My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  “But you didn’t know,” Drake said angrily. “So it’s not your fault.”

  One corner of William’s mouth curled bitterly. “Oh, I think I did know. I fooled myself about a lot of things back then.”

  “God damn it, Will, you didn’t!”

  The room fell silent for several moments. Drake glowered helplessly at his brother, who stared back apologetically.

  Rose was shaken from all that she’d heard. She’d never suspected that such darkness lurked in William. Her mind rebelled against it. It had been a long time ago. He had been much younger then. He obviously did not do such things any longer. Or did he? If he had cause, perhaps he did. Just because she’d never witnessed any didn’t mean he didn’t do them. She really didn’t know him at all.

  She said, “I would like to speak with my betrothed alone.”

  William gave her a long, enigmatic look. She felt he must be disappointed in her but could read nothing in his dark gaze. She averted her eyes, unable to look at him, her throat tight. She was confused about him, about Jamie. But William didn’t really matter anymore, and perhaps that was for the best. Even so, she could still try to set things right with Jamie. She owed William that at least.

  She breathed easier when he finally left the room, freeing her of the intensity of his gaze. She watched the others file out after him, her hands clasped in front of her. She heard her betrothed move toward her, and turned quickly.

  She’d paid scant attention to him with William present, but she gave him a closer perusal now. He was a very good-looking man. Long golden hair, deep-set cerulean eyes, tall and strong and well turned out in a fine plaid, leather doublet, and knee boots. She should be pleased by his appearance. Instead she thought how very young and angry he seemed compared to William.

  “I am sorry our reunion was so…unpleasant,” he said, taking her hands. His were sweaty. “I am pleased to finally see you again, Rose. You are as beautiful as I remember.”

  “I was beautiful at eight?” Rose said doubtfully.

  He smiled. There was a dimple in his cheek. “To my ten-year-old eyes you were.”

  Rose smiled back, softening toward him. “You are kind. This story you tell troubles me. I don’t believe Lord Strathwick is at fault.”

  Jamie dropped her hands. “You heard him. He admitted to it.”

  “Aye, I heard him. If we must all answer for our father’s sins, I fear no one will make it to heaven.”

  “His father didn’t kill mine,” he growled. “He did! With his magic!”

  “He did it at his father’s—his chief’s—insistence. And though he was a man, he was a young one, as you are. Are you never rash? Did you never believe the words of one you trusted? He should have been able to trust his father. We all should be able to trust the important elders in our lives. But they are men too, full of deceit and lies, just like everyone else.”

  “You defend him, and I like it not!” Jamie paced away from her. “Someone must pay for my father’s murder. It has gone unanswered for too long.”

  Rose sighed. A few words from her were clearly not going to end this feud, so she settled for the next best thing. “There will be no fighting at dawn. Your retribution will not play out at Lochlaire.”

  He whirled toward her, his eyes blazing. “I will have vengeance.”

  “Then I will not marry you.”

  “What?” he cried incredulously. “You are bespelled.” His face distorted with rage. “I will kill him now!”

  Rose caught him at the door, latching onto his arm. “No! Listen to me!”

  He turned around, his jaw jutting with fury, and glared down at her.

  “He is helping us. He believes someone is using witchcraft to kill my father, and he is trying to undo it.”

  “He would know, the black-hearted wizard.”

  Rose reined in her temper. “We need his help if my father is to live. I pray you, don’t do this to us. To me.”

  He stared mutinously over her head.

  “Consider it a—a wedding gift.”

  His pale gaze fixed suspiciously on her. “Strathwick’s life means so much to you?”

  Aye! But she didn’t dare admit such a thing. “There is nothing more important to me than healing my father.” When he still didn’t answer, she added, “I thought Alan MacDonell was your friend.”

  He sighed, some of the tension relaxing from his broad shoulders. “Very well. There will be no blood spilled at Lochlaire. That is all I will promise, aye?”

  Rose managed a hesitant smile. “My thanks.”

  His gaze moved over her face. “I give you a man’s life. I can think of a more fitting thanks from my betrothed.”

  Before Rose could ask him what he considered a more fitting thanks, he grabbed her, clasped her tightly against his chest, and kissed her. Rose clutched at his shoulders, fighting for air as his tongue thrust into her mouth. His teeth collided with hers with a sharp, uncomfortable click. Then it was over, and he set her away from him. She resisted the urge to wipe her mouth.

  He gave her a self-satisfied grin.

  Rose did not know what to say, so she gave him a wan smile. “Let me show you to your chambers.”

  After depositing her much calmer betrothed in his chambers, she returned to her own. A sensation of unreality had descended on her. She needed fresh air, but the thought of the battlements made her chest tight and her belly flutter. That the memory of William’s touch and kiss could still affect her so, after how ill he’d used her, after all she’d learned this night, did not bode well for her. She’d gotten entangled with a scoundrel once before. She would not do so again—especially with her betrothed under the same roof.

  She leaned against the closed door for several moments, trying to gather her wits about her again. Had William really killed Jamie’s father with witchcraft? It was too horrible to contemplate, and yet it made sense. If he could take sickness away, he could give it to others, too. He did not have to suffer. He chose to.

  She pushed away from the door, her heart heavy. Sudden movement startled her. She turned quickly and peered into the gloom. Only the low fire in the fireplace illuminated her chamber. A figure stood in the shadows near her window.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  William stepped forward, and her heart surged traitorously, angering her.

  “What are you doing in my chambers?” she hissed, quickly latching the door lest someone walk in. “What can you be thinking?”

  He crossed the room, bearing down on her relentlessly. “That you must have many questions and I’d rather you hear the answers from me than from someone else.”

  Rose resisted the urge to flee; instead she backed away until she was flush against the door. “What care you what I think?” Her voiced dripped with bitterness.

  “I care.” He stopped in front of her, staring down at her with such intensity that she could not hold his gaze.

  His words inflamed her temper—and her desire. Her heart hammered. Memories of his mouth on hers, his hands beneath her skirt sent a flush over her skin, and shards of lust pierced her belly.

  She slid along the wall, away from the door. “Get out.”

  He followed, bracing a hand on the wall by her head to halt her escape. “No—we’re not finished, Rose.”

  “We are finished—you made that clear earlier.” She tried to duck under his arm, but he blocked her with his body.

  “I should not have touched you or kissed you in such a manner,” he said as he touched her again, his hand on her face, tracing her jaw and temple.

  Rose closed her eyes and swallowed hard, her muscles rigid as she willed herself not to turn into the caress. “Then why are you doing it now?”

  “I know not.” His voice was low, rumbling over her like thunder from a building storm. “Where you are concerned, I know not what I do anymore.”

  Rose was nearly shaking with fury and desire and despair, all twisted together in her heart. “Get out,” she ground out between c
lenched teeth.

  He took her face in both his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Listen to me. I should have told you that I could hurt as well as heal. I should have told you the moment I saw MacPherson in your locket. But I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the way you looked at me and talked to me.”

  She brought her hands up and shoved him. It was nothing to him, not moving him an inch. She wrenched her face from his grip, but when she tried to twist away from him, he caught her shoulders, pinning her to the wall.

  “Let me go! You’re no different than the others—than the MacLeans!”

  His face was near her ear. “I am not like them. I would never intentionally hurt you.”

  Rose closed her burning eyes, hating herself for enjoying the feel of his arms around her, for wanting to give in to his soothing voice.

  Her voice quavered when she spoke. “Then why are you here now?”

  “I know not. I don’t want to hurt you, and yet here I am. The logic seemed sound when I came here, but I see now it wasn’t.”

  His breath was hot against her ear. She could feel his body against hers, erect, ready for her. Her body answered with a deep, throbbing ache. And then she felt his mouth, hot and wet beneath her ear.

  “I pray you,” she said, her voice catching. “Leave me now.”

  “I promised, and I’ll not leave until your father is healed.” He took her ear between his teeth, and her knees turned to water. She’d have sagged to the ground if not for his arms and the wall.

  “…and I’m ruined?” she whispered.

  He stopped his wonderful kisses and stepped back from her, staring down at her, so dark and beautiful and frustrated.

  His hands tightened on her arms, and he swore beneath his breath, his jaw bulging. “Dammit, Rose. You are not making this easy.”

  “Why should I?” she bit out. “It isn’t easy for me, why should it be for you?”

  He released her and paced away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re right. I just wanted you to understand why. That’s all. I shouldn’t have come.”

  He went to the door and unlatched it. Rose did not move, pressing against the wall still, her body trying to hold onto the warm imprint of him thrust against her. He peered out the door for a moment, then closed it, tilting his head to gaze at her again.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. She fought to keep her gaze hard, implacable. He started to open the door again, to leave this time. She said, “There will be no dawn meeting.”

  “I see.” His mouth flattened grimly. “You mind if I verify that?”

  “As you wish.”

  When he made to leave again, she blurted out, “Tira’s baby has not turned. You will still help with the birthing?”

  “You don’t need me, Rose.”

  “I do.” She didn’t want to need him. She wanted to forget about him so she could get on with her life, but she doubted that would ever happen. In time, perhaps.

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?”

  She could think of nothing further to detain him, and he finally left. The room seemed empty without him. She cursed herself for being a fool, but fool or not, now that he’d gone, she was lonely for his company and his kisses.

  It had all seemed so simple before she’d actually met him. The Wizard of the North was to be the answer to her prayers. She’d imagined that if she could just bring him here, all of her problems would disappear, unhappiness would dissolve, and she could finally marry her Jamie and live a happy, fruitful life, the past finally behind her.

  What a simpleton she’d been. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since then. Her father was still dying, and her reunion with Jamie had been nothing like she’d envisioned. She could no longer see the future she’d once imagined even if her father was somehow miraculously healed, an event she no longer had any faith would occur.

  She thought of sleeping, as she was very tired and it was late, but thoughts and memories swirled through her head. She didn’t want to think or feel anymore. She was raw from all that had happened. She needed distraction.

  She crossed to the small connecting closet that she’d converted into a place to dry and store herbs. She’d had shelves installed from floor to ceiling along two walls; they were filled with racks of drying herbs, bottles, jars, and small sacks of the same. Several of the top shelves were full of books and manuscripts she’d acquired over the years. A sense of calm and comfort descended on her. This was her calling. The villagers of Glen Laire needed her. She would spend the next few days in the village tending the sick, so she must prepare.

  After lighting candles, she checked on the drying herbs, then brought a selection to the table to grind into a fine powder. The industry of it soothed her. She recited the uses for each herb in her mind. There was no room for other thoughts beyond healing. Her eye caught on a glittering bottle that had tipped over on a nearby shelf. Sapphire dust. She set it upright, her fingers lingering, watching the way it sparkled in the candlelight, snagging something in her memory, something she’d once read. She turned to the books on the shelf behind her, running her finger over them until she found her mother’s.

  She took it back to the table with the sapphire dust. Her mother had not been a healer, so though Rose had occasionally perused her mother’s diary, she’d never spent as much time studying it as she had the other healers’ texts she’d accumulated. But she did remember something her mother had written down, a spell of protection against evil using the sapphire dust.

  The sapphire dust had been Crisdean Beaton’s. When he’d died, he’d left her all of his instruments and books and obscure ingredients. Though she’d made good use of most, she’d never had use for the sapphire dust, had never even opened the bottle. She pulled the cork free and sniffed, but it had no odor.

  She set it aside and returned to the diary. It was full of entries about her mother’s visions. Rose carefully turned the sewn together vellum pages until she reached the back of the book. Charm to hold back evil. It involved reciting a lengthy spell over the person to be protected while sprinkling a powder made from sapphire dust and other ingredients over and around them. Rose found a sheet of paper, quill, and ink, and copied the charm. She’d attempted spellcraft several times with no success. That was not where her talents lay. Perhaps with the help of her sisters this spell would succeed.

  She was closing the diary when a jagged piece of vellum caught her attention. It dangled from the stitching down the center of the book, as if a page had been cut out. The remaining pages were blank. She stared at the protective charm, written in her mother’s flowing hand, for a long time. This was the last thing her mother had written…or was it? Had she written something else on the following page? Perhaps an explanation of why she’d needed a protective charm? How it had worked? Whatever it was, someone had removed it so no one else could read it.

  The gray shadows of predawn lit the sky by the time she finished preparing the powder. She fetched Gillian, and together they crept through the castle, careful not to wake up the scores of men now sleeping in the hall, retinues of the earl of Kincreag, Sir Philip, and her betrothed. She knocked softly on her father’s door, then pushed it open.

  Hagan sat in her father’s chair beside the bed, and Isobel slept in a chair near the fire. The dog was on the bed again. Rose gave Hagan a cross look, and he obligingly removed the dog from the room. Isobel was so much like their late mother, Lillian—they had the same gift of visions, and Isobel even looked like her, with her silver-green eyes and curly red-gold hair. Surely if anyone could make the spell a success, it was Isobel. Rose woke her sister, and together the three of them placed the protective charm on their slumbering father.

  Afterward the sisters gathered in Rose’s chambers. Rose flopped onto the bed while her sisters sat in chairs nearby. Rose knew why they’d followed her, what they wanted to talk about. She’d seen their speculative looks, but they waited for he
r to broach the subject. Rose didn’t know what to say. She felt miserable and foolish. Surely her sisters had never been so stupid in love as she had. They wouldn’t understand.

  They spoke about trivialities until finally Isobel fixed her with a penetrating green stare and asked, “What are you going to do about Lord Strathwick?”

  Rose kicked her shoes off and rubbed her aching feet. “Do? What do you mean?”

  Gillian answered for Isobel. “The way he looks at you…the way you are with him. There is something more between you than you’ve told us.”

  Rose looked down at her hands, her jaw and throat tight. “I have a betrothed, remember?”

  “Aye,” Isobel said. “I had one, too, but then I met Philip. The heart doesn’t read betrothal contracts, Rose. The heart wants without logic…and I think your heart is wanting.”

  Isobel saw too much. She always had. Rose rubbed her forehead with her fingers before meeting her sisters’ eyes. “Aye, there is something more between us, but it matters not. He will never marry me—”

  “You don’t know that,” Gillian said.

  “Aye, I do. He told me.” Rose closed her eyes and swallowed, her heart sinking at the memory, the freezing wretchedness washing over her afresh. “I…I practically propositioned him just before Jamie arrived. He was eager enough to lay with me but made it clear he wanted nothing more past that.”

  Gillian and Isobel exchanged dismayed looks. Gillian reached for Rose’s hand and gripped it tightly. Rose squeezed her fingers back, comforted by the gesture and their concern.

  “I’m sorry, Rose,” Gillian said softly. “What of Lord MacPherson? Do you fancy him still? It’s been so long since you’ve seen him.”

  When Rose didn’t respond, Isobel said, “He’s a very comely man.”

  Rose nodded. “Aye, he is.” She wished that were enough.

  “You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want,” Gillian reminded her.

  “I know that. I don’t know what I want right now. I can’t have William, and I don’t know Jamie anymore.” She shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to call off the betrothal. I should at least try to get to know him. He’s angry now, and who wouldn’t be, considering what he believes of William. He’s not himself. He deserves more from me.”