Chapter 8 #3
A heavy weight sank to the bottom of her belly. She nodded stiffly. “Goodnight,” she murmured through wooden lips. She shut the door and leaned against it, her body rigid, as if tensed for flight. He knew.
How did he know? Her skin crawled at the thought of him knowing, imagining. No . No! She wanted to scratch her own skin off at the thought. Instead she hurried across the room to her wooden box. It needed to be cleaned.
For the next hour she stood over the ewer and basin and scrubbed every instrument in her box until each one gleamed.
But still her mind turned and turned, remembering that even after William had been reminded of her betrothed, he’d still thought she might let him into her bed.
And why wouldn’t he think such a thing? She’d acted the wanton, and besides, he knew.
Was it so obvious? Just from looking at her or speaking to her?
Was it something in her manner? Did others know and say nothing?
She pulled out the mortar and pestle and began frantically grinding herbs, reciting receipts for physiks in her mind, anything, anything to shove back the horrible thoughts, the terrible memories.
William returned to his own chambers but found he wasn’t tired.
He should be, considering the grueling pace they’d set after being attacked by the broken men.
That and the weary sense of guilt that had descended on him at dinner as he’d listened to Comyn and Grainne extol his late wife’s many virtues, wishing he remembered them and sickened that he didn’t.
All he remembered was a small, frightened girl, begging him to save their baby.
But his interlude with Rose had washed all that away, leaving him restless and unsatisfied.
He paced for a while, drinking some of the fine whisky Comyn had left for him.
After his second dram he set the cup down decisively and left his chambers.
He strode down the hall and up the curved stairs, pounding on the door at the top.
There was some muffled cursing, and after William’s repeated pounding, the door finally swung open. Drake stood there, disheveled and naked except for the plaid wrapped around his waist.
“What the—Will, wait—”
William pushed his way into the room only to find his brother wasn’t alone. A pretty blond servant was in his bed. She made a small sound of surprise and pulled the sheets over her head.
Drake raised his brows meaningfully. “Can’t this wait?”
“No, it cannot. You, in the bed—get out.”
Drake scowled at his brother, then hurried over to the upheaval of bedding, picking women’s garments off the floor on his way, then apologizing profusely to his bed partner as he helped her dress.
William paced the room impatiently, pouring himself wine and standing near the fireplace with his back to them.
When Drake finally ushered the woman out with promises to come for her as soon as he was done, William turned. Drake had thrown on a shirt and turned from the door, black brows drawn together in profound irritation.
“What was so damn important it couldn’t wait until morning, aye?”
“Mistress MacDonell wishes to extend her apologies to you for her false assumptions the other night.”
Drake paused in the act of pouring himself wine and blinked at him, his mouth slightly agape. “You jest.”
“No. I am very serious.”
“You came here for that? That damn shrew! Tell her to take her apology and—”
“And what?” William asked darkly, eyes narrowing.
Drake’s mouth snapped shut. He stared at William with incredulous betrayal. “You cannot expect me to accept her apologies after she believed such revolting things of me. I would never harm Deidra. It makes me sick to think on it—”
“I know, I know.” William waved this away. “However, you are being very small-minded, Drake, and it wounds Rose.”
Drake shook his head in disbelief. “Wounds Rose? What about me?” He pounded his chest with his open palm. “She wounds me! She dishonors me! But what care you of that? You are so smitten you care for nothing else.”
“Smitten?” William rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Ah—you lie!” Drake grinned widely. “You adore her. I can tell. That Dumhnull farce was my first clue, but you make us all travel to Glen Laire—for a skirt!”
“It’s not for a skirt and you know it. She saved my life. Magic or no, I’d have choked to death from whatever Ailis had. She was the only one who knew what to do.”
Drake sighed and drained his cup. “I am grateful to her for that, of course, but damn it, Will!”
“And we still haven’t addressed your deception. Colluding with my daughter, teaching her to deceive me and keep secrets.” William shook his head grimly as Drake averted his gaze. “You will do this for me. You will accept her apology, and you will treat her with courtesy and respect.”
Drake’s jaw hardened mutinously, but he said, “Fine.”
William put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You know I never believed it of you. If such a thing had been true, it would have killed me.”
“You mean you would have killed me.”
“Aye,” William agreed dryly. “But it would have killed me to be forced to murder you.”
Drake tried not to smile at the ridiculous turn of the conversation, but he couldn’t stop himself, which made William feel better about the whole thing. William squeezed his brother’s shoulder and gave him a small, affectionate shake before turning for the door.
“Why not marry her, aye?” Drake asked, examining the bottom of his empty cup.
William paused, his hand gripping the door latch. The question caused a strange leaping sensation in his chest. “Who?”
“Grainne—after you murder Comyn and hide the body. Who do you think, neephead? Rose MacDonell!”
“I’ll not marry again. You know that.”
“You need an heir.”
“I have an heir,” William said grandly and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing Drake, who was standing barelegged in his shirt.
“I told you, I’ll not wed until you do.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Surely you have a bastard or two running around we could leave Strathwick to.”
Drake didn’t rise to the bait. He raised his brows. “It’s been eight years, Will. Eight years. Don’t you think it’s time?”
A mantle of loneliness descended on William. “And in those eight years, I have not been forced to make another such choice, have I?” He shook his head firmly. “I won’t do it again.” He started to leave, but he paused before closing the door behind him. “Remember what I said. Courtesy and respect.”
“For you, brother. I do it only for you.”
William returned to his chambers, his conversation with his brother still circling his mind. He was not smitten. He liked Rose—and he lusted after her as well—but that was the extent of it. He was certainly not smitten.
He thought back to the night on the moor and thanked God only Wallace had been hurt, and that it had been minor.
He liked Wallace but kept the man at a distance, just as he did everyone else except Drake and Deidra.
Until Rose. He could not seem to keep her at arm’s length, and it was as much his fault as hers. A most vexing situation.
No, he definitely could not be smitten. He’d worked too hard to keep the circle of those dear to him small. He couldn’t risk letting her in and one day being forced to make another soul-rending choice.
Of course, all of this was speculation. She might feel something for him now, but that would be over soon enough.
He’d known that the moment he looked down and recognized the pale blue eyes staring up at him from the locket.
She was betrothed to Jamie MacPherson, which meant she would discover the truth about him eventually.
It also meant that whatever suspicions he had about her ability to heal must never be more than that.
He couldn’t guess what MacPherson would do to her, but it was guaranteed to be something ugly.