by Jen Holling
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.”
Deidra still looked mutinous, but she let her uncle draw her off the bed and lead her from the room.
Rose set to boiling water in a small pot in the fireplace. The room was sparsely furnished, though the furniture was well made and solid. The walls were bare of ornamentation, as were the tops of the cupboards and chests. A desk sat at the opposite end of the room, and its top showed the only signs of habitation outside the bed—papers scattered across the top, a large, misshapen rock with eyes clumsily painted on it holding them down, a carved wooden box, writing implements, a tankard.
Cautiously, she approached the large, sturdy bed draped with thick wool plaids. Her patient’s coughing had calmed, though he still wheezed. She climbed partially onto the bed and rolled him onto his back. His eyes opened, bleary and dazed, and fixed on her. Though it made sense, she still had a hard time reconciling that this was Lord Strathwick. It made her uneasy, but she set that aside, determined to care for him the best she could.
She murmured calming nonsense to him, as she did to all her patients. He didn’t respond; he only stared at her, his expression enigmatic. She passed her hands over him, and though what she saw was similar to what she’d seen with Ailis, there was something different—odd. The blackness encompassed his throat, streaked with the angry red of the fever—but a blue-white pulsing light underlaid it all. It was so strong that she didn’t just see it—she felt it, tingling against her palms, ebbing and flowing like the tide. She curled her hands into fists and stared down at him, a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.
He tried to speak but instead dissolved into a fit of coughing. His thick shoulders shook with it. He turned his head into the pillow, his face creased with pain. Blood stained the linen.
“Come on, sit up.” She gathered his numerous pillows and crammed them behind him. He was too weak to aid her, but she was accustomed to shifting large weights around all by herself. Before he’d died, her foster father, Fagan MacLean, had weighed at least twenty stone of fat, and no one but Rose had tended to him.
A small bowl with a rag in it rested on the floor beside the bed. Rose wrung out the rag
, then sat on the edge of the bed. She smoothed the rag over the strong bones of his face, the day’s growth of black and silver stubble on his chin and jaw, and she wiped the blood from the stern line of his mouth. Her Dumhnull was the Wizard of the North. It still filled her with awe, made her chest flutter in a strange, anxious manner, both exciting and frightening.
She reached for the hooks on his doublet, and the fluttering increased. His eyes opened, narrowing on her.
“I’m cooling you down. Then I’ll make you something for the fever and to soothe your cough.”
She unhooked the doublet, then her hands moved to the ties of the linen shirt he wore. His big hand came up to catch hers. “My daughter?…Dede?…”
Rose hushed him, speaking soothingly, “Drake took her away. You should rest now. I’ll bring her back later.”
His hand fell away and his eyes closed again.
Rose struggled to remove his doublet and shirt. He seemed a bit more cognizant, and he helped as best as he could, pushing himself up on one arm and finally falling into his pillows. “May I rest now? Or have you some other torture designed for me?”
“No. Lie still.” She pulled his boots and stockings off, leaving him only in his trews. She considered removing those, too, but decided to wait until she’d given him something to help him sleep. She didn’t know if she could strip him with those brilliant blue eyes peering at her. Rose wiped the rag over his swollen throat, then over his shoulders and chest, wiping down his arms and hands. Though she tried to remain detached from what she was doing, her body grew warm from touching him so freely. He was even more compelling out of clothes than he was in them. His bones were long and elegant, layered thickly with smooth slopes of muscle and crisp black hair. No scars or imperfections blemished his smooth, dusky skin. He was a wholly beautiful man, and she was not immune. Either was he, it seemed, for when she reached the hard flat muscles of his belly, she noticed the thick bulge in his trews and was grateful she’d left them on.
Without thinking, she glanced up at his face. Dark, hazy eyes regarded her. At her look he quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sick, not dead.”
Though flustered, she retreated into the brisk manner of a healer, which served her well with recalcitrant or randy patients. She grabbed the edge of the plaid blanket and yanked it up, covering him to his chest. “I’ll get you something for that cough.”
She brewed the same infusion she’d poured down Ailis’s throat all night, then propped him on the bed so she was behind him, his head against her shoulder. His bare skin burned her everywhere they touched.
“Drink this,” she said, pressing the cup to his lips.
He’d drifted off. He seemed confused when she woke him, though he drank the infusion readily enough.
“You aren’t angry?” he rasped between sips. His hands came up to hold hers steady around the cup. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand away.
“Oh, I’m angry. But I’ll not harangue a sick man. When you’re well enough, you shall get an earful.”
He finished drinking and groaned softly, turning his face into her neck. Rose panicked momentarily but calmed quickly. He meant her no harm. She set the cup aside and looked down at the thick black hair below her nose. It gleamed in the weak light, threaded through with coarser silver hair. His hand, broad and hot, lay against her ribs, below her breasts. She could feet the heat from each long finger imprinting itself on her body. Her own hands hovered uselessly, suddenly afraid to touch him. Finally she let one hand drop to the arm that lay across her, stroking over the muscle, feeling the latent strength coiled in him, and wondering about him, hungry to know more.
She was a ninny perhaps, but she felt as if she already knew him. She should not. He had lied about his name and who he was, but she still felt that he’d been honest in all else. She knew inherently he had good reason for his ruse and hoped he would tell her in time. And he had wanted to help her—he’d said as much when he’d pretended to be Dumhnull, though she’d not understood then. His hot breath stirred her hair, and an odd trembling shivered through her.
“I’ll be fine. This is naught.”
She was startled by his voice, by the way his breath felt against her neck when he spoke. She’d thought he was asleep. “Naught! Ailis nearly died from this.”
“But she didn’t, aye? And neither will I.” The black lashes rose, and he peered up at her. “Trust me.”
She did trust him. He was the real healer, after all. What she did was mere child’s play compared to his power. She slid out from under him and stood beside the bed. He turned his head on the pillow so he could watch her.
She placed a hand on his brow. “Rest, my lord.”
He inhaled deeply, then let it out in a heavy sigh. “I never imagined you’d be so damn pretty.”
Her heart tripped on itself and she smiled. “You’re delirious.”
“Perhaps.”
She moved her hand over his hair, fingering a lock of silver, then pushing it behind his ear. His hair…silvered black hair. He was the man in Isobel’s vision—not an old man, but a man with graying hair. He would help her. He must.
“Was I wrong to come here, my lord? Was I wrong about you?” She watched her fingers as she spoke, unable to look into his eyes.
His hand caught hers, enfolding it with heat. She stared at their joined hands, afraid of what she’d see in his face. If he said no to her now, it would somehow be worse. A no from Drake had been terrible, but a no from this man would devastate her.
“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t let me be wrong.”
His hand tightened briefly on hers, then fell away.
“Aye, I’ll go to your father.”
Rose sucked in a shaky breath, her hand covering her mouth. When she finally dared to look at him, his eyes were closed. She took his fevered hand in hers and pressed a reverent kiss to his knuckles. His lashes fluttered slightly but did not rise.
“I am in your debt, my lord.”
Chapter 5
When William woke, it was dark again. He’d spent the entire day in a fevered haze, hovering on the edge of delirium. The only thing that kept him from giving in to it was his lovely healer. She was a lodestone, drawing him back with the cool touch of her hands and her soothing voice when the world grew confusing and hazy. For the first time since he lay hands on Ailis, the blinding pain in his head was gone and he could breathe deeply. His hand went to his throat. The swelling was gone and his skin was cool. His hand dropped back to the bed in relief. It could have been worse.
Rose lay on a rush mat before the fire. He stared through the gloom, wondering if she was awake. When had she last slept? He felt odd—restless and discontented. And all because of her. He started to throw back the bedding and was surprised to find himself undressed. He looked again to his little healer. He must have been very ill to forget that.
Something else pricked at his memory. Her hands passing over him, not touching him. She’d done that in the stable as well. She was no mere healer, but something more.
He slung a plaid about his hips and crossed to where she slept by the fire. Only the firelight illuminated her, casting shadows over her face and lighting deep copper fires in her hair. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Dark auburn hair, pale skin, midnight eyes, fine cheekbones, a strong chin and straight nose. She appeared slender and delicate, and yet she was clearly capable of great things. What was he going to do with her? He was loath to send her away, and yet what else could he do?
He crouched beside her and touched a loose lock of hair, pushing it away from her face, as she had done to him the night before. She was a skilled healer to have kept Ailis alive as long as she did. And she’d known just what to do when he’d been choking.
Her eyes flew open. Wild eyes. Terrified eyes.
He drew his hand away slowly. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She pushed herself to sitting, then backed away, her arisaid sliding from her shoulders. She looked at him as if she fea
red him. He did not touch her, only watched her silently, waiting. Her gaze scanned the room, confused, before returning to him, this time with recognition. The fear in her eyes disappeared, replaced with weariness and relief. She flexed her shoulders in a small stretch, twisting and grimacing as her back cracked.
“You are much improved,” she said, her gaze still on him, cautious.
He did not stand, remaining at her level. “Aye. It’s only bad in the beginning. Illnesses never tarry in my body.”
Her gaze roved over his chest and lower, then skittered away. “My lord…I’ll leave you so you can dress.”
She started to stand, but he put out a hand. She froze before he touched her, so he drew back. She had not been so wary of him when she’d thought him a mere groom. He didn’t like it, wanted their prior rapport back.
“I wanted to thank you for coming as you did, and clearing my throat and staying with me. I did not deserve your kindness after deceiving you.”
She lifted her midnight eyes to him. They were slightly slanted like a cat’s, with a thick sweep of cinnamon lashes. “It is I who should be thanking you. You are forgiven everything.”
He tapped a thumb to his mouth, frowning at her. This was not right. He was forgetting something. A strange tightness gripped his chest.
“What mean you?”
“You said you would come to Lochlaire and heal my father. What I did for you is paltry payment for such a gift, my lord. Do not for a moment believe I consider my debt paid—”
He stood abruptly. “What did you say? I agreed to heal your father?”
She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Aye, you did.”
He paced away from her, arms crossed over his chest. “I was feverish, delirious. Why would you take aught I said seriously?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned back. She gazed up at him with such a look of betrayal that he stopped short.