My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  Her heart still raced with excitement and fear. “Where are we going?”

  “To your chambers.”

  She should not. She knew she should not, but she said nothing, letting him lead her along like a faithful hound. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She wasn’t thinking, and that was the bliss of it. There was something about him that drew her powerfully. Time disappeared in his company. Before she was ready, they stood before her chamber.

  He pushed the door open and released her. Rose went into the room but turned quickly at the door. He didn’t step over the threshold, leaning instead against the doorframe, his hands behind his back. He looked enormous, his broad shoulders filling the width of her doorway, his silvered hair nearly brushing the top of the frame. He glanced idly about the small chamber before his gaze rested on her again.

  No longer touching him, her senses slowly returned. What was she doing? She was betrothed! And he knew it—therefore nothing he wanted from her was honorable. She put a hand on the door and closed it partway.

  “Goodnight, my lord.”

  “You may call me William.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  He raised a brow, straightening from the doorframe. “Came to your senses, I see.” He lifted a shoulder and heaved a regretful sigh. “You’re right, I expect.”

  His easy acquiescence disappointed her. It was strange to feel so torn between what she desired and what she knew was right. There was nothing right about what she wanted. It was pure folly. She was a fool for being disappointed. She should be grateful he had the honor not to push the matter, for she feared her resolve was a flimsy thing, easily set aside.

  “My lord?” she called after him when he turned to leave.

  He turned back, wearing a mildly hopeful expression that made her smile.

  “Would you convey my apologies to Drake?”

  He returned to the door, a small frown appearing between his black brows. “You’ve apologized to him several times already, lass. I heard you. Fine, sincere apologies. There’s no need to keep at it.”

  Rose shrugged, staring at his boots, her chest tight with the memory of that night on the moor. “I just thought, coming from you, he might listen. I don’t know why I thought such a thing of him….”

  His finger touched her chin, raising her face so she looked in his eyes. “Aye, ye do. And so do I. You’ve no more apologies to make, Rose. You’ve done naught wrong—just drawn the same conclusions anyone would, considering.”

  A heavy weight sank to the bottom of her belly. She nodded stiffly. “Goodnight,” she murmured through wooden lips. She shut the door and leaned against it, her body rigid, as if tensed for flight. He knew.

  How did he know? Her skin crawled at the thought of him knowing, imagining. No . No! She wanted to scratch her own skin off at the thought. Instead she hurried across the room to her wooden box. It needed to be cleaned.

  For the next hour she stood over the ewer and basin and scrubbed every instrument in her box until each one gleamed. But still her mind turned and turned, remembering that even after William had been reminded of her betrothed, he’d still thought she might let him into her bed. And why wouldn’t he think such a thing? She’d acted the wanton, and besides, he knew. Was it so obvious? Just from looking at her or speaking to her? Was it something in her manner? Did others know and say nothing?

  She pulled out the mortar and pestle and began frantically grinding herbs, reciting receipts for physiks in her mind, anything, anything to shove back the horrible thoughts, the terrible memories.

  William returned to his own chambers but found he wasn’t tired. He should be, considering the grueling pace they’d set after being attacked by the broken men. That and the weary sense of guilt that had descended on him at dinner as he’d listened to Comyn and Grainne extol his late wife’s many virtues, wishing he remembered them and sickened that he didn’t. All he remembered was a small, frightened girl, begging him to save their baby.

  But his interlude with Rose had washed all that away, leaving him restless and unsatisfied. He paced for a while, drinking some of the fine whisky Comyn had left for him. After his second dram he set the cup down decisively and left his chambers. He strode down the hall and up the curved stairs, pounding on the door at the top.

  There was some muffled cursing, and after William’s repeated pounding, the door finally swung open. Drake stood there, disheveled and naked except for the plaid wrapped around his waist.

  “What the—Will, wait—”

  William pushed his way into the room only to find his brother wasn’t alone. A pretty blond servant was in his bed. She made a small sound of surprise and pulled the sheets over her head.

  Drake raised his brows meaningfully. “Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it cannot. You, in the bed—get out.”

  Drake scowled at his brother, then hurried over to the upheaval of bedding, picking women’s garments off the floor on his way, then apologizing profusely to his bed partner as he helped her dress. William paced the room impatiently, pouring himself wine and standing near the fireplace with his back to them.

  When Drake finally ushered the woman out with promises to come for her as soon as he was done, William turned. Drake had thrown on a shirt and turned from the door, black brows drawn together in profound irritation.

  “What was so damn important it couldn’t wait until morning, aye?”

  “Mistress MacDonell wishes to extend her apologies to you for her false assumptions the other night.”

  Drake paused in the act of pouring himself wine and blinked at him, his mouth slightly agape. “You jest.”

  “No. I am very serious.”

  “You came here for that? That damn shrew! Tell her to take her apology and—”

  “And what?” William asked darkly, eyes narrowing.

  Drake’s mouth snapped shut. He stared at William with incredulous betrayal. “You cannot expect me to accept her apologies after she believed such revolting things of me. I would never harm Deidra. It makes me sick to think on it—”

  “I know, I know.” William waved this away. “However, you are being very small-minded, Drake, and it wounds Rose.”

  Drake shook his head in disbelief. “Wounds Rose? What about me?” He pounded his chest with his open palm. “She wounds me! She dishonors me! But what care you of that? You are so smitten you care for nothing else.”

  “Smitten?” William rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Ah—you lie!” Drake grinned widely. “You adore her. I can tell. That Dumhnull farce was my first clue, but you make us all travel to Glen Laire—for a skirt!”

  “It’s not for a skirt and you know it. She saved my life. Magic or no, I’d have choked to death from whatever Ailis had. She was the only one who knew what to do.”

  Drake sighed and drained his cup. “I am grateful to her for that, of course, but damn it, Will!”

  “And we still haven’t addressed your deception. Colluding with my daughter, teaching her to deceive me and keep secrets.” William shook his head grimly as Drake averted his gaze. “You will do this for me. You will accept her apology, and you will treat her with courtesy and respect.”

  Drake’s jaw hardened mutinously, but he said, “Fine.”

  William put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You know I never believed it of you. If such a thing had been true, it would have killed me.”

  “You mean you would have killed me.”

  “Aye,” William agreed dryly. “But it would have killed me to be forced to murder you.”

  Drake tried not to smile at the ridiculous turn of the conversation, but he couldn’t stop himself, which made William feel better about the whole thing. William squeezed his brother’s shoulder and gave him a small, affectionate shake before turning for the door.

  “Why not marry her, aye?” Drake asked, examining the bottom of his empty cup.

  William paused, his hand gripping the door latch. Th
e question caused a strange leaping sensation in his chest. “Who?”

  “Grainne—after you murder Comyn and hide the body. Who do you think, neephead? Rose MacDonell!”

  “I’ll not marry again. You know that.”

  “You need an heir.”

  “I have an heir,” William said grandly and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing Drake, who was standing barelegged in his shirt.

  “I told you, I’ll not wed until you do.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. Surely you have a bastard or two running around we could leave Strathwick to.”

  Drake didn’t rise to the bait. He raised his brows. “It’s been eight years, Will. Eight years. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  A mantle of loneliness descended on William. “And in those eight years, I have not been forced to make another such choice, have I?” He shook his head firmly. “I won’t do it again.” He started to leave, but he paused before closing the door behind him. “Remember what I said. Courtesy and respect.”

  “For you, brother. I do it only for you.”

  William returned to his chambers, his conversation with his brother still circling his mind. He was not smitten. He liked Rose—and he lusted after her as well—but that was the extent of it. He was certainly not smitten.

  He thought back to the night on the moor and thanked God only Wallace had been hurt, and that it had been minor. He liked Wallace but kept the man at a distance, just as he did everyone else except Drake and Deidra. Until Rose. He could not seem to keep her at arm’s length, and it was as much his fault as hers. A most vexing situation.

  No, he definitely could not be smitten. He’d worked too hard to keep the circle of those dear to him small. He couldn’t risk letting her in and one day being forced to make another soul-rending choice.

  Of course, all of this was speculation. She might feel something for him now, but that would be over soon enough. He’d known that the moment he looked down and recognized the pale blue eyes staring up at him from the locket. She was betrothed to Jamie MacPherson, which meant she would discover the truth about him eventually. It also meant that whatever suspicions he had about her ability to heal must never be more than that. He couldn’t guess what MacPherson would do to her, but it was guaranteed to be something ugly.

  Chapter 9

  They arrived at Glen Laire around noon on the eighth day of their travel. William’s first sight of Rose’s home was of a lush green valley, surrounded by mountains and guarded to the north by a thick forest. About half of the land was cultivated, striped with oats and barley; the other half was dedicated to grazing beasts. A river twined through the valley, emptying into a large loch. Lochlaire sat in the center of it, as impenetrable a stronghold as the glen was.

  Their small party gathered on the wide ledge just inside the mountain pass.

  “The trail is difficult,” Rose cautioned. “Deidra should ride with someone.”

  “I can do it!” Deidra cried and tapped her mare’s sides, bobbing in the saddle.

  William caught her reins and swung her off her horse, plopping her onto the back of Drake’s. “Hold onto your uncle.”

  She scowled at being thwarted but quickly got over it, wrapping her arms as far around Drake’s waist as she could reach and craning her neck to see in front of him.

  Rose started down the trail first, effectively hiding her expression from William, but he’d noticed that the closer they got to Glen Laire, the more tense she seemed. He’d expected her to be happy or excited to finally be here, so close to healing her father, but she seemed almost reluctant. Perhaps she worried that her father had not made it, and that was very likely, considering how ill he’d been when she’d left.

  All of this, however, was mere conjecture. Since they’d left the Fraser stronghold, they’d hardly spoken. And though William had resolved to keep her at arm’s length from here on out, he’d been more than a little disappointed to find that effort on his part was unnecessary. She had apparently come completely to her senses, and, excepting excessive politeness, she spoke only to Wallace and Deidra.

  William brooded at the slim, auburn-haired woman carefully leading them down the mountain. He did not consider himself a happy sort of man, but he’d been content enough until Rose had come along, making him restless and unsatisfied with the life he’d made. The prospect of returning to Strathwick and the bleak, rutted track of his life held no appeal, and it was her fault, for forcing him out of a life he had not even realized was unsatisfactory.

  They descended the mountain in single file without incident, though Drake’s horse became irritable halfway down from Deidra’s bobbing on its haunches, but a few sharp words from her uncle and she reluctantly sat still. As they cantered down the dirt road that led from the base of the mountain to the loch, crofters left their dwellings or stopped their work in the fields to wave at Rose. Children came out to run beside them. One boy skipped along beside Rose’s stirrup, asking if she would come tend his grandsire. She promised to visit soon.

  Deidra was wide-eyed at it all. She’d never left Strathwick, so everything was a novelty to her. When she saw Lochlaire she gasped and pointed, eyes wide. “Look, Da! It floats!”

  William laughed softly. “Nay, Squirrel, it’s not floating. It’s built on an island.”

  She cocked her head, regarding the island castle quizzically. “How are we to go to it, then?”

  “By boat, I imagine.”

  They arrived at the stables near the loch, and Rose dismounted, handing her reins to a bearded man who waited for them.

  “My father?” she said, her voice breathless, her dark eyes fearful.

  He smiled kindly, gathering all the reins in a thick-fingered hand as the rest of them dismounted. “He’s still fighting, lass—too mean to die.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, smiling slightly. “Thank you, Gowan.”

  She led them to the shore, where several boats were moored. They all clambered into one, and William and Drake took the oars. Drake looked ill at ease, surveying their surroundings with a tense, watchful eye. The MacDonells were neither enemy nor ally, and William knew nothing about the Glen Laire MacDonells past what Rose had told him.

  William rowed, his gaze lingering on the woman facing him. The sun glistened on the copper strands of her hair. She still seemed troubled, in spite of the good news that her father was alive. Her mouth compressed into a thin line as she stared blankly at the approaching castle. Her hands gripped the wooden slat beneath her, white-knuckled. William’s curiosity was well and truly piqued now.

  He pulled at the oars, eyeing the open portcullis ahead of them. Why the hell did he even care? It irritated him that he dwelt on it. He tried to focus on other things, but his mind circled back to her when he was unawares.

  The boat slid through the water, passing through the arched gateway and into the cavernous chamber. William’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he noted the welcoming party. It consisted of two men and a woman. The woman was very pretty, with dark hair and a very shapely form. Drake sat up straighter at the sight of her. But she was spoken for, it seemed—there was a proprietary air about the tall, swarthy man beside her. He was dressed simply, but there was no mistaking the quality of his garments—all black, a black-and-red plaid mantle secured across wide, heavy shoulders with an obscenely large ruby. The second man was substantially shorter than the dark man but by no means small. He was broad-chested and muscular—the calves below his plaid bulged as he stood on the quay, stone-faced. This one was clearly a relation to Rose—the fiery copper hair told all.

  Rose stiffened further as they neared the quay. They let the boat drift to the flight of stone steps descending into the water. Drake tied the boat off using one of the iron rings driven into the stone.

  The red-haired man suddenly came alive, taking the stairs two at a time. William stood to help Rose from the boat, but the man beat him to it, grabbing Rose’s arm and hauling her onto the damp stone steps. He claspe
d her to his chest in a smothering hug.

  “Jesus God, ye gave us a scare!”

  He closed his eyes, overcome with emotion, but when he opened them they were a startlingly vivid blue. Rose struggled, gasping for air, so he released her from his punishing embrace but held her shoulders at arm’s length, glaring down at her.

  “What were you thinking, lass?”

  “I was thinking of my father—”

  He gave her a shake, his expression hardening. “Were you truly? Your father was worried frantic. How could you do this to him? Did ye want to kill him?”

  William was still trapped in the skiff with the others, but at the red-haired man’s sudden violence he pushed his way onto the steps, enabling Rose to escape his hold.

  She glared at the man. “I am trying to save him—and besides, what I do or do not do is not for you to say. You are not my father, my laird, nor my husband. And I would think if you loved your brother at all you would understand why I had to do it.”

  He looked her over with mock amazement, then his gaze tipped up to view William disdainfully. “We should be pleased you brought this…this man to Glen Laire? That you put the entire clan in danger for your caprice?”

  Rose looked close to exploding. Before she could speak, William put a hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer to his side. “I understand there is a very sick man that needs my attention. This is wasting his time.”

  The man looked from Rose to William distastefully. William didn’t care what he thought; he wasn’t going to let the man accost Rose for trying to do a good deed.

  “Uncle Roderick,” Rose said, her voice still full of resentment, “this is William MacKay of Strathwick. Lord Strathwick, this is my uncle, Roderick MacDonell.”

  Rather than exchange greetings, Roderick turned on his heel and climbed the steps. The tall, swarthy man descended the steps, giving Roderick a look of quizzical irritation as he passed him. He scanned the occupants of the boat and stopped short, his black brows raised in surprise. “Wallace, man! What happened to you?”

  Wallace stood abruptly, causing the skiff to wallow precariously. William caught Deidra and pulled her onto the steps beside him before she toppled into the water.