by Jen Holling
He had to look away from her direct midnight stare. She did not care. She was a fool. A sweet, beautiful fool. She should be terrified of him. Of what he could make her into with but a little more instruction. She had no idea. His little fool. But she was not his. She was MacPherson’s. Sick anger stabbed at him, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. He watched her, and she avoided his gaze. He wondered how long he had, how long before MacPherson discovered the wizard was with his woman.
“What will you do about Lucas?” Rose asked, breaking into his dark thoughts.
“Lucas?” He frowned thoughtfully, then remembered the small boy who’d taken refuge in his castle after his mother and sister had been stoned and burned. “Ailis’s brother.” He exhaled heavily. “I suppose he shall live at Strathwick for now. Why?”
She toyed with her bread, picking hunks out of it and tossing it into the water. Fish darted up, snatching at it. “Lucas told me Allister is to blame for everything. He seems to think the villagers would forget if not for Allister rubbing salt in the wounds.” She hesitated, sending him a quick, sidelong look. “So I think you must deal with Allister.”
He laughed incredulously. “You mean punish him? Make a martyr out of him? Wouldn’t he love that! No, I think not.”
She shook her head vigorously, leaning in closer. “No, no. Not death. He must be discredited somehow. Such as you did to Pol. Heal him publicly. That will take the wind from his sails, methinks.”
William shook his head dismissively. “Unfortunately he is hale as a horse. The man nearly severed his own arm once and it didn’t even fester.”
Rose’s shoulders slouched, and she frowned down at her food, picking at it again and worrying her bottom lip. He was amused by her effort to aid him and thought her idea a clever one—he’d thought of it himself. Unfortunately, Allister and he were too much alike. He knew he must do something about Allister and Pol and Tadhg—the instigators of all his trouble. He just hadn’t decided what yet.
“There’s a reason for that, you ken?”
His statement startled her from her thoughts. She blinked at him. “For what?”
“A reason Allister never ails.” He slid her a speculative look, gauging her reaction.
“What is that?”
“He’s our brother—Drake’s and mine. Born on the wrong side of the sheets, of course.” He smiled at the irony of it—it never failed to amuse him.
Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Your brother? Is he a witch?”
“I believe so.”
She let out an incredulous breath. “Does he know it?”
William snorted. “Nay—he doesn’t even know we share blood. His mum never told him.”
Rose shook her head at him. “You find this humorous.”
“Somewhat.” He leaned toward her. “Think of it—he is what he seeks to destroy.”
“Then you should tell him and let him destroy himself.”
“I doubt he’d believe me.”
She leaned closer, brows arched. “Make him.”
The intensity of her expression riveted him, put him in mind of other, more salacious things. His gaze swept over her, noting the blush that stained her neck and cheeks as she gazed back. A strand of copper had come loose from her plait, and it lay against her cheek. He longed to brush it back, to twine it around his fingers, to…
She looked away abruptly, her breathing disturbed. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he asked innocently.
“You know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
She shot him a furious look. “Aye, you do. Looking at me like that—like a hungry wolf. It’s not friendly at all.”
He felt like a wolf—ravenous, feral. And he didn’t want to be her friend, regardless of what he’d said before. He gave her a hard smile. “Sorry. No more looks. I vow it.”
The tight set of her shoulders relaxed slightly. “Good, because there is something I’ve thought long on, and until now I haven’t had a single person with whom to discuss it.”
“Aye?”
“The colors we see when we heal…what do you think they are?”
He slanted her a meditative look. “What do you think they are?”
She pursed her mouth and raised her brows. “I asked you first.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I know not.”
She sighed, pushing the loose hair behind her ear and giving him a challenging stare, daring him to call her foolish. “I think it’s the soul.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then it certainly follows why you think it is a gift from God. But to actually see a person’s soul would make us more than human, don’t you think? Like some sort of angel or saint.”
She frowned at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about? ‘Gift from God’? I didn’t say that.”
He suppressed a smile. “Your letters. My favorite phrase—repeated in nearly every letter—was how it was my duty to God and mankind to help your father. I had to wonder, however, that if God shared His great design with you, just when He planned to reveal it to me. I have wondered all these years and am now feeling rather left out. He seems to have forgotten me up in the mountains.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You did mock my letters!”
He laughed aloud at her horror. “I didn’t, Rose, I vow it. I loved your letters. Every one of them. I looked forward to them, in fact—with dreaded fascination.”
She arched a glacial brow. “Really? Then why did you ignore them?”
He disregarded her question, perversely enjoying how agitated she was becoming. “I didn’t just ignore them—I burned them, too.”
She let out a huffed breath and began tossing food and linens back in the basket, muttering to herself all the while.
As she stood, William reached a hand toward her, grasping a handful of kirtle and pulling her back down, laughing in earnest now. “All but one—all but one. I kept one.”
She glared at him as she sat on her knees, still ready to flee. “Which one was that?”
“The one in which you shared something of yourself. I meant to answer that one…but I could never think of what to write.”
She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head in bewilderment. “You mock the source of your healing, but who else but God would give you such a wondrous gift?”
He tried to look evil, raising a brow. “Many say the devil.”
“A man’s contemporaries can never perceive greatness. Look to the Bible for such stories.”
His evil visage dissolved in pained laughter. “Rose. I am no saint. I have killed men with this gift. Your betrothed’s father, for one. I did that.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No, I cannot believe it of you. You did what you thought was right at the time.”
“I don’t know that I thought it was right. Even at the time.”
She did not reply to that. Her mouth was still set in a stubborn line. He sighed. Her refusal to think ill of him was sweet, if terribly misguided.
Continuing with their earlier conversation, she said, “So…you do not believe the colors we see are the soul?”
“I don’t know what a soul is. Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“No, but my sister sees them.”
He leaned back on the grassy bank and stared across the water at the castle. “I saw one once. It spoke to me…and it looked human. No light or color—I even tried to pass my hands over it. There was nothing there. What is a ghost if not the soul trapped here on earth?”
When he glanced over at her, he could see that the thought intrigued her. She arched a fine auburn brow at him. “Then what are we seeing?”
“When a person dies, the color leaves them. But they are the same as before. A bag of flesh, containing bone and blood and humors. The light and color is what animates them, what makes the heart pound, the blood rush. It is what warms the skin…” He shook his head helplessly. “It’s as vital to life as the blo
od in our veins, but I still know not what it is.”
She smiled ruefully at him.
“What?”
“You said you hadn’t thought of it. That you didn’t have any theories.”
“That’s not what I said. I said I know not. And I don’t.”
She shook her head, still smiling. Then her eyes brightened, and she leaned forward. “Can you see your own color?”
“No.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. She reached toward him, passing her hand over his. He could almost feel it, the heat of her, and his body tightened in response, the lightness of his mood falling away.
She smiled wistfully. “It’s blue. Like your eyes. It’s different from any I’ve seen before…more vibrant.”
Arrested by the softness in her eyes, William didn’t respond immediately. When he could speak, his voice was gruff. “I see the same in you.”
“Really?” Her smile was like the sun on his face. “What color am I? Is it as I imagine? Dark blue?”
He nodded. “You’re beautiful—a dark, vivid blue, indigo lightning.”
She chewed her lip thoughtfully, pleased with the description. William stared at her profile, memorizing every line of her face, the sweep of her lashes, the bemused curve of her lips that he wanted to taste…. Her forehead creased into a frown. He followed her gaze.
MacPherson rowed across the loch, his face thunderous as he stared at William and Rose. William looked up at the sky and realized they’d been sitting there for hours. Afternoon had turned to evening. His bread was stale. He sighed and sat up, tossing his hard bread in the basket then stood. Rose stood too, nervously brushing the crumbs from her kirtle.
“Jamie,” she said when he jumped into the shallows of the loch. “What are you doing?”
“I heard he was here.” Jamie splashed through the water, never taking his eyes off William. Once out of the loch, he charged. William tensed but didn’t retreat. MacPherson stopped in front of him, blowing like a bull. “Stay away from her, or I swear on my father’s grave I will slice you open.”
Rose took hold of MacPherson’s arm, trying to pull him away. “You promised!”
“You can certainly try,” William said, hating the man with a sudden, black intensity. MacPherson had every reason to hate William—but he had the one thing William wanted and couldn’t have. Rose. And William loathed him for it.
At Rose’s prodding MacPherson backed away, still glaring murder at William. The reckoning would come, William knew, regardless of the promises the lad had apparently made to Rose. William was ready for it.
She shepherded MacPherson back into the boat, her skirts sopping. William stood on the bank, watching as MacPherson rowed her across, his heart cankered with jealousy. In the middle of the loch, MacPherson stopped rowing and pulled the oars in. The skiff drifted. MacPherson gestured passionately as he spoke to Rose, while her gestures were placating. She touched him freely, her hands on his forearm, his shoulder. MacPherson’s gaze sliced to William, who still stood on the bank, witnessing it all. MacPherson grabbed Rose’s shoulders and kissed her. She let him.
William picked up the basket and box she’d left behind, and turned away.
Rose was relieved that her betrothed had finally calmed. She’d left her things on the bank, and when she twisted around, she saw they were gone. William was gone, too.
“What are you looking for?” Jamie asked, suspicious, scanning the bank himself.
“My box. I left it in the village.” She smiled at him. “I’m going back tomorrow. I’ll get it then.”
“I’ll go with you tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it terribly boring.”
“Nonsense.” He smiled at her. He’d been so furious with her, had felt so betrayed when he’d seen her sitting on the bank talking to William. She’d tried to explain herself, but he’d been implacable. She was his betrothed. Strathwick was his enemy. And never the two shall meet. Then he’d kissed her and she’d let him, and suddenly his anger had disappeared. Rose had been bewildered at first, until she’d noticed the way he stared at her—or more aptly leered at her. His gaze moved up and down her body, lingering on her breasts and mouth.
She worried now, wondering what to do about this. What to do? He was her betrothed! She’d let William kiss and touch her—surely she should let the man she meant to marry do the same and more. Trouble was, she didn’t want Jamie to kiss her or touch her again. This did not speak well for their impending wedding night. What a tangle.
At the quay, Jamie assisted her from the boat, pulling her against his body and running his hands down her backside. Her heart beat furiously. She prepared to slap him if he tried anything else, but he did not. He took her hand and led her up the steps. All the while he stole lecherous looks at her, filled with promise and expectation. Oh, it was coming. It was just a matter of when.
The attack came outside her chambers. He kissed her again—abruptly, so she had no time to react. His mouth was over hers, tongue thrusting, his arms crushing her against him. She struggled, twisting her face away.
“Jamie! Hold, please! Wait! I can’t breathe!”
His mouth was wet on her neck. Then he bit her, and she yelped. Reflexively, she rammed her knee into his groin.
The effect was instantaneous. He released her and bent over, groaning.
“Oh, no! Oh God, forgive me—I—I—You frightened me.”
After a moment he straightened, his face red. “It’s all right,” he gasped when she continued her profuse apologies. He adjusted himself with a grimace, then fixed her with a stern look. “There’s naught to be afraid of, lass. We’re to be wed. It’s expected that we do this. I ken you have no mother. Has anyone told you what happens on our wedding night?”
Rose managed—just barely—not to roll her eyes. Had anyone told her? Actually, no, come to think of it, no one had told her. Donald MacLean, fat Fagan’s oldest son, had shown her in great detail. But she could not tell Jamie that. She planned to fake her virginity. She remembered losing it well enough and felt she could fake it with accuracy. She would procure a small bladder of blood and break it on the bed. He would never know.
As Jamie stared at her expectantly, Rose shook her head, deciding ignorance was the best defense against his advances tonight.
He gave her a gentle, superior smile and turned her toward her door. “Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you.” His hand skimmed down her back to her bottom.
She turned quickly. “No—let me ask my sisters first, I pray you. I’m afraid…. This is strange, hearing it from you. I want to be better prepared.” She gazed up at him pleadingly. “Please?”
He sighed, disappointed, then said, “Very well, though it’s naught to fear. Oh, it hurts the first time. After, it’s not so terrible.”
“Had a lot of virgins, have you?”
He started to nod, then frowned. “Why do you ask?”
She smiled sweetly. “No reason.” He left her finally, and she locked herself in her chambers. How could she marry him? She wasn’t even sure she liked him. Logically, she knew that most marriages were not based on friendship or love or even lust, but logic had nothing to do with it. She still wanted it. Friendship, at least. Lust was nice. She had those with William…Dumhnull…Her heart stumbled just to think of him. And love?…
It was useless to dwell on it! He’d made it clear he didn’t want her that way. She must stop thinking about him. Irritated with herself, she retreated to the herb room to lose herself in the comfort of work, but for once it was no use. Though she spent an hour crushing dried herbs and studying her texts, she finally gave up. Frustrated and empty, she wandered to the doorway and gazed listlessly around her chambers.
She remembered how William had hidden in her room last night, and her heart leapt, her gaze shifting to the shadows near the window. Empty, of course. If only he were there tonight, hiding, waiting for her. She would not send him away.
Chapter 14
It wasn’t long, however, before he began to complain that he was hungry and that his feet hurt. Though she gently suggested a number of times that he return to Lochlaire, he refused to go without her, fixing her with a wounded and accusatory stare, as if his discomfort was entirely her fault.
“I just have one more patient,” Rose assured him as she hurried along the dirt path.
Jamie trudged glumly behind her, not touching her or even offering to help her carry her things. Earlier he’d grabbed her and tried to kiss her—only to thrust her away in disgust. Her clothes were stained with blood and other fluids. He’d kept his distance the remainder of the day.
“Can you not see them tomorrow?” Jamie asked, a slight whine to his voice. “We’ve missed dinner.”
Rose gritted her teeth, tamping down the urge to snap at him. She was tired and achy, too. She’d reset a dislocated joint earlier, and it had been a great exertion. Her shoulders and arms ached from the strain.
“Here.” From her bag, Rose dug a roll wrapped in cloth and offered it to him. He took it hesitantly but didn’t eat it, eyeing it as if it, too, was covered with blood and sweat.
Inside the next cottage, Rose was delighted to find that the patient had an abscess. Delighted because in the past, it had often been difficult to determine whether a lump was a tumorous growth or a festering. But now, she could feel it. Removing a tumor could be tricky, and it didn’t always fix the problem. An abscess was a simple matter of draining, flushing, stitching, and applying a poultice. Since it was in a rather sensitive area—the patient’s groin—she was forced to ask her betrothed for aid.