Chapter 6
It was full dark when they set out. They were a grim, silent party of five—Drake, Wallace, Strathwick, and, to Rose’s surprise, Strathwick’s daughter.
Deidra rode a small, docile mare that appeared oblivious to her bouncing and chattering and was perfectly happy to have its mane braided and laced with ribbons.
Rose supposed it wasn’t so strange for him to want his child close.
Ailis had been only a year or two younger than Deidra.
Had she a child, Rose wouldn’t have left her in that place either.
Rose surreptitiously observed the MacKay chief as he rode, to see if he suffered any discomfort in his shoulder.
He looked well enough. The dark whiskers had been shaved from his jaw, and his eyes were clear, his face unlined.
He didn’t appear to be in any pain. He sat straight in the saddle and kept watch over his daughter, who was very excited by the adventure and had to be warned repeatedly to keep her voice down.
Dawn drove away the darkness and with it the tension of the night.
Rose did not know the boundaries of Strathwick’s lands, but she assumed that by now they were out of immediate danger from his people.
They traveled a mist-shrouded mountain trail.
It was wide enough to ride three abreast, but the way was littered with jagged rocks that had fallen from above.
Wild scrub grew along the sides in places, threatening to overtake the road.
Rose was considerably calmer on this journey than she’d been on the previous one. She’d been alone then and disguised. This time she was surrounded by three brawny men; she enjoyed the feeling of safety and the opportunity to survey her surroundings without constant, watchful fear.
She had been riding beside Wallace, with Strathwick and Drake behind, Deidra between them. With a brief gesture Strathwick sent Wallace and Drake ahead to scout the trail. Rose took Drake’s place, flanking Deidra. The child looked at her with sleepy blue eyes.
“Good morn, Mistress Deidra,” Rose said, smiling. “Are you still anxious for an adventure?”
Deidra’s mouth opened wide on a yawn. “I’m tired.”
Strathwick leaned toward his daughter and plucked her from her saddle, settling her across his lap. “Rest your eyes then, my wee squirrel.”
Rose caught the reins of Deidra’s mare and tethered them to her saddle. Deidra snuggled against her father but didn’t close her eyes, instead fixing them on Rose.
She returned the child’s solemn stare. “Why does your father call you squirrel?”
Deidra smiled, showing dark gaps on either side of her large front teeth, making her look very much like a chubby rodent. “Because I like nuts!”
Rose put a hand to her mouth and laughed, glancing up at Strathwick to see that he grinned down at his daughter.
Her heart snagged. She had thought he was incomparably handsome before, but when he smiled, he was devastating.
She stared until his gaze met hers, then she quickly averted her eyes.
She longed to be the one coaxing forth his smiles; it bloomed inside her, the want, unnerving in its sudden, unexpected force.
They rode in silence until Deidra’s thick black lashes drifted shut.
She was so very young and vulnerable. Rose had been about Deidra’s age when Alan MacDonell had sent her to Skye, away from everyone she knew and loved, to be raised by strangers.
She watched the peacefully sleeping child for a long while before raising her gaze to Strathwick.
He stared straight ahead, his jaw rigid and grim now, all traces of his earlier smile gone.
“Why did you bring your daughter?” Rose asked, doubting her own father would have taken her or her sisters on such a journey. “Is it because of what happened to Ailis and Iona?”
He sighed, gazing down at his daughter, his brow creased in a slight frown. “Aye. I can’t leave her at Strathwick. I can’t trust anyone to protect her but myself and Drake.”
A thread of anger twisted in Rose. Not at him, but at her own father, who’d sent his children away rather than protect them himself.
Shame immediately followed the thought, sending her into the state of restless unhappiness that seemed to plague her of late.
She’d thought it had to do with her inability to heal her father, but now she had the Wizard of the North and still she felt vaguely unhappy.
She supposed it wouldn’t go away until her father was well and she was able to confront him.
She glanced back at William, cradling his sleeping daughter, and knew this was a great thing he did for her, uprooting his family.
All for some woman he hardly knew—a woman who’d forced her way into his home and threatened one of his people, all to honor a promise he’d made in the throws of fever.
She felt slightly ashamed of herself and said, “Thank you again for doing this for me.”
He lifted a shoulder slightly. “Perhaps it’s best if I leave Strathwick for a time.”
“Is it always like that?”
His throat worked as he swallowed, the firm line of his mouth flattening. “No. They’ve hunted me, and run a few people that I’ve healed out of the village, but they’ve never killed anyone before.”
“Do you have somewhere you can go? Another castle?”
“Aye, but then they’d win—driving me out like they did Betty.” A muscle bulged in his jaw. “No. Strathwick is mine and the instigators will be dealt with.” The glance he gave her was grim and rueful, his eyes dark. “I’m sorry you witnessed what happened to Ailis and her mother.”
Anger tightened Rose’s throat, making it difficult for her to speak immediately.
When she could, her voice was low with suppressed passion.
“It was so very wrong, what they did. It makes me ill to think on it. And if it makes me ill, I can only imagine how it makes you feel.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “You must wonder what the purpose is, to put yourself through such danger and pain to save one life, and then lose two because of your trouble. I want you to know, my lord, such horrors will never occur at Lochlaire.”
One black cynical brow arched. “It sounds as if Lochlaire is a haven.”
“It was.”
His gaze sharpened, studying her. “Was?”
Rose looked away from his perceptive eyes and stared down at the reins grasped loosely in her leather-clad hands. “Things have changed a great deal. My father is dying. When he’s well, everything will be right again.”
A thoughtful silence followed, then he said, “You were not specific in your letters about this thing that tore your family apart.”
Rose scanned the road ahead, wishing now she’d kept quiet. But there was no distraction in sight. The road was empty, no sign of Drake and Wallace. When she looked back at Strathwick, he still waited for her answer.
“My mother was a witch. She was attacked by a mob and burned. To protect us, my father sent us away to foster with people he trusted, separately, so I didn’t see my sisters for twelve years.”
Strathwick’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “He sent you away?” He looked down at his daughter, his expression growing darker. “How convenient for him, relieving himself of the responsibility.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing,” Rose said defensively. “It’s what my mother wanted.”
He met her gaze, a brow slightly arched. “But you don’t agree.”
It was not a question. Rose’s gaze dropped to the child nestled in his arms, a plump hand beneath her cheek and her mouth open in innocent slumber. She was so young….
“No…. I don’t know.”
“Why did he send you to Skye?”
“Because Crisdean Beaton was there. My mother wanted him to tutor me. He was Fagan MacLean’s personal physician. A very fine healer.”
He frowned as he studied her expression.
Rose tried to appear indifferent. She didn’t want to discuss this any longer—she’d never meant for their conversation to take this turn.
She very much wanted to discourage any further probing, but she did not want to call attention to the fact that it upset her.
She judged herself successful when his frown smoothed and he said, his voice bland, “And you learned well from him. What was that thing you did to me with your hands?”
Relieved, Rose raised a slightly amused brow. “You mean like that thing you did to Ailis with your hands, before you healed her?”
The corners of his mouth deepened, and a very slight dimple indented his right cheek. “Aye, that’s it.”
Rose was powerless to do aught but smile in return, inexplicably thrilled she’d coaxed the grudging half-smile from him.
“I see colors,” she said. “They direct me to what ails someone, but naught else. You saw that I was helpless to heal Ailis.”
Strathwick nodded, his eyes lit with surprise and pleasure. “Ailis was pale yellow, aye? The fever a dark red—like merlot? The sickness in her throat was black. It had substance, too, it felt—”
“No, I felt nothing,” Rose said regretfully, and strangely she did regret it. For a moment, he’d seemed so pleased, as if discovering a kindred spirit. “The rest, though, aye, I saw that.”
He frowned. “You only see the colors? You don’t feel them?”
“That’s right. You feel the colors?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly…or not the colors. But the ailments. They have form and substance.” He squinted at the terrain before them thoughtfully, then asked, his tone casual, “Have you ever been ill?”
“Not that I recall. Why?”
“As a healer, you are surrounded by illness. It would seem to follow that at times you become ill yourself.”
Rose had thought about that herself sometimes, but the truth was, she’d never even had the sniffles. She shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate.”
He slanted her a mysterious look, dark and full of unfathomable meaning, then looked away. “I’ve never been ill either,” he mused. “Outside of healing, that is.”