. They continued to walk about, as if strolling without destination through the festival. There was about these people a grumbling undertone of determined evil, a rumble here or there as a stone-thrower passed close by her, but there was no volume to their voices.

  Her mind began to dim from the pain of the persisting assault. She watched with battered and fearful eyes as they milled about. For a moment she imagined that she recognized Ezra among the crowd. He would help her surely—if only to avoid displeasing his laird. But there was no help forthcoming. She pressed her cheek against the hard earth, felt the dirt cling to a gouge near her ear and tried with great steadfastness to concentrate upon that small pain. Tiny granules of earth clung to the blood and imbedded themselves into her open skin, burning, stinging. A foot met with her back and another with her stomach.

  Inhaling as deeply as her suffocating fear would allow, Tess smelled the ground beneath her, turning her senses away from the pain and upon the scent of the earth, the unkind fragrance of a well-traveled path. The serfs' drab garments slid past her, all browns and similar shades, lacking even the smallest hint of brightness. Unimaginative, earthen, like their spirits, and she wondered that no one had ever thought to introduce color into their lives. They dressed as matter-of-factly as they murdered, without design and with a conscious effort to go unnoticed.

  I will die here among this quiet throng, she thought.

  Casting her tear-filled eyes about, Tess saw a familiar face.

  Alain was here. He had come for her.

  No, it couldn't be Alain. In a subtle gesture, this man held his cowl close to his face in an attempt to conceal himself. Certainly, this man resembled Alain so closely they could be brothers, but Alain would never have wanted to be seen, live or not, in such dreadful, coarse garments. Her blurred eyes had deceived her. It was not Alain at all.

  And still, Conall did not come.

  Tess closed her eyes, aware that her body, curled into itself, occasionally jerked and tightened with each rock or foot that found its mark.

  Finally, when her tenuous hold on consciousness began to fade, she heard her name being called. Suddenly, large hands lifted her up, away from the bloodied dirt. She might have thought it angels come to carry her home, save these hands were strong and blessedly familiar.

  "Tess!"

  She murmured something unintelligible, as speech was nearly beyond her, her body not her own just now. She tried to focus on Conall's face. What she saw, what she would never remember later, was the fierce ache in his eyes, that of unmitigated fear.

  Before she might have stowed away the wonder she fleetingly experienced at this, she was lifted into the air, against the strength of his chest. She cried—for who would not have?—and felt nothing more as Conall's long, sure strides conveyed them quickly inside the keep.

  CHAPTER 20

  Sometime later, Conall stormed out of the keep, roaring as if consumed by the fires of hell, charging through the still crowded inner bailey, overturning tables and booths as he went, venting this unrivaled fury. A man stepped unknowingly into his path and received an unrestrained fist in his face, while Conall’s countenance remained a display of torture. He quickly exhausted his immediate need for the release of rage. Breathing raggedly, he stumbled to right himself from his last wild barrage of destruction, slowing the swinging of his arms to an eventual halt. He was aware of the fright that surrounded him as people backed away nervously. None would meet his eye. In the gray-orange light of only a few bonfires at dusk, he considered those he knew, those who now slunk away with fear—not guilt, he knew, never that—and those who dared to meet his stare unblinkingly and taunt him. She deserved it.

  "Do you think she wants to be here?" He called out, his voice cracking on the shout. "To see your hatred and live with your scorn?" Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he waited for more breath to loudly proclaim, "She has tried repeatedly to escape me! I hold her against her will! I tried to force her to wed me that I might regain Marlefield!" Still drawing air into lungs that sputtered against it, he slowly turned about to take in all around him. "I threatened her at knife-point and still she refused to wed me. She vowed to kill herself before wedding with me. She had a family and a man to love and I stole her away. You’d no do the same if you were she? You’d no hate me and every one of us? You’d no watch the hills for your father or your lover come to save you?"

  These were not questions put out which required answers, but merely an attempt to make them understand. His voice said as much, the anger easy to define but his desperation more palpable. An odd quiet descended with his silence. Only the shuffling of feet, the crackling of fire broke the stillness.

  Fearing what these unprecedented emotions might do to him in the middle of the market, he walked through the separating crowd, only to turn again to consider the faces that watched him so warily. "You shame me. I'd never have thought it of Inesfree." Clamping his teeth, he ran a hand over his dark eyes and stubbled jaw. "The next person to threaten or harm her or disrespect her in any way will answer to me. And may God help you then.”

  He finally stalked away, into the night, struggling to grasp the myriad emotions that gripped him. He was shamed by their hatred. He was furious at their actions. How dare they ha
rm Tess in the middle of his own castle!

  Far away from the open gates of Inesfree, Conall slumped against the cold, unyielding trunk of a giant elm. His head found a place to hang in his hands, his elbows supported by knees that surely would have buckled had he remained standing.

  She was going to die.

  He had to face this fact. All those bruises, the lacerations, the blood. She was so tiny, so very small.

  Ah, God.

  He didn't want to see her. He couldn't be with her now. He wanted it to be quick, before he returned. Her breathing had been so shallow. Her eyes had not opened. He'd brought her to his room, had placed her upon the wide bed, had bid Mary fetch the old hag and Serena and whomever else she imagined might save her. But he'd seen enough of death and its likeness to know she'd not survive this.

  All because he'd brought her here. Because he'd wanted Marlefield. Because he'd believed it rightfully his. Because he'd never accepted her refusals. He’d refused to believe that she wouldn’t eventually give in to his persuasions or succumb to his wishes simply to avoid her fear.

  In his tortured mind, he pictured her bright eyes, watching him with great curiosity when she thought him inattentive, and lately with a softness he’d never known he craved. He pictured her hair, that indefinable hue that had fascinated more than he, and imagined he could at this very moment feel the softness of it. He saw her hands, so small when engulfed by his....

  Now covered in blood.

  "Ah, damn. Damn!" He stood abruptly, his face red and perspiring, and made short work of the distance between himself and Tess.

  He found her not as he'd left her almost an hour ago. Lying upon his great feathered mattress, her torn and bloodied gown having been discarded, her body bathed, she was clad loosely in a fresh cotton gown which covered her from neck to toe.

  Without a word, with the barest of gesture from his still grim countenance, Conall dismissed the quietly crying women from the room. The crone and Mary filed past him, sniffling as they left. Serena stood before him to tell him on a sob that Tess was as comfortable as they could make her, and she departed, closing the door with a soft click behind her.