Chapter 9 #3
William stepped away from the bed so the others could attempt to recapture the dog.
He rubbed his hands together, squinting slightly from the pain in his temples.
He had a very bad feeling about what ailed Alan MacDonell.
When he looked at Rose, she kept her gaze averted, her face and throat taut.
If she hadn’t already guessed that William could not heal her father, she was beginning to suspect.
Roderick came to stand beside him. He lifted his chin at his brother. “So…is he healed?”
William looked down at the man for a long moment. “No, he’s not.”
“Canna do it, aye?”
“No, it seems not. You don’t sound surprised.”
Roderick’s smile was sharp and humorless. “I’m not. I’ve seen your kind before. Now you’ll insist on some elaborate and expensive ritual, eh? One that keeps you here leeching off our goodwill for months.”
The dog was finally recaptured, but William did not return to the bed.
He’d been accused of being a charlatan before.
In the past he’d either proven himself or shrugged it off.
He was not one to care overmuch what others thought.
But this man’s words sent a sharp stab of anger through his chest—especially since what he said was partially true.
When he did not reply, Roderick arched sardonic brows. “Hmm? Have you an answer for me, man?”
William had an answer for him, but since ladies were present and he was a guest, he kept his mouth shut.
Rose was beside him, her hand on his arm, her auburn brows drawn together. “What is it?”
Roderick looked from Rose’s face, to her hand, to William. His sneer became knowing. “Is that the way of it, now? Because if this is all to get a fine MacDonell dowry, we dinna give our lassies to cummerwalds.”
Rose’s mouth dropped open in astonished horror. “Uncle Roderick! What are you saying?”
William’s pulse pounded painfully in his temples. “Nothing I’ve not heard before.” He gave Roderick a dark look. “It will interest me greatly if he’ll have so much to say when we discuss this later. Alone.”
Roderick snorted. “We have naught to discuss, charlatan. Finish your business tonight and get gone.”
“He will not,” Rose said, the high blades of her cheeks stained red. “You will not speak to him in such a manner.”
“God damn it, Rose—he’s duped you! Dinna be his gawpy.”
Next to William, Rose shook, hands fisted at her sides. He recognized the moment she was about to lunge at her uncle, and he put a hand on her shoulder to stay her. “Later, lass.” He turned her so she could accompany him to the bed.
Summoning the magic again, he moved his hands over Alan’s body. And again he felt nothing on his first pass. Frowning deeply, he did a second, slower pass. Nothing. He fisted his hands against his thighs, staring hard at the man on the bed.
William’s healings were not always successful: Sometimes more than one person needed his help, and he could not heal more than one or two people at a time, as a major ailment laid him up for a day or more, making him useless if anyone else needed him.
There were two other reasons he could not heal someone.
A wound that had healed—however incorrectly—was healed.
He could not undo that. He suspected that would be the case with young Stephen Ross.
The last reason was witchcraft. A witch he might be, but he could not undo black magic.
He’d seen it once before, though it had been far different from this, the person bocking up nails and hair and such, shuddering and convulsing and acting like a madman.
William had been at a loss, and the man had died.
“Let me guess,” Alan said dryly. “You can find nothing wrong.”
William did not want to admit it. He did not want to let Rose down—had not known how much it had meant to him to do this for her, to make her happy.
It was so important to her, it seemed, as if her life were stagnant, waiting for her father to live or die.
He’d been her last hope. She’d written that to him again and again until it had made him angry and he’d burned the letters.
It made him angry now, but a different sort of anger.
At himself. At her ill-tempered uncle for making it worse with his badgering.
“No,” William admitted reluctantly. “I canna find anything wrong.”
Alan shrugged, fatigue etched in every line of his face, the tilt of his head.
“Didn’t think you would. I’ve been seen by every healer in Scotland, methinks, and some without.
None can find a damn thing wrong with me.
But all agree I’m dying.” William read the words he left unsaid—that he wished to get on with the dying part.
William heard Rose’s quick intake of breath beside him, as if she fought to control her emotions. A band tightened around his chest, urging him not to give up.
“I’m going to touch you,” he said. Though he’d never attempted to heal an ailment he couldn’t see, it was worth a try.
Alan nodded his consent. William placed his palms on the man’s sunken chest, aware of all the eyes watching him intently, hopefully.
He closed his eyes, and the magic washed down his arms and into Alan.
The older man gasped, but there was nothing there, nothing for William to latch onto, and it quickly surged back up inside him.
He removed his hands and straightened from the bed, shaking his head slowly. “I canna find aught wrong with you.”
Alan raised a skeptical brow. “It certainly feels as if something is amiss.”
William took a deep breath. “Well, I suspect something is very much amiss, and if you’ve a moment alone, I’ll tell you what I think.”
“Alone?” Roderick said, trying to shove William away so he could stand at Alan’s bedside. William didn’t move, giving the unpleasant man a warning glare.
But Roderick didn’t seem to notice, sneering at him. “Why do ye need to speak to him alone? So you can feed him lies and squeeze more payment out of him?”
“He has asked for no payment!” Rose cried, pushing to stand in front of William and confront her uncle. William stepped back for her.
“Rose will stay,” he said. “To make certain I cozen no one.”
Roderick grunted rudely. “She is completely besotted with this man. He has her in thrall.”
Alan grasped his daughter’s hand and gazed up at her, his thick auburn-and-white brows drawn together. “Is this true, Rose?”
Rose hesitated for the merest second, then shook her head. “No, Da.”
Isobel had begun to cry, and Sir Philip put an arm around her, pressing her head into his shoulder. Alan looked at the gloomy faces surrounding him.
“Come now,” he said with false cheer. “Let’s not be so fiddle-faced. What of Stephen, aye? Come here, lad.”
The young blond man stumped forward.
Alan gazed up at William hopefully. “Mayhap Lord Strathwick can heal Stephen?”
William rubbed his fingers hard into his closed eyes. The pain was nearly blinding now, compounded by the fact that he knew he could not heal Stephen.
He sighed and dropped his hand. “I cannot help the lad.”
At this revelation everyone began to talk at once.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you know?”
“You haven’t even looked at his back!”
“You won’t even try?”
“Do you even know what ails him?”
The lad himself said nothing; he only stood there, staring down at his hands braced over the top of his cane. William gritted his teeth, feeling like an ass and a fraud.
Rose gazed up at William, studying him with a small, worried frown. “You are unwell.”
He thought to deny it, but in truth, he wanted out of this room and away from these people, so he nodded.
“Lord Strathwick is unwell,” Rose announced, her hand on his arm, propelling him toward the door. “We’ll continue this on the morrow.”
“How convenient,” Roderick said, shaking his head contemptuously. “Well, on the morrow I will have many questions, healer.”
Drake bumped into him rather violently and unnecessarily on the way to the door. Roderick went for his dirk, but Sir Philip’s hand was on his shoulder, his back to them. He lowered his head to speak to Roderick in a low voice. Planning the lynching, no doubt.
The door closed behind William, Drake, and Rose.
“I am going to kill your uncle,” William said mildly.
Rose’s shoulders slumped. “What would you think if you were him?”
William’s jaw tightened. “That I was a fake.”
“I would, too, if I hadn’t seen you heal.
” She started walking, and William and Drake followed.
Her words made William’s head pound harder.
He felt like a fake, which was absurd and made him even angrier.
He glanced at Drake, who glowered at her back.
William elbowed him, and he directed his scowl elsewhere.
She led them up two curving stone stairways, then down a short hall to a door. “You’ll have to share. The earl and all his retainers take up a lot of room when they visit.”
Drake crossed the chamber and threw himself face-down on the bed, giving William a moment alone with Rose.
He leaned against the wall beside the door. “I am sorry.”
And he was sorrier than he’d ever been for not being able to help someone he didn’t know. He knew nothing of Alan MacDonell but what Rose had told him. Whether the man lived or died was nothing to him. But it mattered to Rose, and so now it mattered to him.
“Why can’t you heal him? I don’t understand.” There was a faint note of accusation in her voice, though she tried to hide it from him.
“But you do, if you’ll think on it. What did you see when you looked with your hands?”
She looked down at her open palms. “His light…it is weak. Growing weaker.”
“But nothing else. No sign of illness, aye?”
She shook her head, still staring at her hands as she clenched them into fists.
“That is what I saw. I cannot heal what is not there.”
She crossed her slender arms beneath her breasts, her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What is killing him?”
“I think I know what ails him but not how to fight it.”
Her head came up, hopeful eyes on him. “You do? What is it?”
“Witchcraft, Rose. Someone is murdering your father with magic.”
The hope evaporated from her expression. She shook her head. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But who? Why? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know not, but I’ve seen it before. What else could it be? Have you ever seen aught like that before?”
She raised her brows and her shoulders simultaneously. “No…but that doesn’t mean we have to act like hysterical elders, crying witchcraft.”
He arched a brow, taken aback by her sarcasm. How could she be incredulous about this? Her sisters were both witches. She was a witch. And she couldn’t fathom someone using witchcraft to murder her father?
She held up a hand for peace. “I understand why you think it’s witchcraft, but I’ve already examined that possibility.
I’ve been through every grimoire I own and have found nothing.
Gillian has consulted with ghosts. Isobel has searched for visions.
But more important—who would do such a thing?
No other witches besides my sisters and I have been near my father.
And besides, he became ill before he brought us home. Who would do this?”
William nodded, seeing her point, but he was not ready to give up his theory until he tested it. “Humor me, aye? Not everyone wields magic as we do. Some use spellcraft.”
“Spellcraft.” She rolled her eyes. “I have tried this spellcraft and find it useless. A person either has magic or they don’t. No amount of words will make it so. You make no spells when you heal, do you?”
He couldn’t deny that. “I have not studied spellcraft, but there are…wizards, magicians, who can makes curses and evil spells.”
Rose sighed. “Very well. Perhaps it is witchcraft. How are we to counter it?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
After a moment of silent thought she reached her hand out to him, and he took it. She squeezed it as she gazed up at him. “I know you tried. I know if you could have, you would have healed him, and I welcome any help you are willing to give. I thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
He held onto her hand when she would have pulled away, stroking the soft skin on the back with his thumb.
His heart thudded, his blood running thick.
He wanted to kiss her again, and this time do far more than kiss her.
She did not protest or even speak; she just gazed up at him with wide eyes.
A flush stole up her neck, igniting a fire in his blood.
He tugged at her hand, drawing her closer.
A loud throat-clearing destroyed the moment. She yanked her hand away and abruptly bid him goodnight.
William turned to the bed and scowled at his brother.
Drake pushed himself up on his elbow and grinned lecherously. “I guess we’re staying for a bit, aye?”
“Aye, we are.”
Drake dropped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “The uncle will be a problem.”
William didn’t argue, though it wasn’t the uncle he was worried about but the soon-to-be-arriving betrothed.