My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  “This wasn’t all gray yesterday. And now it is.” She fingered it a moment more, perhaps longer than necessary. She dropped her hand and gazed at him. He returned her look, solemn and silent. She whispered, “You are a saint.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “How can you say that? You perform miracles.”

  His mouth twisted bitterly. He gripped her wrist suddenly, tightly, and pulled it up between them. “Miracle, you say? What would you say if you knew the danger you were in right now? If you knew how I could hurt you with a single touch.”

  She looked into his eyes, then put her other hand over his, where it gripped her wrist. “Your touch does not hurt me.”

  His gaze moved over her face, to her mouth, and Rose’s heart sped, wondering if he would kiss her. Hoping he would.

  But he only dropped his hand and turned his face away, shutting her out.

  Chapter 8

  The next few days of travel were comparatively uneventful. They crossed bog and heather-clad moor, dark forests and mountains. The harsh, unrelenting mountains were occasionally relieved by the discovery of hidden waterfalls pouring into crystal pools. Otters poked their heads out to observe their party, then disappeared, their slick bodies shining in the weak sunlight. They were able to wash, catch fish, and refill their leather water flasks almost daily. Rose collected watercress to supplement their meals.

  Not that anyone noticed. Communications were strained with all except Deidra, and Strathwick spent a great deal of time riding alone with his daughter, no doubt lecturing her about being a witch. When he wasn’t talking to Deidra, he was invariably brooding and unapproachable, snapping at Drake and answering Rose and Wallace more politely but just as succinctly.

  Rose thought that perhaps she understood why Drake had wanted to keep Deidra’s magic from her father. He was a man with many burdens, and here was yet another. Being a witch was dangerous business; better to teach Deidra to hide it. Drake obviously cared deeply about his brother and niece, and, however wrongheaded, he’d been trying to help.

  But there was no telling him that. Drake would not speak to her, and though she was still appalled at having made such an assumption about him, she didn’t know what more she could say. She’d tried repeatedly to apologize, but he only responded with biting sarcasm. So they traveled single file, with wide gaps between them. At night, Strathwick shielded himself with his daughter, making it impossible for Rose or Drake to speak to him on any matter of importance or sensitivity—or to even get close to him. Rose worried that he, too, was angry at her vile assumptions. It vexed her terribly.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day they came upon a castle high on a rugged mountaintop. Rose didn’t see it until they drew closer. Its gray stone blended into the craggy mountains and heavy clouds gathering overhead. Wallace informed her that Lord Strathwick knew the inhabitants and that they would shelter from the coming storm there.

  A stout man with a black graying beard and his equally stout wife greeted them in the castle’s hall—Comyn Fraser and his wife, Grainne. Rose thought their reception a trifle cool, though very polite. She discovered why over dinner, when Strathwick informed Deidra that Comyn was her grandsire. These were Strathwick’s in-laws. Deidra was full of questions after that, which at first seemed to disconcert, then delight, Grainne.

  During the remainder of the meal, Rose learned far more than she’d ever wanted to about Strathwick’s beautiful, kind, and generous late wife. She’d been a real lady, who’d made exquisite embroideries and tapestries. She’d been delicate as a flower. A pious woman, she’d never missed kirk services and had always given alms. A paragon of beauty; ballads were still composed in her honor.

  Rose could not fathom why hearing this depressed her. The woman meant nothing to her, and besides, she was dead! Deidra, however, was in awe of it all, and when Grainne offered to show her some of her mother’s tapestries, she jumped to her feet and clasped the old woman’s hand.

  Comyn got to his feet, too. “We’ll see to the lassie tonight, aye? Roy will show you to your chambers.”

  Strathwick hesitated, standing, then nodded. “Of course. Enjoy her. If she’s any trouble—”

  “Oh, no trouble, no trouble…” And Comyn wandered away in the direction of his wife and granddaughter, leaving Rose, Drake, Wallace, and Strathwick at the table, with Roy standing patiently and unobtrusively behind Strathwick’s chair.

  When they all stood at the same time, Strathwick gestured to Wallace and Drake to sit. “Roy, see Mistress MacDonell to her chambers first.” He inclined his head coolly. “Good e’en, Rose.”

  Wallace also bid her good evening, but Drake refused to even look at her, drawing his brother’s dark stare. Drake did not appear to care, gazing blandly back.

  Her chambers were small but comfortable—a single room with a bed, chest, and fireplace. Rain tapped against the shutters and chill fingers slid along the floor, wrapping about her ankles. Rose built up the fire to drive back the cold. She washed her face and unbraided her hair, combing it until it was free of tangles. Then she sat before the fire and tried to bolster herself, as she always had when she’d lived on Skye with the MacLeans, reminding herself of all the good things in her life. She had no good reason to feel so despondent. She’d succeeded in convincing Strathwick to come to Lochlaire to heal her father. She had her sisters near again. Isobel’s vision had confirmed she would soon be an aunt. She was no longer on Skye—that was a big thing to give thanks for. And her betrothed, of course. Jamie MacPherson.

  She removed the locket from her bodice and gazed down at the man she was to marry. He was a stranger to her now, though once they’d been great friends. But that had been so very long ago. When she was a child at Lochlaire she would sneak away from her lessons to catch toads and rats with him. He’d kept them as pets. She frowned at the angelic face gazing back at her, hoping he’d stopped that practice, then she laughed at herself. Of course he had. He’d only been two years older than her. He’d grown up, too.

  She closed the locket, her mood improved, and decided to write him a letter. She searched the room, but there was no paper or anything to write with. She tied a quick knot in her hair and left her chambers in search of Roy or some other servant to ask after writing implements.

  She was passing a gallery when movement caught her eye. A single candelabra lit the long, high-ceilinged room, casting the rest in shadows. She stepped in the doorway.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  “Hello, Rose.”

  The disembodied voice startled Rose, coming from the depths of shadows. She entered the room, peering into the darkness until she located the source of the voice.

  Strathwick sat on one of the benches that lined the wall, his hands on his thighs, his face in shadow. The wall was lined with long windows, most shuttered up tight like dark eyes. In the center were two stained-glass windows, casting wavery red and blue light over the floor.

  “I was looking for Roy.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked, moving closer.

  He inhaled deeply and, after a pause, let the breath out. “Aye, of course.”

  Such an obvious lie.

  She took another step closer. “This is the first time the Frasers have seen Deidra?”

  “Aye. I invited them to Strathwick when she was a wean, but they would not come.”

  “Why?”

  “They think I’m responsible for their daughter’s death.”

  “Surely not,” Rose said, aghast, unable to believe anyone would think such a thing about him. Her death must have occurred in some situation in which he could not have saved her—difficult for a man like him to live with, surely.

  When he didn’t respond, she asked diffidently, “Do you miss her? Your wife?”

  “I hardly knew her.”

  “How did she die?”

  “In childbirth.” His voice was cool, emotionless.

  “Oh.” Rose bit her
lip and tried again to draw him out. “Are you troubled about Deidra?”

  He remained silent. She probably should not have reminded him of what had happened on the moor. He was obviously angry with her. Her heart sank, and she cursed herself again for her stupid mistake.

  She started to turn away when he said, his voice no longer cold but thick with repressed betrayal, “I cannot believe he didn’t tell me. That he thought to keep it a secret. I still can’t look at him without wanting to choke him.”

  Rose closed the distance between them and sat beside him on the bench. “Forgive me. It was so thoughtless of me to blurt that out.”

  “No, I’m glad you did.”

  “Did he tell you why he kept it from you?”

  “Aye. Deidra only recently discovered she was an animal charmer—within the past year. Drake was with her the first time it happened. Considering the witch hunts and what is happening in the village…well, he thought he should wait a bit, until everything died down.”

  “He did it because he loves you.”

  Strathwick glowered into the dark. “He is an ass.”

  Rose sighed and looked down at the stone floor. “He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.”

  Rose looked up at his profile in the dim light. So strong and handsome, yet so remote. Dark brows shadowed his eyes, his nose was blade straight over full lips, his jaw flexed with some internal tension.

  “You’re worried about Deidra.”

  “Aye, it was danger enough for her, being my spawn. But now she’s a monster, too.”

  “She’s not a monster.”

  “Of course not. But think you anyone else will see that?”

  Rose looked down at her hands, fingers twisted together in her lap. “This is why Drake didn’t tell you, you know. He wished to spare you this worry.”

  Strathwick grunted dubiously, then bit out, “It’s not his place.”

  “Someone must help you with this burden.”

  His mouth flattened, but he did not respond. Rose wished there were something she could say that would ease his mind, but there was nothing. Witches or anyone remotely resembling a witch were not tolerated in Scotland. As a healer, Rose was somewhat more tolerable, but even her situation had become precarious from time to time. And Strathwick was proof that things could go terribly wrong should someone develop a grudge.

  “Why do they hate you—your villagers?” Rose asked.

  “Because I am a monster.”

  “You’re not,” Rose said with a depth of feeling that unnerved her. She couldn’t bear to hear him say such things.

  He turned his gaze on her, half his face shrouded in darkness, the other illuminated from the candelabra across the room. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know yourself.”

  His words made her uneasy, and she looked away. She stared at the cold fireplace at the end of the long room, wondering what she could say to him. He was in a strange mood. She should probably leave him to brood alone, but she didn’t. Instead, she pondered the enormous portraits on the wall in front of them as she tried to think of something to say to him, something to ease whatever troubled him. Weak, dappled light from the colored glass fell across the portraits, lending strange mobility to the faces. Gleaming, watery colors wavered across the large swords and elaborate shields mounted between each of the portraits.

  The silence was not uncomfortable, and yet she feared that if she didn’t speak, he would leave. She stared down at her cold hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I am grateful for what you showed me when you healed Wallace. I cannot yet see the uses, beyond what I already know, but I’m sure that with time and practice, I will.”

  She felt his gaze on her again and slanted a look at him from beneath her lashes. One hand slid from his thigh to press into the bench between them. His shadowed eyes bore into her, making it suddenly difficult to breathe, as if the air had grown close around her. Her scalp prickled, but she couldn’t look away.

  “You cannot see the uses?”

  “No. I learned nothing more than what the colors show me. But I felt better afterwards, and that’s always a good thing. I’m a better healer if I’m well.”

  He tilted his head quizzically. “How did you feel unwell, before?”

  Rose pressed a hand to her stomach. “A sort of tension here, as if I had worms writhing about. But it always fades.”

  He inhaled deeply and turned his gaze forward again.

  “Why did you show me? I’ve wondered that.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t know that I should tell you.”

  She shook her head, sighing. So cryptic. Perhaps that’s what drew her to him—the mystery, the fascination. “So many secrets,” she said, her voice hushed. “How does anyone ever know you, my lord?”

  “They don’t, and that’s for the best, methinks.”

  She didn’t believe that, didn’t believe he truly believed it. Perhaps he thought he did, but no one wanted to be so alone. She placed her hand over his, where it rested on the bench between them. She didn’t know why she did it; she’d put no thought whatsoever into the action. She was all impulse, her blood rushing, her heart drumming in her ears.

  He raised his head to stare down at her, his gaze unfathomable, and though his hand tensed beneath hers, he didn’t pull it away. It was a large, strong hand, the fingers long and supple, smooth except for the dark hair at his wrist. It did strange things to her body to touch him so freely, made her warm and fluttery, shortened her breath.

  Her throat grew tight as she returned his stare, the words sticking, tangling with the furious hammering of her heart. When she spoke, her voice was strange, thick and breathless. “I cannot see the benefit in being so alone.”

  “And that, too, is for the best.” But still he didn’t pull his hand away, didn’t look away from her gaze, didn’t even blink.

  She felt as if she were in her dream, drowning, but without pain. She moved her hand over his, sliding her fingers between his as she’d done when he’d healed Wallace, except gentler, meant to soothe. “I want to know you.”

  His gaze dropped to their joined hands and he lifted them, curling his hand closed to trap her fingers and bringing her hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the back of her palm in a warm, lingering kiss that sent waves of heat and weakness all the way to her toes. He watched her over their hands, his eyes so dark in the candlelight that they seemed black, intense, obscure.

  He bent toward her and she leaned forward, meeting his mouth. His lips were warm and firm and tasted of whisky and man and secrets she longed to uncover. His hand was at the back of her neck, guiding, tilting her head so he could kiss her fully, openmouthed, their breath mingling. It was all dizziness and heat, and Rose sank into it, her heart thudding in her ears. When his tongue slid between her lips, she opened to him, welcoming him.

  His kiss changed from gentle exploration to fierce demand, his whiskers scraping her skin. He turned on the bench, his other arm circling her waist to pull her closer. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing into his warmth, inhaling the scent of him, spicy and male.

  He caught her face between both his hands and drew back. His breathing was uneven as he stared down at her. “What am I doing?” he murmured, his hungry gaze roving over her face, his thumb stroking over her damp mouth.

  Rose’s breath shivered between her lips. She was unable to keep her eyes open under his sensuous caresses. She didn’t want to talk about what they were doing or even think about it, she just wanted him to keep kissing her. When his thumb moved over her mouth again, she touched it with her tongue. He inhaled sharply.

  Her lashes rose. He stared down at her with dark desire. His gazed roamed over her face and lower, to her bodice. Rose’s breath caught with anticipation, her blood surging fast and thick. But he did nothing. He grew so still as he stared down at her body that Rose was compelled to look downw
ard herself.

  His gaze was riveted on Jamie’s locket. She usually tucked it in her bodice, but as she’d been looking at it earlier, she’d left it out. The clasp must not have caught either when she’d closed it. It lay open, Jamie’s pale face and cerulean eyes gazing up at them.

  Rain tapped against the shutters, and the cold swirled around Rose’s ankles again, chilling her. She pulled free of William’s arms. He released her readily enough, but his hand lifted the locket, his gaze still fixed on the miniature. The longer he stared, the hotter Rose’s face became.

  “Your betrothed?” he asked quietly, flicking her a quick, quizzical look before ruminating on the miniature again.

  Rose swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat. “Aye.”

  “So you’re marrying young Jamie.”

  A small jolt of surprise went through her. “You know him?”

  He closed the locket and let it drop back to her chest. “You could say that.” There was an edge to his musing tone, a tautness around his eyes and mouth.

  Rose was mortified, imagining what he must think of her, and she spoke in a great rush. “You must think I’m a loose woman. I’m not…I haven’t seen him since we were children, though we’ve been writing. And I don’t go about kissing men I hardly know—”

  “I kissed you.”

  “I let you.”

  He smiled slightly, causing Rose’s heart to flutter madly, then he stood, extending his hand to her. Rose let him pull her to her feet. He laid her hand over his arm, tucked it into his side, and led her from the gallery. She glanced up at him several times. He seemed distracted, thoughtful.