My Shadow Warrior (7 page)

Dumhnull sat back on his heels and looked over his shoulder. Rose followed his gaze. Wallace peered out the door, and Strathwick stood at the window across the room, peeking out a crack in the shutters, dag drawn.

“He came,” Rose breathed, clutching Dumhnull’s arm. “He came.”

The groom turned back to her, his face dark, withdrawn. “Aye, he came.”

A strange feeling overcame Rose as she gazed up at him, a swelling in her chest, a mixture of fear and confusion and wonder.

The bed trembled, and Rose jumped to her feet. Ailis convulsed, her tiny body rigid. Iona woke immediately in hysterics, trying to grab her daughter, as if her arms could absorb the child’s pain.

“Hush,” Dumhnull said. He put a hand out, urging the mother to move back.

“My lord,” Iona said, her voice soft and awed, her eyes wide. She moved away from her daughter.

Rose looked to the window. Strathwick still stood there, peering outward, glancing quickly back at the groom but keeping his attention on whatever was outside the window.

She turned slowly back to the bed, her heart beating hard and fast with slow understanding. Dumhnull—or the man she’d known as Dumhnull—sat on the bed beside Ailis. She was rooted in place, unable to speak or move, only stare. His hands passed over Ailis’s head, just as Rose’s had earlier. They came to rest on the throat. Then, instead of hovering over it, his hands closed around her throat, as if he meant to strangle her. His head bent. The convulsions stilled. A moment later, he released the child with one hand. It moved down to her chest and stayed there.

The man she’d thought was Strathwick came away from the window to stand behind the “groom.” When Dumhnull finally released Ailis, he bent over the bed, his breathing labored.

The fake Strathwick took his arm. “Come on,” he said softly, his voice gentle but insistent.

Wallace turned from the door, eyes hard. “They’re coming.”

Dumhnull stood and walked slowly toward the door, wheezing and struggling for air. He stopped at the door to the cottage and leaned heavily against the frame, coughing violently. It was a horrible cough, a metallic rattle deep in his chest.

“We must go now,” the fake Strathwick urged.

Heart-wrenching sobs distracted Rose. She turned to find Ailis awake, her skin pale and clear, large brown eyes blinking dazedly. Her mother held her in her arms, weeping.

Rose sat on the bed beside the child. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

The child complied. Her throat was pink and healthy. No signs of swelling or a membrane, or even the bleeding from Rose’s attempts to open the passageway. Dumb-founded, Rose stared at the child for a long moment. She summoned her magic again, passing her hands over the child, seeing nothing but the child’s pale yellow color, pulsing with health.

Rose’s hands went to her mouth as her heart seemed to rise in it, her vision blurring. “Dear Lord,” she whispered. Her gaze went to Iona. “That man…
that
was Lord Strathwick.” It was a statement, but still the mother nodded.

Her Dumhnull was really the Wizard of the North. Of course. She should have known. There had been a compassion in him, lacking in the imposter. And his presence was like no other; he filled a room with authority even when told to fetch mulled ale. But why had he still refused her? Her mind instantly turned to his condition after healing Ailis. He was unwell. What had he said to her in the stable?
It’s fatiguing for him to heal. One does not ask him to do it for such minor complaints.
She saw it all with such clarity that it brought her to her feet, propelled her toward the door.

Before she reached it, the door burst open and men poured in, bearing weapons of their trade. Hoes, hammers, scythes, pitchforks, axes, butchering and tanning knives. The leader was a huge man with a blond beard like a tangled bush.

“Where is he?” he bellowed.

When Rose just stared up at him, he grabbed her arm and shook her. “You saw him! Where did he go?”

“Who?” Rose heard herself ask. She seemed numb, as if she watched everything from outside her body.

The blond man bared his teeth at her and thrust her away, turning on Ailis and her mother.

“He was here—Strathwick was here!”

Iona shook her head, her face defiant. “You’re wrong, Allister! Only this healer and my family.”

The man grabbed Ailis’s chin and pushed her head up, peering at her throat. He twisted his neck to peer at one of the men crowded inside the cottage. “You said your daughter’s throat was swollen, did you not? That she was dying.”

A man with long wet hair streaming down his back nodded hesitantly.

“Pol?” Iona whispered, her voice full of helpless betrayal.

“I healed this child,” Rose said, finally regaining her wits. “And not with magic.” She waved her hand at her wooden box. “I did it with herbs. I spent the night feeding her physiks, and as you can see, they were exceedingly effective.”

The men murmured amongst themselves. The blond man growled, and his dark blue eyes narrowed. “I know he was here! I can smell him!”

Rose sniffed delicately. “Indeed? And of what does he smell? For I can detect little above the stench of wet men and wool. And I’ve been told my sense of smell is exceptional.”

Allister turned on her with a torpid frown. “He smells like evil.”

Rose cocked her head in mock interest. “The scent of evil. Hmm. Could you describe that in more specific terms? I’m not familiar with it. I hope it doesn’t reek of sweat and livestock, for I fear you detect something on your person.”

Allister stared at her with slowly dawning insult. He looked quickly at the men behind him as if for support, then turned back to Rose. “Did you just say I stink?”

Rose gathered her things together and replaced them in her box. “No, I don’t think I did. I simply urged you to have a care. The stench you perceive could very well be coming from yourself.”

His mouth gaped, a dark hole in his tangled beard.

Rose went to the open door. “The rain has stopped.”

The morning sun burned away the fog. Droplets of rain clung to blades of grass and dripped from the thatching. Rose inhaled the scent of rain-washed earth deep into her body, then turned and smiled at the blank faces gazing back at her.

“I think this will be a fine day after all.”

And she left them, skipping over, and sometimes through, puddles on her way to Strathwick Castle.

Her mood quickly darkened when she could not gain entrance to the castle. She pounded on the door in the gate with her dirk hilt, but the porter didn’t even open his window. She circled around to the postern door and pounded on it for what seemed an eternity, but again drew no response.

She returned to the gatehouse and started over. She had to see him. Now that she knew Dumhnull was Strathwick, and had seen him perform a miracle, she would not go away without speaking to him. And she knew that if she pushed hard enough, he would see her—her friend Dumhnull would. And maybe, just maybe, he would help her. Besides, he was ill. That had been obvious when he’d left the cottage.

She stepped back, gazing up at the ramparts, hoping to catch a man-at-arm’s eye, but when they passed they didn’t look down at her. She shouted at them, and still they pretended she didn’t exist. She was pacing irritably outside the gatehouse when the door beside the gate opened.

It was Strathwick—or the man who’d pretended to be Strathwick.

“Come quick,” he said. He had discarded his plaid and his vest hung open, unhooked. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wide with fear, replaced immediately with relief when he spotted her.

Rose hurried to the door, wary of this strange man but anxious to be inside the castle walls. He held it open for her, scanning the area behind her cautiously, then quickly shut and bolted it behind her.

Before she could ask him a single question, he took her arm and dragged her across the courtyard. “There’s something wrong with Will. He cannot breathe.”

“Will? You mean Strathwick?”

“Aye.”

Rose dug in her heels, forcing the man to stop. “Wait! I don’t understand what’s happening! Why did he pretend to be someone else?”

His hold on her arm became punishing, and he yanked her hard so she stumbled, forcing her to move. “There is no time for explanations now. He is dying.”

Rose’s heart leapt at this information. He was right—this was not the time. Strathwick’s life was in danger. Her stomach dipped. She could not be responsible for the life of such a great man. But she couldn’t say that to the man hauling her through the castle. His face was set in rigid, uncompromising lines as he pulled her into the great hall. He finally released her arm. Blood flowed again, but he immediately pushed her ahead of him, as if he feared she’d attempt escape.

“At least tell me who you are!”

“His brother.”

He shoved her down a hallway, and then into a large, dimly lit room. A fire blazed in the deep fireplace and two candelabras flanked the bed, but otherwise the room was shrouded in darkness. An enormous bed sat on a dais in the center of the room. A choking, gagging sound came from the bed, as well as a little girl shrieking, “Da! Da!”

The brother propelled Rose toward the bed. “Christ, he cannot breathe! Do something!” He snatched the child off the bed and set her aside. She grabbed at his leg, burying her face in his plaid.

Rose didn’t have to use her magic to see that Strathwick suffered from the same thing Ailis had. He lay on his back, struggling to breathe. His throat had swollen, and his skin was on fire. Blood trickled from his nose.

She didn’t have time to dig through her box for her probe, and the brother grew increasingly frantic, urging her to do something
now,
making it difficult for her to think. Finally, she climbed on the bed, took Strathwick’s face between her hands, and looked hard into the burning blue eyes.

“Open your mouth if you want to live.”

He complied slowly, as his jaw was swollen and tender. The membrane was there, and she used her finger to open his airway. He gagged and bit her.

She jerked her hand away as he rolled onto his side, putting his back to her, coughing violently and retching. The brother pushed her aside and climbed onto the bed with Strathwick. The little girl crawled onto the bed, whimpering, tears streaking her pale face. “Da? What’s wrong?”

“Will?” the brother asked urgently, leaning over to peer into Strathwick’s face.

“I’m fine,” came the rasping voice. “Get her out of here.”

The girl threw herself on Strathwick. “No! I’m not leaving.” She buried her face in her father’s plaid, her small shoulders shaking. Strathwick made a vain attempt to sit up, only to fall back onto the pillow and lay unnaturally still. The child’s hands clutched at him as she cried, pulling at him.

The brother sat back on his knees and met Rose’s eyes. His shoulders slumped wearily. He ran a shaking hand over his pale face, shoving his fingers through his already unruly black hair so it stood up all over his head. His throat worked, and though he said nothing, there was deep gratitude in his look.

Strathwick muttered something unintelligible, but his hand cupped the child’s head, stroking the mop of black, unruly curls. Her cries quieted. He still lay with his back to Rose, broad shoulders hunched and inky black, silvered hair a stark contrast to the snowy linen of his sheets.

The brother climbed off the bed. He covered his mouth with both hands, as if trying to gather his thoughts, and took a deep breath. He dropped his hands to his narrow hips and looked back at the little girl, whose head lay on Strathwick’s leg. Her father’s limp hand had fallen away, and she took it and placed it back on her head.

“Come, Deidra. Let your father rest and this woman tend to him.”

The little girl didn’t move but turned her head to observe Rose gravely. She was a chubby thing, with round cheeks and large blue eyes. She looked seven or eight years old.

“Who is she?” Deidra asked her uncle.

“Her name is Rose MacDonell, and she’s a healer.”

Rose nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Deidra.” Then she directed an inquiring gaze at the brother. “And your name?”

“Drake.” His thick black hair had fallen flat, so he shoved a weary hand through it so it stood on end again. “Sorry I gave you such a difficult time before, pretending to be Strathwick and all. It’s just that…” He shook his head. His face was haggard, and there were more important matters to attend to.

“We’ll discuss all that later,” Rose nodded to the child. “You really should get her out of the room. Yourself as well. The ailment he has is contagious. I will look after him.”

Drake nodded. “We just have to get him through the worst of it, aye? Then he’ll be fine. He always is. Come on, Dede.”

Deidra’s face set into stubborn lines, her brow lowering and her mouth puckering. She shook her head and held onto her father tighter.

Drake put a knee on the bed and reached for her. “Do you want to be getting sick? Then your father has to heal you and he’s sick like this all over again. Let Mistress MacDonell do her mending, aye? You know he’ll be all better tomorrow.”