My Shadow Warrior (10 page)

“You saw the arrow pierce him,” Strathwick yelled to the assembled villagers. “I have healed him. Either you believe he is a witch now too, or else you stoned an innocent woman and bairn.”

The villagers were silent, motionless, staring at Strathwick and Pol.

Strathwick shoved Pol toward the bridge and said, his voice laced with contempt, “You’re not welcome at Strathwick. Let’s hope you’re shown more mercy than you showed your wife and daughter.”

Strathwick strode back into the castle, his men closing ranks around him. Pol did not cross the bridge. The village men stood on the other side, staring back at him as if he were something unnatural, to be feared. Pol turned and looked frantically up at the castle, then his gaze fell to the burning bodies. He dropped to his knees beside them, burying his face in his hands.

Rose left the wall. She knew, from the long day and night she’d spent nursing Strathwick, that he wasn’t as unaffected as he’d appeared. She raced through the castle. The members of the household slowly returned to their duties, their manner subdued. Strathwick was nowhere in sight. Rose went to his chambers and knocked on his door. There was no answer, but he must be in there. The door was locked, and he was nowhere else. She had to see him, to help him if he was hurt. She knocked until her knuckles hurt.

“Let me in, my lord! Your shoulder must be tended!”

She heard the scrape of a boot and turned.

“He won’t let you in,” Drake said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and his face grim.

“Then you must get me in. You saw him before. He cannot be left alone.”

“Oh, aye, he can.” When she just stared at him, bewildered, he continued, “The wound was not fatal. Pol would have lived through it—unless it festered. Course, Will’s shoulder hurts like hell, but it will be much improved by tonight. We’ll leave on time, fash not.”

“But…he shouldn’t be alone after that.”

Drake pushed off the wall, his grim gaze on his brother’s door. “Aye, he shouldn’t. But he will.” He gestured for her to move along. “Get some sleep. We’ll be riding all night.”

“Does he have a wife?” she blurted out. When Drake turned back to regard her curiously, she added, “To be with him now, that is.”

He quirked a mocking brow. “I would hope, had he a wife, she would have wished to be with him before as well. When you tended him, that is.”

Rose’s cheeks flushed, and she nodded stupidly. “Of course, I wasn’t thinking. But he has a daughter?…”

“Aye, he was married once. She died.” He looked back at the closed door, then at Rose, his gaze thoughtful. He gave her a reassuring smile and wink. “It will be fine, you’ll see. Get some sleep.”

Rose left reluctantly. It troubled her that Strathwick was alone. She’d only known him a short time, but she had not witnessed a large circle of friends. He had his brother and his daughter and servants. No wife to comfort him. But she was not his wife, she reminded herself, and it was not her place. But she was a healer, and as a healer she tried to provide comfort.

It didn’t matter either way; he didn’t want her aid or comfort. She was passing through the great hall, feeling disheartened by all that had happened, when she spied a small form huddled with the dogs near the hearth.

As she approached it, surprised recognition sped her pace. “Lucas?” she said, kneeling before Ailis’s brother.

He raised his head from where it was buried in the mastiff’s neck. Blood ran from a split in his swollen lip, and his eye was mottled black and purple.

“Oh, Lucas,” she breathed, touching his chin delicately.

His eyes were vacant.

“Who did this?” Her voice was tight as she tried to control the fury boiling through her. She had no wish to frighten the lad.

His gaze remained downcast, his voice emotionless. “My da.”

“For bringing Lord Strathwick to heal your sister?”

He nodded, finally meeting her gaze. Anger animated his face suddenly, and tears overflowed, spilling down his dirty cheeks. His hands clenched into fists, and he shook beneath her hands. “I’m not going back. I’m staying here. Master Drake said I could.”

Rose stroked a hand over his hair. “Of course you can. Come with me.” She took his hand and raised him to his feet. He followed along after her like a poppet, mute.

In her own chambers, she opened her wooden box. She cleaned his lip with garlic water and began making a plaster of woundwort. As she crushed the leaves in the mortar, she watched the boy. He huddled on her hearth, skinny arms wrapped around his legs, chin on knobby knees, staring starkly into space. He was in shock, that much was obvious, but when it wore off, what then? Would every person who supported Strathwick be killed or forced to take shelter in the castle?

“Does everyone in the village hate Lord Strathwick?” she asked.

Lucas shook his head.

“How many?”

Lucas frowned slightly, then said, “Some of the men…mostly Allister. Sometimes people forget…or don’t care as much. But Allister won’t let anyone forget.” A tear escaped to track his cheek. “I hate him. When I’m big enough, I will stone and burn him…. And my father, too.”

Rose set her pestle aside and knelt in front of the boy. She knew such hate, had felt it once. She took his hands, meaning to say something comforting or supportive, but compassion and empathy swelled in her chest. She pulled the boy close, hugging him tightly. Nothing could make it better, she knew. Nothing.

Great, shuddering sobs wracked his small body. She held him until he lay limply against her shoulder, then settled him on a rush mat before her fire. She applied the plaster to his wounds, wishing woundwort could heal the deep rends in his heart as well as it would the cuts on his face. She stroked his hair until his face relaxed in slumber, then she drew away quietly.

With a heavy heart, she packed her few things back in her satchel and lay on the bed. But sleep did not come. Though she tried, she could not erase from her mind the images of the night, of William MacKay standing on the battlements, staring down at the dead, broken body of the child he’d healed at such great cost to himself. All for naught.

It was full dark when they set out. They were a grim, silent party of five—Drake, Wallace, Strathwick, and, to Rose’s surprise, Strathwick’s daughter. Deidra rode a small, docile mare that appeared oblivious to her bouncing and chattering and was perfectly happy to have its mane braided and laced with ribbons. Rose supposed it wasn’t so strange for him to want his child close. Ailis had been only a year or two younger than Deidra. Had she a child, Rose wouldn’t have left her in that place either.

Rose surreptitiously observed the MacKay chief as he rode, to see if he suffered any discomfort in his shoulder. He looked well enough. The dark whiskers had been shaved from his jaw, and his eyes were clear, his face unlined. He didn’t appear to be in any pain. He sat straight in the saddle and kept watch over his daughter, who was very excited by the adventure and had to be warned repeatedly to keep her voice down.

Dawn drove away the darkness and with it the tension of the night. Rose did not know the boundaries of Strathwick’s lands, but she assumed that by now they were out of immediate danger from his people. They traveled a mist-shrouded mountain trail. It was wide enough to ride three abreast, but the way was littered with jagged rocks that had fallen from above. Wild scrub grew along the sides in places, threatening to overtake the road.

Rose was considerably calmer on this journey than she’d been on the previous one. She’d been alone then and disguised. This time she was surrounded by three brawny men; she enjoyed the feeling of safety and the opportunity to survey her surroundings without constant, watchful fear.

She had been riding beside Wallace, with Strathwick and Drake behind, Deidra between them. With a brief gesture Strathwick sent Wallace and Drake ahead to scout the trail. Rose took Drake’s place, flanking Deidra. The child looked at her with sleepy blue eyes.

“Good morn, Mistress Deidra,” Rose said, smiling. “Are you still anxious for an adventure?”

Deidra’s mouth opened wide on a yawn. “I’m tired.”

Strathwick leaned toward his daughter and plucked her from her saddle, settling her across his lap. “Rest your eyes then, my wee squirrel.”

Rose caught the reins of Deidra’s mare and tethered them to her saddle. Deidra snuggled against her father but didn’t close her eyes, instead fixing them on Rose.

She returned the child’s solemn stare. “Why does your father call you squirrel?”

Deidra smiled, showing dark gaps on either side of her large front teeth, making her look very much like a chubby rodent. “Because I like nuts!”

Rose put a hand to her mouth and laughed, glancing up at Strathwick to see that he grinned down at his daughter. Her heart snagged. She had thought he was incomparably handsome before, but when he smiled, he was devastating. She stared until his gaze met hers, then she quickly averted her eyes. She longed to be the one coaxing forth his smiles; it bloomed inside her, the want, unnerving in its sudden, unexpected force.

They rode in silence until Deidra’s thick black lashes drifted shut. She was so very young and vulnerable. Rose had been about Deidra’s age when Alan MacDonell had sent her to Skye, away from everyone she knew and loved, to be raised by strangers. She watched the peacefully sleeping child for a long while before raising her gaze to Strathwick. He stared straight ahead, his jaw rigid and grim now, all traces of his earlier smile gone.

“Why did you bring your daughter?” Rose asked, doubting her own father would have taken her or her sisters on such a journey. “Is it because of what happened to Ailis and Iona?”

He sighed, gazing down at his daughter, his brow creased in a slight frown. “Aye. I can’t leave her at Strathwick. I can’t trust anyone to protect her but myself and Drake.”

A thread of anger twisted in Rose. Not at him, but at her own father, who’d sent his children away rather than protect them himself. Shame immediately followed the thought, sending her into the state of restless unhappiness that seemed to plague her of late. She’d thought it had to do with her inability to heal her father, but now she had the Wizard of the North and still she felt vaguely unhappy. She supposed it wouldn’t go away until her father was well and she was able to confront him.

She glanced back at William, cradling his sleeping daughter, and knew this was a great thing he did for her, uprooting his family. All for some woman he hardly knew—a woman who’d forced her way into his home and threatened one of his people, all to honor a promise he’d made in the throws of fever. She felt slightly ashamed of herself and said, “Thank you again for doing this for me.”

He lifted a shoulder slightly. “Perhaps it’s best if I leave Strathwick for a time.”

“Is it always like that?”

His throat worked as he swallowed, the firm line of his mouth flattening. “No. They’ve hunted me, and run a few people that I’ve healed out of the village, but they’ve never killed anyone before.”

“Do you have somewhere you can go? Another castle?”

“Aye, but then they’d win—driving me out like they did Betty.” A muscle bulged in his jaw. “No. Strathwick is mine and the instigators will be dealt with.” The glance he gave her was grim and rueful, his eyes dark. “I’m sorry you witnessed what happened to Ailis and her mother.”

Anger tightened Rose’s throat, making it difficult for her to speak immediately. When she could, her voice was low with suppressed passion. “It was so very wrong, what they did. It makes me ill to think on it. And if it makes me ill, I can only imagine how it makes you feel.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “You must wonder what the purpose is, to put yourself through such danger and pain to save one life, and then lose two because of your trouble. I want you to know, my lord, such horrors will never occur at Lochlaire.”

One black cynical brow arched. “It sounds as if Lochlaire is a haven.”

“It was.”

His gaze sharpened, studying her. “Was?”

Rose looked away from his perceptive eyes and stared down at the reins grasped loosely in her leather-clad hands. “Things have changed a great deal. My father is dying. When he’s well, everything will be right again.”

A thoughtful silence followed, then he said, “You were not specific in your letters about this thing that tore your family apart.”

Rose scanned the road ahead, wishing now she’d kept quiet. But there was no distraction in sight. The road was empty, no sign of Drake and Wallace. When she looked back at Strathwick, he still waited for her answer.

“My mother was a witch. She was attacked by a mob and burned. To protect us, my father sent us away to foster with people he trusted, separately, so I didn’t see my sisters for twelve years.”

Strathwick’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “He sent you away?” He looked down at his daughter, his expression growing darker. “How convenient for him, relieving himself of the responsibility.”

“He thought he was doing the right thing,” Rose said defensively. “It’s what my mother wanted.”

He met her gaze, a brow slightly arched. “But you don’t agree.”

It was not a question. Rose’s gaze dropped to the child nestled in his arms, a plump hand beneath her cheek and her mouth open in innocent slumber. She was so young….

“No…. I don’t know.”

“Why did he send you to Skye?”

“Because Crisdean Beaton was there. My mother wanted him to tutor me. He was Fagan MacLean’s personal physician. A very fine healer.”

He frowned as he studied her expression. Rose tried to appear indifferent. She didn’t want to discuss this any longer—she’d never meant for their conversation to take this turn. She very much wanted to discourage any further probing, but she did not want to call attention to the fact that it upset her. She judged herself successful when his frown smoothed and he said, his voice bland, “And you learned well from him. What was that thing you did to me with your hands?”

Relieved, Rose raised a slightly amused brow. “You mean like that thing you did to Ailis with
your
hands, before you healed her?”

The corners of his mouth deepened, and a very slight dimple indented his right cheek. “Aye, that’s it.”

Rose was powerless to do aught but smile in return, inexplicably thrilled she’d coaxed the grudging half-smile from him.

“I see colors,” she said. “They direct me to what ails someone, but naught else. You saw that I was helpless to heal Ailis.”

Strathwick nodded, his eyes lit with surprise and pleasure. “Ailis was pale yellow, aye? The fever a dark red—like merlot? The sickness in her throat was black. It had substance, too, it felt—”

“No, I felt nothing,” Rose said regretfully, and strangely she did regret it. For a moment, he’d seemed so pleased, as if discovering a kindred spirit. “The rest, though, aye, I saw that.”

He frowned. “You only see the colors? You don’t feel them?”

“That’s right. You
feel
the colors?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly…or not the colors. But the ailments. They have form and substance.” He squinted at the terrain before them thoughtfully, then asked, his tone casual, “Have you ever been ill?”

“Not that I recall. Why?”

“As a healer, you are surrounded by illness. It would seem to follow that at times you become ill yourself.”

Rose had thought about that herself sometimes, but the truth was, she’d never even had the sniffles. She shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate.”

He slanted her a mysterious look, dark and full of unfathomable meaning, then looked away. “I’ve never been ill either,” he mused. “Outside of healing, that is.”

Rose waited for him to say more, but he only continued to meditate on the mountains. She rolled her lips, biting them, then finally gave in to the urge to ask him a question that had been nagging at her.

“I was wondering, my lord…how is your elbow complaint?”

He gave her a sour look. She tried to hide her smile but couldn’t. She laughed.

“Since you see the colors, you must also know there was naught wrong with my elbow. Ah, well.”

She had suspected but was inordinately pleased to hear him say it. “I thought it very sweet.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “I was growing rather fond of Dumhnull. I should have guessed he—er,
you
were not a groom. You neither looked nor acted like one. In fact, I don’t think you even tried. Maybe you wanted me to discover you?”

The breeze rustled his silvered black hair as his blue eyes burned a slow trail over her. “Mayhap I did,” he murmured, his gaze resting on her mouth.

Her breath grew short and she looked away, to her horse’s mane. The way he looked at her made her burn inside, calling forth memories of his mouth on hers, his arms enfolding her. She gripped the pommel of her saddle to help ground herself. Did she want to do this again, entangle herself in another hopeless flirtation? No, not if it was hopeless. But was it? Her blood rushed, remembering how pleased he’d been to discover that she also saw the colors. Perhaps not hopeless.

She was betrothed, she reminded herself. She belonged to another man. Contracts had been signed, promises made. She shook her head at her wayward thoughts. So stupid to worry about these things, when he’d done nothing more than kiss her. She resolved to put it from her mind unless he gave her good reason not to.

By nightfall they had descended into a narrow forested glen, where they camped for the night. As the only other female present, Rose led Deidra to a nearby stream to wash. She combed the tangles out of the child’s hair while Deidra squirmed and protested until Rose produced a blue ribbon and held it enticingly in front of her face. The child’s eyes crossed trying to focus on it, her mouth a small O of wonder.

Rose laughed. “I’ll put it in your hair and you’ll be the prettiest lass your father has ever seen.”

Deidra grew rigid as a board, staring straight ahead as if made of stone. Rose smiled to herself and resumed combing the thousand knots from the black curls.

“Who combs your hair every night and morning?” Rose asked.

“I do!”

Rose paused in her ministrations, mildly shocked. “Who dresses you?”

“Me!”

There was a great deal of pride in Deidra’s answers. Rose didn’t want to diminish that, but the girl’s bodice was hooked askew, and the points were so knotted that Rose couldn’t fathom how the child took her sleeves or kirtle off.

“You certainly are a big lassie, combing your own hair and dressing yourself.”

“That’s what my da says. Ouch!” She winced as the comb caught on a snarl of black curls, then immediately straightened her shoulders. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine. You may say ouch, but you must not pull away or I might hurt you worse.”

“Aye, Mistress MacDonell.”

The formal address was quite a mouthful for the child, and though Rose was pleased that Strathwick had not neglected his daughter’s manners, she said, “You may call me Rose, if I might call you Deidra.”

Deidra nodded, black curls bobbing. “Or you can call me Dede.”

“What about Wee Squirrel?”

“If you like.”

The combing grew easier, and Dede’s stiff spine softened.

“What do you prefer?” Rose asked.

“Only da calls me Wee Squirrel.” There was a note of reservation in Deidra’s voice that made Rose smile wistfully. As a child, she’d adored her father, and he had been fond of her, but there had never been any special nicknames, or the closeness Rose witnessed between Deidra and her father.