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

  He drew a chair close to the bed and took up a position at her side. There was little of Tess to recognize though her face had borne the least of the assault. He'd never seen her so still, eyes closed, the left one swollen grotesquely. She looked very peaceful. Always with him, she'd been stubborn, her chin set or squared; or melancholy, her features joyless. Of late, on rare occasions, she'd shown signs of a revival of spirits, something he'd hoped might become more pronounced and regular.

  Never this, though. Never this paleness nor this quiet.

  "I did this, Tess," he whispered harshly, "and I canna fix it. I can punish them. I can slay each and every one...but I canna help you." He took up her hand, tracing a pattern about her palm, marveling at the blue veins, so slim and transparent, visible on the back of her hand. The other hand he wouldn't touch. It was swollen to nearly twice its size, purple and so very incriminating.

  SERENA ENTERED CONALL's room several hours later to find him sitting still in the large chair beside the bed. He did not sleep.

  "Conall, I shall sit with Tess," she offered and tried to guide him from the chair.

  "Leave us."

  "Conall—"

  "Leave us!"

  Conall waited until Serena had gone before taking up Tess’s hand again in his.

  He would not leave her. Not now. Inexplicably, he now wanted to be with her in the end. Should she wake, he would be near. She would know he was here.

  He would tell her—what? That he was sorry? No, he still believed he'd have done anything to have Marlefield. But then, he'd never considered this. Having known Tess, he faced the weakening conclusion that he would not have chosen to sacrifice her life to have Marlefield back.

  I have murdered her, he thought grimly. As if I, myself, had assaulted her, I have murdered her.

  The minutes turned in to hours. Conall alternately stayed at her side, holding her hand, or looked out the window, onto the scene below, where life continued while Tess barely fought for hers.

  This angered him.

  "You are no even trying," he hissed, once again at her side. "You’re a coward, Tess Munro. You'll let your fear win. I believed your will greater."

  She did not respond, of course. Frowning, breathing heavily through his nose, he laid his head upon her hand.

  The door opened after another long hour. It was near to dawn now. Conall had dozed. He raised his head as the crone entered, the perpetual bag of herbs and whatnot swinging from a cord at her waist. He looked at Tess.

  She slept still. She hadn’t moved at all.

  Metylda stood at the opposite side of the bed. She imparted nothing immediately, just stared at Tess while Conall waited.

  "She will live, you must ken," the hag finally said, though her eyes did not move to Conall.

  "She is too small...for this," he said impatiently and waved a hand to indicate Tess’s appearance, which spoke loudly of her condition.

  "But she is no meant to die for you," Metylda murmured in her cracked voice, so reminiscent of the crags of Scotland, aged and wise. She untied the bag from her hip and placed it at the bedside table. "When she wakes, stir a pinch of this into wine. For the pain."

  He had no reason to believe the crone knew of what she spoke, other than that she sounded so damn convinced of it herself. And, too, the fact that it gave Conall hope made him eager to cling to it as truth.

  He watched Tess with great hope over the next hours. At times, she breathed easier, it seemed. Her pulse was strong now, stronger than even an hour ago.

  Shortly after dawn, Gregor Kincaid crept into the room. He moved to stand opposite Conall, drew in a sharp breath at Tess’s appearance, and breathed, “Jesu.” He was neither so heartless to not be moved by the very wretched visage of his friend, nor so obtuse as to not notice that Conall did not take his eyes off her.

  “I am to blame,” he admitted to Conall. “I left her. I caused the ruckus—”

  Conall shook his head and turned to Gregor, all that boldness and sureness—of which Gregor had always been so envious—gone now.

  “I want them hanged.”

  “Aye.” Gregor had expected as much. ‘Twas only right.

  “I dinna care if they threw one stone or ten, or if they only watched and did nothing, I want them named and found and I want them hanged. John’ll ken what to do.” And he returned his gaze to Tess.

  After a few more minutes, Gregor squeezed Conall’s shoulder and left the room.

  By the time four more hours had passed, Conall was completely sure he was not just being hopeful. Tess’s breathing was indeed smoother. The bruising, about those few parts of her body that he could see, those not covered with her night rail or bed sheets, had begun to turn ugly shades of red and blue and purple.

  An hour later when Tess began to moan in her sleep, Conall was convinced she would survive this. He called for Serena to procure some broth. She would need to eat. And her hair would need to be washed again for the gash upon her scalp had bled through the night, causing tendrils to clump together in sticky strands. Perhaps the women should bathe her entire body again, rid her of as much of the crime against her as they could.

  While Conall left Tess only momentarily to fetch Serena and the others to attend her, she roused. For just a moment, a small speck of clarity, brought above the pain, Tess woke and called his name.

  There was no response to her plea. She called again... and began to wonder if she only imagined that she spoke.

  "Conall?" He did not come to her. Tess closed her eyes again and allowed sleep to claim her once more. A lone tear slid from the corner of her eye, eased into the hair at her temple and mixed with the blood.

  "I DEMAND THAT YOU WAKE," Conall told Tess eight hours later. He'd stayed with her throughout the day, but other than an occasional escaped moan or cry, she'd not fully roused, and Conall was now angry. She'd shown more mettle in her dealings with him. He knew she was made, on the inside, of sturdy stuff. She wouldn’t have refused him his wish of wedding this long if she weren't.

  So why in the hell wouldn't she wake?

  "This will no win you favors, Tess," he warned with little tolerance. "Keep at it and I'll no allow you your garden, nor your precious Bethany." Growing weary, Conall once more slumped into the chair at her side. “I’ll throw Angus out,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’ll never see him again, I swear.” He took up her hand, as he'd done a dozen times or more, and linked their fingers. He liked the look of their hands twined together. His was big and dark, and though he'd never much given thought to the appearance of his own hand, to see it now, together with Tess’s pale and fragile one, it seemed...validated.

  Her hand squeezed his.

  Conall's eyes flew to hers and found her watching him, her lids half open, the expression within as haunted as any he'd ever witnessed.

  "Tess?"

  "I kept looking for you,” she murmured. She tugged feebly at her hand.

  Every bit of guilt and remorse and self-reproach he’d willingly let torture him over the past day and a half was nothing compared to what her words had just done to him.

  Conall loosened his fingers and watched hers slide away, aware that with this gesture, something fled from him. He stared at her fingers and knew a vague, inexpressible fear. His own face suddenly blank, he inquired about the extent of her pain, truly sorry that she remembered any of what had transpired.

  “Everything—it all hurts,” she finally said, her voice scratchy.

  “I’ll fetch Metylda,” he said, standing so abruptly that the chair on which he’d perched flipped over behind him.

  She shook her head against the pillow. A tear slid away from her discolored eye.

  “Please... don’t leave me.” She tried to move, or shift, and sobbed pitifully, almost silently.

  Conall was at a complete loss. He couldn’t leave her. He didn’t want to touch her, certain that it would bring or arouse pain. He was afraid to even hold her while she cried. A hard pain surged through his chest a
nd tightened his throat.

  “Just tell me what to do,” was all he could think to offer.

  The door opened, and Conall turned helpless eyes to see who came. Both Metylda and Serena entered, and Conall knew a profound relief.

  Upon noticing Tess’s wakefulness, both women hurried to the bedside.

  Serena sat right down near Tess’s hip. She didn’t hug her friend, possibly afraid to bring her pain as Conall had been, but softly rubbed her arm and moved the hair out of Tess’s face while she continued to cry. Conall’s brows rose as the hag, too, settled herself upon the bed, opposite Serena. It was the hag who spoke first. Conall had never heard such tender speech from the old woman.

  “Here now, lassie, you get it all out, go on now. Just cry it out.” Her gnarled fingers hovered close but did not touch Tess. “’Tis an awful thing what they done, no way ‘round it. You cry for now.”

  And she did. Great, racking sobs overtook her, until her body shook, and her breath was lost. Serena and Metylda cooed and comforted her, and just let her cry.

  Conall’s throat was on fire, his teeth gritted so tightly that pain shot down his jaw and neck. But he remained. She’d asked him not to leave her.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time, Tess’s tears were exhausted. Her cries fell silent and her breathing slowed. Metylda stood and fetched the pouch she’d left with Conall earlier, then stepped around him and out the door. Serena remained with Tess, now motionless again. Serena whispered something to Tess, who shook her head briefly in response.

  When the old woman returned, she held a cup of wine. She stirred in several pinches of whatever herbs were contained in her pouch and swirled the cup in her hand.

  It took the efforts of both Serena and Metylda to help Tess rise enough to drink from the cup, and she moaned twice during the process. Conall wanted to help, but feared his hands were too big and clumsy and would only hurt her more. He stood with his arms folded over his chest, feeling helpless still, his muscles screaming against the tension in him.

  The women remained for another quarter hour, and Conall thought their presence certainly was of comfort to Tess. She slept again, with the aid of whatever that hag had given her in the wine.

  CHAPTER 21

  Conall rarely left his chamber, or Tess’s side. Whenever she woke, she was immediately given another draught of Metylda’s herbs and slept soon after. By necessity, he’d met several times with John and Gregor and even Leslie MacDonnell, taking these meetings sometimes just outside the door. When the women bathed and changed Tess, Conall took that opportunity to see to his own quick bath and a change of clothes. He’d advised Serena that Bethany was absolutely forbidden to see Tess right now, but that Angus most certainly was welcome.

  Alone with Tess, a full three and a half days since he’d borne her bloody and bruised to his chamber, Conall sat again in the chair at her bedside while she slept. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and scratched through his hair. A full wide yawn overtook him just as someone rapped at the door.

  It opened to reveal John and Gregor. Conall stood to meet them, watching two pairs of eyes look beyond him to the bed. They were now nearly accustomed to exactly how battered her tiny frame and face appeared. Yesterday, John had been staggered by the sight, his lip curling with such distaste and anger, he’d been forced to take an abrupt leave, though he hadn’t been within the chamber for more than a minute.

  “We have six now,” John said, one hand on his hip, the other covering the top of his sword. “More to come.”

  “Aye, they’ll start talking once they ken they’re bound to hang,” Gregor added. “One we have is a woman.”

  Conall looked sharply at him. “And she will hang, too.”

  “Aye,” they all agreed.

  “The grounds are cleared,” Gregor said, folding his arms across his chest. “Your steward and bailiff saw to that, everyone gone now.”

  Conall nodded.

  Gregor continued, “I sent a rider to Elcho Park to tell Wallace we’d be delayed some. Should have word back on his direction in a day, maybe more.”

  Tess made a sound from the bed and all three men turned their attention to her. Conall approached while John and Gregor hung back.

  He reached automatically for the herbs and wine.

  “No more,” Tess objected.

  Conall stopped and turned to her. “’Tis meant to get you to the other side of the pain.” She was trying to sit up, and because neither Serena nor the old healer were present, Conall was compelled to assist her. He gentled his touch as much as he knew how and shifted her upward with hands under her arms. She clung to his forearms, her face a mask of pain, though she made not a sound. Today, the bruises on her face showed much less swelling, though her left eye was still half closed from the injury around it.

  John stepped forward and turned the pillow up on its short side, against the wooden headboard, just as Conall settled her backward.

  “Shall I call for Serena?” Conall asked.

  Tess shook her head and let her eyelids fall closed for just a second. When she opened them, her gaze swept over John and Gregor. “Did I interrupt?” She asked.

  All three were quick to insist she had not.

  “Aw, now, lass,” John said kindly, “it ain’t right what they done, so here we are, about to make ‘em pay.”

  Her eyes found Conall, a question within.

  He nodded. “Some of the persons who attacked you have been apprehended.”

  “And?”

  “They will hang,” Conall answered simply, firmly.

  “Am I to be freed?” She spoke slowly, as if it would cause pain if she did not, but the question raised brows.

  “Tess—” He did not, of course, remind her of her vow to stay. Again, guilt suffused him.

  “Will you release me?” She persisted, her words measured and implacable.

  Conall said nothing.

  As fierce as he’d ever seen her, she met his hard gaze and uttered evenly, “If I’m to stay, and you do this, their hate will grow tenfold.”

  He breathed a spasm of relief, realizing that leaving was not her desire.

  Silence hung in the chamber.

  “The lass is right,” Gregor finally said.

  Conall turned and leveled Gregor with a mighty scowl. His friend at least had the grace to not appear happy about her suggestion or his own entertainment of it.

  Through gritted teeth, Conall insisted, “They need to be punished.”

  “You cannot kill them,” she protested.

  “But lass,” John Cardmore butted in, “dead men dinna throw stones. And who else would dare, if a hanging awaits them?”

  Tess sighed, dark circles under her eyes that had little to do with her injuries. “But it will only intensify the hate, if they’re hanged because of me.”

  “What do you suggest?” Gregor asked, unconcerned with the steam seeming to rise off Conall.

  Her shoulders lifted and fell. “I-I don’t know. Could I meet them? Could I talk to them?”

  Conall resorted to shouting as Gregor and Tess discussed this not only as if he weren’t present, but also as if he were not already fuming. “Absolutely no!” He struck the air with his fist. “I don’t want them even breathing the same air as her!”

  Gregor stayed him by raising a hand to make him stop. “Why no? Let them see what they’ve done,” he suggested while Conall’s seething increased with each word.

  “Are you daft—”

  “Let them meet her, talk to her,” Gregor persisted.

  Nearer to the bed, John began to nod, his expression thoughtful. “The devil you ken and all that. Let the lass decide after she meets ‘em if they deserve to die.”

  Conall’s eyes were wide and alarmed, upon Gregor and then John.

  Tess spoke up, turning Conall’s attention to her. “But make it public,” she added, which caused Conall to appear to have fits. “If they choose to be belligerent, if they are merely evil by nature, every
one will see this, and see that they were given a chance. And if they persist with...with their hate, then you...should punish them. But what if they’re sorry, or were just caught up, or—”

  Conall had had enough. He roared, with great disgust, “Of course they’re sorry now! They’re about to hang!”

  “Maybe no public, lass,” said a voice from the open doorway.

  All three men within the room turned to find Angus standing there, one thin hand just touching the door jamb.

  Tess smiled.

  “Least no too public,” Angus continued, “you’re no up for that.” He took one more step into the room and John approached him, lending his arm to bring him to Tess. He deposited the older man at her bedside, in the chair Conall had used.

  A lone tear slid down Tess’s cheek, though she smiled to see her friend. She bent forward and touched her forehead to his. They whispered, though none too quietly, as the three men heard the exchange.

  “I am happy that you cannot see me like this, Angus,” she confided.

  “Bruises fade, lass. And you’re still the bonniest one in the room, like as no.”

  Tess smiled, but even a short laugh was beyond her.

  “I only worry, lass—what if they’re awful? What if they keep with the hate, even after they ken you? You’ve a soft heart, and that’s the bruising I’m worried about.”

  Tess considered this, a small frown gathering before she answered. “I think the worst of them now...or I believe the worst. Might it help if they proved me wrong?”

  “Aye, it might. Maybe just in the hall, then. Informal-like, surrounded by those who do love you. You could hear their side, and they yours.”

  “But what if I’m wrong, Angus?”

  The old man searched for and found her hand, holding it firmly. “Then you have to let ‘em hang, lass.” He turned his head, just a bit, knowing Conall stood behind him. “But do it quickly, laird, whilst the evidence of their crime remains. Let ‘em see what they done.”