Warrior's Bride (13 page)

  Her murderer's choice of weapon was not lost on him.
Wolfsbane.
A toxin that reflected his own bastardized name. Such a choice of weapon pointed all fingers at his father.

  Wolf frowned. That knowledge did more to clear the king of the crime than any other evidence. His father might be manipulative, but he was no dullard.

  Which meant only one thing: Someone else was out to harm Isobel. And Fiona now as well. He had to determine who was behind the attacks and stop them before someone died.

  Perhaps he was already too late. Against the pale gold linens, Isobel's face appeared a ghostly gray. The darker smudges that hovered beneath her closed eyes gave her a fragility that sent a piercing stab of regret through his gut. How could he have failed her so miserably in such a short period of time?

  The sound of footsteps in the hallway ceased his dark thoughts. Mistress Rowley busted into the chamber, drawing the silver-haired healer along in her wake. "She's over here, Mortimer. Quickly. You must give her the same purgative you administered to Lady Fiona."

  Wolf stepped back, away from the bed, and allowed the healer to take his position by Isobel's side. "This antidote will work?"

  The healer grunted. "Only time will tell."

  Mistress Rowley placed her arm on his sleeve. "She's a fighter, that one. She has a better chance than most of pulling through."

  "And Fiona?" Wolf asked Mistress Rowley.

  "She had only a small bite of the apple. I watched her eat it myself. Eats like a bird, that one does. And for once it has served to her benefit."

  "What else can be done to help Isobel? Name it and it shall be done." He did not bother to disguise the growing desperation in his voice.

  Mistress Rowley's brows drew together in thought. " 'Tis not my place to tell you what to do."

  "And when has that ever stopped you?"

  Her severe expression softened before becoming sullen. "You might not like my suggestion."

  He glanced at the bed, at the healer as he forced a cup of milky white liquid past Isobel's unresponsive lips. "If I did not want your opinion, Mistress Rowley, I would not have asked. Pray tell me, what else might I do for her?"

  "Foil whoever is trying to harm her. Do the thing they are trying to stop and marry her now, then flee from here together."

  Of all the advice he had expected, it had not been that. He clenched his fists. "I shall not run from my battles."

  Mistress Rowley looked Wolf directly in the eye. "Honor and pride. You and your father carry the same fatal flaws. Neither of you will submit to retreat."

  He acknowledged her words with a slight nod. She had never been one to fear his anger. For that he was truly grateful—which was why he listened to her now, why he allowed her to say things to him that no one else would dare. "There is no retreat until I am dead."

  "Must it come to that extreme before you heed the warnings?"

  Wolf shifted his gaze back to the bed. The healer had rolled Isobel to her side, awaiting the effects of the purgative. "If she makes it through this attempt, no one will get close enough to her to harm her again."

  "How can you guarantee such a thing?"

  "My men will protect her."

  Mistress Rowley frowned. "Only your men?"

  Wolf pushed the hair back from his temple in a futile attempt to disguise his frustration. "What more can I do?"

  "Protect her with marriage vows. Then you will have no reason to leave her side."

  "I cannot argue."

  Mistress Rowley's eyes widened. "You agree?"

  He nodded.

  "Then I suggest you send for the priest as soon as she recovers," the housekeeper said with a note of triumph in her voice.

  "There is no need for her to recover in order for us to finish what my father started."

  Mistress Rowley nodded her approval. Any further communication was cut short by the retching sounds that filled the chamber. Isobel flailed upon the bed, fighting the effects of the healer's potion. The process seemed to take forever, until finally she settled back against the bed cushions, her eyes closed, her face ashen.

  "Who would try to kill her?" Wolf wondered aloud. "She was a recluse on a remote isle. The girl is no one of importance. The threats must stem from her connection to me. But what?"

  He rubbed at his temples, as if doing so would clear his thoughts. The idea that formed there took hold, refusing to go away, regardless of the risk. There was one way to find the answers he sought. "Where is Brahan?"

  "You sent him to attend Lady Fiona," Mistress Rowley reminded Wolf.

  "Bring him back to me. I have need of his services."

  Desperation did odd things to desperate men. As little as he liked the idea of using the Seer's Stone, it seemed he had no other choice. Wolf would have his answers by any means available if such knowledge could keep Isobel safe.

  His men might think him a beast at times, but he was also known as a fierce defender of the innocent. And Isobel was truly an innocent in all that had happened to her so far.

  "Then call for the priest." Just saying the words brought a strange twist to the center of his chest. "He will either perform a marriage or offer extreme unction this eve." Both possibilities existed. At the thought Wolf’s emotions veered crazily between hope and despair.

  A wedding or a funeral. Only time would reveal which service would prevail.

Chapter Thirteen

  "She will survive the poison." Brahan removed the Seer's Stone from his forehead and snapped his eyes open, breaking the connection to the images that danced across his mind.

  Wolf stopped pacing, his face a savage mask. "You are certain?"

  "Aye. There is no distortion in the image." Brahan glanced at the bed where Isobel lay. The pale and lifeless form on the bed would soon shift, and color would once again flood her cheeks. The image had been so clear, more clear than any vision ever before.

  He took a step closer to Isobel. The Stone in his hand grew warmer. He took another step, then another, until he found himself at the foot of her bed. The Seer's Stone glowed an iridescent red, yet it did not burn his skin. The warmth brought a certain comfort to his hand and to his soul, as if it was meant to be near this woman.

  "What are you doing to the Stone, Brahan?" Wolf asked.

  Brahan took a step back from the bed. The Stone grew cooler. A step closer to the bed made it heat up once again. "I'm not doing anything. It's her."

  Wolf’s gaze fixed on Isobel's silent form. It was then that he saw something there he had not seen before. Fine leather cording encircled her neck, connected to a small, iridescent red stone nestled within leather-laced net.

  He strode to her bedside and gently lifted the glowing stone from where it rested against her warm flesh. The heat of the stone warmed his fingers. "She wears a stone as well. Are there two Seer's Stones? Or is this something else entirely?" He looked to Brahan's temple, to the lock of white hair that increased in size after each use of the Stone. Except this time the patch of white remained the same, no worse, no better. "What does it mean?"

  Brahan shook his head. "I've never heard of two Seer's Stones, but her stone responding to mine must mean something. The Seer's Stone has never acted like this before."

  "Can you still see the things that have yet to be?"

  Brahan nodded. "Her stone is helping to clarify the visions. I wonder how."

  Wolf set the stone back against her skin. "We will figure that out later. Right now, I must know who is trying to harm her."

  "And so you shall." Brahan closed his eyes and placed the Stone against his forehead. Prisms of light swirled before his mind's eye. Colors mixed and melded through space and time as they tried to form into images of things to come and things that had already been.

  "Who is trying to kill her?" Wolf’s voice invaded like a breeze rattling the leaves of a tree.

  Brahan waited, focusing his energy on the visions, going deeper into the trance, until all sound faded and only the steady beat of his own heart remained. "I see a tall, willowy woman cloaked in black speaking to a younger woman—a serving woman—from your own kitchen. Nay, the image is gone now. The images are clearer than before, but they are moving so quickly, it's hard to hold on to them, to see everything I need to see." Brahan tried to slow down the images without success.

  "Just focus on what you can," came Wolf's voice.

  "I see two tartans. One is red and green like that of the Stewart clan. The other I do not recognize, but it is blue and green and black." Brahan concentrated harder, trying to pull the meaning from the image. "Both tartans lie in the middle of a clearing—nay, a field of battle. They are coiled together and bathed in blood." His instincts told him to pull back, away from the vision that developed. Instead he forced his vision to go on.

  "I see an older man wrapped in the other tartan. He carries something in his hand. I cannot tell what it is—a light, a torch, I don't know."

  "That's enough, Brahan. You've told me all I need to know." The words came from outside the cocoon of shadows and light that surrounded him—disjointed, unnatural.

  "There is more. I can feel it. I must go on." The light changed, shifted, forming yet another image. "Brilliant lights, of all colors, fill a room. It's like walking into a rainbow. In the center of the room I see a woman. It is Lady Isobel. She's holding a sword. At least I think it is a sword. It is long and pointed and glitters, yet it does not look like steel. There is a man there, too, but I cannot see who it is. His face is in shadow. His side of the chamber is dark, so dark and cold. Something separates the light from the dark ... a bridge ... a chasm ... the image is unclear. But I sense it is that thing that will determine Isobel's destiny. The man isn't trying to kill her; he wants something from her. It is those who get in his way whom he wants to harm."

  Brahan could feel his heart pound against the wall of his chest, each pulse more painful than the last, until he found it difficult to breathe. "It is ... you the man is after. He will kill you .. .just as my last premonition about you revealed."

  "Come back, Brahan. Your hair is once again turning white as the visions take their toll. Come back, now."

  Brahan concentrated all the harder despite the dangers of using the Stone. He knew the Stone revealed the future by tapping into the life force of the seer. He never minded that sacrifice if it meant helping others. In an effort to go further, he directed all his energy to the Stone. Tranquil white light filled the space in his mind. From within the brilliance, a female figure emerged. A halo of heather wreathed her golden hair. "Lady Isobel... She awaits her destiny—that of either a bride ... or a corpse." Brahan shivered violently at the image, feeling as though ice suddenly flowed in his veins.

  "Brahan, enough. Come back. This was a mistake. I shall not lose you over this."

  Brahan ignored Wolf’s urgings and pressed forward into the image. His head throbbed with the effort, but a face appeared ... that of a man.... "I see the dark stranger from before. I do not recognize him." Brahan's shivers became shudders. His whole body trembled at the effort of reaching for this last vision. "So many faces tumble through my mind: your father, the maid in the kitchen, your brother Walter, Fiona, and ... my own face . . . and there is more. So much more ..."

  Sharp pain lashed through Brahan's mind, matching the pain in his chest. He tried to focus the faces into some sort of order without success. The vision narrowed, like a tunnel of time and space, until only one image remained. "It cannot be." The words tumbled from him in a gasp.

  His fingers tingled with numbness. The Seer's Stone cooled and fell away from his forehead. His body tumbled not against the hard floor but into a cushion of softness, instantly cradled in warmth. Darkness filled the inky corridors of his mind. His body went limp. He felt himself falling and let himself go, welcoming the silence.

  Wolf caught Brahan as he collapsed. "Fenwick, Gerard," Wolf called to the two men-at-arms he had positioned outside the battered door of the solar.

  Instantly, the men appeared. "Milord?"

  "Help me take Brahan to his chamber." The warriors grasped an unconscious Brahan by the shoulders and the feet while Wolf bent to retrieve the Seer's Stone from where it had fallen to the floor. The three of them managed to swiftly move the hulking warrior down the long hallway and onto his bed. A torch set against the awaiting wood in the hearth filled the chamber with radiant heat.

  Wolf dismissed his men and sat on the bed beside his friend. A slight smile lingered at the corner of Brahan's mouth, and despite his unnatural paleness, he appeared as he usually did at rest. There was one notable difference, however: The small white streak of hair that had graced his temple had turned into a solid white stripe.

  The cost of the visions had been great—greater than Wolf had anticipated. Guilt brought an oppressive weight to his chest. "I'm sorry, Brahan. I should have listened to you and turned back from this quest, but my pride wouldn't allow it."