by Jen Holling
He met her gaze, a brow slightly arched. “But you don’t agree.”
It was not a question. Rose’s gaze dropped to the child nestled in his arms, a plump hand beneath her cheek and her mouth open in innocent slumber. She was so young….
“No…. I don’t know.”
“Why did he send you to Skye?”
“Because Crisdean Beaton was there. My mother wanted him to tutor me. He was Fagan MacLean’s personal physician. A very fine healer.”
He frowned as he studied her expression. Rose tried to appear indifferent. She didn’t want to discuss this any longer—she’d never meant for their conversation to take this turn. She very much wanted to discourage any further probing, but she did not want to call attention to the fact that it upset her. She judged herself successful when his frown smoothed and he said, his voice bland, “And you learned well from him. What was that thing you did to me with your hands?”
Relieved, Rose raised a slightly amused brow. “You mean like that thing you did to Ailis with your hands, before you healed her?”
The corners of his mouth deepened, and a very slight dimple indented his right cheek. “Aye, that’s it.”
Rose was powerless to do aught but smile in return, inexplicably thrilled she’d coaxed the grudging half-smile from him.
“I see colors,” she said. “They direct me to what ails someone, but naught else. You saw that I was helpless to heal Ailis.”
Strathwick nodded, his eyes lit with surprise and pleasure. “Ailis was pale yellow, aye? The fever a dark red—like merlot? The sickness in her throat was black. It had substance, too, it felt—”
“No, I felt nothing,” Rose said regretfully, and strangely she did regret it. For a moment, he’d seemed so pleased, as if discovering a kindred spirit. “The rest, though, aye, I saw that.”
He frowned. “You only see the colors? You don’t feel them?”
“That’s right. You feel the colors?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly…or not the colors. But the ailments. They have form and substance.” He squinted at the terrain before them thoughtfully, then asked, his tone casual, “Have you ever been ill?”
“Not that I recall. Why?”
“As a healer, you are surrounded by illness. It would seem to follow that at times you become ill yourself.”
Rose had thought about that herself sometimes, but the truth was, she’d never even had the sniffles. She shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate.”
He slanted her a mysterious look, dark and full of unfathomable meaning, then looked away. “I’ve never been ill either,” he mused. “Outside of healing, that is.”
Rose waited for him to say more, but he only continued to meditate on the mountains. She rolled her lips, biting them, then finally gave in to the urge to ask him a question that had been nagging at her.
“I was wondering, my lord…how is your elbow complaint?”
He gave her a sour look. She tried to hide her smile but couldn’t. She laughed.
“Since you see the colors, you must also know there was naught wrong with my elbow. Ah, well.”
She had suspected but was inordinately pleased to hear him say it. “I thought it very sweet.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “I was growing rather fond of Dumhnull. I should have guessed he—er, you were not a groom. You neither looked nor acted like one. In fact, I don’t think you even tried. Maybe you wanted me to discover you?”
The breeze rustled his silvered black hair as his blue eyes burned a slow trail over her. “Mayhap I did,” he murmured, his gaze resting on her mouth.
Her breath grew short and she looked away, to her horse’s mane. The way he looked at her made her burn inside, calling forth memories of his mouth on hers, his arms enfolding her. She gripped the pommel of her saddle to help ground herself. Did she want to do this again, entangle herself in another hopeless flirtation? No, not if it was hopeless. But was it? Her blood rushed, remembering how pleased he’d been to discover that she also saw the colors. Perhaps not hopeless.
She was betrothed, she reminded herself. She belonged to another man. Contracts had been signed, promises made. She shook her head at her wayward thoughts. So stupid to worry about these things, when he’d done nothing more than kiss her. She resolved to put it from her mind unless he gave her good reason not to.
By nightfall they had descended into a narrow forested glen, where they camped for the night. As the only other female present, Rose led Deidra to a nearby stream to wash. She combed the tangles out of the child’s hair while Deidra squirmed and protested until Rose produced a blue ribbon and held it enticingly in front of her face. The child’s eyes crossed trying to focus on it, her mouth a small O of wonder.
Rose laughed. “I’ll put it in your hair and you’ll be the prettiest lass your father has ever seen.”
Deidra grew rigid as a board, staring straight ahead as if made of stone. Rose smiled to herself and resumed combing the thousand knots from the black curls.
“Who combs your hair every night and morning?” Rose asked.
“I do!”
Rose paused in her ministrations, mildly shocked. “Who dresses you?”
“Me!”
There was a great deal of pride in Deidra’s answers. Rose didn’t want to diminish that, but the girl’s bodice was hooked askew, and the points were so knotted that Rose couldn’t fathom how the child took her sleeves or kirtle off.
“You certainly are a big lassie, combing your own hair and dressing yourself.”
“That’s what my da says. Ouch!” She winced as the comb caught on a snarl of black curls, then immediately straightened her shoulders. “Sorry.”
“That’s fine. You may say ouch, but you must not pull away or I might hurt you worse.”
“Aye, Mistress MacDonell.”
The formal address was quite a mouthful for the child, and though Rose was pleased that Strathwick had not neglected his daughter’s manners, she said, “You may call me Rose, if I might call you Deidra.”
Deidra nodded, black curls bobbing. “Or you can call me Dede.”
“What about Wee Squirrel?”
“If you like.”
The combing grew easier, and Dede’s stiff spine softened.
“What do you prefer?” Rose asked.
“Only da calls me Wee Squirrel.” There was a note of reservation in Deidra’s voice that made Rose smile wistfully. As a child, she’d adored her father, and he had been fond of her, but there had never been any special nicknames, or the closeness Rose witnessed between Deidra and her father.
“Then I shall call you Dede—or is that your uncle’s special name for you?”
“No. Uncle Drake calls me other names, but they’re secret.”
The statement startled Rose, and she dropped the comb. It clattered onto a stone beside them. Rose grabbed clumsily at it, her heart somewhere in her throat, her belly queasy. Surely she’d misunderstood.
“What do you mean?” Rose asked, her voice strange. She continued combing the black curls mindlessly, although all the tangles were gone. Deidra didn’t protest. She leaned back against Rose’s legs.
“I cannot tell! It’s a secret.”
Rose’s stomach turned hard. “A secret from who, Dede? From strangers, like me? Or from everyone. Including your father?”
“You’re not a stranger, silly! And aye, from everyone—most especially my da.”
Rose’s fists dropped to her thighs, pressing hard into them. “Will you tell me your secret?”
Dede shook her head firmly, curls bobbling. “Can’t tell.” She twisted around, peering into Rose’s lap. “Is the ribbon in my hair now?”
As if in a dream, Rose pulled the front of Dede’s hair back and tied the ribbon in it, making a small bow so the tails hung down to mingle with her curls. Dede patted it, fingering the ribbon tails reverently.
She jumped to her feet and raced away, back to camp. Rose slowly gathered up their things, her mind searching frantica
lly for a solution to the frightful thing she’d just heard. What kind of secret would Drake ask a child to keep from her own father? The worst kind, she feared, the kind she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate, to remember. But she must, for Dede’s sake. She could not stroll into camp and begin flinging accusations about. She knew from experience that an outsider making such accusations would not be believed but reviled.
She pressed at her stomach, the sickness in her rising until she took several quick steps away and threw up. She dropped to her knees, rubbing her hands over her face, forcing the heels of her hands into her eyes, driving back the images trying to insinuate themselves into her mind. Memories. Things she’d worked so hard to forget.
Corpulent, sweating Fagan MacLean, leering at her, lying to her. Her innocent, stupid trust. It sickened her, humiliated her. Her vision blurred, but she fought it, digging her fingernails into her palms. Stupid, stupid to be so upset still, when it was long over. There was nothing that could change what had occurred, and she knew it. Stupid to be so angry still. It took time and effort, but she managed to push it away.
She splashed water on her face and straightened her arisaid. There was nothing for it but to protect Deidra herself. The decision calmed her, infused her with sudden strength and determination. She had been denied a champion when she’d needed one most, but by God, Deidra would have one.
Deidra raced into camp with a dark blue ribbon in her hair, dancing about to make her curls and ribbon bounce to maximum effect. After receiving exclamations of how bonny she looked from all present, she settled down against William’s knee to eat. Her freshly scrubbed cheeks glowed, and her hair had been combed to a glossy sheen. He could thank Rose for that—he was haphazard at best when it came to such things, trusting the servants to see to such matters. He ran a hand over the thick curls, and Deidra tipped her head back to smile at him upside down.
He smiled back. “What’s become of Mistress MacDonell, Squirrel? Did you frighten her away?”
Deidra’s attention returned to her meal of cold ban-nocks and dried beef. “No, she’s still at the burn.”
His gaze strayed again to the stand of bushes through which Rose and Deidra had disappeared earlier, and he wondered what detained Rose. He thought about her more than was wise. Pretty lasses were one thing, but she was a bit more. He found the woman a great deal like the letter he’d kept and read countless times. Compelling. Beautiful. Known. He’d sensed a similarity in her letter, that was why he’d kept it, he understood that now. He’d finally stumbled upon someone who saw what he was and understood it. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.
She finally emerged from the bushes and sat near him, taking the food Wallace offered. She seemed troubled; her face was unnaturally pale in the moonlight and her auburn brows drawn together, forming a line of concentration between them. William wondered what troubled her. Her father? Or was it something he’d said to her when they’d ridden together earlier? She had withdrawn from him rather abruptly, relieved when Drake and Wallace had returned.
He pondered this in silence as he ate, annoyed at his preoccupation. Their modest meal was punctuated with conversation about the journey on the morrow, whose lands they would be passing through, some broken men they’d sighted, where they might be heading and how best to avoid them. Rose contributed nothing to the conversation, though her gaze strayed repeatedly to Deidra or across the fire to Drake.
William found her silence vexing, especially when he could not draw her into conversation—a singular experience since he’d met her. She always seemed eager to share her opinion.
“You came all this way alone, Mistress MacDonell?” William asked.
She nodded, eyes fixed on her meal.
“And you encountered no broken men? No trouble along the way?”
“I disguised myself as a lad and hid at night.” Her reply was distracted, her gaze on Deidra, who nodded off against William’s knee. “Are you tired, Dede?” she asked.
Deidra sat up straight and shook her head vigorously, then rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“Good.” Rose held out a hand. “Come here and I’ll show you something.”
Deidra scrambled up, taking Rose’s hand eagerly. Rose settled Deidra between her legs, then set her wooden box between Deidra’s. William watched, puzzled, as Rose painstakingly showed Deidra everything in the box—herbs, needles, probes, and many other interesting little things. He didn’t know what to make of Rose’s sudden interest in his daughter. On the one hand, he was pleased—Deidra clearly enjoyed it. She examined the items in the box as if it were a treasure chest, asking questions, eyes widening with awe over some unfamiliar instrument. But eventually her lids grew too heavy, and she fell asleep against her new friend’s chest.
Rose then lay down, pulling Deidra down beside her and covering them both with a plaid. William watched all this with a sort of painful uneasiness. Rose was a woman, after all, and it made sense she wanted to take care of Deidra. Besides, she seemed so very comfortable with it, and Deidra obviously liked Rose. Yet it bothered William inexplicably. He felt he should not allow it. What if Deidra became attached? Grew accustomed to Rose? But he hadn’t a clue what to do about it, or even if he should do anything.
William doused the fire and took the first watch. As the moon rose, he sat back against a stone and, for the first time that day, let himself think about Ailis and her mother. Somehow he’d known such a day would come. He’d done too many terrible things, and no amount of good could take it all back. Was it God’s voice screaming at him in the dirt? Throwing pitch on the stoned bodies of the child he’d touched and the woman who’d allowed it? Was it God’s judgement on him? For it couldn’t be judgement on Ailis. She was but a child. He lowered his head to his hands but quickly straightened. He could not indulge in melancholy when he had a watch to keep.
He gazed at his companions sleeping around him, at his daughter nestled safely against Rose. A shadow seemed to pass over him, a responsibility unwanted, and yet darkly alluring. What was Rose? She could not heal as he could, but she saw the colors. He’d seen the colors for years before he’d healed anyone, and he’d discovered that accidentally when he was thirteen. Could it be she hadn’t discovered her true magic yet?
He rubbed his eyes wearily with a self-deprecating groan. And would he be the one to show her? Open a whole world of misery to her? Of course he would not. This was his hell, to suffer alone. He would condemn no one else to it.
A soft moan made him straighten. Rose thrashed about beneath the plaid. William quickly crossed the short distance between them, shaking her gently awake before she disturbed Deidra.
Her eyes opened, wide and terrified.
“Quiet—you’ll wake the others,” William whispered.
She swallowed several times, then nodded, fear fading to confusion then to embarrassment.
William sat on his heels, staring down at her charmingly mussed state. Wisps of hair had come loose from her braid to float about her head on the breeze. The right side of her face was flushed and lined from sleeping on her hand. His gaze seemed to disconcert her. She patted at her hair, then sat up, adjusting her bodice and kirtle, and glancing at him warily.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said.
“I wasn’t asleep. I was keeping watch.”
“Oh. Well, I’m awake now, I’ll keep watch so you can sleep.”
He waved the offer away. Considering the hour, it seemed inappropriate for him to remain beside her, but he was reluctant to return to his stone. “You had a nightmare?”
She grew still, gazing back at him, then gave a curt nod.
“Do you want to tell me?”
Her brows shot upward. “Surely you can’t be interested.”
“I am interested. I have very strange dreams. I even write them down sometimes, so I don’t forget.”
She blinked at him, her mouth softening slightly in surprise. “Really? I don’t want to remember mine.”
He lifted
a shoulder and sighed. “Then don’t tell me.”
He moved back to the stone and she followed, rather than lying back down. This pleased him absurdly. She settled down opposite him, crossing her legs and smoothing her kirtle over them, tucking the edges beneath her knees and feet. She glanced around at the others, then leaned toward him and whispered, “Tell me about one of your dreams.”
He settled back against the stone and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why should I tell you one of mine when you will not tell me one of yours?”
“Because mine are nightmares. You said yours were dreams, and those are not so terrible to recollect.”
A smile pulled at his mouth from her logic. “Have you only nightmares, Rose? No dreams?”
Her dark lashes lowered thoughtfully, and when she raised them again, he could see a memory there. “Aye, there is a dream I have sometimes. It’s silly, or though it will seem to someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Aye, a great healer.”
He snorted softly at her praise. Great healer. If she only knew. But she would never know. “Tell me anyway. I vow I will not laugh.”
She took a deep breath, her gaze unfocused in recollection. “Very well. It never starts the same. I will be dreaming of what I did that day. Some healing—setting a bone, stitching a wound—then someone yells at me to stop, that I’m doing it wrong. When I turn to look at the person, it’s me.” She frowned, her gaze far away. “The dreams change then. The patient is gone and I am swimming. This is where they are all the same. It’s raining, and I am in a great, dark body of water.” Her voice grew hush, her brow furrowed. “There is something beneath the water, something I’m afraid of. I cannot see land, so I just swim and swim.” She swallowed convulsively and licked her lips before continuing. “Sometimes I go under, and I’m drowning, but there’s no pain. I float downward, my arms out.” Her arms opened as if to embrace someone. Then her gaze cleared and fixed on him. She lowered her arms. “And that’s it.”
“That sounds like a nightmare to me. The second part at least.”
