My Shadow Warrior (22 page)

The gray shadows of predawn lit the sky by the time she finished preparing the powder. She fetched Gillian, and together they crept through the castle, careful not to wake up the scores of men now sleeping in the hall, retinues of the earl of Kincreag, Sir Philip, and her betrothed. She knocked softly on her father’s door, then pushed it open.

Hagan sat in her father’s chair beside the bed, and Isobel slept in a chair near the fire. The dog was on the bed again. Rose gave Hagan a cross look, and he obligingly removed the dog from the room. Isobel was so much like their late mother, Lillian—they had the same gift of visions, and Isobel even looked like her, with her silver-green eyes and curly red-gold hair. Surely if anyone could make the spell a success, it was Isobel. Rose woke her sister, and together the three of them placed the protective charm on their slumbering father.

Afterward the sisters gathered in Rose’s chambers. Rose flopped onto the bed while her sisters sat in chairs nearby. Rose knew why they’d followed her, what they wanted to talk about. She’d seen their speculative looks, but they waited for her to broach the subject. Rose didn’t know what to say. She felt miserable and foolish. Surely her sisters had never been so stupid in love as she had. They wouldn’t understand.

They spoke about trivialities until finally Isobel fixed her with a penetrating green stare and asked, “What are you going to do about Lord Strathwick?”

Rose kicked her shoes off and rubbed her aching feet. “Do? What do you mean?”

Gillian answered for Isobel. “The way he looks at you…the way you are with him. There is something more between you than you’ve told us.”

Rose looked down at her hands, her jaw and throat tight. “I have a betrothed, remember?”

“Aye,” Isobel said. “I had one, too, but then I met Philip. The heart doesn’t read betrothal contracts, Rose. The heart wants without logic…and I think your heart is wanting.”

Isobel saw too much. She always had. Rose rubbed her forehead with her fingers before meeting her sisters’ eyes. “Aye, there is something more between us, but it matters not. He will never marry me—”

“You don’t know that,” Gillian said.

“Aye, I do. He told me.” Rose closed her eyes and swallowed, her heart sinking at the memory, the freezing wretchedness washing over her afresh. “I…I practically propositioned him just before Jamie arrived. He was eager enough to lay with me but made it clear he wanted nothing more past that.”

Gillian and Isobel exchanged dismayed looks. Gillian reached for Rose’s hand and gripped it tightly. Rose squeezed her fingers back, comforted by the gesture and their concern.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Gillian said softly. “What of Lord MacPherson? Do you fancy him still? It’s been so long since you’ve seen him.”

When Rose didn’t respond, Isobel said, “He’s a very comely man.”

Rose nodded. “Aye, he is.” She wished that were enough.

“You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want,” Gillian reminded her.

“I know that. I don’t know what I want right now. I can’t have William, and I don’t know Jamie anymore.” She shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to call off the betrothal. I should at least try to get to know him. He’s angry now, and who wouldn’t be, considering what he believes of William. He’s not himself. He deserves more from me.”

Isobel searched Rose’s face. “Can Strathwick do what MacPherson claims? Kill a person with a touch?”

“Aye. I didn’t want to believe it, but it must be true.”

Gillian’s dark brows drew together with worry. “He’s dangerous. What if he gets angry—”

Rose shook her head. “No, it’s not that simple. When he heals someone, he takes their ailment inside himself. I’ve seen him do it. He can give that ailment to someone else. But if he has not healed, he’s no different from you or me. And if the ailment is minor, it will not kill anyone.”

“Do you think he killed MacPherson’s father?” Gillian asked.

Rose nodded miserably. “And Jamie is determined to have revenge. And William…it seems almost as if he welcomes it. As if he thinks he deserves it.” She covered her face and shook her head, despair rising in her heart. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so confused.”

Her sisters moved to the bed and sat on either side of her. They wrapped their arms around her, as if trying to absorb her troubles. Gillian spoke soothing words to her, rubbing her back. Isobel spoke more forcefully.

“It’s not for you to fix, Rose, you know that. You’re not responsible for everyone. You take on too much. Father, Strathwick, everyone else’s problems. You must let some things go and live your life. I love Father, too, but he is dying and we must accept it. Maybe he still hangs on because we won’t let go. He longs for release from his suffering, but how can he stop fighting when he knows how his death will destroy you?”

“I know,” Rose whispered, and she did. But it was never as simple as knowing, and her sisters knew that as well. They huddled together on the bed, arms twined around each other, wishing they could set things right in their world and knowing fate had her own plans for them all.

Deidra sat in the sweet-smelling pile of hay, nibbling on her bread. She’d been told not to leave the room, but her father and Uncle Drake had still been asleep and she’d been hungry. There had been food in the hall. She’d grabbed some bread and a piece of sausage, then gone into the yard. So many people had been milling about that no one had seemed to notice her—except the other children. They’d stared but hadn’t thrown stones at her like the ones at home did.

She had sought out the animals, since they always talked to her readily, and there was no awkwardness or staring—and they never threw things.

Moireach hung her head over the stall.
Sweet? Red? Good?
She wanted an apple. There had been plenty of those in the hall, too, and Deidra had been certain to grab one. She held it up to the mare, who took it delicately, expressing her gratitude.

The morning sunlight shining through the doorway disappeared suddenly. A man blocked the light. He stood there for a long moment, then entered, heading straight for where Deidra nestled in the hay. It was the red-haired man.

He squatted down in front of her, smiling. He had lots of square white teeth, and his hair was very pretty—long, like a lass’s. He didn’t plait it or do pretty things with it like lasses do; he just tied it back. His eyes were very blue, like her father’s, but not as pretty. His lashes were pale, almost blond.

“Good morn, Miss Deidra,” he said, smiling. He smiled so much that she thought his face must hurt from it. “Fancy finding you here. You ken it’s dangerous to be in here by yourself, aye?”

“It’s not.”

His smile disappeared, though his eyes remained merry. He cocked his head slightly, as if her answer puzzled him. “It’s not? Why is that? Horses bite and kick grown men. A wee thing like you could easily be trampled.”

“They don’t bite and kick me, and they don’t trample if they don’t have to.”

“And why is that? Are you special, Miss Deidra?” He said it in a laughing manner, but there was a sudden hard shine to his eyes, and Deidra remembered what Da and Uncle Drake had said.
Tell no one.

She shook her head.

“That’s too bad. I’ve a secret to share but you must promise to tell no one.”

“I can’t keep secrets anymore.”

“No? That’s too bad. It’s a good one.”

Deidra wanted to hear his secret, and he looked so sad that he couldn’t tell her. “Can I tell my Da? He said I have to tell him everything. He can keep a secret.”

He frowned a bit in consternation, then said, “Forget about the secret. Tell me why you like the stables.”

“I like the animals.”

“Do ye? I like them, too. Sometimes I come here just to talk to them.”

Deidra bit her bottom lip to keep from blurting out that she did, too. “What do you tell them?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Do they talk back?”

He nodded sagely. “That they do.”

Deidra narrowed her eyes at him. She’d never met anyone else who could talk to animals. She looked up at Moireach, who hung her head over the stall again and lipped at Deidra’s hair.
Sweet? Red? More?
Deidra giggled and put her hand on the mare’s velvet nose.

“What is she saying?” she challenged.

The man squinted his eyes and twisted his mouth, as if concentrating very hard on the horse. Then he said, “She wants to go riding.”

Deidra laughed. “She does not!”

“She wants some oats.”

“No!”

“Hay? Her blanket? To be brushed? A carrot?”

“No, silly! An apple!”

“Ah. Of course.” He leaned his head back and smiled, rocking on his heels.

“You can’t really speak to animals,” Deidra said.

“No, I cannot.” He looked toward the open door, then back at her, his head tilted slightly. “Would you like me to show you something, Miss Deidra?”

“What?”

“You’ll have to come with me.”

She struggled to get out of the hay as he straightened, extending a hand out to her.

Don’t go!

Deidra dropped the hand she’d almost slipped into his and looked at Moireach in surprise.

The horse shook her head and whinnied.
Smells bad. Get away.

Deidra backed away from the man. He gave the horse a narrow look, then smiled at Deidra again, his wide, white smile not so friendly anymore. “What’s wrong, Miss Deidra?” He walked toward her.

She looked around for a place to hide. More men entered the stable, talking loudly, and the man turned away. Deidra ran past him, darting out the door. She didn’t stop running until she was back in the room with her father and uncle. She crawled back under her blanket at the end of the bed just as her father sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Squirrel? Where have you been?”

Her heart raced. She wasn’t supposed to leave the room. “I had to go.”

“Go where?”

She raised her brows and looked at the pretty painted screen that hid the closestool.

“Ah,” he said. He never wanted to talk about things like that. He asked no more questions, and Deidra let out a sigh of relief, thankful she’d not gotten caught disobeying. Her father worried so much lately, and, just like Uncle Drake had warned, learning she was a witch made him worry even more. She wished she were better at keeping secrets. She didn’t want to give him anything else to worry about.

Rose managed to avoid William by leaving Lochlaire the next day. He wandered the castle, Deidra and his brother trailing after him. He hadn’t realized he was looking for her until he located her sisters. They were in the bailey with the laundresses, sorting through soon-to-be-washed garments. An enormous iron cauldron was set on a tripod, and servants piled faggots beneath it.

“Are you looking for Rose?” the countess of Kincreag called, shaking out a soiled shirt. “Because she’s in the village.”

In the village. His spirits sank abruptly, his prospects for the day diminished. He approached the women, nodding to the cauldron. “What are you doing?”

Dame Isobel sat on a low stool, her customary gloves removed. The countess passed garments to her, one after the other. Dame Isobel would hold them, pale green eyes glazing over momentarily, then she would pass them to a laundress with a shake of her head and take the next garment.

“We’re looking for the witch’s accomplice, as you suggested,” Dame Isobel said as she took a kirtle from her sister. “So far I’ve had no luck.”

“What about you?” William asked Lady Kincreag.

“Have you seen any ghosts?”

“Aye, I did!” she said with a bright smile. “But he knows nothing.”

“A ghost?” Deidra asked, her fist curled into William’s plaid. She stared up at Lady Kincreag, awestruck.

The countess smiled and knelt delicately in front of Deidra. “Aye. There are ghosts, Dede, but you mustn’t be afraid of them, do you understand?”

Deidra nodded but looked unconvinced. Her face was dirty, and her hair had not been combed. A blue ribbon was impossibly knotted into her curly hair. William was annoyed at himself for not noticing her dishevelment before. He and Drake were poor substitutes for Deidra’s late mother. The child ran wild and refused to listen to the women he assigned to look after her and keep her clean. He was the only one—until Rose—who was able to do anything with the child’s appearance, and it was such a trial for him that he generally “forgot.” And Drake was no help. As far as he was concerned, Dede always looked just fine.

William caught her arm and scrubbed at her face with the corner of her arisaid while she twisted and whined. Finally she slipped from his grasp and came to stand beside the countess, who’d resumed her sorting.

“What do the ghosts look like?”

“Not so different from us,” the countess said. “Not scary at all, really, once you get past the fact they’re dead. Just remember they cannot hurt you and most are as frightened of you as you are of them.”

Deidra cocked her head in surprise. “Really? Zounds!”

The countess laughed. “She is delightful! And look.” She nodded to a gray deerhound bounding across the bailey. It leapt onto Deidra, who squealed with surprise, then giggled. They played for a minute, then both dog and child settled on the ground, facing each other. They proceeded to stare at each other, hardly moving, though occasionally an expression of happiness, or sympathy, or consternation would cross Deidra’s face.

William exchanged a worried look with his brother, who just shrugged, undisturbed by this bizarre behavior. William glanced surreptitiously around the bailey, but no one else appeared to take note of child and dog obviously carrying on a conversation. To William’s eyes it was obvious, but he tried to see it as the others might—just a wee lassie admiring a dog, perhaps even reluctant to touch it, though the deerhound was hardly a threat to anything but a soup bone. After a moment, Deidra began to pet the dog, which eased the tightness in his chest.

“Lord Strathwick,” Dame Isobel said, distracting him from his daughter. “Why do you not aid Rose in the village?” She gave him a knowing smile. Had she seen something? A vision about him and Rose? That was a troubling thought.

“She didn’t ask.”

Dame Isobel raised a red-blond brow. “Need you an invitation? Aren’t you a healer?”

“He’s also a chief,” the countess said mildly, giving her sister a frown. “Perhaps he doesn’t fancy spending his days in such labor.”

“Aye,” Drake said. “He can’t be wasting himself on minor ailments.”

In truth William really wasn’t much of a healer beyond what he accomplished through witchcraft. He
did
save himself for dire illnesses contracted by those he cared for. He would not be capable of carrying out his duties as chief of the MacKays otherwise.

“What of her betrothed?” William asked as casually as he could manage. “Is he not with her?”

“No,” Dame Isobel said. “She left before dawn. I doubt Lord MacPherson is even out of bed at this hour.”

William knew that Rose had spent very little time with MacPherson last night, as she’d returned to her room alone. And she wasn’t with him this morning, either. He smiled, grimly pleased. “Perhaps I should go down to the village and aid Rose.”

Dame Isobel smiled down at the garment the countess absently handed to her.

“She is a fine healer, though,” William said thoughtfully. “It’s doubtful there is much I can do to aid her. Still, a woman shouldn’t be wandering the village alone.”

The countess gazed at him speculatively. “You’re quite right, my lord. She should have an escort. She goes about far too often without one.”

“It’s settled then.” William was turning, eager to leave, when Roderick joined them, looking distinctly displeased. Deidra stood up and grabbed her uncle’s hand, hiding behind him. The dog also retreated, crouching behind the countess’s skirts.

“What is this?” Roderick cried, hands fisted on his hips. “My nieces doing laundry? A countess, no less! Gillian, mind your place. You’re not a chieftain’s daughter anymore but an earl’s wife.”

“We’re not doing laundry, Uncle Roderick.” The countess smiled, shaking out another stained shirt. “Isobel is trying to discover who wishes to harm Father.”

Roderick scowled at William but said no more. After another sour look at his nieces, he turned on his heel and continued on his way.

“His milk must’ve been curdled this morn,” the countess muttered to her sister.

Dame Isobel snorted. “Every morn, you mean.”

The countess smiled at William and said, “Deidra can stay with us if you’re going to the village.”

William looked at Deidra to see what she wished, but she paid no attention, staring after Roderick.

Drake nodded his chin in the direction of the village. “Go on. I’ll stay here with Dede—surely these ladies need an escort, too.” He grinned and winked at the sisters, who looked at each other and laughed.

William leaned close to his brother and whispered, “They’re married.”

Drake merely shrugged at his droll warning, still grinning wickedly at the sisters.

“And their husbands are large,” William added.

Drake raised sardonic brows. “Aye, you’d do well to remember that yourself.”

William grunted and left them, not wanting to think about MacPherson, though in truth he’d thought of little else since the man had arrived the night before. That and how he’d almost had Rose on the battlements. The memory was still fresh, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, the soft, supple flesh of her thighs. The thought of MacPherson touching her in such a manner set his teeth on edge and infused his step with fresh determination as he strode to the quay.

He rowed himself across the loch and wandered through the village until he found her stitching up a man’s forearm. He waited just outside the doorway until she finished. The sight of her, even in an old, stained kirtle and bodice, the long, white sleeves of the shift rolled to her elbows, inflamed him with lust. She talked to the man as she stitched, asking after his wife and children. The man was so pleased by this question, and obviously so in awe of this intelligent, skillful beauty caring for him, that he stammered his answer, face red. William could empathize with the poor man.

When Rose finished, she gave him instructions on how to care for the wound and made him repeat them back to her as she packed her implements into her wooden box. So competent, so very thorough.

William knew the moment she spotted him. The hesitation in her step as she turned for the door, the surprise—and pleasure?—in her eyes that she quickly masked with a frown.

“What do you want?” she said, walking past him briskly, basket over one arm, box tucked under the other. A sleek auburn braid hung down her back. Wisps had come lose to float around her face. She tried to smooth them back irritably, and the basket banged against her ribs.

He tried to take it from her. “You need an escort.”

She laughed sarcastically. “Here? In Glen Laire? Don’t be absurd.” She kept a firm hold on the basket handle.

“I also want to apologize.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Come, Rose,” he cajoled, still exerting pull on the basket handle. “Let’s call a truce.”

That stopped her. She turned to him and gazed up at him warily. “A truce? Why?”

Because I cannot stomach the thought of you and MacPherson spending a second alone together.
But of course he couldn’t say that. He’d made his position clear to her on the battlements. He couldn’t marry; he wouldn’t do that again. And yet he couldn’t seem to stay away from her, either.

“We were friends once, aye? Pretend I’m Dumhnull again, and I’ll promise not to touch you.”

“Dumhnull.” She murmured the name sadly, staring across the loch at the castle. She looked up at him again, suspicious but clearly fancying the idea. “A truce.” She looked down at her basket, then offered it to him. “Are you hungry? Morag gave me this for tending her bad toe.”

He took the basket and folded back the linens covering it. Bread and cheese. He walked to the banks of the loch and sat. She followed a few seconds later, sitting beside him. She dug into the basket, then passed the food to him. He scanned the battlements, looking for the tell-tale golden head.

“So…where is MacPherson this morning? I’m surprised he allowed you out of his sight, what with a monster prowling the castle.”

She gave him a narrow look. “Why do you say such things?”

“Because it’s true, and you are well aware of it now.”

She shrugged, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth and gazing back at him placidly, uncaring.

“It doesn’t repulse you?”

Her brows drew together. “Repulsed? By what? I’ve seen you take the sickness into yourself and suffer with it. There is nothing repulsive in that.”

“Aye, but I did not always do that.”

She shook her head, rolled her eyes. “What do I care for what you once did? Do you do it now?” When he shook his head, she nodded, satisfied. “I didn’t think so.”

He had to look away from her direct midnight stare.
She did not care
. She was a fool. A sweet, beautiful fool. She should be terrified of him. Of what he could make her into with but a little more instruction. She had no idea.
His little fool.
But she was not his. She was MacPherson’s. Sick anger stabbed at him, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. He watched her, and she avoided his gaze. He wondered how long he had, how long before MacPherson discovered the wizard was with his woman.

“What will you do about Lucas?” Rose asked, breaking into his dark thoughts.

“Lucas?” He frowned thoughtfully, then remembered the small boy who’d taken refuge in his castle after his mother and sister had been stoned and burned. “Ailis’s brother.” He exhaled heavily. “I suppose he shall live at Strathwick for now. Why?”

She toyed with her bread, picking hunks out of it and tossing it into the water. Fish darted up, snatching at it. “Lucas told me Allister is to blame for everything. He seems to think the villagers would forget if not for Allister rubbing salt in the wounds.” She hesitated, sending him a quick, sidelong look. “So I think you must deal with Allister.”

He laughed incredulously. “You mean punish him? Make a martyr out of him? Wouldn’t he love that! No, I think not.”

She shook her head vigorously, leaning in closer. “No, no. Not death. He must be discredited somehow. Such as you did to Pol. Heal him publicly. That will take the wind from his sails, methinks.”

William shook his head dismissively. “Unfortunately he is hale as a horse. The man nearly severed his own arm once and it didn’t even fester.”

Rose’s shoulders slouched, and she frowned down at her food, picking at it again and worrying her bottom lip. He was amused by her effort to aid him and thought her idea a clever one—he’d thought of it himself. Unfortunately, Allister and he were too much alike. He knew he must do something about Allister and Pol and Tadhg—the instigators of all his trouble. He just hadn’t decided what yet.

“There’s a reason for that, you ken?”

His statement startled her from her thoughts. She blinked at him. “For what?”

“A reason Allister never ails.” He slid her a speculative look, gauging her reaction.

“What is that?”

“He’s our brother—Drake’s and mine. Born on the wrong side of the sheets, of course.” He smiled at the irony of it—it never failed to amuse him.

Her mouth dropped open in shock.
“Your brother?
Is he a witch?”