My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  He was already eliciting curious stares from villagers going about their business. He spotted a tall man with a thick blond beard. Allister. He exhaled grimly and returned to the castle. His people watched him hesitantly, clearly uncertain at this point how to address him. He did not spend time enlightening them. Once in his own chambers, he still found no peace. His brother sat behind the desk, letter in hand. The wooden box sat open.

  Drake smiled guiltily. “The mulled wine was very good, thank you. I’d never guess you’d never made it before.”

  “I didn’t make it then, either.”

  William crossed the room and snatched the letter from Drake’s hand. He folded it carefully, glowering at his brother.

  Drake gazed up at him, amused and entirely unabashed. This only further irritated William. He was inordinately vexed, but in truth, he did not know what he was vexed about, could not pinpoint any one thing. The way that woman had violated his home was enough to enrage anyone. But that was not it. Not at all. He was not angry about what she’d done. Indeed, he understood it. He understood her. Perhaps that was it—a sense of helplessness at his inability to help her. That was closer to what vexed him but not it exactly, either. He wanted to help her, but damnit, he couldn’t. Could he?

  Drake leaned back in William’s chair, regarding his brother thoughtfully. “She’s bonny, I’ll give you that. But a damn shrew.”

  “She’s not a shrew. She’s desperate. I was her last hope.”

  Drake scratched beneath his chin, still regarding William thoughtfully. “I suppose. She’s a wildcat, though, aye? Too bad she thinks I’m you.”

  “Why is that?”

  Drake leaned back further, propping his feet on William’s desk and crossing them at the ankle. “We never go anywhere anymore, and no one ever comes here—well, at least we don’t allow anyone in.”

  “That was your idea,” William pointed out.

  “And a fine one it is—things have been far more peaceful around here since we’ve become recluses. But I grow bored of this place. Of these women.”

  “I thought you’d set your eye on Betty.”

  Drake rolled his eyes. “She insists she’s still married, despite the fact Allister had her driven from the village with stones.” He shook his head, helpless. “Naught I say will loosen her laces.”

  William snorted, amused. Good for Betty. “Well, no doubt she knows what you’re about and wants none of it.”

  Drake arched a brow incredulously, clearly doubting such a thing was even possible.

  William laughed aloud, feeling better. Trust Drake to lighten his mood. He patted his brother’s shoulder. “Methinks that’s for the best. We need no more trouble with Allister.”

  “I say we kill him. I don’t care who he is.”

  William shook his head. “That’s not the answer, brother. Don’t even think it.” He held Rose’s letter up before replacing it in his wooden box. “Stay away from this one.”

  Drake gave him a slow, sly smile. “Oh, she’s all yours.”

  William scowled and shoved his brother’s feet off his desk. They hit the ground with a thump, startling a laugh out of Drake. “Oh, this one has you in a chuff all right, Dumhnull.” Drake left the room, chuckling to himself over William’s foolishness.

  And foolishness it was. William sat in the chair his brother had vacated. He’d left her moments ago, but already he longed to seek her out again. But on what pretense? Neither Dumhnull nor Lord Strathwick had any reason to trouble the bonny healer any longer. And perhaps that’s what vexed him most of all.

  Rose had first thought to leave immediately. Get on her horse and never look back. She was humiliated and depressed and wanted to be away from this place. But there was no wisdom in that. It was noon. She was tired and needed rest. Tomorrow morning she would start fresh, putting this whole unpleasant incident behind her.

  Though she’d hoped for rest, it was not her fate. It rarely was. Excluding the elusive Lord Strathwick, the village had not had the benefit of a healer in some time. Rose spent the day helping the blacksmith’s wife make lard candles, interrupted with the odd ailment from a villager who’d heard there was a healer present. The news traveled quickly, so that by evening she’d tended festering wounds, boils, rotting teeth, coughs, and aching bellies. It was good work, and she threw herself into it. It made her forget, for a time, how she’d failed.

  She was in the blacksmith’s cottage, rebreaking and setting a lad’s leg, when she noticed Wallace through the window. He sat on a stump on the village side of the bridge, his bay hobbled nearby. When she had a moment, she joined him. He stood, spitting out the blade of grass he’d been chewing.

  She pushed back a hank of sweaty, disheveled hair that had come loose from her plait. “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting, miss. When you’re ready to return to Lochlaire, I’ll accompany you.”

  “I made it here without your help, I’ll make it back.”

  “You shouldn’t be traveling alone.” Disapproval laced his words. “My lord Kincreag wouldn’t like it at all.”

  She shot him a cutting look. “I might not have come at all if you’d returned.” She doubted that was true. She’d needed to speak to the wizard herself. “Why did you stay? Have you so little loyalty to the earl of Kincreag?”

  “Nay, miss,” he said hastily, his brown eyes panicked. The scar on his cheek reddened. “That’s not it at all! It’s Lord Strathwick…he healed me. I was attacked by broken men not far from here. They left me for dead. I lay there for two days, the buzzards circling, waiting. Two of Strathwick’s knights found me and brought me here. I should have died…but he brought me back. I owe him my life. The debt is far from paid.”

  Rose’s jaw hardened as her gaze was drawn to the castle. The resentment boiled up inside her. Strathwick had helped Wallace but would not help her. Wallace had been a stranger to him, just as Rose was. Why did he deny her, when she’d come so far? Would it have been different if she’d brought her father with her? But her father could not survive such a journey, and Lord Strathwick refused to come to Lochlaire. She wanted to scream her frustration.

  Instead she pinned Wallace with a hateful glare. “Then stay here and pay your debt. I don’t need you.”

  It was dusk when Rose trudged out to the shelter that was the blacksmith’s stable, gratefully tired from her long day of work. The more tasks she had to accomplish, the less her mind turned and turned. And she did not want to think of all that had passed this day. The pain of Strathwick’s rejection was still raw, still there, waiting for examination, but she could not. She had a long ride ahead of her on the morrow. She would not be able to escape from it then.

  The leather bag containing oats rested atop her saddle. Rose picked it up and turned to feed her horse—and yelped with surprise. Dumhnull leaned against Moireach’s stall.

  Rose put her hand to her chest and let out the breath still strangling in her throat. “You frightened me.” Then she frowned and looked around cautiously. They were alone. “I thought you said you couldn’t come to the village.”

  “I don’t, usually. Not during the day, at least. And not where everyone can see me.”

  He was dressed again in old and faded garments, though it did nothing to mask his height and breadth, singular so far as she’d seen in Strathwick. It would be difficult for him to disguise himself. He possessed a presence that couldn’t be hidden simply with rough clothes.

  She remembered their last conversation at the bridge, where he’d shared the fact that Lord Strathwick had read her letters aloud, and her face grew hot. She brushed by him, pouring oats into Moireach’s trough. Rose scratched the mare between the ears as she ate.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze.

  “I heard you were tending the villagers’ ailments.” He hesitated, then continued diffidently, “I…have a problem with my elbow. I was hoping there was something you could do for it?”

  Her eyes narrowed, skeptical
. “Why not have Strathwick heal you?”

  “Go to Strathwick? For a strained elbow?”

  She leaned an arm on the top slat of the stall and turned to face Dumhnull. “He doesn’t heal elbows?”

  He looked momentarily bewildered, then lifted a shoulder. “No. It’s…fatiguing for him to heal. One does not ask him to do it for such minor complaints.”

  She thought grimly about the day she’d just spent, the ailments she’d tended, the exquisite effort it had taken to break and reset the leg—her muscles still ached from the strain—and glowered at Dumhnull.

  “Well then,” he said, straightening from where he leaned against the stall. “I suppose not—”

  “How did you hurt it?”

  He paused, then leaned against the stall again, eyeing her cautiously. “I was kicked.”

  “In the elbow?”

  He nodded, straightening and folding his arm experimentally. “It hurts.”

  Rose sighed. “Very well. I suppose I owe you.” She straightened from the stall, wincing and rubbing at the small of her back. “Let’s have a look.”

  He shrugged out of his doublet, untied the points at his right wrist, and pushed his sleeve up. Rose took the arm he offered, giving it a cursory inspection before she used her magic. It was a very fine forearm, thick with muscle and dusted with black hair. The wrist in her hand was strong-boned and wide, the palm broad, the fingers long. She could smell him, standing this close. He smelled clean, of wool and soap, as if he’d recently washed. For her? A quick glance upward revealed slightly damp combed hair. She smiled inwardly, and when she called on her magic, passing her hand over his elbow, she saw nothing, only his color—strong and healthy blue. She frowned and did it again, spending more time with her palm hovering over his elbow. If there was damage of any sort she would see it—dark red streaks, or a gray film or dark blobs.

  “What was that?” he asked sharply, his arm tensing beneath her hand.

  She looked up at him, surprised. “What was what?”

  “What you did with your hand there?”

  Rose dropped her hands and stepped back, flustered. No one ever seemed to pay any mind to what she did during an examination. All thought she healed through skill alone. He was the first to notice anything different.

  “Nothing,” she lied. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He continued to frown at her for a moment, then looked back down at his bare arm. Rose debated what to do. There was nothing wrong with this man’s elbow. Even without the benefit of her magic she could see it was functional—no bruising, swelling, or discoloration. This must be a ploy to spend time with her again, and she was flattered. She enjoyed his company and felt no small amount of attraction for him. She’d grown somewhat jaded over the past few years, so although she was no stranger to flirtations—especially from her male patients—she rarely returned the interest. This felt different somehow, wicked and unsafe, but darkly alluring. She decided to play along, refusing to deny herself the pleasure of his presence, however unwise the decision.

  She gestured to an overturned bucket. “Have a seat and I’ll put some liniment on it. It should feel better in the morning. I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried out of the stable, returning to the blacksmith’s cottage and retrieving her pot of liniment. She found herself sprinting back to the stable, as if she feared he would leave if she was gone too long. She stopped herself just outside and caught her breath, not wanting him to notice how she’d exerted herself. She knew her behavior was unconscionable. She was betrothed. He was a bastard and a stable hand, for heaven’s sake. And yet for this moment, she didn’t particularly care about any of that. She was enjoying herself, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d found real enjoyment in anything.

  Inside the stable Dumhnull waited on the bucket, his shirtsleeve rolled up to his muscled biceps. Rose stared at him in the gloaming, her breathing disturbed by the sight of him. He was so very large—he seemed to fill the small stable, even crouched on a bucket. Such a fine-looking man. No wonder he was overbold for one of his station—she doubted even a princess would be offended by his interest. He looked up at her, shadowed eyes fringed with such thick lashes, set deep beneath thick black brows.

  She realized she stared rudely and came briskly forward, kneeling beside him. “Give me your arm.”

  He gave it to her. As she rubbed the strong-scented liniment into his elbow, she felt his gaze on her, weighty, nearly a physical thing, as if he touched her. Her skin reacted all over, warm and prickly.

  He said, “We did not mock you.”

  Rose looked up at him quizzically, then immediately realized her mistake. Their faces were inches apart. She returned her gaze to her work, to the strong bulge of muscle above the bend of his elbow. She could see the veins in it, protruding slightly, dark blue. The skin in the crease of his elbow was soft and tender, such a contrast to the rough, muscular man before her.

  “What are you talking about?” she mumbled.

  “Your letters. You were wroth earlier, thinking we mocked you. I want you to know that is not what happened at all.”

  “You’re still worried about that? I’m not,” she lied blithely. “It doesn’t matter what Lord Strathwick thought, does it? He won’t help me. It’s behind me now. Let him laugh his arse off at my letters.”

  He let out an irritated breath. “He did not laugh, and I certainly didn’t either.”

  She gave him a perceptive smile, amused by his attempts to flatter her. She was leaving tomorrow and he knew it. She couldn’t imagine what he hoped to accomplish here tonight. A roll in the hay? He wouldn’t succeed, but she enjoyed his attempt.

  He was silent for a moment. “You are a courageous woman, to come all this way alone.”

  Again, she made the mistake of glancing up and being caught in his darkly beautiful gaze. Her heart already raced from touching him so freely, savoring it, in fact, her fingers kneading into his supple skin. It struck her that she was being far too nonchalant about this game, pretending she could control it. She’d played it before and lost—and this time she had a betrothed. Had she no wits?

  She stood and backed away, wiping her fingers on her skirts. “That should help.”

  He stood, too, looking at his arm for a moment before rolling his sleeve back down and snagging his doublet from where he’d dropped it on the ground. “My thanks, Mistress MacDonell. You’re a fine healer.”

  She nodded, finding it suddenly difficult to meet his gaze. The room seemed stuffy and close, her skin over-warm. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and stood aside to let him pass, but he didn’t pass. He stopped in front of her.

  One of his long fingers touched her beneath her chin, tilting her face upward so she was forced to look at him. She should not allow him to touch her with such familiarity. She should demand he remove his hand and leave. But she did nothing of the sort. Her skin beneath his fingers tingled, her heart trembled in anticipation.

  She met his gaze as it swept over her upturned face, and waited for him to kiss her, knowing she would let him, knowing she’d walked into this trap willingly, knowingly—eagerly.

  But he didn’t kiss her; he just gazed down at her, his expression dark and unfathomable. Then he sighed deeply and regretfully. “I wish the world were different, Mistress MacDonell. I really do.” He dragged his fingers along her jaw, let them drop to his side.

  And then he left her standing there, blinking in disbelief and disappointment, her heart still stuttering against her ribs, skin burning where he’d touched her.

  Chapter 4

  A frantic pounding ripped Rose from the grips of another nightmare. Rain chattered on the thatching. She inhaled sharply, peat smoke choking her. The small smoke hole in the thatching had been stopped up to keep the rain out and the warmth in.

  The blacksmith stumbled out of bed and threw the door open.

  “Is the healer still here?” a desperate voice asked.

  Rose pushed he
rself up. “Aye, I am.”

  A boy darted under the blacksmith’s arm. “You must come! My sister is dying!”

  Rose had not bothered to undress, so she slipped on her shoes, threw her arisaid over her head, grabbed her wooden box, and followed the boy into the rain. He led her to a cottage at the edge of the small village. The door opened immediately at their knock. A painfully thin woman stood there, her damp, hollowed eyes passing over Rose and the boy, scanning the emptiness behind them. Her face fell when she realized they were alone.

  “Where’s the MacKay?” she asked.

  “He won’t come,” the boy said.

  Rose gritted her teeth. Some healer. Had he not said to her, I certainly cannot go hieing off to heal strangers when people I know are in need? And here, one of his own people was dying and he couldn’t trouble himself. For the first time she began to believe that perhaps his miraculous healing was nothing more than fakery.

  She put her anger aside and placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Lord Strathwick might not be here, but I will do my best for your child.”

  The woman shook her head, hands over her mouth, as if holding back a scream. She pulled away from Rose and dashed out into the storm.

  The boy looked after his mother morosely. Water dripped from the dark hair plastered to his head, making tracks down his cheeks. “She’ll be back.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “To stand outside the castle and scream. We all do that.”

  “Does it work?” Rose remembered Tadhg’s story about Betty’s husband, how he’d stood outside the castle and threatened to murder Strathwick if he didn’t come heal his wife.

  “Sometimes.” The boy took Rose’s hand and led her to the back of the cottage. A small child lay upon the large bed, plaids and furs smothering her. He gazed at his sister with large, worried eyes. “Her name is Ailis. She’s six.”

  Rose pulled most of the coverings off and tossed them aside. Ailis was a small girl with a mop of dirty blond hair curling around her face. She was very red, her skin alarmingly hot to the touch, and clear fluid drained from her nostrils. Every inhalation rattled through her narrow chest.