My Shadow Warrior (4 page)

A jolt of surprise went through Rose. She closed her eyes in horror. This was worse than she’d thought. It would have been bad enough having him hear about what she’d done secondhand; she still might have been able to talk her way out of it, charm him. But he’d witnessed her chasing one of his people down and holding a dirk to her throat.

Against her will and pride, she looked back at Dumhnull, unable to hide the blind panic building inside her. He still would not look at her. He tapped her dirk thoughtfully against his thigh, staring at his chief with an odd intensity.

Rose turned back to Strathwick. She spread her hands before her, trying to appear submissive and contrite—not difficult, as she still knelt in the dirt. “I pray you, my lord, just hear me out. If you still refuse me after speaking to me, I vow to leave you in peace.”

Lord Strathwick approached her slowly, his slashing black brows lowered over dark blue eyes. He circled her, looking her up and down. Finally he stood before her, his expression scornful, but he said, “Very well, then. Follow me.” His gaze jerked behind her. “You, too,
Dumhnull.”
He turned abruptly and stalked toward the castle.

Rose let out an astonished breath, weakness flooding her limbs.

Dumhnull grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Looks as if you’ve gotten your way, miss.”

From his grim expression, she wasn’t at all certain that was a good thing.

Rose’s heart beat furiously as Dumhnull led her through the castle. “Forgive me for speaking your name,” Rose whispered, looking up at him anxiously. “I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble.”

He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, the sapphire color of his eyes hidden by thick, sooty lashes. He was dressed finer today, in close-fitting trews that accentuated his long, muscular legs, a leather doublet and a red-and-black plaid mantle slung over his wide shoulders. She wondered if he was really a groom.

“No trouble,” he said without sparing her a glance.

Rose slanted another look at him as she hurried to keep up with his brisk pace. “You are vexed with me.”

He finally looked at her, arching a dark brow. “Why should I be vexed?”

“Because you warned me away and I did not take your advice.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Really?” she said, surprised by this revelation. “Then why did you bother?”

The look he gave her was enigmatic and dark, sending a strange thrill through her that centered somewhere in the pit of her belly. She quickly averted her eyes from that gaze, unnerved to find herself responding to it, and instead studied the room they’d just entered.

They were in a dark, cavernous hall. Swords and shields adorned the walls. An enormous wooden candelabrum hung from the rafters, the candles cold, but a large fireplace at the end of the hall blazed. Trestle tables and benches lined the walls, leaving the center of the hall clear and sprinkled with fragrant rushes. The MacKay chief sprawled into his chair before the fire. He snapped his fingers at Dumhnull. “Get me a drink.”

Dumhnull stiffened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He bowed. “And what do you wish to drink, my lord?”

Lord Strathwick regarded the groom keenly, a small, strange smile about his mouth. “Mulled wine.” When Dumhnull inclined his head, Strathwick added, “Mull it yourself.”

Dumhnull hesitated, glaring at his master before stalking to the kitchens. Rose watched his retreating back before returning her attention to the MacKay chief.

Strathwick’s face grew serious as he regarded Rose steadily beneath thick black brows. He was younger than Rose had expected, not much older than herself, it seemed. She was twenty. He couldn’t be over five and twenty. He was tall and well formed—not as pleasing to look upon as the groom, though some would argue, she suspected. He was dressed carelessly, a once-fine plaid slung about his shoulders. His trews were worn, and his quilted leather vest had a tear in it.

“Now, woman. What is so important that you threaten to murder one of my people?”

Rose swallowed convulsively at the reminder of her earlier debacle. She glanced quickly and longingly toward the kitchens, wishing for Dumhnull’s sympathetic presence, then squared her shoulders, passing a hand over her hair. She was dirty and mussed now, but there was no help for it.

“My lord, I meant her no harm, truly. I was desperate. I had to see you. I’ve been writing to you for months—have you not received my letters?”

He gazed thoughtfully at the screen that blocked the kitchen from view. Rose leaned toward him slightly to recapture his flagging attention.

“I wrote you every week. We sent a man, too. I
know
he arrived.” She pointed to the balding blond man who stood near the entrance. She knew he’d looked familiar.
“He
is the earl of Kincreag’s man. We sent him to fetch you back to Glen Laire, but he never returned.” She sent the blond man a disapproving look. “We were worried he’d been hurt.”

Lord Strathwick’s harsh countenance did not ease. “And my lack of response to your missives…to what did you attribute that?”

Rose hesitated. “I…I didn’t know.” She felt foolish suddenly. Because she had written him so often and had once sent a terribly personal letter, she’d felt certain that when she spoke with him, was able to look into his eyes, there would be some recognition there. Some kinship—healer to healer. But there was nothing of friendship in this man’s eyes. He seemed confused and annoyed.

She moistened her dry mouth. “You read none of my letters?”

Dumhnull returned with two pewter tankards, fragrant steam rising from them. He handed one to Strathwick. “Tasted, of course,” he said, a mocking tone to his voice. Strathwick gave him a strange look, but Dumhnull had already turned to offer Rose the second tankard.

She took the warm tankard between her palms and smiled gratefully at him. He studied her briefly, his eyes slightly narrowed, before returning to his position behind her. She felt his presence there, as warm and reassuring as the mulled wine spreading through her.

Strathwick sipped from his tankard, swinging the foot that dangled over the side of the chair. Then, as if he’d forgotten she stood before him, his gaze lighted on her. “What were you saying?”

Rose made a small sound of disbelief. In all her imaginings she’d never supposed the MacKay chief would be so incredibly rude. But she was the supplicant here.

“I pray you, my lord. I ken my actions were harsh, but I vow my intent was never to harm. I, too, am a healer. But I’m desperate. My father is dying. Nothing helps. No one can fathom what is wrong with him.” Her throat constricted, her vision blurred. “I pray you to aid him. The reward will be great.”

The chief’s expression remained aloof. “There is nothing you have that I want.”

Rose spread her hands, taking a hesitant step forward. “There must be something? The resources of the MacDonells are not insignificant. The earl of Kincreag offers rewards, as does my betrothed.”

Lord Strathwick waved this away. “I have no need of money.”

“There are…other things.”

His gaze slid behind her, then back to her. He raised a sardonic brow for her to continue.

She sipped nervously at her wine. For some odd reason she was compelled to glance over her shoulder at Dumhnull. He stared back at her impassively. She didn’t want to say this in front of him, but there was no help for it. Besides, his master was a wizard. Surely such things would not trouble him.

She turned back to the chief. “My sisters are powerful witches. One can divine the past or future, the other speaks with the dead. Their gifts are at your disposal.”

Strathwick considered her thoughtfully. “Dumhnull. What think you? Have we any need for divining? Any ghosts who need exorcising?”

“You ask me, my lord? What could my humble opinion matter?”

Rose cringed at the sarcasm in the groom’s voice and looked warily to the chief. But he only seemed amused.

“It matters a great deal to me, as she appears to know you, and yet I cannot fathom when you might have met.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “My lord, I beg you not to punish him. He showed me naught but kindness and warned me away from petitioning you.”

Strathwick looked at Dumhnull with mock astonishment. He swung his foot from the chair arm and leaned forward, gazing at her with new interest. “He did? Pray tell when this occurred.”

Rose glanced apologetically at the groom. He stared at the ground, his broad chest rising in a deep sigh. She was causing him trouble and she’d not meant to. She supposed it was partly his own fault, too. If he only sounded a bit more contrite and a bit less recalcitrant, he might save himself worse punishment.

“Uhm…last night. He took me to the blacksmith for food and shelter.”

Strathwick steepled his hands beneath his chin and smiled with malicious glee at the groom. “He did! And here I thought he was busy with other matters.”

Rose’s unease increased as she watched this bizarre byplay between the chief and his groom. “I pray you not to punish him, my lord.”

“Punish him?” Strathwick said, then laughed. “That’s an idea!”

Rose groaned inwardly. Was she giving him ideas? This was not going as she’d hoped. “My lord,” she said firmly, bringing his attention back to her. “I beg you, come to Lochlaire and heal my father.”

He stood decisively. “No. There was a reason I didn’t answer your letters, Mistress MacDonell. I receive so many requests that I haven’t time to read them all, and I certainly cannot go hieing off to heal strangers when people I know are in need. You may rest here if you wish, but I expect you to leave on the morrow—as you vowed you would. Wallace will show you a place where you can rest. I do not wish to be bothered with this anymore. No more letters. No more visits. And the next time you threaten someone under my protection I will not be so merciful.”

He started to walk away, then stopped, pinning Dumhnull with a dark stare. “Don’t you have something to do?”

“Aye, and I’ll be doing it soon enough, don’t you fash.”

Strathwick glanced at Rose again, then turned away with a small shake of his head.

Rose stared blankly at the fire, the bright orange flames blurring and running together. She didn’t understand. How could Isobel’s vision have been so wrong? Or had it? Rose closed her eyes, shoulders slumping. The man Isobel had assumed was Strathwick had been an old man. Her vision wasn’t wrong—just misinterpreted.

Someone approached. “Miss?” Wallace said, touching her arm.

“Go on,” Dumhnull said. “I’ll show her.”

“Aye, m—er…aye.”

Rose didn’t know how long she stood there. Dumhnull stayed with her, not urging her to leave nor speaking, a solid, comforting presence. Her chest felt hollowed out, her mind empty. She didn’t know what to do now.
Her father would die.
Everyone died. Rose knew that, but she needed her father alive and well. There were things she needed to say to him but could not when he was so ill, could not in good conscience tell him when he was so close to death. And now it appeared she might never have the chance.

“I must go,” she said numbly, handing the tankard to Dumhnull and turning away from the fire. “My father needs me.”

“You should rest before undertaking another such journey so soon after the last. I cannot believe you came here alone.” He exhaled loudly. “Wallace will return with you.”

Rose swiped a hand across her eyes and gave a strangled laugh. “Aren’t you in enough trouble over me? I’ll be fine.”

He stared down at her, brow creased with intense concern, as if she’d somehow become his responsibility and he was in a conundrum as to what to do with her.

“You tried to warn me,” she reassured him. “I didn’t listen. Thank you for your kindness, but you’ve done enough. I can take care of myself.”

This did nothing to alleviate his disquiet. He looked so troubled that she forced a quavery smile.

“You worry too much.” She raised a hand and touched his hair, threaded liberally with silver. “You have too much gray for one so young.”

He grew very still. When she met his gaze, it had changed. His face was taut, his brilliant eyes intense as they stared into hers. She was momentarily frozen, held breathless by his eyes. She dropped her hand abruptly. Why would she touch a man she barely knew in such a familiar manner? She turned away, shaken by the way he still stared at her and her own urge to lay hands on him.

“I must go. Thank you.” She turned and hurried toward the end of the hall.

She was crossing the courtyard when she heard his swift steps behind her. “Where are you going? The gatehouse is that way.”

“I know, but I left my things outside the postern door.”

He did not reply to that but stayed beside her, so she could only conclude he meant to make certain she did leave. But once outside the door, a guard closed and bolted it behind them both. Rose held her bundle in her arms and frowned up at Dumhnull.

“You are unlike any groom I’ve ever known.”

“Have you known a great many?”

“I’m a healer, remember? Grooms have a nasty habit of getting kicked and stepped on and sometimes even bitten by their charges.”

“Ah,” he said, and she thought she detected a hint of a smile. He took her bundle from her and began to walk. The berm was wide enough for two, so Rose fell into step beside him.

“I suppose I don’t seem like a groom because…I’m not really one.”

She looked at him cautiously, putting more space between them. “You’re not?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I am…sometimes. I’m related to Strathwick…and we’re friends.”

“Oh,” Rose breathed, nodding. “I knew there was something more there. You don’t have the…
presence
of a servant. So you’re not in terrible trouble.” She looked up at him. “I’m glad.”

He looked away, his mouth a stern, hard line. Did this man ever smile? She studied him as they walked. He kept the pace sedate, unlike when he’d led her through the castle. She inhaled the scent of rain and earth, strong after the storm. They walked for several minutes in silence but for the muted sound of their footsteps and a distant dripping. His presence calmed and comforted her. Was he a bastard son? She saw the resemblance to the MacKay chief in the black hair, the eyes, the fine, strong bones of his face, but the resemblance ended there. Dumhnull was clearly older, but it was more than silvered hair. It was something about him, world-weary and wise. Something that drew her dangerously.

“Why do you keep trying to help me, Dumhnull?”

He shook his head, seemingly perplexed by his own actions. “I know not.”