Chapter 12
“You.” The word exploded out of Jamie like a cannon blast, and he barreled across the room, hand on sword hilt, as if he’d been fired from one.
Drake drew his sword and moved to his brother’s side, but William put out a staying hand. Rose lifted her skirts and ran, reaching them as Jamie’s sword arced down.
“You bloody murderer!” Jamie raged, his handsome face distorted with hatred. “I’ll kill you!”
“No!” Rose screamed.
William had already moved aside, his sword still sheathed, though his hand rested loosely on the hilt. Jamie’s blade cut through empty air, clattering noisily against the wall.
“Not in front of your betrothed, surely,” William said. He did not appear surprised or troubled by this attack. His fingers tapped the leather-wrapped sword hilt; his brow was cocked slightly in question.
Jamie straightened, his gaze flicking to Rose, then back to William, with murderous intent. But after a long, silent moment in which he breathed loudly through his nose and took in the horrified faces around him, he finally sheathed his sword.
His gaze narrowed on William. With both hands, he pushed back the golden hair that had come loose from his lovelock. “You and me. At dawn. In the courtyard.”
Rose’s heart thundered in her chest as William inclined his head in agreement to this.
She forced her way between the two men, pushing at their chests. Jamie took a step back, but William was granite, staring over her head, his eyes dark and inscrutable as he stared at Jamie.
Rose turned to glare up at Jamie. He was a stranger, a violent, angry stranger. “This man is a guest of the MacDonells. How dare you attack him in our hall.”
Jamie didn’t even look at her, still glowering over her head at William. “I would have killed him long ago if he wasn’t such a crawdoun.”
Rose inhaled sharply, insulted for William, though she heard not a word of protest behind her.
“Explain yourself,” she demanded. Lord Kincreag had joined her, as well as several MacDonell men-at-arms.
Jamie’s furious gaze finally moved to her and stuck. “This—this wizard murdered my father.”
“Aye?” the earl of Kincreag said, raising a black brow skeptically. “Was it murder then, or just another petty blood feud? And how did it happen? During a raid? During a battle?”
“Witchcraft.”
No. Rose didn’t want to hear this. There was a slow sinking in her belly as she stared at her betrothed, shaking her head slowly. “How?”
“Ask him.” Jamie jerked his chin at William. “Ask him how.”
Rose was afraid to face William. Afraid to ask. His silence seemed to confirm the accusation.
Gillian, always the peacemaker, said, “Let us talk this over, friends. Mayhap it’s just a misunderstanding—”
“There is no misunderstanding,” William said. “But I do think Rose deserves to hear the truth in a different manner.”
Roderick had been observing the conflict from a distance.
He stepped forward now, his blue eyes creased with concern.
“Come, come—let’s take this somewhere private, aye?
” He glanced meaningfully around the room at the curious faces of servants and various men-at-arms, then led the combatants from the hall.
Rose trailed behind, clutching Gillian’s hand. Jamie seemed to have forgotten her presence. He stalked ahead of her, his gaze boring into the back of William’s head. You and me. At dawn. In the courtyard. He meant to fight it out, to kill William. Her chest constricted with sick fear.
Roderick led them to a parlor her father had used for guests before his illness.
Animal skins covered the floor, antlers and axes adorned the walls.
The large fireplace was cold. Isobel summoned servants, and in no time a fire blazed, the candelabras were lit, and ale was served.
But these pleasantries did nothing to dispel the chill atmosphere of the room.
Jamie stood near the carved fireplace, glowering across the room at William, who leaned negligently against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, returning his stare with little emotion.
Drake took up position beside William, hand on sword hilt, staring belligerently at the enemy.
Between William and Jamie stood Roderick, the earl, Rose, and her sisters—a barrier against further physical conflict.
When the servants had finally vacated the room, Roderick moved to the center of the group. “Now, let us hear your grievance, MacPherson.”
Jamie stepped forward, his pale blue eyes burning. He was enormous and threatening, thick biceps straining against the dun leather of his jack. “Why was my betrothed permitted to travel such a distance alone?”
Roderick made a soft sound of irritation. “My lord, I told you, no one permitted her. She just did it.”
Jamie’s pale, icy gaze cut to Rose. “Is this true? You fetched this man to heal your father? This is why you’ve delayed our marriage?”
“Aye,” Rose said, meeting his gaze unapologetically. “He is a great healer. I knew if anyone could help my father, it was him.”
“And did he heal Alan?”
Rose could tell by the look on his face that he already knew the answer, which made her belly turn again. “Nay.”
He shook his head in disappointment. “Why did you not consult me on this, Rose?”
Rose let out an incredulous breath. “Why would I? He’s my father. I don’t even know you.”
“I am to be your husband. We are betrothed. You should consult me about these matters. We’ve been writing for months—why did you never seek my counsel?”
Rose shrugged. It had never occurred to her to ask his counsel. In truth she hadn’t asked anyone’s counsel—she hadn’t needed to. She’d known exactly what she’d wanted to do.
He waited expectantly for an answer.
“I know not,” she finally said.
“I see.” He crossed his substantial arms over his thick chest and frowned reproachfully.
“If you had at least told me what you planned, I could have let you know the evil you’ve invited into your home.
” He turned to face the others, his gaze cutting to William, who seemed rather bored by the proceedings.
“I pray you,” Rose said, “explain this grievance to us. How did Lord Strathwick use witchcraft to murder your father?”
“We have no direct feud with the Strathwick MacKays, but our friends the Sinclairs do.” Jamie pointed to William.
“This man’s father and my father both wanted the same Sinclair woman for a bride.
” He dropped his arm. His gaze scanned his audience.
“Since the Sinclairs would never give a woman of theirs to a MacKay, she married my father. Shortly after, she fell ill. When Strathwick got word of it, he and his wicked son disguised themselves to infiltrate our home. Once there, he killed my father and stole my stepmother.”
Rose frowned at William, who unhelpfully maintained his air of ennui. She turned back to face her betrothed. “How do you know Lord Strathwick killed your father? Maybe his father did it.”
Jamie sneered contemptuously at her. “I saw him. Go on—ask him if he did it.”
William lifted a shoulder. “It’s true.”
Isobel, who had been listening quietly, with wide eyes, said, “This doesn’t sound like witchcraft to me. Lord Strathwick had gone with his father to steal a woman—such things happen all the time. No doubt your father offered resistance and he died. It is the way of things. You know this.”
Rose nodded in agreement and asked Jamie, “How do you know it was witchcraft?”
“Because my father was hale as a horse then was suddenly felled with the same ailment that was killing my stepmother.” He took a threatening step toward William, but the earl of Kincreag stepped casually into his path to intercept him. Jamie spun away, hands fisted at his sides.
Rose spread her hands in front of her in a placating manner. “My lord, many ailments are highly contagious.”
He turned his irate gaze on Rose. “Including bleeding to death from a miscarriage?”
Rose’s eyes widened. One look at William’s grim expression confirmed the truth of this.
“That’s not possible,” the earl said, but he sent William a wary glance.
“Nevertheless it happened,” Jamie said. “I told you—I saw it. I saw my stepmother, on the ground bleeding, clutching her belly. I saw him touch her, and she was well. I was yelling for my father to hurry, to stop them. When he came, Strathwick thrust his son at my father. The next thing I knew, my father was on the floor and the MacKays were leaving with my stepmother.” He swallowed hard, his throat working with emotion, his eyes like blue fire.
“We could find no wounds on my father, yet he suffered horribly…then he began to…bleed. From his orifices. Then he died.” His gaze scanned the silent room, daring them to counter this story. “Witchcraft.”
The earl gave William a measuring look, then asked, “How long ago was this?”
“Eleven years,” William said.
Rose felt weak—his answer was an admission.
She remembered back to the moor, when he’d grabbed her wrist and told her he could hurt her with a touch.
Gillian’s hands covered her mouth, her gray eyes enormous above them.
Isobel sat in a nearby chair, staring at William in horror.
They all looked at him as if he were a monster.
But he didn’t notice them—his gaze was on Rose, and she could not hide her dismay.
He saw it, and his lip curled slightly. He looked away, back to Jamie, as if he’d expected no better from her.