My Shadow Warrior Page 8

  “Because you said you would.”

  Of course she’d believed him. She’d come all this way; she would latch onto anything he’d said in support of her mission, no matter the state he’d been in at the time he’d said it.

  He closed his eyes and scraped his hand over the whiskers on his jaw. “Bloody hell.” He opened his eyes and pinned her with a hard stare. “You are nothing but trouble, do you know that?”

  Her gaze had grown sharp, her full lips compressed into a line of suppressed anger. “You said you would.”

  “I was ill. I knew not what I sputtered on about.”

  She got to her feet, hands fisted at her sides. “I saved your life! Or have you forgotten that now, too?”

  He crossed to the carved wooden chest against the wall and lifted the lid, grabbing a clean shirt. “I haven’t.”

  “And have you forgotten that I did it after you deceived me? How you and your brother must have laughed at me! Mocking my letters, then pretending to be some ridiculous groom. And a poor bit of acting it was.”

  He pulled the shirt over his head. “I told you—I never mocked your letters.”

  She smirked. “And you’re such an honest man, I should believe you, aye?” Her gaze hardened. “You owe me.”

  “Ah,” he said, a grim smile curving his mouth. “Now you’re beginning to sound like the virago in the letters.”

  Her mouth dropped open in insult. “Virago! I see.” Her tone was biting, her skin flushing with fury. “Well, I think you are a knave. No! A blackguard.” Though she didn’t smile, she stood straighter and lifted her chin a notch, obviously well pleased with her insult.

  He held back the smile threatening to surface and crossed the room to stand before her. “Anything else? Now that you’ve had time to think on it?”

  She raised a scathing brow. “A son of a—”

  He raised a finger. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  “But you’re not me, and if you were you’d know that healing my father is the most important thing in the world to me.”

  William didn’t like the tightness forming in his chest. “How old is your father?”

  “What does that matter?”

  He raised his brows expectantly.

  She sighed. “Eight and forty.”

  “Not ancient, but neither is he young. Everyone must die, Rose. I know you love your father, but I cannot heal the infirmities of old age.”

  “He is not infirm, and it is not old age that is killing him!”

  William inhaled deeply and decided to try another tack. “When a person begins to age, this makes them susceptible to many illnesses. I suppose I could keep healing them, one after the other, but I cannot make the body stronger or younger and so they will continue to deteriorate—”

  Her eyes flashed. “Do you think me daft, to speak to me in this manner? I, too, am a healer. I cannot perform miracles, but I am competent, I assure you.”

  William rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, I do not think you daft. I do, however, think you cannot see this clearly. You said in one of your letters that your family had only recently been reunited after a long separation. Could this be clouding your judgement as a healer?”

  She gazed up at him with such pleading, such disappointment in her lovely eyes that he found himself wavering, being led by something far baser than intellect.

  “But you said you would.” Her voice was soft with defeat. She lowered her gaze and turned away, folding her arms beneath her breasts and gripping her elbows.

  He couldn’t remember saying it, and yet it was likely he had. He did not make a practice of trailing after lasses like lost puppies, but he’d done it with this one. In fact, since Deidra’s birth, he’d left women alone entirely. But since Rose MacDonell had forced her way into his life, he’d said and done things he knew he should not.

  “What else did I say in my fever?” he asked grudgingly.

  She looked at him over her shoulder, from beneath a fan of cinnamon lashes. His body responded immediately to the look, tightening and growing warm.

  “You said I was pretty.”

  “I suppose I wasn’t too far out of my head then, was I?” he muttered dryly. He still could think of little but how damned appealing she was and how he wanted to tumble her on the bed behind him.

  She lifted a shoulder with elaborately feigned disinterest. “I wouldn’t know, my lord, as you’ve been naught but dishonest with me.”

  “Shaming me into it now, are we?”

  She just gazed back at him, unblinking.

  He rubbed his forehead, then sighed again. “Very well. I will go to your Lochlaire and try to heal your father.”

  She let out a gasping breath and clasped her hands together in stunned disbelief, then jumped at him, grabbing his hands in hers. “Oh, thank you, Dumhnull—I mean, my lord! You will not be sorry, I vow it! I will take care of you afterward, just as I did today. And you will be paid, of course. And anything else you wish that we can provide is yours. You only have to name it.”

  “A kiss,” he said, surprising himself, but once the words were out, he did not take them back; in fact, everything in him was suddenly focused on her mouth, the soft, plump swell of her bottom lip that he wanted to taste. Since he’d met her he’d wanted to kiss her, touch her, bed her, with a single-minded intensity that startled and troubled him.

  She stopped her excited rambling and stared up at him, her throat working, but no words issued forth. Her hands stiffened in his and she tried to pull away, but he held firm.

  He leaned toward her, using his hold on her hands to pull her closer. He could feel the whisper of her skirts along his lower body, the prelude to something soft and yielding igniting sharp lust in his blood.

  “That’s hardly adequate payment,” she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth, then darting back to his eyes.

  “Nevertheless,” he said softly, “it’s the payment I demand.”

  She parted her lips to make another protest, but he silenced her with his mouth.

  She was stiff, her fingers digging into his. He coaxed her mouth to softness, tasting the salty sweetness of her, running his tongue lightly along the generous curve of her lower lip. Her breath exhaled on a sigh, her lips opening to him, kissing him back. He released her hands to put his arms around her, to press her closer. Her hands came up to his shoulders, as if to push him away, but she didn’t. She was warm and soft in his arms, and tasted like heaven. He didn’t know what demon had prodded him into demanding a kiss, but he was glad for it.

  “My lord,” she breathed, exerting the slightest pressure against his chest. “I—”

  He took advantage of her open mouth to kiss her deeper, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her tongue met his with no hesitation, and need closed around him like a fist, hot and urgent. He wanted more. He wanted her in his bed.

  Her hands slid up to his shoulders, where they clutched the fabric of his shirt near his collar. Her breath came fast and fluttery, her skin gloriously warm and flushed to his palms. He was quickly descending into the realm of mindless lust, and she offered him no resistance.

  What was he planning? To bed her, obviously, but then? She was no village whore, or even a widow in need of companionship. This was a gentlewoman betrothed to someone else. He was asking for trouble. These thoughts were like a trickle of freezing water down his spine, returning him to sanity. He set her away while he still could. She blinked up at him with wide-eyed confusion. He made himself cross the room to put some distance between them, then he grabbed his trews off the bench beside the bed. All his clothes from the day before were folded and neat.

  “We’ll leave tonight, after dark. I suggest you get some sleep.” His voice was gruff, making him sound bad-tempered—which in fact he was. He was damned uncomfortable now. He threw off the plaid he’d wrapped around himself and pulled on his trews, grimacing in discomfort as he laced them. When he turned back to her, she looked away quickly, staring into the fire with intense intere
st.

  “Come, let’s find you somewhere to sleep.”

  Rose’s heart still thundered against her ribs as she stood alone in the cold room William had deposited her in. She gazed around her. The room was sparsely furnished, but the bed was sturdy and soft, and the woolen blankets and furs would keep her warm. She had a large fireplace, cold now, and a tall clothespress. A brass chamber pot peeked out from under the bed.

  She propelled herself to the chest at the end of the bed and sank down onto it, folding her body over her legs so her forehead pressed into her knees. With great clarity she could recall the last time she’d been so shaken. It had been an unrest of a very different sort, but it had still left her both numb and strangely sensitive. She put that from her mind. She was closer than ever to resolving what had happened all those years ago—at least as best as it ever could be. Time to focus on the present.

  The wizard of Strathwick had agreed to heal her father. And then he had kissed her senseless. And then shown her to a bedchamber as if nothing had happened. It was all very strange. Had it been Dumhnull who’d kissed her, she would have felt differently, she realized—which was absurd. Dumhnull and Strathwick were the same person. But it was a matter of birth. What could Strathwick have meant by kissing her in such a manner?—for it had not been chaste at all. It had been slow and hot, his hands, his body…She covered her flushed cheeks with her palms. It had been a very long time since a man had roused such a passion in her.

  But she was older now, smarter. She could handle Strathwick and his advances. She was no silly outraged female. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. The important thing was that he’d finally said yes, he would come to Lochlaire and heal her father.

  Someone knocked at the door. Rose gripped the sides of the chest, wondering if it was Strathwick, come back to finish what they’d started in his chambers. Her heart resumed its frenzied pace.

  “Aye?” she called cautiously.

  The door opened and, to Rose’s embarrassment, the woman she’d held hostage in the courtyard entered, shoulders hunched, as if she expected to be bludgeoned. A young man bearing an armful of peat blocks followed, staring threateningly at her, as if daring her to attack the woman now. As Rose sat in mortified silence, her fingers digging into the wooden chest, the lad arranged the peat in the fireplace and the woman set a pitcher and ewer on the hearth.

  “Miss?” Rose said, when the woman would not look at her.

  She glanced suspiciously at Rose and moved closer to the lad. She was a very pretty lass, with big blue eyes and bright blond hair pulled back into a thick braid.

  “What is your name?” Rose asked, smiling politely.

  “Betty.”

  “Betty—forgive me for what happened earlier. I vow I would not have hurt you…but I was desperate.” When the woman only stared at her, wide-eyed, Rose stood and took a step toward her. Betty backed away, and the lad at the fireplace straightened to give Rose a warning look.

  “My father is dying…I’ve been writing Lord Strathwick letters. Then I came here and he wouldn’t see me. I didn’t know what else to do. Please forgive me?”

  Betty’s suspicion softened as Rose spoke. She smiled slightly, showing good teeth. “Aye. I ken how it is. People come all the time and yell and scream for Strathwick to aid them. But they’ve never made it in—and it was all my fault.”

  “I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble?”

  Betty shook her head, and the lad returned to his work.

  Rose took a step closer, and this time the servant didn’t retreat. “Your name is Betty? Are you from the village? Allister’s wife?”

  Her face fell and she looked at the floor, nodding. “They told you about me?”

  “Tadhg did.”

  Betty looked up, her expression fierce. “They’re wrong, all of them. Lord Strathwick is not evil. And I am not a witch.”

  “I know,” Rose said gently. “But this is a bad time, and people frighten easily. What happened? Lord Strathwick healed you?”

  “Oh, aye, miss, he did. I don’t remember it, ken? But I remember Allister axing me. I remember the pain and the fever when it began to fester. Then I remember naught else but nightmares. I would have died. Then it was all gone. I opened my eyes, and there was my lord’s fair face, gazing down at me.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  She shook her head. “No. When Allister saw I was awake, he grabbed me and started bawling like a bairn. When I was able to breathe again, my lord was gone.” She smiled shyly, looking down at her feet. “I’ve been able to thank him since I’ve been here, though.”

  I’m sure you have. The thought pricked her when it shouldn’t have. She didn’t like imagining Strathwick embracing Betty as he had her—but it was good that she did imagine it, she told herself firmly. That was the way of things. He wasn’t Dumhnull, and he hadn’t kissed her for any reason but lust and that she’d been available. Rose wondered if he was married. Not that it mattered; lords and chiefs accosted female servants with or without a spouse.

  “What happened in the village?” she asked, as much to stop the troubling direction of her thoughts as from curiosity. “Tadhg seems to believe you killed someone’s chickens.”

  Betty shook her head, her shoulders slumping dejectedly. “I didn’t! Gannon left those poor beasts out in all sorts of weather. All I said was, ’Gannon, you must let those poor chickens in your house when it snows, or build them a shelter. Otherwise they’re going to die come winter.’ When the snow came, most of the chickens managed to get under the cottage, but two couldn’t fit and they froze. He said I killed them with the evil eye.”

  The story chilled Rose, so similar to others she’d heard. It took so little to incite people these days.

  “Do you believe me, miss?” Betty asked anxiously, her hands twisting in her skirt.

  Rose gave her a reassuring smile. “Oh, aye.”

  The lad finished with the fire. Rose moved closer to the blaze. Pale smoke wafted from the fireplace, and the sweet, acrid scent of burning peat filled the air. Rose coughed, but she welcomed the warmth, rubbing her hands over her arms.

  “Your leave?” the lad asked, kinder now that Rose and Betty had made amends.

  Rose nodded, and Betty followed him out.

  Rose sat before the fire, warming herself and thinking about Betty’s tale and the caution with which Strathwick left his castle. Men had come for him, to lynch him, and that had been after he’d healed a child—brought her back from the edge of death. She unbraided her hair and combed her fingers through it, thinking about Strathwick, the miracle he’d performed, and how it had debilitated him afterward. That was why they were leaving at night, to avoid being seen and mobbed. What a dismal existence, to be hated and hunted by your own people. Even when her life on Skye had been naught but misery, she’d never feared for her life.

  Her mood low, she lay in bed unable to put all the thoughts from her mind. Sleep would not come, and her stomach growled sullenly. She threw back the covers, slipped on her shoes, threw her arisaid around her shoulders, and left her room in search of food. The cavernous stone corridor was deserted and silent. Torches sputtered at intervals, casting strange, fluid shadows along the walls. Rose stole through the castle, feeling the intruder still.

  There was no one in the great hall, not even the dogs. She went behind the screen, into the kitchen. The vast room was redolent of stew and bread, but it too was empty. She considered just helping herself to the larder but decided against it. On Skye, the punishment for pilfering from the larder was harsh. It was probably locked anyway. Surely someone was nearby. The stew bubbled merrily over the fire. Partially chopped vegetables lay on the table, knives beside them, as if something had caused the servants to drop what they were doing and leave. With a last, longing look to the loaves lined up along the table, Rose returned to the hall. It was then that she noticed the double doors leading to the courtyard standing open.

  A breeze ble
w through the open door, setting the rushes to swirling and disturbing the hem of her nigh-trail, sending currents of chill air up around her ankles. She pulled her arisaid closer around her shoulders and stepped outside in time to see Lord Strathwick climbing the battlements, his long, lean-muscled body moving with quick grace that belied the many hours he’d spent wasted with illness. Her heart sped. Something was wrong. Half the household lined the torch-lit battlements staring at something over the wall. Rose climbed the ladder to follow. The wind caught her loose hair, wrapping it around her body and arms.

  It was still dark out, being the early hours of dawn, but the battlements were alight. Strathwick immediately drew her gaze. Like the rest, he leaned forward, hands braced on the wall, peering at something below.

  “Keep your witches!” someone shouted below.

  The wall came to Rose’s chest, but raised blocks rose from the ground at intervals against the wall. She stepped onto one and leaned forward to see over the side of the thick stone. A group of men bearing torches and weapons had gathered on the other side of the wooden bridge. One man crossed it, dragging something behind him. Rose inhaled sharply. It was a person. The flickering of his torch revealed skirts—torn and stained. The face seemed strange, distorted, but it could have been the firelight; the hair, however, was loose and wild, matted with a dark, glistening substance. He hauled the body a few feet from the portcullis and dumped it next to another, smaller bundle in the same appalling shape.

  These were the witches? A woman and child? They were dead, whoever they were. The man spotted Strathwick on the wall and shook his fist at him. “We don’t want your sorcery! Keep your hands off our women!”

  With sick horror, Rose recognized the man and realized who the bloodied lumps were. Ailis and her mother. “No!” she cried. She whirled, to descend the ladder and examine their bodies for herself. They couldn’t be dead. She’d just seen them! Just seen Strathwick breathe life into Ailis’s wee body.

  Wallace caught her at the top of the ladder. “No, you cannot go out there.” She tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed both her arms and shook her slightly. “Don’t you see? Look at yourself—you spent the night in these walls and you show up on the wall with your hair down. You go down there and try to intervene, and they’ll burn you as his witch, too.”