Chapter 6 #2
Rose waited for him to say more, but he only continued to meditate on the mountains. She rolled her lips, biting them, then finally gave in to the urge to ask him a question that had been nagging at her.
“I was wondering, my lord…how is your elbow complaint?”
He gave her a sour look. She tried to hide her smile but couldn’t. She laughed.
“Since you see the colors, you must also know there was naught wrong with my elbow. Ah, well.”
She had suspected but was inordinately pleased to hear him say it.
“I thought it very sweet.” She looked down at her gloved hands.
“I was growing rather fond of Dumhnull. I should have guessed he—er, you were not a groom. You neither looked nor acted like one. In fact, I don’t think you even tried. Maybe you wanted me to discover you?”
The breeze rustled his silvered black hair as his blue eyes burned a slow trail over her. “Mayhap I did,” he murmured, his gaze resting on her mouth.
Her breath grew short and she looked away, to her horse’s mane.
The way he looked at her made her burn inside, calling forth memories of his mouth on hers, his arms enfolding her.
She gripped the pommel of her saddle to help ground herself.
Did she want to do this again, entangle herself in another hopeless flirtation?
No, not if it was hopeless. But was it? Her blood rushed, remembering how pleased he’d been to discover that she also saw the colors. Perhaps not hopeless.
She was betrothed, she reminded herself.
She belonged to another man. Contracts had been signed, promises made.
She shook her head at her wayward thoughts.
So stupid to worry about these things, when he’d done nothing more than kiss her.
She resolved to put it from her mind unless he gave her good reason not to.
By nightfall they had descended into a narrow forested glen, where they camped for the night.
As the only other female present, Rose led Deidra to a nearby stream to wash.
She combed the tangles out of the child’s hair while Deidra squirmed and protested until Rose produced a blue ribbon and held it enticingly in front of her face.
The child’s eyes crossed trying to focus on it, her mouth a small O of wonder.
Rose laughed. “I’ll put it in your hair and you’ll be the prettiest lass your father has ever seen.”
Deidra grew rigid as a board, staring straight ahead as if made of stone. Rose smiled to herself and resumed combing the thousand knots from the black curls.
“Who combs your hair every night and morning?” Rose asked.
“I do!”
Rose paused in her ministrations, mildly shocked. “Who dresses you?”
“Me!”
There was a great deal of pride in Deidra’s answers. Rose didn’t want to diminish that, but the girl’s bodice was hooked askew, and the points were so knotted that Rose couldn’t fathom how the child took her sleeves or kirtle off.
“You certainly are a big lassie, combing your own hair and dressing yourself.”
“That’s what my da says. Ouch!” She winced as the comb caught on a snarl of black curls, then immediately straightened her shoulders. “Sorry.”
“That’s fine. You may say ouch, but you must not pull away or I might hurt you worse.”
“Aye, Mistress MacDonell.”
The formal address was quite a mouthful for the child, and though Rose was pleased that Strathwick had not neglected his daughter’s manners, she said, “You may call me Rose, if I might call you Deidra.”
Deidra nodded, black curls bobbing. “Or you can call me Dede.”
“What about Wee Squirrel?”
“If you like.”
The combing grew easier, and Dede’s stiff spine softened.
“What do you prefer?” Rose asked.
“Only da calls me Wee Squirrel.” There was a note of reservation in Deidra’s voice that made Rose smile wistfully. As a child, she’d adored her father, and he had been fond of her, but there had never been any special nicknames, or the closeness Rose witnessed between Deidra and her father.
“Then I shall call you Dede—or is that your uncle’s special name for you?”
“No. Uncle Drake calls me other names, but they’re secret.”
The statement startled Rose, and she dropped the comb. It clattered onto a stone beside them. Rose grabbed clumsily at it, her heart somewhere in her throat, her belly queasy. Surely she’d misunderstood.
“What do you mean?” Rose asked, her voice strange. She continued combing the black curls mindlessly, although all the tangles were gone. Deidra didn’t protest. She leaned back against Rose’s legs.
“I cannot tell! It’s a secret.”
Rose’s stomach turned hard. “A secret from who, Dede? From strangers, like me? Or from everyone. Including your father?”
“You’re not a stranger, silly! And aye, from everyone—most especially my da.”
Rose’s fists dropped to her thighs, pressing hard into them. “Will you tell me your secret?”
Dede shook her head firmly, curls bobbling. “Can’t tell.” She twisted around, peering into Rose’s lap. “Is the ribbon in my hair now?”
As if in a dream, Rose pulled the front of Dede’s hair back and tied the ribbon in it, making a small bow so the tails hung down to mingle with her curls. Dede patted it, fingering the ribbon tails reverently.
She jumped to her feet and raced away, back to camp.
Rose slowly gathered up their things, her mind searching frantically for a solution to the frightful thing she’d just heard.
What kind of secret would Drake ask a child to keep from her own father?
The worst kind, she feared, the kind she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate, to remember.
But she must, for Dede’s sake. She could not stroll into camp and begin flinging accusations about.
She knew from experience that an outsider making such accusations would not be believed but reviled.
She pressed at her stomach, the sickness in her rising until she took several quick steps away and threw up.
She dropped to her knees, rubbing her hands over her face, forcing the heels of her hands into her eyes, driving back the images trying to insinuate themselves into her mind.
Memories. Things she’d worked so hard to forget.
Corpulent, sweating Fagan MacLean, leering at her, lying to her.
Her innocent, stupid trust. It sickened her, humiliated her.
Her vision blurred, but she fought it, digging her fingernails into her palms. Stupid, stupid to be so upset still, when it was long over.
There was nothing that could change what had occurred, and she knew it.
Stupid to be so angry still. It took time and effort, but she managed to push it away.
She splashed water on her face and straightened her arisaid. There was nothing for it but to protect Deidra herself. The decision calmed her, infused her with sudden strength and determination. She had been denied a champion when she’d needed one most, but by God, Deidra would have one.
Deidra raced into camp with a dark blue ribbon in her hair, dancing about to make her curls and ribbon bounce to maximum effect.
After receiving exclamations of how bonny she looked from all present, she settled down against William’s knee to eat.
Her freshly scrubbed cheeks glowed, and her hair had been combed to a glossy sheen.
He could thank Rose for that—he was haphazard at best when it came to such things, trusting the servants to see to such matters.
He ran a hand over the thick curls, and Deidra tipped her head back to smile at him upside down.
He smiled back. “What’s become of Mistress MacDonell, Squirrel? Did you frighten her away?”
Deidra’s attention returned to her meal of cold ban-nocks and dried beef. “No, she’s still at the burn.”
His gaze strayed again to the stand of bushes through which Rose and Deidra had disappeared earlier, and he wondered what detained Rose.
He thought about her more than was wise.
Pretty lasses were one thing, but she was a bit more.
He found the woman a great deal like the letter he’d kept and read countless times.
Compelling. Beautiful. Known. He’d sensed a similarity in her letter, that was why he’d kept it, he understood that now.
He’d finally stumbled upon someone who saw what he was and understood it.
But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.
She finally emerged from the bushes and sat near him, taking the food Wallace offered.
She seemed troubled; her face was unnaturally pale in the moonlight and her auburn brows drawn together, forming a line of concentration between them.
William wondered what troubled her. Her father?
Or was it something he’d said to her when they’d ridden together earlier?
She had withdrawn from him rather abruptly, relieved when Drake and Wallace had returned.
He pondered this in silence as he ate, annoyed at his preoccupation.
Their modest meal was punctuated with conversation about the journey on the morrow, whose lands they would be passing through, some broken men they’d sighted, where they might be heading and how best to avoid them.
Rose contributed nothing to the conversation, though her gaze strayed repeatedly to Deidra or across the fire to Drake.
William found her silence vexing, especially when he could not draw her into conversation—a singular experience since he’d met her. She always seemed eager to share her opinion.
“You came all this way alone, Mistress MacDonell?” William asked.
She nodded, eyes fixed on her meal.
“And you encountered no broken men? No trouble along the way?”
“I disguised myself as a lad and hid at night.” Her reply was distracted, her gaze on Deidra, who nodded off against William’s knee. “Are you tired, Dede?” she asked.
Deidra sat up straight and shook her head vigorously, then rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“Good.” Rose held out a hand. “Come here and I’ll show you something.”