Chapter 18 #3
Rose called on her magic, passing her hand over the infant.
His color was a pale, wavering orange, like fading sunlight.
The area around his chest was black and twisted, writhing like serpents.
Rose glanced up at her uncle. What was Liam?
A product of dark magic? Had Tira’s ravings been more than labor pain?
“I can heal this,” she said.
Roderick’s copper brows raised with hope, and he held the child out to her. Rose did not take him.
“I will heal him. But not unless you tell me why Strathwick left and where he is now. Then you will take Liam and leave Lochlaire. Forever.”
He stared at her for a long moment, a mask falling down over his face. He moved away from her, crossing to the bed and laying Liam in the center of it. Rose clenched her fist around the stiletto, certain she would soon be forced to use it.
He turned away from the bed and faced her. “Why would you be wanting me to leave, lass?” He came toward her, hands unencumbered, his pace unhurried.
Rose backed away, toward the door leading to the privy chamber. “Don’t come any closer.” She brought the knife out in front of her, brandishing it at him.
His pace did not let up. “You’ve been meddling about.” He tapped his foot on the rug where she’d found his magic paraphernalia. “And you think you understand things, but you do not.”
Rose continued backing away, clutching the blade with both hands.
“I understand you’re a murderer! You had my mother murdered because she knew what you are.
You’re trying to murder my father. You murdered Tira and probably Hilda.
You disposed of all their things so Isobel cannot discover the truth. ”
His eyes widened. “You are clever. Too clever.”
He came at her fast. Rose stabbed at him, but he caught her wrist, twisting it and swiping her legs from beneath her. She fell hard onto one hip and knee, her arm wrenching awkwardly in his grasp. Her fingers sprang open, and the stiletto clattered to the floor.
“There,” he said pleasantly, pulling her to her feet. “I dislike talking to someone who is threatening me.” He shoved her back into the bedchamber. “I will bargain with you but not at knifepoint. You heal my son, and I will tell you where Strathwick is.”
Rose looked to the bed, where Liam made soft whimpering noises. Healing the child would incapacitate her, leave her at her uncle’s mercy. He knew this, of course.
“I won’t heal him here. I must have someone present.”
He gave her a patronizing smile. “I don’t think so. You agree to heal him now, and I will give you my word that you will recover in safety. I will also tell you about Strathwick.”
Rose’s palms sweat. Her heart hammered in her ears. She would not leave this room alive, whether she healed his son or not. He would not tell her all of these things if he planned to let her live.
“I suggest you accept my offer. Strathwick’s time is running out.”
Rose’s heart leapt. William. What had Roderick done to him? Suddenly nothing else mattered.
“Very well.” Rose’s heart calmed as a course of action opened to her, one that she would never have considered before but was vital now. One her uncle would never suspect her of considering, or being capable of.
Rose crossed to the bed and stared down at the frail child. “What is he?”
“He’s a wean, of course.” Roderick sounded mildly offended. “You speak of the nonsense Tira spouted? He’s no monster. I used spells to help her conceive and ensure it was a son—but nothing more.”
Rose arched a brow. “Spells? No one guessed you were witch. Have you always been? Plotting and hiding?”
“Not always. My mother had a gift for spellcraft and taught me. I was not much interested until she died, until I watched Alan inherit what should be mine. My mother was noble—his was a common chieftain’s daughter.
My mother’s dowry enriched the MacDonells.
” His lips curled in a sneer. “It all should have been mine. Lillian should have been mine.”
Rose shook with fury. He had deceived them all for so long. She’d trusted him, never once suspected. And if she died here, no one else would suspect him and he would eventually succeed in murdering her father.
Roderick raised his brows expectantly. “Shall we get on with it? Even now your beloved Strathwick could be dying.”
Rose climbed onto the bed beside Liam. She wanted to be certain her uncle would have to get close to her to retrieve his son after she healed him. “Tell me now, before I do it. Where is William?”
“No. I’ll tell you after.”
She slammed her fist into the bed. “Damn it! That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? My only child is dying. I have waited and planned and taught myself magic for years. Everything rolled along smoothly. Alan wasted away. You latched onto the idea of the Wizard of the North like a dog to a bone, refusing to give it up. The more I warned against it, the more determined you became. He was just what I’d hoped for, a charlatan—the kind whose remedies do more harm than good.
He was perfect. But now you’ve ruined everything.
I’d never guessed you could do more than see colors.
I’d never thought such a thing possible. ”
Rose’s pulse raced as she grew afraid again.
He would not be saying these things to her if he didn’t mean to kill her.
And he knew she was no fool. They were both playing games, and they both knew it.
Rose feared she couldn’t win this one. Roderick was clever enough to have hidden the fact that he was a wizard for years.
“Tell me where William is or I won’t do it.” Her voice shook with fear and determination.
He apparently saw that she meant it, because he sighed.
“Very well. I’ll tell you. He’s in the village south of Glen Laire, the same one that lynched and burned your mother a dozen years ago.
I happened to meet up with a witch-finder I’d met once in Edinburgh.
He travels the country now, offering his services to communities in need.
I sent them Strathwick—with the aid of your betrothed, of course.
I doubt he’s actually been burned yet. Mr. Forsyth is a thorough man.
No doubt he’s torturing the truth out of your beloved. ”
Rose’s limbs went weak with fear. She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “He harmed no one. How could you?”
“How could I not? He was the perfect person on whom to place the blame of Alan’s death. But that is ruined now, too, as Alan is still very much alive.” His face hardened in sudden fury. “Everything is ruined, and now my son is dying.”
Rose didn’t think she could carry this charade out to the end. They both knew he would kill her—and yet if she didn’t heal Liam, she didn’t stand a chance. He could easily overpower her. Using her witchcraft was her only hope. William’s only hope.
She put her hands on Liam and called on her magic.
It swirled up inside her, warm and pulsing.
She sent it down her arms to her hands. It embraced the blackness around Liam’s heart, only this time the ailment didn’t leave as readily as her father’s and Tira’s had.
It struggled to keep its hold on the heart.
Her mouth opened in shock and pain. She redoubled her effort, commanding it to return.
With the sudden force of a door unjamming, it rushed into her, slamming into her chest and stealing her breath.
Liam let out a lusty scream, balled fists raised to the heavens.
His color strengthened until he nearly glowed a rich copper-orange.
Rose collapsed onto the bed. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, and every heartbeat ripped through her, excruciating to breathe.
She could not move or speak; she could only stare mutely at the carved wooden canopy above, fighting for her next breath. And then the next. And the next.
Her uncle picked up Liam from where he screamed beside her.
Her vision shimmered red with pain. She willed her arms to move, to grab him, but she had no command of her own limbs.
He murmured to the child and moved away.
Rose did not know how long she lay there, or where her uncle went, but suddenly he was beside her again, staring down at her.
“You are a great healer,” he said, his voice soft with awe. “Like Finian the leper. That’s why it grieves me so to have to do this.”
“You promised,” she said, her voice a breathy croak. A vise crushed her chest. Speaking made her head swim. Pinpoints of light danced at the edges of her vision.
“I know,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“But we both knew I was lying. You played the game and you lost. I will tell Alan that you followed your wizard lover and were attacked by broken men. We will all mourn you. I will mourn you.” He placed a fatherly hand on her hair, looking down at her with sadness and regret.
Rose closed her eyes, wishing she could smite him somehow through her head, but it didn’t work that way. She tried to lift her arms to grab him, but they were leaden.
“You were my favorite, you know. It was my idea to send you and your sisters away all those years ago. You were right, before. I was the one who set the villagers on your mother. I feared what I did to Lillian would have consequences I didn’t anticipate or want, so I urged Alan to send you to safety.
I cursed Lillian’s ring and gave it to Gillian.
I feared your mother’s spirit would attempt to contact her.
And you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to, removing items or placing shielding spells on objects so Isobel remains ignorant.
I couldn’t bear to hurt any of you, but I needed you here, back at Lochlaire.
I’d long meant for Alan to die of a wasting illness, and I needed witnesses, others to vouch that no poison or other foul means had been involved.
I thought my lovely nieces would never suspect me, that they loved me as I loved them.
” He took Rose’s face between his hands and stared at her, begging her to understand.
“I never wanted to harm any of you. Do you understand? I loved you all as if you were mine.”
Rose wished she could spit in his face. As it was she could only stare at him with all the loathing in her heart. He had killed their mother, cursed Gillian, was slowly murdering their father, had given William to a witch-crazed mob, and now he planned to murder her. He loved no one but himself.
He disappeared from her line of vision. Rose’s breath came in small, painful gasps. Tears wet her hair at her temples. She was going to die, and Roderick would win. William would burn. William.
He was back, a large pillow between his hands. “I am sorry, Rose,” he said, as the pillow came down, blocking his face from her vision. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe as the linen pressed into her mouth and nose, stealing away what little breath she’d been capable of.
Grab him! Do it! She forced her arms to move.
Pain tore through her, but she had him. She clutched the arms pressing the pillow over her face, and felt the blackness rush eagerly out of her.
He tried to throw her hands off, but she clung to him as her strength returned.
He cried out. She bucked frantically, throwing her uncle and the pillow off.
She slid onto the floor but quickly regained her feet, turning in a stance of readiness.
There was no need to fight. Her uncle lay across the bed, motionless except for his eyes, blinking as he stared at the wooden canopy, occasionally twitching his fingers.
She knew what he felt. The crushing pain made it impossible to move or speak.
She stared down at him, devoid of even pity.
“I’m not sorry,” she said and left him there.