My Shadow Warrior (27 page)

“And I love you,” she said. “I wanted to be with you tonight before you leave here forever, but I didn’t think you’d come to me just to talk.”

He pulled her hard against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged him back. He buried his face in her hair, his voice muffled. “God, Rose, I would have come just to talk to you. Whatever you wanted.”

She closed her eyes, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. “Really?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to keep my hands off you, so maybe not.”

She laughed softly. “I’m glad. I want your hands on me.”

She led him to the bed and tried to run the dog off, but Conan only retreated to the foot, his shiny black eyes watching them. Rose pulled William down beside her, and he held her close. He made love to her again, slowly this time, touching her everywhere and whispering words of love. Afterwards Rose relaxed in the strength of his arms and let everything slip away, all her cares and worries. She wanted to lie like this forever.

She thought he’d fallen asleep until he asked, “Tell me about your years on Skye.”

Still held fast in his embrace, Rose stared blankly into the dimness of the room. “There is little to tell. I apprenticed under Crisdean Beaton until he died. I ran away once…my father sent me back, and I was Fagan MacLean’s healer until he died.” It was a sterile, emotionless account, and she knew it would not satisfy him.

“Fagan is who mistreated you?” he asked.

“Aye.”

He propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her. “Why did you never tell anyone?”

Rose bit the inside of her lip and averted her eyes, embarrassed suddenly at her own foolishness.

He caressed her bare arm and shoulder as he gently prodded, “How did he threaten you, Rose?”

“He…used to make me touch him…he told me it was Crisdean’s orders, that I was to learn about the male body. This went on for some time before I told Crisdean that I thought I’d learned everything there was to know about it and I’d like to stop the lessons. He was surprised, and that’s when I knew he didn’t know. Not that he cared. He didn’t like me at first anyway—thought women should stick to midwifing.” She shuddered, swallowing a wave of revulsion. “After that, I told Fagan I wouldn’t do it anymore. He said if I stopped or ever told anyone else, he would have my sisters and I burned as witches…I didn’t realize then that we were all hidden and he didn’t know where they were. I also didn’t know how much my father paid him each year for my maintenance—most of which I did not see, either.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I was so stupid…he couldn’t touch my sisters, and he’d never have given up the yearly payments from my father. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Jesus, Rose, you were a child whose mother had just been burned alive. He was a god dammed filthy bastard for saying those things. It’s no wonder you said nothing.”

Rose opened her eyes. His face was hard and angry as he stared down at her. Angry for her. She said, “But I did tell…eventually. I told his wife.”

His breathing paused. “Aye? What happened then?”

She snorted bitterly. “She called me a liar and a whore. Told me I made her sick and she’d throw me out with nothing if I kept spreading such lies.” William’s muscles tensed beneath her face and hands. “But she believed me. I didn’t realize it at the time, though I do now. She must have said something to him because he never made me touch him again after that, and he treated me with pure loathing. If not for Crisdean and the money, I think she might have had me burned.” Her jaw clenched as she remembered it all. How Fagan would yell at her and call her names and throw things at her as she tended him when he grew ill. “I took care of him until he died.”

“Why?” William said on an incredulous breath.

Her heart cankered at the ugly memory. “Because I caught him trying to use a servant lass as he did me. She was nine. After that I would let no one else tend him.”

William rolled over, pushing her back on the bed and looking into her face. “You have naught to be ashamed of, Rose.”

She stared up at him, tears tracking the sides of her face. She touched the wetness, surprised to find she’d been crying for some time. She’d never told anyone before. She’d been filled with shame and twisted fury. William was the only one who knew now, and he was not disgusted with her.

“And I think you should tell your father,” he said, his expression grave. “You will be angry with him until you do. And if he dies, you might never stop being angry. Tell him.”

She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. Maybe he was right, but she didn’t know if she could. She tried to imagine telling her father what she’d just told William, and her mind shied away, afraid.

“I will think about it,” she said carefully.

That seemed to satisfy him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I should go,” he murmured against her skin, “before someone discovers us.” But he made no move to leave. He continued to cradle her, his lips pressed to her temple.

“No.” Rose slid her arms around his neck and held him fast. “I don’t care. Stay with me tonight.”

He hesitated a moment, then sank back into the mattress beside her. She turned into his arms, snuggling deeper, content as she’d never been before and feeling a bit guilty for her happiness. With her father still so ill, it seemed wrong for her to be lying here, lazing in her lover’s arms. But what else could they do but wait for Sir Philip to return with Sir Donnan? As she was drifting to sleep, Conan crept up between them, as close as he could get, and settled between their knees.

Jamie MacPherson slumped against the table in his chambers, his head thick and sluggish with whisky. Someone tapped at the door, and Jamie’s man opened it. There was some murmuring, then the scrape of a stool.

With great effort, he raised his head, squinting at his guest. It was the uncle.

“What do you want?” Jamie’s speech was slurred. He cleared his throat and made himself sit up straighter, though he still felt himself swaying gently.

The usually jovial uncle was very grave. “I want to make amends afore you leave in the morn. Your quarrel is with Rose and Strathwick, not with me. I will soon be chieftain of the Glen Laire MacKays, and I want no feud with the MacPhersons.”

“Too late.”

“Is it?”

Jamie tried to fasten his gaze on him, but the red-haired man swam in and out of focus. “What mean you?”

Roderick considered him. “What if I can give you your revenge?”

Jamie’s brows drew together in confusion.

“The wizard and his family. I want him dead, too—”

“Why do you want him dead?”

“Because he killed my wife.”

Jamie scratched at his head. This conversation wasn’t making sense. “I thought she died in childbirth.”

Roderick leaned forward, blue eyes fierce. “Rose told me she was alive after Liam’s birth, so Strathwick must have killed her. I have been to the next village, right outside the glen. There is a witchpricker there. I have told him a witch has come to Glen Laire. The villagers had suspected something of the sort, as their oats were struck with a plague, so hearing a traveling witchpricker was near, they asked him to root out the witch. I hinted to the elders that if they take care of the witch, we will make sure they are well supplied with oats through the winter.”

Jamie felt as if he were underwater, the uncle’s words not quite penetrating his mind, his body swaying in the thick current.

“You want me to give them oats?”

The uncle’s jaw hardened, and he looked skyward for a moment. “Try to follow. You will have your revenge on Strathwick. He is with Rose now, in her bed.”

Black fury shot through Jamie, and he tried to stand, stumbling and falling against the table. “That blackguard! The whore!”

The uncle was beside him, his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, urging him back down on his stool.

“Save it. Save the hate. Use it. He will have to leave her sometime. Your task is to make certain he and his daughter make it to the next village and into the hands of the witchpricker.”

Jamie nodded, his fury clearing away some of the drunken fog. “Witchpricker. Next village.”

“Good. Rest now. I have someone watching her chambers. I will alert you when he leaves.”

William woke with a start, gasping for air. Something sat on his chest, crushing him. He could not move at first, but with a great effort he thrust his arm out. Nothing was there. He found himself swiping frantically at naught but air. He propped himself up on his arm, panting. A nightmare. Nothing more.

When his heart slowed, he put his hand on the woman sleeping beside him. In the gray predawn light he could make out the curve of her cheek, the sweep of lashes. He was not sorry about what they’d done. He wanted her with him always. He only hoped she wouldn’t find more unhappiness at Strathwick.

He yawned so wide that his jaw cracked. He was surprised by how tired he was. His limbs felt leaden. He started to sink back into the bed when he thought of his daughter. He should be in his chambers when she woke. He dragged himself from the bed, dislodging the dog sleeping between them. It resettled itself against Rose’s belly. He found his clothes and dressed slowly, lethargically, finally pulling his shirt over his head and looping his sword belt over his shoulder, too tired to actually buckle it on.

He returned to the bed and leaned over it, pressing a kiss to Rose’s closed eyelid. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, but she did not wake.

The castle was silent, and when he arrived at his chambers he slipped in, heedful not to wake his brother and daughter. The room was completely dark. He wondered who’d let the fire die. He felt his way to the shutters and pulled them open, then lit a candle. He was turning toward the bed when he noticed something on his wrist. He pulled his sleeve up. A dark bruise in the shape of a star mottled the inside of his forearm. He frowned at it for several moments, then pressed on it. Touching it caused him no discomfort. He never bruised—and besides, he couldn’t remember when he’d hit his arm. He turned to the bed, still puzzled.

Drake was asleep, buried under mounds of blankets. William crept to the bed to check on his daughter. She still slept at the end, beneath a plaid. As he watched, she twitched, then writhed, her face contorting.

“Deidra.” He touched her cheek.

Her face was flushed and damp with sweat. She began to retch violently, her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Drake!” William barked. “Get me the chamber pot!”

But his brother didn’t move. William swore and lifted his daughter into his arms. She began to cough and choke, her face turning an alarming shade of purple. William checked her color to see if he could heal her, but his examination showed nothing amiss, except a weakening of her color.

He clutched her to his chest, frantic. She was so small and frail. Her entire body jerked and spasmed with each heave, bringing nothing up. Her eyes sprang open, and she wheezed, gasping and gagging and clawing at her throat. She was dying.

William was vaguely aware that he alternately prayed under his breath and pleaded with his brother to help. He lay Deidra on the bed and forced her mouth wider, but he could see nothing in her throat. His heart stuttered as she continued to gag and make soundless noises as if she were choking, her eyes bulging and bloodshot. Her back arched, and her heels dug into the mattress. William thrust a finger down her throat, searching for the obstruction. He felt something stiff and narrow. He grasped it and quickly yanked it out.

It was a damp feather. Deidra immediately went limp, her head rolling to the side. He lowered his head beside hers, and relief washed over him when he felt her soft, warm breath against his cheek. She had choked on a feather. It made no sense. He should have seen and felt the feather in her throat when he’d examined her with his magic. And besides that, how the hell did a sleeping child manage to get a feather stuck in her throat?…
Witchcraft.

He went to Drake and tried to shake him awake, but his brother was as unresponsive as Deidra. Fingers of panic clutched at William’s chest. He was afraid to leave them, and yet this was no ailment. This was black magic. A warning.

Fear had temporarily staved off his lassitude, but he felt it returning, weighing down his limbs. He didn’t have time for weakness. He threw open the door, searching for a servant, someone to send to fetch Rose to him, but the corridor was deserted. He started to return to the bed, leaving the door open, when he spotted a piece of parchment on the floor just outside the door. It was sealed with a blob of black wax with no mark.

He picked it up, peering up and down the corridor again. After checking on his brother and Deidra and finding them the same, he broke the seal.

Your brother will wake at dawn. Your daughter will be released from the curse when you are clear of Glen Laire’s mountains. Be quit from Lochlaire within an hour of dawn, and speak to no one, or your daughter will bock up pins until she bleeds to death. I wonder if you can heal that.

William read the letter over and over again, then looked at the star-shaped bruise on his arm. The task he’d sent Sir Philip on was futile. The witch was here at Lochlaire—and he had to leave or let his daughter die. He thought of Rose, waking and finding him gone. He closed his eyes, crumpling the parchment in his fists. Finally he dropped it onto the bed, staring at the open window. The gray of predawn burned off into the pink light of daybreak. Drake groaned, rubbing his hand over his face and pushing himself up to sitting. He groaned again, dropping his head into his hands.