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

  "You will respond, woman." His voice was low and threatening.

  "I will not." Tess raised her chin a notch.

  "You will, I say, if you value that lovely white skin of yours," he ground out.

  "No."

  Conall clenched his teeth together with enough force for the motion to be audible.

  "Let me make the choice very simple. Say 'I do' or die by my hand. Tonight."

  "No."

  "Goddamn you!" Quickly, before she could have guessed his exact intentions—she must have had a notion of what her resistance might bring—Conall seized her by the throat, his dagger appearing before her eyes, lowering then to press into her cheek. Not cutting, but dangerously close, the point visible even to widened eyes that only held his. Tess’s hand clawed uselessly at the vice around her neck, scratching the skin of his own hand as she was lifted nearly off her feet, her toes barely touching the cold floor. Her fear was palpable, had its own scent, nearly engulfing the pair. The blade inched lower, scraping with its sharp edge the underside of her jaw, making even her short raspy breaths impossible for the moment, lest she be pricked.

  After an endless moment, assuming he'd made his point, Conall removed the weapon and released her, watching dispassionately as she choked and gagged for breath, sputtering and coughing.

  "Shall we proceed?" He asked pointedly and tucked his dagger back into its sheath on his belt. He prodded her along to the altar without waiting for a response. To the now heavily dismayed priest, Conall ordered, "Continue."

  "Ahem. Yes, where was I? Oh, yes. Ahem...do you Lady Tess of Marlefield, take this man to be—"

  "No. I refuse."

  The priest’s eyes widened at this, and then yet more so at the reaction of Conall.

  Rage overtook him. He roared his fury, shaking the timbers above, stomping around before clutching Tess to him with his hands on her upper arms. This time, he lifted her fully off the ground, raising her to eye level.

  "Are you dimwitted? Are you a witless fool to prefer death to a wedding?" He shook her back and forth, as easily and carelessly as one might a rag doll, the volume of his rage exploding in her ears and to all corners of the dank chapel.

  "My Lord!" the priest objected frantically and watched in horror as Conall released her, just dropped her to the ground to roar above her head while the short cleric tried to install reason.

  "Do you wish to die then?"

  "My lord, cease!"

  "Shall I spill your blood here and now?"

  "This is highly inappropriate—”

  "Do you care so little for your life then?

  "You cannot threaten death merely because she refuses to wed you."

  Tess finally raised her eyes but did not beseech the palpitating priest to save her. She stared firmly at Conall, while tremors shook her.

  "I swore you would see me dead before wed to the likes of you. Get on with it, then."

  It was just unnatural, Conall thought, stunned that she should defy him so. Grown men—seasoned warriors, able lords!—would have relented at less. But she, this woman-child, held out. Conall was speechless.

  Shakily, she regained her feet and brushed her hands off on her skirts. "The answer will always be no. So be done with it."

  It was impossible to control the grimaced wrath that contorted his features. His hands itched to strike her, and he would never know what prevented him from doing so. Standing in the house of God? The presence of the cleric? The shimmering tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks while she so steadfastly met his dark gaze?

  "Death you prefer, death it shall be," Conall promised, his voice seething. With less care than the little he'd shown her thus far, he grabbed her up in a bruising grip and left the chapel with her in tow.

  "My lord!" The priest tried to follow but Conall's bellow of "Silence!" and the door slamming in his face precluded a chase.

  They retraced their steps and were soon back inside the main hall, Tess struggling to keep up with his angry pace. He hauled her across the hall, uncaring now of the bodies disturbed, and up a narrow and steep flight of steps in one corner of the room. They sped through a long and dark corridor before Conall mounted another flight of stairs and then kicked open a heavy wooden door at the top and shoved her inside.

  He watched with cruel eyes as she sprawled onto the floor at his feet.

  "You shall meet death here.”

  And he left, closing the thick wooden door behind him.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the third morning of her captivity, Tess was quite sure the beast meant to starve her to death. He would soon succeed, she deduced, for she'd not eaten since being brought here. Indeed, she had not seen another living soul since the beast had so unceremoniously deposited her here. He'd closed the door behind him and left her in total darkness. It had taken her a good half hour to command the strength of will to explore her prison. She had risen shakily on weak limbs to seek out clues as to her whereabouts, stumbling around the room in the unnerving darkness. It hadn't taken long to discover that she'd been locked in a tower room, a large square chamber, sparsely furnished, and with only one small window to the outside world.

  To freedom.

  Something she feared she might never know again.

  Since then, she had spent most of her time sitting or lying upon a fur throw, which she had discovered was infested with bugs, but it offered the only warmth, inadequate though it were, in this damp place. She waited for her father or Alain to come for her. Surely Alain would have alerted her father and they would have gathered the men-at-arms. Surely by now they were almost here. Perhaps as she sat here, they were just beyond the trees she had spied out that lone window, strategizing. Perhaps tonight they would come.

  She would be safe again.

  But the night came and went, the sun rose behind idyllic puffy clouds and still they did not come for her.

  It was on her fourth morning that Tess began to truly notice the ill but inevitable effects of hunger.

  Gloomily, Tess cast her eyes once more around the room where the beast had proclaimed she would meet her death. It was truly a prison cell, with only a table and chair, and that one very dirty fur throw on the ground, which offered little warmth but several varieties of nits. But what did it matter if she herself were subsequently infested? Her jailer would not care, might even revel in the thought. Her coming death made such matters mere trifles.

  Oh, how glad she was that her mother was gone. That she'd be not subjected to such fear over Tess’s disappearance. That she'd not dream of what might have befallen her only daughter. That she would never know a fright such as this.

  Hopelessly, Tess fell onto the fur throw, scratching automatically at her head.

  For perhaps the thousandth time, she let her thoughts drift to her captor. MacGregor the Murderer. There were few in Scotland who'd not heard of him. Said to have been raised by forest beasts—this, the only part of the myth she'd yet to fully accept as truth—he purportedly preyed upon the weak and unarmed, murdering as he pleased, wreaking havoc as sport, raping and pillaging some said only to add kindling to his legend. Having looked into those ice blue eyes, having witnessed his rage, Tess was prepared now to believe it all.

  At Marlefield, there was always talk of the MacGregor. Whatever his reasons, her father, Sir Arthur, had a special hatred of him and stoked that hatred in his soldiers at every opportunity. Tess was not sure of his exact reasons and knew her father to be no saint—indeed, he was the most difficult man at times—but she had wondered at this particular revulsion he nurtured for the MacGregor. But 'twas not only her father who spread the loathing. The entire clan shared Sir Arthur's passion for seeking justice against the MacGregor. Now recalling some particular atrocities attributed to him, Tess seized upon the notion that she had been correct in her resistance, that indeed she might rather die than endure what fate might befall her as his wife.

  Wearily, wondering if she might be losing her mind, Tess considered her options. The
y were simple: marriage or death. But she had more to consider here than herself alone. The entire clan Munro, whether they knew it or not, might survive only because of her loyalty. For while it was true that her father, Sir Arthur, more Edward's vassal than a true son of Scotland, did have holdings in England, the clan’s people would be unlikely to find welcome there. They would be left homeless should she be forced to marry this barbarian, and if he chose to put them out.

  And yet... Tess considered the tenderness of the MacGregor's kiss and could then barely reconcile the rumors to the man. She wanted to believe that no man touched like that and murdered for diversion. To justify her own damning response to that kiss, she needed to believe this—that no man could entirely conceal his inner self at such an intimate moment.

  The sudden sound of footsteps roused Tess from her reverie. The steps were steady and sharp, not familiar in the least, but Tess knew to whom they belonged. They were sure and solid, and no doubt carried the beast to her now.

  Keys rattled. The door was pushed open.

  Tess lifted her head and stared at her captor.

  He filled the large doorway, shrinking it and the impressive size of the tower room. Taller surely than Goliath, he ducked and entered, stepping fully into the room. Tess did not rise, but neither did she cower nor reveal any expression. This was not intentional. It was all she could do to keep her head up and her eyes focused, her weakness from three days unfed having sapped what little strength her fright had not.

  He was without doubt the largest person Tess had ever encountered. Shoulders nearly as wide as the portal tapered down to neatly trim hips and thighs of powerful proportions, encased tightly in dirt colored breeches. His hair was black as pitch, thick and untidy, curling just to the bottom of his neck. His plaid of green, brown, and gold was draped across his chest, secured at his shoulder with an eagle’s head brooch.

  Tess met his gaze without shrinking away in fear for truly she saw not his expression, only his eyes, as blue as she remembered them, remarkably so. Neither small nor sunken, not narrowed or deep set, they were curious eyes with, Tess understood immediately, a great perception and intelligence. Beyond his eyes, his face was unremarkable, she judged, save for the strength reflected in it. Not of physical power, for that was measured easily in his immense size, but of inner strength. There was about the sharp lines of his features—the square jaw and straight, blunt nose, the contours and hollows of his cheeks, the smooth, firm tightness of his mouth—a wisdom, a resilience that could not be denied and Tess knew instinctively that her fears were greatly justified. Here was a man not easily swayed. He would not be deterred nor easily led wandering from his course. He would have his way.

  "Come," he said, and Tess could only stare at his hand, larger as he stretched it out to beckon her, seemingly too large as it neared her, flicking his fingers impatiently in a gesture suited to his command. She imagined that hand might circle her whole, wrap her up in its grasp and consume her, spirit and all.

  "Move, woman. Now."

  Tess ignored the outstretched hand and made to rise but felt her knees crack from many hours upon the hard timbered floor of the tower room. She stumbled as her feet gave way beneath her.

  Immediately, his immense hand was upon her arm to bring her fully to her feet, supporting her as her own legs could not.

  Without a word, he led her out of her prison, down the narrow steps and around a corner to another staircase. This was it, then. Now he would murder her. She considered agreeing to marry him but dismissed the idea. Aside from loyalty to her own kin, she suspected that even if she were to comply with his wishes, he might still murder her after laying claim to Marlefield.

  Soon enough, they reached the main hall.

  Tess glanced around the large stone and timbered room, which was capped by an arched ceiling and showed few windows. Tallow candles hung in iron rings at regular intervals about the east and west walls. People milled about; serving wenches tidied up the tables from the morning meal; several pages huddled in the far corner, surrounded by huge hounds, polishing shields and swords; two older knights sat at the nearest table, their hands wrapped around dull tankards, their voices low.

  Upon spying their laird, all activity stopped. Many eyes turned her way, not bothering to disguise their dislike—nay, their hatred—of the Munro prisoner.

  The beast was either obtuse or chose to ignore their loathsome glares.

  "Eat," he then surprised her by ordering, pointing toward the nearest of the twelve trestle tables in the hall, where sat—to Tess’s eyes—a feast. She shook free of his arm just as he released her and stumbled onto the roughhewn bench before the seeming banquet of hard cheese and bread and ale. She cared not that she ate as might an animal, shoving food ravenously into her mouth, chewing wildly as if this would be her last meal.

  She cast timid eyes around the hall while she ate. The maids and pages had returned to their business. The knights continued to regard her with their calculating glares. She watched a young woman enter from the far end of the room. Dressed in fine velvets, her hair arranged prettily atop her head, it was obvious to Tess this woman was either immediate kin to the beast or very high in his favor. The woman sent inquiring glances their way but did not approach and Tess was revived enough now to notice that this woman showed no visible hatred toward her.

  After a moment, Tess lowered her head and concentrated fully on the banquet before her. Already she had begun to feel strength return to her limbs. Her body felt heavy, her stomach pleasantly weighted for the first time in days.

  And then the beast pulled the trencher of food out from under her.

  With mouth full, she turned on him and cried out, her hand still holding the bread.

  "Too much will make you sick," was all he said.

  "Noo," she argued through the food, her eyes fixed on the removed portion. Swallowing what remained, she met his eyes. "I want that."

  "No."

  Tess raised her eyes to him, found his gaze still hard, and thought to hide the bit of bread that remained in her grasp.

  "You may finish that," he said, nodding toward the hand she tried to tuck within the folds of her skirts.

  Tess bit hungrily into the bread and closed her eyes while she savored what was left to her. "If you plan to kill me, why should you care if I am made sick by it?"

  The bench shifted as he sat down beside her, his back to the table, his elbows atop the surface behind him.

  "I have decided to allow you to change your mind."

  "But I shan't," she said simply.

  "Perhaps you need more time in the tower to convince you," said the beast with emphasis.

  Tess opened her eyes, having swallowed the last of her feast. She licked her lips, finding a final crumb to savor. He was watching her, his eyes focused on her mouth, his countenance fierce. "As I shall not change my mind, I assume that was to be my last meal."

  "It verra well may be."

  "Then I should like to return to my room."

  His laughter then stunned Tess. Not that he laughed, though she was somehow sure that this was certainly exceptional—and the gawking glances from the other witnesses bore this out. But that he laughed so beautifully. His voice, deep and rich, warmed her as she was sure fire never would, enveloping her in smooth and lush rhythms. Stunned, Tess could only stare at him, aware that he laughed at her, but unconcerned, watching as he moved his elbows to his knees and held his head in his hands while he continued to sound out his merriment.

  Eventually he brought himself under control and turned to regard her, seeing, Tess was sure, someone gaping with absolute wonderment. That such a melodious sound, such a pure and enticing noise should come from such a beast.

  There was a moment now when they simply stared at each other, she with open curiosity, he with some unreadable expression, though his eyes still were lined with laughter.

  "You would like that I return you to your room?" He finally asked and his smile now was less ebullient but no
less charming. "Do you see yourself as a pampered guest? An honored visitor? Lady, to the tower you will go but because I command it, no because you demand it."

  "I care not for the reasons that remove me from your presence," Tess answered, her tone bristling. She had learned some things from Sir Arthur. "Only that the end meets my desires."

  He stood then and offered her the bow of a chivalrous knight. "My great lady, after you."

  Refusing to be baited, Tess rose and swept by him with all the arrogance her tattered gown and matted hair would allow. She felt him fall into step behind her and found her own way up to the tower, where presently, she decided, there was no other place she'd rather be.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was another full day before Tess’s solitude was interrupted. The beast had abandoned her yet again in the tower room and had not returned. But now, a woman of indeterminate years was supervising several young boys as they trotted in a tub of graying wood and steaming buckets of hot water for what Tess hoped was not the cleansing before the torture.

  Warily, she considered escape, as she had for all of the previous five days but deemed it near impossible. The woman clearly ran the household. She gave out orders with ease and stood tall and alert at the door as the boys completed their task. When the last boy had deposited his bucketful into the tub and departed, the woman finally looked Tess up and down.

  "Off with your clothes, me fine lady," she commanded, doing little to hide her disdain.

  Tess was unaffected by her hostility as the bath was the answer to at least one of her prayers. She wasted little time doffing her ruined garments and soon climbed wearily into the tub. She would have been happy then just to sit there against the padded cloth of the tub and soak, but the woman would have none of it.

  "Sit up straight, stupid girl," she barked, and Tess obeyed immediately for lack of will to object. Summarily, Tess was scrubbed quickly and efficiently by a woman whose other job surely included kneading bread. Her hair was washed and rinsed no less than three times and Tess was confident this had something to do with the other occupants of the tower room.