Chapter 15
Rose did not know how much time had passed, trapped in this nightmare from which she could not wake.
Agony gripped her body, so intense that she had no control over her own thoughts or movements.
Her sisters came and went from the room.
And though Rose was aware of all that went on around her, she was nearly insensible from the pain.
She was dying. She had no idea how she’d come to be in her own chambers, but she did remember the vomiting and dry heaves.
Something was cutting her in two, killing her body.
If she lived through this torture, she would surely never bear children.
Shouting and arguing roused her from the swirling tempest of misery. She heard her uncle in the distance once, yelling obscenities, and someone else—Drake?—demanding to see her. Isobel sat on the bed, wiping a cool cloth over Rose’s brow. Rose raised a hand, impossibly heavy, pushing through mud.
“I want to see him.” Her voice was a mere breath.
Isobel frowned and leaned close.
“I want to see him. Drake.”
Isobel nodded and straightened, looking over her shoulder. Rose was relieved, as she couldn’t speak any louder. It hurt too much. Speaking hurt, as if it vibrated through her, ripping at her womb. Everything hurt, even breathing.
Isobel left her side, and Rose soon heard her sister’s voice raised with the other angry voices. Seconds later Drake was beside her.
He knelt close, his face creased with worry. “What happened?”
“William?”
“He is alive. But sleeps deeply and cannot be woken.”
“He saved my nephew…born dead.”
“Then he tried to save your aunt?”
Rose tried to shake her head but only turned it slightly against the pillow. “No…I saved her.”
Drake’s brow furrowed as he stared at her. “You?”
“Aye, William told me I could…and he was right.”
He glanced at someone behind him and murmured, “She doesn’t know.”
“What? I don’t know what?”
He straightened, turning away from her and speaking to Isobel in a soft, urgent undertone that Rose could not understand.
Both stole worried glances at her throughout.
Rose wanted to demand that they tell her what the problem was, but the pain was too great, washing over her in nauseating waves.
She closed her eyes and groaned, trying to curl harder into herself.
Someone jammed a rolled-up blanket into her stomach, and she clutched at it, pressing it hard into her gut.
“Here, drink this,” said a soft voice beside her.
Gillian’s cool hand slid beneath her neck, lifting and pressing a cup to her lips. Rose drank, recognizing the scents and flavor—valerian and willow bark. Good. She wanted to sleep.
When she woke next, the room was dim and quiet, except for the crackle and pop of the fire.
She sat up in bed, her hand to her empty belly.
It was sore and achy, but the pain was bearable.
A head popped up beside her bed—wiry gray fur and a long snout.
Broc, Gillian’s deerhound. He snorted and gave a short bark.
Gillian sat in a chair near the fire. She set her sewing aside and came to the bed. “You are awake! How do you feel?”
“Better…how is William?”
Gillian handed Rose a cup of herbed wine. “Lord Strathwick? I know not.”
Rose drank deeply, then said, “I need to see him.”
“Can you eat?” Gillian asked.
Rose nodded, her belly rumbling hollowly.
“I will get you some dinner and check on Lord Strathwick. You lay here and rest, aye? You’ve been very ill. Broc will look after you.”
Upon hearing his name, the deerhound sat up and whined softly, licking frantically at his mistress’s hand.
She scratched his head and ordered him to stay.
He obeyed, though he watched her longingly as she left, fidgeting as if restraining himself from bounding after her. When the door shut, he lay back down.
Rose felt better after washing and combing her hair, and changing into a clean shift.
She wanted to check on Tira and the baby.
The thought of Tira sent a surge of dizzying excitement through her.
She’d done it. She was a healer, just like William.
She could hardly believe it, except she knew it to be true.
She sat heavily on the bed, stunned to finally understand how William suffered when he healed.
He’d been doing this for years. And now she truly understood what he’d said to her on the battlements.
He would not put himself in a position of having to choose between wife and child again.
He could not save both. If not for Rose’s presence, Tira would have died.
The waves of wonder and awe that washed through her left her weak and tearful.
She was giving thanks to God for this gift when the door opened.
She expected Gillian with her dinner, so she was surprised to see William’s broad shoulders filling the doorway.
He gazed at her for a long while, his expression grave.
She could not speak at first, could only stare back at him, overwhelmed by what they had done. Together. Finally she said, “You knew. You knew and didn’t tell me.”
He left the door open and crossed the room. “I suspected.” He took the stool beside the bed, sitting opposite her, their knees nearly touching. He didn’t look at her. “I didn’t wish to curse you to a life such as mine.”
She let out an incredulous breath. “How can it be a curse? Tira and her child are alive. They both would have died, otherwise.” She looked down at her own hands, then added, “There is no need for choices anymore, William. There’s two of us now.”
He took her hands in his; they were warm and strong, and she felt his touch to the pit of her belly.
“Rose, listen to me carefully.”
His voice was so somber that she looked up quickly, searching his face. Something was wrong.
“Tira is dead.”
It felt as if someone kicked Rose in the stomach. “Tha-that’s impossible. I healed her. I felt it—I heard her. She spoke to me, after. And what about how ill I was? That’s exactly what happens when you do it. Why would I suffer with her pain if I didn’t heal her?”
He released one of her hands to rub his fingers over his whiskered jaw, then he pushed them through his hair.
There was a significant new sprinkling of silver-gray at his temples.
“I know not. I don’t understand. You suffered a great deal.
Your sisters told me about it. MacPherson and your uncle told me, too, when accusing me of attacking you with witchcraft. ”
“What?” Rose tried to stand, but he pulled her back to the bed by the hand. “You saved his son! How dare he accuse you of anything.”
The look on his face tore at her heart. He was resigned to the thankless injustice of it. This was his life. “I’ll fash on that later. For now, I want you to tell me what happened when you tried to heal Tira.”
Tried. A weight settled in her heart. There was not two of them now. Nothing had changed. And yet she’d been so certain she’d succeeded. If Tira had died anyway, why had Rose suffered with her affliction? It made no sense.
“I…don’t know. It was like always…then I sent the magic into her and called it back.
When it came…it hurt so I couldn’t breathe or think.
Then Tira—who had been at death’s door and not even opened her eyes—she spoke to me, asked me what happened!
” Rose shook her head, tears blurring her vision.
“I just don’t understand how I could have failed! ”
The blue eyes that gazed back at her were grim and disappointed. “I don’t either.” He put a hand to the side of her head and stroked her hair, his gaze dark and intense as it moved over her face.
Rose wanted to give in to him, to lean into his arms, sink into his kiss, but nothing had changed. She sighed, subtly moving her head so he dropped his hand. “I need to speak with my uncle and check on the baby. Then I must look in on my father.”
He nodded, still solemn and thoughtful. “I’ll go with you.”
She eschewed the hand he offered, standing under her own power and wrapping her arisaid around her shoulders. They were at the door when Gillian returned with the tray, protesting that Rose couldn’t leave until she’d eaten. Rose took an oatcake and promised to eat the rest later.
On the way to Roderick’s apartments, William said, “You are still vexed with me.”
Rose looked at him, surprised. “I’m not. I’m just…sad, about many things. We have a truce, remember? I agreed to it.”
“That pleases me, as I know you can hold a grudge.”
“That’s not true. I don’t hold grudges.”
“Really? Hm…”
When he didn’t elaborate further, she stopped on the curve of the staircase, turning so she looked down on him several steps below her. He gazed up at her inquiringly.
“Why do you think I hold grudges?”
“Because you’re still so angry at your father about what happened on Skye.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
He climbed a step, bringing them closer together. “Oh, aye, I would, but at the one who caused the injury. Your father didn’t even know.”
“He knew I was unhappy and still he made me stay.”
“A witch he may be, but I don’t think he’s a seer like Dame Isobel. How was he to know why you were unhappy? Most lads and lassies are unhappy when sent away from their families.”
Rose pulled her arisaid closer around her. “I tried to run away.”
He smiled slightly. “Aye, you also came to fetch the wizard of Strathwick alone, disguised as a lad. Such acts are in your nature, methinks, and indicate naught more than an indomitable will.”
Her hands fisted into the wool. “What are you saying? That I have no reason to be angry?”
“Nay, nay—you have every reason to be. But at the man responsible.”
Her jaw clenched, hands tightening in the soft wool. “He’s dead.”
“Ah.” He said it on a breath as he leaned his shoulder against the wall, a world of understanding in the single sound. He stared down at the steps between them, his mouth flat and hard.
“What does that mean?”
“The object of your ire is dead. So you’ve found another.”