My Shadow Warrior (19 page)

Unlike Alan’s, William’s ailment had a name.
Rose.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’s sat mooning over a lass’s hair. He closed his eyes, pressing his forefinger and thumb into the lids. He would make no more promises. He would spend no more time with these people than necessary. In the spirit of his new resolutions, he slipped surreptitiously from the room.

Rose was so tired. She stood on the battlements, her head leaned against a merlon, too exhausted to even think. She’d spent the day watching over her father, poring through the books she’d accumulated over the years, searching again for something resembling her father’s ailment but finding nothing. She’d reexamined him, bled him, fed him more physiks, and had finally been called away to tend a dislocated shoulder. She was of no use to either her father or William. She hoped he was right about what ailed her father and that when Sir Philip fetched Sir Donnan to Lochlaire, he would lift the curse. She hoped William and her sisters would discover an accomplice somewhere in Lochlaire. She hoped. But not as she once had. Hope was fading to resignation.

The air was thick with the threat of rain. Rose watched the moon rise between the scudding clouds. She ignored the sullen rumble of her stomach. A cool wind blew over her face, and she closed her eyes, her mind blissfully blank. She’d thought too much of late about things she could never change, things that should make no difference anymore but somehow did anyway. It made the nightmares come, made the anger rise. The only antidote she’d found was to work until she was too tired to think.

She heard the sound of others climbing the battlements several times, silent, to check on her, perhaps; she didn’t know, as she didn’t look at them or acknowledge them. The men-at-arms passed her on their circuits without a word.

The bailey below grew quiet as the castle settled in for the night. She slowly became aware that she was not alone in her empty vigil. Someone stood behind her. She didn’t hear anything—she
felt
it. She turned quickly.

Strathwick leaned against a merlon, gazing through the embrasure, a tall, dark shadow. The wind stirred the gleaming silver in his hair. “You have been avoiding me,” he said without preamble.

Rose was still a bit unnerved to find him behind her when she’d not heard him approach. How long had he been standing there? She turned back to the night, leaning her suddenly hot cheek against the cold stone. “I hadn’t realized you noticed.”

He was silent for a long moment, then said softly, “I notice everything about you.”

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her hand into the stone wall.

He moved behind her; she felt him like a fire, warming her along her back. When he spoke, his voice was close to her ear. “What is wrong, Rose? You are different.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Since the night at the Fraser stronghold you have avoided me.”

Rose said nothing, willing him away with her mind while her body longed for something else entirely.

His hand touched her hair briefly, then fell away. “What did I say that made you turn away?”

Her stomach clenched. She whispered, “You knew. How did you know?”

“What do I know?”

She forced the words through her tight throat, her wooden lips. “About me. You said so, at the Fraser stronghold, you said you knew why I’d thought such horrid things of Drake. That anyone would, considering. Considering what?”

His hand went to her shoulder, and she pressed her cheek harder against the stone to keep from turning to him.

“When someone draws such a conclusion as you did about Drake, there is a reason for their way of thinking. Someone hurt you once, when you were young. A man you trusted? He asked you to keep secrets?”

Rose bit her lips and squeezed her eyes tightly, but still the burning tear slipped between her lashes. She swiped it angrily away. So stupid to let it rule her still. In truth, she hadn’t thought it did until that night on the moor—but why else would she think such a thing, without at least exploring other possibilities? She’d lain herself open, showing everyone and herself the raw ugliness that still lived in her heart.

“I’m sorry, Rose.”

She snorted. “Why? It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

“I know that,” she said, annoyed that her voice lacked conviction. “It’s
his
fault.”

“Whose?”

“My father’s,” she said through gritted teeth. “
He’s
the one who sent me to Skye.
He’s
the one who never noticed anything when he visited. And when I ran away—he sent me back.”

“And you didn’t tell him because it was a secret?”

She laughed softly, humorlessly, shaking her head against the stone. “I was stupid and young. And by the time I realized that, it was over and I was older, making other mistakes that were entirely my fault.”

His hand on her shoulder tightened, then he drew her back, against his chest. She resisted at first, then gave in to him, leaning into his warmth, glad her face was hidden from him. She burned with shame and desire. She wanted him to hold her, didn’t care what his reasons were, so long as he didn’t let go tonight. He wrapped both arms around her, and she hugged the rounded muscle of his arm, turning her face into his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool of his plaid.

They stood that way for a long while. Rose’s heart grew calm, enveloped in the warmth and scent of him, his chin resting against the crown of her head. She closed her eyes and imagined herself wed to him. It would be a difficult life at Strathwick, but they suited well, she thought, and he liked her well enough. They were both healers. She could help him.

The locket seemed to burn into her breast. She already had a betrothed. But she hardly knew him, only remembered a dirty-faced boy with toads and rats. She wanted the man behind her, holding her until time stood still in his arms. But how did one ask for a man?

“Tell me about your wife,” she said, then regretted the words immediately when he drew away from her.

She turned toward him, bereft and cold without his arms around her. He gazed steadily at her, his eyes black in the shadows of the battlement.

“Why?”

“Because I know so little about you and would know more, if you’d tell me.”

“I told you before. There’s nothing to tell. She was a girl—sixteen when we wed. I was one and twenty and not much interested in her. We’d been betrothed for several years, though. She was pretty; Deidra looks like her…in the eyes and mouth….” He inhaled heavily, looking down at his hands, now fisted against the embrasure. “I hardly knew her. I didn’t even try. And she was my wife.”

Rose drew closer, studying his face, the tightness of his jaw. “You said she died in childbirth. Were you not there to heal her?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was there. Deidra was breech and wouldn’t come out. The midwife said they both would die. I’d heard of babies being cut out of their mothers before…though the mothers do not survive. But I was not concerned with that, aye? I could heal her, right?” He slanted Rose a bitter look, his mouth curved into a humorless smile that did nothing to mask the pain this caused him. “Arrogant of me. Amber begged me to save her baby, so I ordered the midwife to cut it out. She refused.” He looked away, his throat working. “So I did.”

Rose put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She’d delivered many babies—and lost both mother and child before—and not once had she considered cutting them out. But then, she wasn’t William MacKay either, able to heal with touch. Such arrogance could be excused.

“What happened?”

He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. I suppose we should have done it sooner, then mayhap there might have been a chance for Amber.” He lifted a shoulder. “She…was bleeding everywhere…Deidra wasn’t breathing. I thought I could heal them both. I chose to heal Deidra first. After, I was too weak to have healed again…but it didn’t matter. Amber was dead.”

Rose put her hand on his arm. “Listen to me. I have been in such a situation before, and both mother and child died. At least you saved one of them.”

“I know that,” he said, echoing her earlier words back at her with as little conviction as she’d stated them. Something fluttered deep in her chest.

She slid her hand up to his shoulder, wanting to comfort him as he’d comforted her earlier. “William.” She said his name softly, her voice catching on the familiarity.

He turned his head slightly. Heat and want burned in the look he sent her, causing her breath to catch again. She wanted him, too. Her flesh hummed with it, her breath short, her body alive with the memory of his kisses.

He turned toward her and touched her, his hand cupping the side of her neck. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her jaw and the corner of her mouth, sending tingling sparks of anticipation through her. It was frightening to yearn so powerfully for a man’s touch. A small part of her urged retreat, to think first, but her body and heart did not obey.

Her hand still rested on his shoulder. She slid it beneath the fold of his plaid, wishing there were no shirt beneath it, wishing…

His mouth came down on hers, forceful, demanding a response. Her thoughts skittered away in the mad rush of desire. She gave in to him gladly, opening her mouth and greeting his tongue, leaning into his hard body. The rough sweetness of his kiss pierced her. He was relentless, taking from her, consuming her. Blood rushed in her ears, fire blazed in her veins.

His hand gripped the back of her neck, commanding her, coaxing her. She gave in, her arms twining around his neck. This was oblivion of a different sort, and she ached for it, the thoughtless passion, the restless hands, the mating tongues.

William was mad, a raving lunatic to be kissing her again, to have sought her out this night—and that’s what he’d done, though he’d lied to himself like a daft fool. Fresh air. That’s what he’d wanted, though he’d wandered the grounds for nearly an hour earlier on the same pretext and found himself distinctly unrefreshed when he hadn’t discovered Rose lurking in the gardens or the courtyard.

So he’d come up here and seen her standing there, sagging wearily against the battlements, and he knew she’d tried to work something out of her heart. He’d done it often enough himself to recognize it—the urge to forget the unforgettable. It never worked—it only delayed—but that had never stopped him, and it didn’t stop her. It was a temporary fix to an impossible problem. She was an echo of his soul, calling to him, and he was mindless, unable to resist the siren song.

And then she’d said his name.
William.
Such a sweet sound. He’d never heard it from a woman’s lips. His wife had called him Strathwick or my lord or Husband. But he was William to Rose. And so he’d kissed her, even though he’d vowed to himself he wouldn’t. That he wouldn’t be another man who stole her trust and left her with impossible shame. But here they were and she was warm in his arms, yielding, the skin of her neck and jaw soft beneath his hand. He was hard already, the sweet stroke of her tongue nearly sending him over the edge of sanity.

He pressed her into the stone wall, forcing his thigh between hers and lifting her higher, his arm around her waist. Her arms were tight around his neck and she pressed closer, as if they could somehow merge into one. With her anchored to the wall, he burrowed one hand beneath her skirts. The skin of her thigh was soft above her hose. Her breath hitched at his intimate touch, but she did not stop him. Her thighs tightened around him, her hips grinding into him, destroying his control. He pulled her into him, his hand on the supple, round flesh of her bottom. The pressure was exquisite; he felt as if he would shatter from her merest touch. He made a sound deep in his throat and renewed his assault on her mouth.

His blood pounded thickly in his ears so that he barely heard the throat-clearing nearby. When it happened again, louder this time, he tore his mouth away, peering into the dark. A man-at-arms tilted his head slightly in a mysterious gesture that William’s lust-fogged mind could not grasp. Then the man moved away, giving them privacy. He would tell others what he’d seen.
Christ.

Rose leaned against William, her face in his plaid, her hands curled into him. She trembled. He stroked his hand over her silky hair, closing his eyes and trying to gain mastery over his body. This black, mindless desire was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he couldn’t seem to control it; he didn’t want to. He was in thrall to it, to her. He couldn’t walk away.

She raised her head, gazing up at him with beautiful midnight eyes. “I want to be with you.”

Bloody hell. His body responded instantly and forcefully. He made himself look away from her swollen lips and the naked desire on her face.

“Rose,” he whispered when he could finally speak. His voice sounded rusty and harsh. He smoothed back the hair that had come loose from her plait. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She caressed him, touching his jaw and his neck, and he shuddered violently. He wanted to shove her skirts up and have her against the wall. He would pull out, he thought recklessly, there would be no bairns. He heard these fool thoughts and recognized his own folly, but he still didn’t care. His muscles tightened as he fought to control himself.

And then in his mind he saw her with her betrothed, that pasty-faced scurr she was going to marry, and he couldn’t stand it. When MacPherson arrived she would never look at him this way again. She would never say his name as though she cared. And when she learned how he knew MacPherson…she would turn away from him forever.

He kissed her again, hard, driving the image from his mind. His heart throbbed, urging him onward, perilously, thoughtlessly.