My Shadow Warrior (8 page)

Deidra still looked mutinous, but she let her uncle draw her off the bed and lead her from the room.

Rose set to boiling water in a small pot in the fireplace. The room was sparsely furnished, though the furniture was well made and solid. The walls were bare of ornamentation, as were the tops of the cupboards and chests. A desk sat at the opposite end of the room, and its top showed the only signs of habitation outside the bed—papers scattered across the top, a large, misshapen rock with eyes clumsily painted on it holding them down, a carved wooden box, writing implements, a tankard.

Cautiously, she approached the large, sturdy bed draped with thick wool plaids. Her patient’s coughing had calmed, though he still wheezed. She climbed partially onto the bed and rolled him onto his back. His eyes opened, bleary and dazed, and fixed on her. Though it made sense, she still had a hard time reconciling that
this
was Lord Strathwick. It made her uneasy, but she set that aside, determined to care for him the best she could.

She murmured calming nonsense to him, as she did to all her patients. He didn’t respond; he only stared at her, his expression enigmatic. She passed her hands over him, and though what she saw was similar to what she’d seen with Ailis, there was something different—odd. The blackness encompassed his throat, streaked with the angry red of the fever—but a blue-white pulsing light underlaid it all. It was so strong that she didn’t just see it—she felt it, tingling against her palms, ebbing and flowing like the tide. She curled her hands into fists and stared down at him, a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.

He tried to speak but instead dissolved into a fit of coughing. His thick shoulders shook with it. He turned his head into the pillow, his face creased with pain. Blood stained the linen.

“Come on, sit up.” She gathered his numerous pillows and crammed them behind him. He was too weak to aid her, but she was accustomed to shifting large weights around all by herself. Before he’d died, her foster father, Fagan MacLean, had weighed at least twenty stone of fat, and no one but Rose had tended to him.

A small bowl with a rag in it rested on the floor beside the bed. Rose wrung out the rag, then sat on the edge of the bed. She smoothed the rag over the strong bones of his face, the day’s growth of black and silver stubble on his chin and jaw, and she wiped the blood from the stern line of his mouth. Her Dumhnull was the Wizard of the North. It still filled her with awe, made her chest flutter in a strange, anxious manner, both exciting and frightening.

She reached for the hooks on his doublet, and the fluttering increased. His eyes opened, narrowing on her.

“I’m cooling you down. Then I’ll make you something for the fever and to soothe your cough.”

She unhooked the doublet, then her hands moved to the ties of the linen shirt he wore. His big hand came up to catch hers. “My daughter?…Dede?…”

Rose hushed him, speaking soothingly, “Drake took her away. You should rest now. I’ll bring her back later.”

His hand fell away and his eyes closed again.

Rose struggled to remove his doublet and shirt. He seemed a bit more cognizant, and he helped as best as he could, pushing himself up on one arm and finally falling into his pillows. “May I rest now? Or have you some other torture designed for me?”

“No. Lie still.” She pulled his boots and stockings off, leaving him only in his trews. She considered removing those, too, but decided to wait until she’d given him something to help him sleep. She didn’t know if she could strip him with those brilliant blue eyes peering at her. Rose wiped the rag over his swollen throat, then over his shoulders and chest, wiping down his arms and hands. Though she tried to remain detached from what she was doing, her body grew warm from touching him so freely. He was even more compelling out of clothes than he was in them. His bones were long and elegant, layered thickly with smooth slopes of muscle and crisp black hair. No scars or imperfections blemished his smooth, dusky skin. He was a wholly beautiful man, and she was not immune. Either was he, it seemed, for when she reached the hard flat muscles of his belly, she noticed the thick bulge in his trews and was grateful she’d left them on.

Without thinking, she glanced up at his face. Dark, hazy eyes regarded her. At her look he quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sick, not dead.”

Though flustered, she retreated into the brisk manner of a healer, which served her well with recalcitrant or randy patients. She grabbed the edge of the plaid blanket and yanked it up, covering him to his chest. “I’ll get you something for that cough.”

She brewed the same infusion she’d poured down Ailis’s throat all night, then propped him on the bed so she was behind him, his head against her shoulder. His bare skin burned her everywhere they touched.

“Drink this,” she said, pressing the cup to his lips.

He’d drifted off. He seemed confused when she woke him, though he drank the infusion readily enough.

“You aren’t angry?” he rasped between sips. His hands came up to hold hers steady around the cup. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand away.

“Oh, I’m angry. But I’ll not harangue a sick man. When you’re well enough, you shall get an earful.”

He finished drinking and groaned softly, turning his face into her neck. Rose panicked momentarily but calmed quickly. He meant her no harm. She set the cup aside and looked down at the thick black hair below her nose. It gleamed in the weak light, threaded through with coarser silver hair. His hand, broad and hot, lay against her ribs, below her breasts. She could feet the heat from each long finger imprinting itself on her body. Her own hands hovered uselessly, suddenly afraid to touch him. Finally she let one hand drop to the arm that lay across her, stroking over the muscle, feeling the latent strength coiled in him, and wondering about him, hungry to know more.

She was a ninny perhaps, but she felt as if she already knew him. She should not. He had lied about his name and who he was, but she still felt that he’d been honest in all else. She knew inherently he had good reason for his ruse and hoped he would tell her in time. And he
had
wanted to help her—he’d said as much when he’d pretended to be Dumhnull, though she’d not understood then. His hot breath stirred her hair, and an odd trembling shivered through her.

“I’ll be fine. This is naught.”

She was startled by his voice, by the way his breath felt against her neck when he spoke. She’d thought he was asleep. “Naught! Ailis nearly died from this.”

“But she didn’t, aye? And neither will I.” The black lashes rose, and he peered up at her. “Trust me.”

She did trust him. He was the real healer, after all. What she did was mere child’s play compared to his power. She slid out from under him and stood beside the bed. He turned his head on the pillow so he could watch her.

She placed a hand on his brow. “Rest, my lord.”

He inhaled deeply, then let it out in a heavy sigh. “I never imagined you’d be so damn pretty.”

Her heart tripped on itself and she smiled. “You’re delirious.”

“Perhaps.”

She moved her hand over his hair, fingering a lock of silver, then pushing it behind his ear. His hair…silvered black hair. He
was
the man in Isobel’s vision—not an old man, but a man with graying hair. He
would
help her. He must.

“Was I wrong to come here, my lord? Was I wrong about you?” She watched her fingers as she spoke, unable to look into his eyes.

His hand caught hers, enfolding it with heat. She stared at their joined hands, afraid of what she’d see in his face. If he said no to her now, it would somehow be worse. A no from Drake had been terrible, but a no from this man would devastate her.

“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t let me be wrong.”

His hand tightened briefly on hers, then fell away.

“Aye, I’ll go to your father.”

Rose sucked in a shaky breath, her hand covering her mouth. When she finally dared to look at him, his eyes were closed. She took his fevered hand in hers and pressed a reverent kiss to his knuckles. His lashes fluttered slightly but did not rise.

“I am in your debt, my lord.”

When William woke, it was dark again. He’d spent the entire day in a fevered haze, hovering on the edge of delirium. The only thing that kept him from giving in to it was his lovely healer. She was a lodestone, drawing him back with the cool touch of her hands and her soothing voice when the world grew confusing and hazy. For the first time since he lay hands on Ailis, the blinding pain in his head was gone and he could breathe deeply. His hand went to his throat. The swelling was gone and his skin was cool. His hand dropped back to the bed in relief. It could have been worse.

Rose lay on a rush mat before the fire. He stared through the gloom, wondering if she was awake. When had she last slept? He felt odd—restless and discontented. And all because of her. He started to throw back the bedding and was surprised to find himself undressed. He looked again to his little healer. He must have been very ill to forget that.

Something else pricked at his memory. Her hands passing over him, not touching him. She’d done that in the stable as well. She was no mere healer, but something more.

He slung a plaid about his hips and crossed to where she slept by the fire. Only the firelight illuminated her, casting shadows over her face and lighting deep copper fires in her hair. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Dark auburn hair, pale skin, midnight eyes, fine cheekbones, a strong chin and straight nose. She appeared slender and delicate, and yet she was clearly capable of great things. What was he going to do with her? He was loath to send her away, and yet what else could he do?

He crouched beside her and touched a loose lock of hair, pushing it away from her face, as she had done to him the night before. She was a skilled healer to have kept Ailis alive as long as she did. And she’d known just what to do when he’d been choking.

Her eyes flew open. Wild eyes. Terrified eyes.

He drew his hand away slowly. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She pushed herself to sitting, then backed away, her arisaid sliding from her shoulders. She looked at him as if she feared him. He did not touch her, only watched her silently, waiting. Her gaze scanned the room, confused, before returning to him, this time with recognition. The fear in her eyes disappeared, replaced with weariness and relief. She flexed her shoulders in a small stretch, twisting and grimacing as her back cracked.

“You are much improved,” she said, her gaze still on him, cautious.

He did not stand, remaining at her level. “Aye. It’s only bad in the beginning. Illnesses never tarry in my body.”

Her gaze roved over his chest and lower, then skittered away. “My lord…I’ll leave you so you can dress.”

She started to stand, but he put out a hand. She froze before he touched her, so he drew back. She had not been so wary of him when she’d thought him a mere groom. He didn’t like it, wanted their prior rapport back.

“I wanted to thank you for coming as you did, and clearing my throat and staying with me. I did not deserve your kindness after deceiving you.”

She lifted her midnight eyes to him. They were slightly slanted like a cat’s, with a thick sweep of cinnamon lashes. “It is I who should be thanking you. You are forgiven everything.”

He tapped a thumb to his mouth, frowning at her. This was not right. He was forgetting something. A strange tightness gripped his chest.

“What mean you?”

“You said you would come to Lochlaire and heal my father. What I did for you is paltry payment for such a gift, my lord. Do not for a moment believe I consider my debt paid—”

He stood abruptly. “What did you say? I agreed to heal your father?”

She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Aye, you did.”

He paced away from her, arms crossed over his chest. “I was feverish, delirious. Why would you take aught I said seriously?”

When she didn’t answer, he turned back. She gazed up at him with such a look of betrayal that he stopped short.

“Because you said you would.”

Of course she’d believed him. She’d come all this way; she would latch onto anything he’d said in support of her mission, no matter the state he’d been in at the time he’d said it.

He closed his eyes and scraped his hand over the whiskers on his jaw. “Bloody hell.” He opened his eyes and pinned her with a hard stare. “You are nothing but trouble, do you know that?”

Her gaze had grown sharp, her full lips compressed into a line of suppressed anger. “You
said
you would.”

“I was ill. I knew not what I sputtered on about.”

She got to her feet, hands fisted at her sides. “I saved your life! Or have you forgotten that now, too?”

He crossed to the carved wooden chest against the wall and lifted the lid, grabbing a clean shirt. “I haven’t.”

“And have you forgotten that I did it
after
you deceived me? How you and your brother must have laughed at me! Mocking my letters, then pretending to be some ridiculous groom. And a poor bit of acting it was.”

He pulled the shirt over his head. “I told you—I never mocked your letters.”

She smirked. “And you’re such an honest man, I should believe you, aye?” Her gaze hardened. “You
owe
me.”

“Ah,” he said, a grim smile curving his mouth. “Now you’re beginning to sound like the virago in the letters.”

Her mouth dropped open in insult. “Virago! I see.” Her tone was biting, her skin flushing with fury. “Well, I think you are a knave. No! A blackguard.” Though she didn’t smile, she stood straighter and lifted her chin a notch, obviously well pleased with her insult.

He held back the smile threatening to surface and crossed the room to stand before her. “Anything else? Now that you’ve had time to think on it?”

She raised a scathing brow. “A son of a—”

He raised a finger. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“But you’re not me, and if you were you’d know that healing my father is the most important thing in the world to me.”

William didn’t like the tightness forming in his chest. “How old is your father?”

“What does that matter?”

He raised his brows expectantly.

She sighed. “Eight and forty.”

“Not ancient, but neither is he young. Everyone must die, Rose. I know you love your father, but I cannot heal the infirmities of old age.”

“He is not infirm, and it is not old age that is killing him!”

William inhaled deeply and decided to try another tack. “When a person begins to age, this makes them susceptible to many illnesses. I suppose I could keep healing them, one after the other, but I cannot make the body stronger or younger and so they will continue to deteriorate—”

Her eyes flashed. “Do you think me daft, to speak to me in this manner? I, too, am a healer. I cannot perform miracles, but I am competent, I assure you.”

William rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, I do not think you daft. I do, however, think you cannot see this clearly. You said in one of your letters that your family had only recently been reunited after a long separation. Could this be clouding your judgement as a healer?”

She gazed up at him with such pleading, such disappointment in her lovely eyes that he found himself wavering, being led by something far baser than intellect.

“But you said you would.” Her voice was soft with defeat. She lowered her gaze and turned away, folding her arms beneath her breasts and gripping her elbows.

He couldn’t remember saying it, and yet it was likely he had. He did not make a practice of trailing after lasses like lost puppies, but he’d done it with this one. In fact, since Deidra’s birth, he’d left women alone entirely. But since Rose MacDonell had forced her way into his life, he’d said and done things he knew he should not.

“What else did I say in my fever?” he asked grudgingly.

She looked at him over her shoulder, from beneath a fan of cinnamon lashes. His body responded immediately to the look, tightening and growing warm.

“You said I was pretty.”

“I suppose I wasn’t too far out of my head then, was I?” he muttered dryly. He still could think of little but how damned appealing she was and how he wanted to tumble her on the bed behind him.

She lifted a shoulder with elaborately feigned disinterest. “I wouldn’t know, my lord, as you’ve been naught but dishonest with me.”

“Shaming me into it now, are we?”

She just gazed back at him, unblinking.

He rubbed his forehead, then sighed again. “Very well. I will go to your Lochlaire and try to heal your father.”

She let out a gasping breath and clasped her hands together in stunned disbelief, then jumped at him, grabbing his hands in hers. “Oh, thank you, Dumhnull—I mean, my lord! You will not be sorry, I vow it! I will take care of you afterward, just as I did today. And you will be paid, of course. And anything else you wish that we can provide is yours. You only have to name it.”

“A kiss,” he said, surprising himself, but once the words were out, he did not take them back; in fact, everything in him was suddenly focused on her mouth, the soft, plump swell of her bottom lip that he wanted to taste. Since he’d met her he’d wanted to kiss her, touch her, bed her, with a single-minded intensity that startled and troubled him.

She stopped her excited rambling and stared up at him, her throat working, but no words issued forth. Her hands stiffened in his and she tried to pull away, but he held firm.

He leaned toward her, using his hold on her hands to pull her closer. He could feel the whisper of her skirts along his lower body, the prelude to something soft and yielding igniting sharp lust in his blood.

“That’s hardly adequate payment,” she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth, then darting back to his eyes.

“Nevertheless,” he said softly, “it’s the payment I demand.”

She parted her lips to make another protest, but he silenced her with his mouth.

She was stiff, her fingers digging into his. He coaxed her mouth to softness, tasting the salty sweetness of her, running his tongue lightly along the generous curve of her lower lip. Her breath exhaled on a sigh, her lips opening to him, kissing him back. He released her hands to put his arms around her, to press her closer. Her hands came up to his shoulders, as if to push him away, but she didn’t. She was warm and soft in his arms, and tasted like heaven. He didn’t know what demon had prodded him into demanding a kiss, but he was glad for it.

“My lord,” she breathed, exerting the slightest pressure against his chest. “I—”

He took advantage of her open mouth to kiss her deeper, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her tongue met his with no hesitation, and need closed around him like a fist, hot and urgent. He wanted more. He wanted her in his bed.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders, where they clutched the fabric of his shirt near his collar. Her breath came fast and fluttery, her skin gloriously warm and flushed to his palms. He was quickly descending into the realm of mindless lust, and she offered him no resistance.

What was he planning? To bed her, obviously, but then? She was no village whore, or even a widow in need of companionship. This was a gentlewoman betrothed to someone else. He was asking for trouble. These thoughts were like a trickle of freezing water down his spine, returning him to sanity. He set her away while he still could. She blinked up at him with wide-eyed confusion. He made himself cross the room to put some distance between them, then he grabbed his trews off the bench beside the bed. All his clothes from the day before were folded and neat.

“We’ll leave tonight, after dark. I suggest you get some sleep.” His voice was gruff, making him sound bad-tempered—which in fact he was. He was damned uncomfortable now. He threw off the plaid he’d wrapped around himself and pulled on his trews, grimacing in discomfort as he laced them. When he turned back to her, she looked away quickly, staring into the fire with intense interest.

“Come, let’s find you somewhere to sleep.”

Rose’s heart still thundered against her ribs as she stood alone in the cold room William had deposited her in. She gazed around her. The room was sparsely furnished, but the bed was sturdy and soft, and the woolen blankets and furs would keep her warm. She had a large fireplace, cold now, and a tall clothespress. A brass chamber pot peeked out from under the bed.

She propelled herself to the chest at the end of the bed and sank down onto it, folding her body over her legs so her forehead pressed into her knees. With great clarity she could recall the last time she’d been so shaken. It had been an unrest of a very different sort, but it had still left her both numb and strangely sensitive. She put that from her mind. She was closer than ever to resolving what had happened all those years ago—at least as best as it ever could be. Time to focus on the present.

The wizard of Strathwick had agreed to heal her father. And then he had kissed her senseless. And then shown her to a bedchamber as if nothing had happened. It was all very strange. Had it been Dumhnull who’d kissed her, she would have felt differently, she realized—which was absurd. Dumhnull and Strathwick were the same person. But it was a matter of birth. What could Strathwick have meant by kissing her in such a manner?—for it had not been chaste at all. It had been slow and hot, his hands, his body…She covered her flushed cheeks with her palms. It had been a very long time since a man had roused such a passion in her.