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

  IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN. Oh, God. She wasn’t strong enough for this.

  The stones came, flying at her as if heaved from catapults, never missing their mark, large and gouging deeply. She fell and covered her face, her fingers clawing into a ground that was not so much rough earth as one solid but smooth hardness. She cried and screamed, and Alain was there again, as she’d believed him to be before. This time, he endeavored not to hide himself but enjoyed the melee. He watched eagerly, laughing loudest, his undiluted glee setting others to cackle devilishly as well. Ugly sounds, their laughter. Mean and hard, echoing ceaselessly in her ears.

  “Tess! Tess!”

  Conall. Angry again.

  “Tess! Wake up!” He shook her shoulders.

  Tess moaned and opened her eyes, dispelling the nightmare with a final whimper.

  Conall was here. In his chamber. She was safe, after all.

  He sat on the edge of the wide straw mattress, his hands having released her shoulders, but close still, on either side of her. He was dressed only in his tunic and breeches.

  “You were dreaming of it,” he guessed, and there was no need to define the ‘it’.

  Tess shuddered and offered a jerky nod, her eyes darting around the firelit room. It had been so real, surely the assailants lurked within, watching, waiting.

  “Tis only you and I,” he said, having glimpsed her horror. “Tess?”

  She breathed heavily but said nothing, just slumped further down into the mattress, closing her eyes.

  Tess opened her eyes again when she felt Conall rise and step away from the bed. She didn’t feel so much achy and bruised as she did restless, filled with a need to be gone from this bed. She hadn’t any idea of the time, save that it was night, the window only blackness. She sat up, which proved less painful than she’d expected, and settled the bed sheet and furs around her waist. “I’d like to see Bethany tomorrow.”

  Conall turned to face her again, considering all of her, looking pointedly at her bruising, gauging her healing. They had decided, within her first wakeful hours, that Bethany should absolutely not see her body in this state. But Tess, too, now scrutinized the visible scars, noting the discoloration was faded now to yellow and light green, and the salves that Metylda had provided had effectively reduced any open skin wounds to mere scratches this many days away from the incident. “I can cover my arms,” she suggested, but that left her face, which Tess frankly had no desire to see. Yet, she didn’t want to scare the poor child. For the hundredth time, she touched her fingers to her swollen eye. She looked to Conall for his opinion.

  He returned to the bed and sat down beside her. Tess lowered her hand, watching his face as he gently touched her chin, turning her face to the light of the fire. “’Tis no so bad today.”

  This close, she noticed something she hadn’t since first waking. She was very accustomed to his eyes and the many manifestations of their intensity. But now, while he sat so near, she noticed the distinct lack of fire, the absence of purpose, and no evidence of residual anger. He seemed almost detached.

  “Something is troubling you,” she guessed.

  A tiny spark lit his eyes, but perhaps this was only surprise she’d recognized his mind was occupied elsewhere.

  He drew a long breath. “Lass...I dinna ken how to say I’m sorry to you.”

  She certainly hadn’t expected that. When she answered, she only spoke what came to her mind. “True, this wouldn’t have happened to me if you hadn’t stolen me. ‘Tis just fact.” His eyes found hers, looking pained by this truth. “Yet, I do not believe you are a person who promotes hate and evil. I-I want to blame you,” she said, sorry for his growing discomfort, “but only because that would be easy, to try to understand the hatred of one person rather than hundreds.” Tess sighed, wearied by that thought. “But the truth is—and I don’t think you can deny this to me—that you do care about me and wouldn’t wish harm upon me.” These were possibly the boldest words she’d ever spoken.

  Conall’s entire expression seemed to soften, though he said nothing.

  Before he might have spoken, either to confirm or deny her supposition, Tess said, “But I don’t want to be killed. And I think you need to make me a promise—that if, after I speak to these people, they remain fixed in their hatred, that you will release me from my vow. I will never be safe here if they cannot be made to understand their hatred is misplaced.”

  Conall removed his eyes from her, turning his head to stare away from her. After a moment, he nodded.

  This should have brought her immense joy, the thing for which she’d wished so long was within her grasp. And yet, she only felt saddened by the very idea of not being at Inesfree, with Conall.

  “I canna put off leaving,” he said, causing her more distress.

  Leaving? Dear Lord, she’d nearly forgotten. Since he’d mentioned that he would join the great warrior of Scotland, William Wallace, battles had been waged inside her own head, torn between so many desires, not least of which was for Conall’s safety. On the heels of this, she prayed often for peace—everywhere—but mostly, she tussled with her allegiance. Being half-English and having lived for many years a sedate and delicate life within the cloister, she’d never known another person aside from her own father who was Scottish. In England, the people of Scotland had been painted with a rather broad brush stroke—they were heathens undeserving of sympathy and would all be better off once Edward I finally had his way with them.

  Yet, she was also half-Scottish. And her allegiance, which she suspected greatly favored Scotland, had more to do with the people inside this castle and was not at all related to the Scottish blood given from Arthur Munro—and this, in spite of how long she’d lived in fear here, in spite of even this most recent offence committed by Inesfree’s own.

  “You should put it off no more,” she told him. Tess tilted her head and wondered, “Might you have gone sooner to Wallace’s side had you not taken me?”

  Conall shook his head. “No. I’d spent the winter with him, until Edward chased us about. When the nobles swore to Edward in February, it seemed a good time to regroup.”

  “You weren’t required to swear allegiance to Edward and England?

  “Aye, I am. But I’m no verra political and I’ve a smaller house, and for the most part have stolen beneath the notice of the English. But it’s time to claim our freedom.”

  She looked down as his hand moved, reaching from where it had rested just next to her thigh. He picked up her hand, the one that had suffered much battering at the May Day feast, his fingers gentle upon her palm as his thumb traced the fine veins upon the back of it. She was well familiar with the escalation of her own heartbeat at the warmth of his touch.

  “Why do you put off the leaving, then?” She asked, to the top of his head while he continued to stare at their hands.

  His wrist flicked slowly to bring her eyes to where lie his. As ever, his hand was larger and more sun-darkened, the veins that marked paths being raised and corded. In contrast, hers was tiny and pale, giving no intimation of strength when coming up so short compared to his.

  “For this,” he said.

  Her eyes jerked away from their hands, but he’d not yet lifted his own gaze. When he finally did, she witnessed again that warmth and desire whose absence she’d noted earlier.

  He kissed her only briefly, softly, just breezing his mouth across hers, eliciting a sigh before her lips were abandoned. Tess struggled mightily to rein in her disappointment. She’d closed her eyes, expecting—needing—his kiss and when she opened them, it was to see him stand from the bed and stretch. She did not trouble herself to remove her gaze from him. She was hard put to contain her own sorrow for his leave-taking. But perhaps, on this night, she would like to lie beside him, just to feel him near, to know because he was so close, she was safe. Nightmares would recede into that place where Conall was not. She would close her eyes, feel safe, and pretend there was naught else between them; no history, no battle,
no fear. True, it was wrong and sinful, too. But he’d just agreed to let her go, if she couldn’t somehow manage to prevent him from hanging the persons who’d attacked her, if she failed to make them or help them abandon their hatred.

  She must, though. She just must.

  “CONALL?” SHE CALLED to him softly.

  He froze, the long slender rod he’d used to adjust the logs within the hearth suspended in mid-air, his eyes held captive by his thoughts of her and the swaying of the flames. Tess had never called him by his Christian name before this moment. Her tone was neither coy nor frightened, but soft, hesitant, testing the sound upon her tongue. Slowly, he straightened and turned. She sat as he’d left her. In the dim interior of the chamber, from the small distance across the room, he leveled his gaze upon her and waited. He watched her eyes dancing around him, nervous.

  He wondered what other long-denied truths or unwilling promises she might force from him now.

  When finally her eyes met his, she asked, “Will you...lie here tonight?”

  If ever there had been put to him a loaded question, surely this was it. He approached the bed, towering over her as he reached the side. She didn’t shrink away but met his gaze, not boldly but with a certain resolve.

  “Would you have me sleep here, Tess?” He had plans to do so but would let her think the choice was hers. He hadn’t sought his own bed, despite Tess having taken up residence within, since the attack, so afraid of causing her more harm, physical and otherwise. But here she was, appearing not so much frightened as sad.

  She nodded, and it was obvious she disliked admitting even this. But any ire her stubbornness might have bred was diminished when she said, “I would...I would want to lie next to you.”

  Had there been sufficient light, he was sure he’d have spied a flush creeping up the creamy expanse of her neck. His own heart raced. He had to know.

  “Why? Why now?”

  She closed her eyes, perhaps to gather courage. But he wouldn’t coddle her in this regard. She hadn’t done so for him.

  “I don’t want to be afraid.”

  That was enough, he decided, and entirely sufficient. He nodded thoughtfully.

  In his mind, he dove into the bed beside her and took her into his arms with particular urgency. In reality, he guessed this was not what she sought. And, too, in the back of his mind remained his thoughts of riding away from Inesfree and leaving Tess behind.

  Without great care, he doffed his tunic, and tossed it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed, thinking to spare her the removal of his breeches and braies. He watched her shimmy her bottom and herself further toward the wall and climbed in beside her and lay on his back. He raised his arms, placing one under his head, offering the other to her, holding it above them until she understood and shyly moved toward him. She placed her hand upon his bare chest and lowered her head into the crook of his shoulder. Conall lowered his arm around her. He stared at the open timber of the ceiling, pretended she didn’t smell so fresh, or that her hair didn’t feel so damn soft against his naked skin, and that her kisses weren’t known to be so affecting. But this was an ineffective ploy. Her entire body was pressed against him, her breasts teasing his ribs, her thighs rubbing against his own.

  The devil himself had not imagined torture such as this, he thought. Conall might have found a rare amusement in the situation had it been anyone but he who suffered.

  He didn’t sleep for a long time. He’d just promised her he would release her if she couldn’t by some means transform Inesfree’s dangerous and unreasonable loathing of her. And he only had a few hours to figure out a way to make her stay when she failed to do so.

  IN A TINY COTTAGE IN the village, far outside the curtained walls of Inesfree, another man stared pensively at the ceiling above him. ‘Twas not a cottage, truly, he’d decided earlier. Nothing more than four walls, barely that, and a roof that surely leaked during the rains. A hut. A hovel, he’d have called it. But it offered slightly more warmth than the cold Scots night and, too, there was the added warmth of the whore beside him.

  Whore, there was a term. He laughed inside. Whore, in this girl’s life, would have been a tribute. She was the widow of a mason who had died rather suspiciously—he liked that bit—with hair that would give straw a good name and a disposition that goats might envy. She’d proved unimaginative upon the mattress despite the coin he’d enticed her with.

  Yet, his options had been spare. These villagers, with such gray and dreary lives, and their severe distrust of travelers or any person who thought to encroach upon their squalid line of shacks, had tested Alain almost to the point of violence.

  But encroach he had. He had his thousand pounds to earn yet.

  He might have earned it already, without even raising a finger if these same dull people had done the job for him. He remained now only to learn if Tess had survived the brutal attack. He’d been just as shocked as Tess had been when that first stone had struck. As the stoning had continued and Tess had fallen, his interest had risen. He had no experience with murder and had truly dreaded the task to which he’d been set, had wondered if he could actually do it. Could he snuff out a life? Would he opt for a painless end to spare his own squeamish nature? Or might he find grim pleasure in a violent scene? He might never know. The choice had been stolen from him, and not without a breath of relief.

  At this very moment, Tess might be dead.

  She had seen him.

  In bed, one hand idly scratching at his chest, he considered the consequences of being seen by his quarry. Lost in his own horrified glee that day, he had stared quite unabashed—had surprised even himself—as she lie upon the ground, blood covering so many parts of her slim body. When her eyes had found him, it had taken only fear of discovery to avert his fascinated gaze from her tortured body.

  And then that brute MacGregor had swept into the beautifully quiet scene and had removed her from all that evil. But had he been in time?

  They had not married yet, Alain had learned firsthand from that mammoth of a man weeks ago, and had it confirmed by the sullen villagers. Yet, there was something indelible between his one-time betrothed and the MacGregor. Alain had seen it. Had witnessed that Scotsman’s eyes when he’d found her. He might have been facing his own death, his eyes had shown such fear—surely a telling moment. Alain knew immediately the MacGregor’s alarm had little to do with any possible loss of Marlefield. What Alain had seen in MacGregor’s eyes and actions when he’d come upon Tess’s battered body told Alain that everything—every single word—uttered from MacGregor himself at their lone meeting had been a lie.

  It was not in the plans that she be returned to her father, but Alain now believed that his chances of actually earning the thousand pounds already paid to him were virtually nil. Alain had witnessed that feral gleam in the MacGregor’s eye and that meant he’d never be able to spirit her away from him—even if he had help from Tess herself. It was unlikely she would ever again be allowed to be in so vulnerable a position as she had been in the market.

  He’d thought to question again in the morning the recalcitrant villagers. He must know that Tess was indeed dead—he truly could not conceive that she had survived such heathenism. Confirmation of her death was the only reason he’d remained in this dreary and inhospitable place. Were she dead, the coin was his and he could move on. If she was not, he was sure that his own continued existence—he imagined Glasgow was fine at this time of year—was likely only guaranteed if he returned the coin to Arthur Munro. He wanted nothing to do with either her madman of a father or her even more dangerous lover.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I still dinna ken why I’m taking advice from an old blind man,” Conall whispered harshly to Gregor the next day, when the ‘trial’ was about to begin.

  Gregor leaned into Tess, who sat between the two chiefs. He grinned and shrugged. “Because he was the smartest man in the room?”

  Conall threw him a dark look, which perfectly advised Gregor of his e
xhausted tolerance. He gripped the thick wooden arms of the chair.

  This did not go unnoticed by Tess. “I should be the nervous one,” she said and gave him a soft, imploring look, hoping he knew she needed him to be strong for her.

  They sat together, all of them—Tess in the middle with Conall and Serena to her left, and Gregor and Angus to her right—upon the dais at the laird’s table. John stood in front of them, feet braced apart and hands on his sword. The hall was otherwise empty while they waited.

  Tess self-consciously touched her fingers to the skin around her eye, deciding that it might actually feel less tender, as if the swelling had decreased yet more.

  Her hand was pulled away by Conall. He settled it on the arm of her chair and covered it with his. It was meant to be comforting, to tell her not to fret, but her stomach was so unsettled as to be almost painful and she feared at any moment she might just start crying. They needed to see all the damage done to her, she knew, but was certainly ill-at-ease about her appearance, despite Serena’s best efforts with her hair and gown.

  “Neither too formal, nor too fashionable,” Serena had insisted, regarding how to wear her hair. “We don’t want to intimidate them. We want them to see you as someone just like them.” With that in mind, she’d only brushed out Tess’s long hair and tied it with a single ribbon at her nape, leaving the length draped over her left shoulder. Tess wore a plain blue kirtle, which laced up from the waist to the modest neckline.

  And she waited. It had not been easy to leave the safety and solace of Conall’s chamber. Conall had insisted he would carry her down to the hall, but Tess’s need to at least appear strong was powerful and she’d walked down the stairs with careful steps, aware of Conall’s glowers and grimaces while she continued to refuse his help.

  She’d practiced, again and again in her mind, words she might say to these people. Staring now at the twelve waiting stools lined before the main table, she still couldn’t fathom that people could truly be so evil to wish death upon a person they did not know, and who had presented no threat to them. Wishing was one thing, but to go a step further and carry out such a deed was an extremely frightening thing to consider. What kind of person did that? She hoped that murder hadn’t actually been their intent. Maybe they’d only wanted to scare her, or simply remind her that she was unwelcome. Maybe it had just gone too far....