Chapter 12 #4
Isobel saw too much. She always had. Rose rubbed her forehead with her fingers before meeting her sisters’ eyes. “Aye, there is something more between us, but it matters not. He will never marry me—”
“You don’t know that,” Gillian said.
“Aye, I do. He told me.” Rose closed her eyes and swallowed, her heart sinking at the memory, the freezing wretchedness washing over her afresh. “I…I practically propositioned him just before Jamie arrived. He was eager enough to lay with me but made it clear he wanted nothing more past that.”
Gillian and Isobel exchanged dismayed looks. Gillian reached for Rose’s hand and gripped it tightly. Rose squeezed her fingers back, comforted by the gesture and their concern.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” Gillian said softly. “What of Lord MacPherson? Do you fancy him still? It’s been so long since you’ve seen him.”
When Rose didn’t respond, Isobel said, “He’s a very comely man.”
Rose nodded. “Aye, he is.” She wished that were enough.
“You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want,” Gillian reminded her.
“I know that. I don’t know what I want right now.
I can’t have William, and I don’t know Jamie anymore.
” She shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to call off the betrothal.
I should at least try to get to know him.
He’s angry now, and who wouldn’t be, considering what he believes of William.
He’s not himself. He deserves more from me. ”
Isobel searched Rose’s face. “Can Strathwick do what MacPherson claims? Kill a person with a touch?”
“Aye. I didn’t want to believe it, but it must be true.”
Gillian’s dark brows drew together with worry. “He’s dangerous. What if he gets angry—”
Rose shook her head. “No, it’s not that simple. When he heals someone, he takes their ailment inside himself. I’ve seen him do it. He can give that ailment to someone else. But if he has not healed, he’s no different from you or me. And if the ailment is minor, it will not kill anyone.”
“Do you think he killed MacPherson’s father?” Gillian asked.
Rose nodded miserably. “And Jamie is determined to have revenge. And William…it seems almost as if he welcomes it. As if he thinks he deserves it.” She covered her face and shook her head, despair rising in her heart. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so confused.”
Her sisters moved to the bed and sat on either side of her. They wrapped their arms around her, as if trying to absorb her troubles. Gillian spoke soothing words to her, rubbing her back. Isobel spoke more forcefully.
“It’s not for you to fix, Rose, you know that.
You’re not responsible for everyone. You take on too much.
Father, Strathwick, everyone else’s problems. You must let some things go and live your life.
I love Father, too, but he is dying and we must accept it.
Maybe he still hangs on because we won’t let go.
He longs for release from his suffering, but how can he stop fighting when he knows how his death will destroy you? ”
“I know,” Rose whispered, and she did. But it was never as simple as knowing, and her sisters knew that as well. They huddled together on the bed, arms twined around each other, wishing they could set things right in their world and knowing fate had her own plans for them all.
Deidra sat in the sweet-smelling pile of hay, nibbling on her bread.
She’d been told not to leave the room, but her father and Uncle Drake had still been asleep and she’d been hungry.
There had been food in the hall. She’d grabbed some bread and a piece of sausage, then gone into the yard.
So many people had been milling about that no one had seemed to notice her—except the other children.
They’d stared but hadn’t thrown stones at her like the ones at home did.
She had sought out the animals, since they always talked to her readily, and there was no awkwardness or staring—and they never threw things.
Moireach hung her head over the stall. Sweet? Red? Good? She wanted an apple. There had been plenty of those in the hall, too, and Deidra had been certain to grab one. She held it up to the mare, who took it delicately, expressing her gratitude.
The morning sunlight shining through the doorway disappeared suddenly. A man blocked the light. He stood there for a long moment, then entered, heading straight for where Deidra nestled in the hay. It was the red-haired man.
He squatted down in front of her, smiling.
He had lots of square white teeth, and his hair was very pretty—long, like a lass’s.
He didn’t plait it or do pretty things with it like lasses do; he just tied it back.
His eyes were very blue, like her father’s, but not as pretty. His lashes were pale, almost blond.
“Good morn, Miss Deidra,” he said, smiling. He smiled so much that she thought his face must hurt from it. “Fancy finding you here. You ken it’s dangerous to be in here by yourself, aye?”
“It’s not.”
His smile disappeared, though his eyes remained merry. He cocked his head slightly, as if her answer puzzled him. “It’s not? Why is that? Horses bite and kick grown men. A wee thing like you could easily be trampled.”
“They don’t bite and kick me, and they don’t trample if they don’t have to.”
“And why is that? Are you special, Miss Deidra?” He said it in a laughing manner, but there was a sudden hard shine to his eyes, and Deidra remembered what Da and Uncle Drake had said. Tell no one.
She shook her head.
“That’s too bad. I’ve a secret to share but you must promise to tell no one.”
“I can’t keep secrets anymore.”
“No? That’s too bad. It’s a good one.”
Deidra wanted to hear his secret, and he looked so sad that he couldn’t tell her. “Can I tell my Da? He said I have to tell him everything. He can keep a secret.”
He frowned a bit in consternation, then said, “Forget about the secret. Tell me why you like the stables.”
“I like the animals.”
“Do ye? I like them, too. Sometimes I come here just to talk to them.”
Deidra bit her bottom lip to keep from blurting out that she did, too. “What do you tell them?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Do they talk back?”
He nodded sagely. “That they do.”
Deidra narrowed her eyes at him. She’d never met anyone else who could talk to animals. She looked up at Moireach, who hung her head over the stall again and lipped at Deidra’s hair. Sweet? Red? More? Deidra giggled and put her hand on the mare’s velvet nose.
“What is she saying?” she challenged.
The man squinted his eyes and twisted his mouth, as if concentrating very hard on the horse. Then he said, “She wants to go riding.”
Deidra laughed. “She does not!”
“She wants some oats.”
“No!”
“Hay? Her blanket? To be brushed? A carrot?”
“No, silly! An apple!”
“Ah. Of course.” He leaned his head back and smiled, rocking on his heels.
“You can’t really speak to animals,” Deidra said.
“No, I cannot.” He looked toward the open door, then back at her, his head tilted slightly. “Would you like me to show you something, Miss Deidra?”
“What?”
“You’ll have to come with me.”
She struggled to get out of the hay as he straightened, extending a hand out to her.
Don’t go!
Deidra dropped the hand she’d almost slipped into his and looked at Moireach in surprise.
The horse shook her head and whinnied. Smells bad. Get away.
Deidra backed away from the man. He gave the horse a narrow look, then smiled at Deidra again, his wide, white smile not so friendly anymore. “What’s wrong, Miss Deidra?” He walked toward her.
She looked around for a place to hide. More men entered the stable, talking loudly, and the man turned away.
Deidra ran past him, darting out the door.
She didn’t stop running until she was back in the room with her father and uncle.
She crawled back under her blanket at the end of the bed just as her father sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Squirrel? Where have you been?”
Her heart raced. She wasn’t supposed to leave the room. “I had to go.”
“Go where?”
She raised her brows and looked at the pretty painted screen that hid the closestool.
“Ah,” he said. He never wanted to talk about things like that.
He asked no more questions, and Deidra let out a sigh of relief, thankful she’d not gotten caught disobeying.
Her father worried so much lately, and, just like Uncle Drake had warned, learning she was a witch made him worry even more.
She wished she were better at keeping secrets.
She didn’t want to give him anything else to worry about.