My Shadow Warrior (20 page)

She slid her hand into his and pulled away from him. The eyes that gazed up at him were hazy with desire. She drew him along and he followed, telling himself he shouldn’t, but his feet did not obey. She led him along the wall to the steps leading to the bailey. William caught sight of something over the walls and stopped, a cold stone settling in his belly. She tugged on his hand, and when he didn’t come, she glanced up at him. She followed his gaze and grew very still.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” he said, emotionless, staring at the line of torches approaching. If they hadn’t been kissing, they’d have seen the riders approach. As it was, they were nearly to the loch now. That had been what the man-at-arms had been warning them about.

Rose dropped his hand as if it were a hot brand. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her hands covering her mouth.

A dark, relentless fury built in his chest. He’d been about to make an enormous mistake and was damned vexed at the interruption. He’d never have this chance again. Not now. He wanted to hit something in frustration—preferably the MacPherson lad.

But instead he smiled wryly. “Good thing I spotted them, or it might have been a wee bit awkward when they came looking for you, aye?”

Her eyes closed in horror at the thought. She opened them and gazed at him, a slight frown between her brows. He wondered why she didn’t leave, why she didn’t ready herself to meet her betrothed. He was nearly un-hinged with anger and thwarted lust. He didn’t want her standing before him anymore, looking mussed and beautiful, tempting him.

“What’s wrong, Rose?” he bit out, his calm façade crumbling. “Your future awaits.”

She swallowed, her eyes bright with miserable hope. “Does it? Or is it here?”

His heart stuttered in his chest. Of course she thought that.
Of course.
Jesus God, he was a bloody fool. She was no tavern trull to be ravished on the battlements. Of course she expected something more from him.

He let out a slightly incredulous breath. “Rose…”

She drew back as if he’d slapped her.

He reached a placating hand toward her, but she just stared at it, brows drawn together in disbelief and horror. He could see the understanding dawning in her eyes before he said the words.

“I will not marry again. I…won’t do that again, make that choice…”

“Aye. I understand.” Her words were crisp, frozen. She still stared stiffly at his hand. “You will breathe not a word of this…considering.”

“Of course.”
Considering?
Considering what? What did she mean?

Before he could ask, she turned away from him, a dreamer caught in a nightmare of his creation. He stood in the dark for a time after she left, until his labored breathing calmed and a more calculated anger at the whims of fate smothered the flush of passion. He felt strangely hollow, detached from himself, as if he’d dreamed it all. He heard the approach of another man-at-arms, so he left, following her down to the hall.

The castle had come alive. The smell of cooking meat and bread being heated filled the great hall. Drake leaned against a wall, watching it all grimly. William joined him.

“It’s a wee bit crowded here, aye?” Drake said. “Mayhap we should be on our way. You ken who has arrived? It will be ugly.”

“I know, but I still have work here.”

His brother knew him well enough to realize that arguing was futile, but still he sighed dramatically so that William was aware of his displeasure.

William scanned the hall. All the fireplaces blazed, and torches lit the walls. The great wooden candelabras that hung from the ceiling by chains were lit with hundreds of candles. Rose and her sisters were absent, as were their husbands. A lass with her arms piled high with clean sheets and bedding hurried across the hall, disappearing into a corridor. Two other lasses sprinkled sprigs of herbs onto the rush-strewn floor. Two lads dragged a brass tub across the floor.

“You’d think he was royalty,” Drake murmured. He sent William a sidelong look. “You don’t plan to be standing here when he arrives, do you?”

“Aye, I do.”

Drake straightened from the wall to look at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious? Let him hear of it from someone else.”

“No.”

Drake swore and cajoled some more, but William remained adamant. Perhaps it was some penance he thought he deserved, but he had to see Rose’s face when she discovered the truth about him. He did not want her to hear it from someone else.

It seemed like an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—before Rose entered the hall, flanked by her sisters. William straightened from the wall, his mouth suddenly dry. She’d changed. The gown was sapphire and fit her body like a kid glove—the body he’d had his hands all over just moments before, which had flushed in passion and want. It was now wrapped coldly, beautifully, for another man. A single ribbon graced the delicate skin of her neck and chest, the silver locket resting against her rounded breasts. A blue-and-red arisaid swept over one shoulder, secured with a sapphire brooch. Her hair was down, cleverly braided at the sides with ribbons. It gleamed in the firelit hall, a long, sleek fall of amber and cinnamon. She was the most beautiful woman in the room—in any room that William had ever been in. He slumped back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his melancholy mood taking a black turn.

He glowered at her visage, cool and beautiful and proud. She was solemn and stiff, chin held high, the skin of her neck tight with strain. Her head turned slightly toward the door leading to the quay.

The hall fell silent, and William heard what had captured her attention—the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the steps from the quay to the hall. The man who emerged from the doorway was tall, his shoulders wide and heavy with muscle. He had a strong, tanned face women no doubt tripped over themselves for. A golden god, his thick blond hair—not a gray streak in it—was pulled away from his face to hang in a lovelock.

Roderick emerged beside him, nattering on, but the big blond man did not listen. His gaze scanned the hall, then stopped, arrested. William looked at Rose. She stared at her betrothed with wide eyes, hands clasped hard before her. A hopeful bride. William’s hand curled into a fist as the pointless anger rose again. It wouldn’t be long now. Minutes, seconds even, before he was introduced to MacPherson and everyone knew the truth.

The people of Lochlaire crowded forward to better see the reunion of Rose and her childhood sweetheart, reminding William of how many people would witness the scene that was about to transpire. A sobering thought. Perhaps this
was
unwise. Drake was right. He should leave the hall. Let her hear it from someone else. William moved along the edge of the crowd, hoping to disappear in a room or corridor unnoticed.

Jamie MacPherson crossed the hall, his stride eating up ground, his gaze fixated on Rose. Then suddenly he glanced around, and his pale eyes fell on William. MacPherson stopped. He pivoted toward William, peering at him in the dim light. Rose and everyone else in the hall turned to see what had engaged MacPherson’s attention.

William had wondered if the lad would even remember what he looked like. It had been a very long time ago, after all. But then, he supposed, one did not easily forget their father’s murderer.

Rose watched her betrothed’s approach, the whole while aware of William, standing against the wall. She did not want to be here, did not want to face Jamie tonight. She’d tried to plead illness and exhaustion, which wasn’t so far from the truth, but her sisters had convinced her of the importance of this moment, and so she’d allowed them to dress her.

She’d thought, on the battlements when William had embraced her, when he’d said such fine things to her, that she’d been wrong about him, that he didn’t think her a loose woman. That perhaps he too saw a future with the two of them together.

But she’d been wrong. He’d been ready to bed her, she’d seen it in his eyes, tasted it in his kiss. But he had no more use for her past that. Her humiliation and anger froze to hate. She hated him and men like him. Hated Fagan MacLean, hated his skinny wife and Fagan’s son, who’d used her just as William had intended to. But most of all, at that moment she hated her father for sending her to Skye and leaving her there and, when she’d escaped, sending her back. And even now, when she should well and truly be free of the MacLeans, somehow they still trapped her.

All of this swirled inside her, making her sick with suppressed resentment and fury and disgust. She didn’t want to marry and be touched by any man. They were all the same and she could not understand them, or how she could still ache for one of them so painfully.

Then Jamie had emerged from the doorway. She had not recognized him, had not seen in him the boy she’d once known. He didn’t even look like the miniature she’d so faithfully worn. But he’d looked at her with a sort of wonderment that had lightened her spirit somewhat. He’d known her before she’d gone to Skye; perhaps he still saw in her the girl she’d once been, all innocence, knowing nothing of the vile nature of men, nothing of hate.

But then William had moved—she’d felt it, her body and mind, as always aware of him wherever he was—and Jamie had turned to gape at him. Who wouldn’t? The tallest man in the room, the finest-looking man in the room—and the only one currently leaving.

They stared at one another for a long moment. Jamie looked as if he’d been kicked in the gut. William arched a black brow, and a thin, bitter smile curved his lips in greeting.

Rose’s heart took a sickening plunge. She’d never asked him, never even wondered:
How did they know each other?

“You.”
The word exploded out of Jamie like a cannon blast, and he barreled across the room, hand on sword hilt, as if he’d been fired from one.

Drake drew his sword and moved to his brother’s side, but William put out a staying hand. Rose lifted her skirts and ran, reaching them as Jamie’s sword arced down.

“You bloody murderer!” Jamie raged, his handsome face distorted with hatred. “I’ll kill you!”

“No!” Rose screamed.

William had already moved aside, his sword still sheathed, though his hand rested loosely on the hilt. Jamie’s blade cut through empty air, clattering noisily against the wall.

“Not in front of your betrothed, surely,” William said. He did not appear surprised or troubled by this attack. His fingers tapped the leather-wrapped sword hilt; his brow was cocked slightly in question.

Jamie straightened, his gaze flicking to Rose, then back to William, with murderous intent. But after a long, silent moment in which he breathed loudly through his nose and took in the horrified faces around him, he finally sheathed his sword.

His gaze narrowed on William. With both hands, he pushed back the golden hair that had come loose from his lovelock. “You and me. At dawn. In the courtyard.”

Rose’s heart thundered in her chest as William inclined his head in agreement to this.

She forced her way between the two men, pushing at their chests. Jamie took a step back, but William was granite, staring over her head, his eyes dark and inscrutable as he stared at Jamie.

Rose turned to glare up at Jamie. He was a stranger, a violent, angry stranger. “This man is a guest of the MacDonells. How dare you attack him in our hall.”

Jamie didn’t even look at her, still glowering over her head at William. “I would have killed him long ago if he wasn’t such a crawdoun.”

Rose inhaled sharply, insulted for William, though she heard not a word of protest behind her.

“Explain yourself,” she demanded. Lord Kincreag had joined her, as well as several MacDonell men-at-arms.

Jamie’s furious gaze finally moved to her and stuck. “This—this
wizard
murdered my father.”

“Aye?” the earl of Kincreag said, raising a black brow skeptically. “Was it murder then, or just another petty blood feud? And how did it happen? During a raid? During a battle?”

“Witchcraft.”

No
. Rose didn’t want to hear this. There was a slow sinking in her belly as she stared at her betrothed, shaking her head slowly. “How?”

“Ask him.” Jamie jerked his chin at William. “Ask him how.”

Rose was afraid to face William. Afraid to ask. His silence seemed to confirm the accusation.

Gillian, always the peacemaker, said, “Let us talk this over, friends. Mayhap it’s just a misunderstanding—”

“There is no misunderstanding,” William said. “But I do think Rose deserves to hear the truth in a different manner.”

Roderick had been observing the conflict from a distance. He stepped forward now, his blue eyes creased with concern. “Come, come—let’s take this somewhere private, aye?” He glanced meaningfully around the room at the curious faces of servants and various men-at-arms, then led the combatants from the hall.

Rose trailed behind, clutching Gillian’s hand. Jamie seemed to have forgotten her presence. He stalked ahead of her, his gaze boring into the back of William’s head.
You and me. At dawn. In the courtyard.
He meant to fight it out, to kill William. Her chest constricted with sick fear.

Roderick led them to a parlor her father had used for guests before his illness. Animal skins covered the floor, antlers and axes adorned the walls. The large fireplace was cold. Isobel summoned servants, and in no time a fire blazed, the candelabras were lit, and ale was served. But these pleasantries did nothing to dispel the chill atmosphere of the room.

Jamie stood near the carved fireplace, glowering across the room at William, who leaned negligently against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, returning his stare with little emotion. Drake took up position beside William, hand on sword hilt, staring belligerently at the enemy. Between William and Jamie stood Roderick, the earl, Rose, and her sisters—a barrier against further physical conflict.

When the servants had finally vacated the room, Roderick moved to the center of the group. “Now, let us hear your grievance, MacPherson.”

Jamie stepped forward, his pale blue eyes burning. He was enormous and threatening, thick biceps straining against the dun leather of his jack. “Why was my betrothed permitted to travel such a distance
alone?”

Roderick made a soft sound of irritation. “My lord, I told you, no one
permitted
her. She just did it.”

Jamie’s pale, icy gaze cut to Rose. “Is this true? You fetched this man to heal your father? This is why you’ve delayed our marriage?”

“Aye,” Rose said, meeting his gaze unapologetically. “He is a great healer. I knew if anyone could help my father, it was him.”

“And did he heal Alan?”

Rose could tell by the look on his face that he already knew the answer, which made her belly turn again. “Nay.”

He shook his head in disappointment. “Why did you not consult me on this, Rose?”

Rose let out an incredulous breath. “Why would I? He’s my father. I don’t even know you.”

“I am to be your husband. We are betrothed. You should consult me about these matters. We’ve been writing for months—why did you never seek my counsel?”

Rose shrugged. It had never occurred to her to ask his counsel. In truth she hadn’t asked anyone’s counsel—she hadn’t needed to. She’d known exactly what she’d wanted to do.

He waited expectantly for an answer.

“I know not,” she finally said.

“I see.” He crossed his substantial arms over his thick chest and frowned reproachfully. “If you had at least told me what you planned, I could have let you know the evil you’ve invited into your home.” He turned to face the others, his gaze cutting to William, who seemed rather bored by the proceedings.

“I pray you,” Rose said, “explain this grievance to us. How did Lord Strathwick use witchcraft to murder your father?”

“We have no direct feud with the Strathwick MacKays, but our friends the Sinclairs do.” Jamie pointed to William. “This man’s father and my father both wanted the same Sinclair woman for a bride.” He dropped his arm. His gaze scanned his audience. “Since the Sinclairs would never give a woman of theirs to a MacKay, she married my father. Shortly after, she fell ill. When Strathwick got word of it, he and his wicked son disguised themselves to infiltrate our home. Once there, he killed my father and stole my stepmother.”

Rose frowned at William, who unhelpfully maintained his air of ennui. She turned back to face her betrothed. “How do you know Lord Strathwick killed your father? Maybe
his
father did it.”

Jamie sneered contemptuously at her. “I
saw
him. Go on—ask him if he did it.”

William lifted a shoulder. “It’s true.”

Isobel, who had been listening quietly, with wide eyes, said, “This doesn’t sound like witchcraft to me. Lord Strathwick had gone with his father to steal a woman—such things happen all the time. No doubt your father offered resistance and he died. It is the way of things. You know this.”

Rose nodded in agreement and asked Jamie, “How do you know it was witchcraft?”

“Because my father was hale as a horse then was suddenly felled with the same ailment that was killing my stepmother.” He took a threatening step toward William, but the earl of Kincreag stepped casually into his path to intercept him. Jamie spun away, hands fisted at his sides.

Rose spread her hands in front of her in a placating manner. “My lord, many ailments are highly contagious.”

He turned his irate gaze on Rose. “Including bleeding to death from a miscarriage?”

Rose’s eyes widened. One look at William’s grim expression confirmed the truth of this.

“That’s not possible,” the earl said, but he sent William a wary glance.

“Nevertheless it happened,” Jamie said. “I told you—I
saw
it. I saw my stepmother, on the ground bleeding, clutching her belly. I saw him touch her, and she was well. I was yelling for my father to hurry, to stop them. When he came, Strathwick thrust his son at my father. The next thing I knew, my father was on the floor and the MacKays were leaving with my stepmother.” He swallowed hard, his throat working with emotion, his eyes like blue fire. “We could find no wounds on my father, yet he suffered horribly…then he began to…bleed. From his orifices. Then he died.” His gaze scanned the silent room, daring them to counter this story.
“Witchcraft.”

The earl gave William a measuring look, then asked, “How long ago was this?”

“Eleven years,” William said.

Rose felt weak—his answer was an admission. She remembered back to the moor, when he’d grabbed her wrist and told her he could hurt her with a touch. Gillian’s hands covered her mouth, her gray eyes enormous above them. Isobel sat in a nearby chair, staring at William in horror. They all looked at him as if he were a monster. But he didn’t notice them—his gaze was on Rose, and she could not hide her dismay. He saw it, and his lip curled slightly. He looked away, back to Jamie, as if he’d expected no better from her.

Drake stared hard at his brother, then his gaze swept the room angrily. “Since my brother will not tell his side of the story, I’ll do it for him.” He strode forward, his dark eyes fixed on Jamie. “My father was a wicked man, make no mistake, but the lassies liked him. Including Jean Sinclair. You didn’t mention that Jean fancied herself in love with my father and ran away once to wed him. Her father caught her and forced her to marry your father—a vile man who beat and raped her repeatedly. You didn’t mention why she miscarried? Because she was already ill and refused to rut with your father, so he beat her until she lost the wean.”

“Lies!” Jamie cried, coming at Drake while drawing his sword. Drake leapt to meet him, lusting for a fight, but Lord Kincreag and Roderick stepped between them, forcing Jamie to resheath his blade.

“My father never laid a hand on her!” Jamie bellowed over Kincreag’s restraining arm.

“My father came to rescue her,” Drake continued, shrugging off Roderick’s hold, “and brought my brother to heal her. At our father’s order, William gave her ailment to your father, who unfortunately died from it, as
she
would have, if not for William.”

Rose looked to William. “Who tells the truth?”

He shrugged. “Both. Neither.”

Rose shook her head, exasperated. “What does that mean?”

“My father did lust after Jean Sinclair. The wean she was pregnant with was his. I know not if she was truly ill, or if it was a ploy to bring my father to MacPherson lands. It didn’t matter. My father wanted her and what he wanted he took, even if it meant others must die. He could not have Jean so long as she was married to your father.” His arms were crossed over his chest. He looked down, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “At the time I believed what my father told me, that the MacPherson beat his wife. It angered me, and so when he urged me to kill your father, I did so willingly. I was eighteen; a man, with my own mind. It is no one’s fault but my own. I learned something later that made me believe that perhaps my father caused the miscarriage. She had no ailment for me to give MacPherson, and so he created one.”

Drake looked at his brother in amazement. “That’s not true.”

“It
is
true. Our father did far worse than that in his life, and so have I. I don’t know why you act so surprised.”

“But you didn’t know,” Drake said angrily. “So it’s not your fault.”

One corner of William’s mouth curled bitterly. “Oh, I think I did know. I fooled myself about a lot of things back then.”

“God damn it, Will, you didn’t!”

The room fell silent for several moments. Drake glowered helplessly at his brother, who stared back apologetically.

Rose was shaken from all that she’d heard. She’d never suspected that such darkness lurked in William. Her mind rebelled against it. It had been a long time ago. He had been much younger then. He obviously did not do such things any longer. Or did he? If he had cause, perhaps he did. Just because she’d never witnessed any didn’t mean he didn’t do them. She really didn’t know him at all.

She said, “I would like to speak with my betrothed alone.”

William gave her a long, enigmatic look. She felt he must be disappointed in her but could read nothing in his dark gaze. She averted her eyes, unable to look at him, her throat tight. She was confused about him, about Jamie. But William didn’t really matter anymore, and perhaps that was for the best. Even so, she could still try to set things right with Jamie. She owed William that at least.

She breathed easier when he finally left the room, freeing her of the intensity of his gaze. She watched the others file out after him, her hands clasped in front of her. She heard her betrothed move toward her, and turned quickly.