My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

A jolt of panic went through her when he collapsed further onto all fours. The baby still hadn’t cried, but his dark eyes stared at her now, and they were full of life. Rose snatched a towel and lay the baby on a table. She massaged his feet and back until his shrill, angry cry rang through the room. Her shoulders slumped, profound relief shuddering through her. When Hilda appeared beside her, she turned over care of the infant to the maid.

  Tira still moaned on the bed, and William was on the floor. Rose knelt beside him, pushing a lock of silvered black hair off his forehead. “You did it,” she whispered, her throat tight, nearly overcome by what he was capable of.

  But there was no time to become emotional. There was still work to be done.

  Rose said William’s name several more times, but he remained unresponsive. She lifted an eyelid and only saw whites. His pulse was weak and fluttery. When she passed her hands over him, she saw dark splotches near his head and chest, but his sapphire-blue color pulsed, healing him.

  She managed to drag him closer to the fire and covered him with a blanket. She returned to her patient.

  “You have a son, Tira—but you already knew that.” Alan MacDonell had determined that months ago. Hilda brought the clean, swaddled child to the bedside, holding him out for Tira’s inspection.

  “He’s a braw laddy,” Rose said, returning to the end of the bed. “And certainly no monster.”

  Tira didn’t respond or try to hold the child. Her face was pale, her eyes listless. Rose’s lips compressed, and she glanced at William. The choice had been made; now it was up to her to save Tira. Throat tight, she set to massaging Tira’s abdomen. She moaned pitifully as Rose worked, past the time when the pain should have eased. There was a great deal of blood, and it wasn’t stopping. It had been a very large child and a difficult birth. Rose had been afraid something like this would happen. She gazed over at William again. What had he said? If both mother and child are in danger…there is a way to save them both. But damn it he was insensible now, unable to save anyone but himself.

  She tried to stanch the bleeding, packing Tira with linens and giving her an infusion, but the sheets just turned crimson. Eventually, Tira grew unresponsive, and her skin became white and pasty, her pulse weak, her breathing shallow.

  Rose crossed to the fireplace and knelt beside William. “William? She’s dying, and I know not what to do. Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids fluttered, then drifted upward. He gazed at her for a moment. “Heal her.”

  A small, frustrated sob escaped Rose. “I can’t. I need you.”

  He swallowed and said, his voice weak and thready, “I told you…you don’t need me.”

  “But I do. I can’t do what you do.”

  “Aye, you can.”

  Rose shook her head, her vision blurring. “I can’t!”

  His hand slid from beneath the blanket and gripped her wrist. “Remember Wallace. You can do it.” His hold on her wrist slackened, and his eyes drifted shut.

  “William, I can’t!” But he could not hear her any longer.

  Rose straightened and returned to the bed. She stared helplessly down at her dying patient for several minutes. She did not believe she could do what he did. But they both saw the light. They both felt the ailments. She’d possessed the ability to feel them all along and had not known it. Could it be he spoke true?

  She lowered herself onto the stool by the bedside and closed her eyes, summoning the magic. She had used it repeatedly this evening and it was stubborn at first, refusing to gather, but finally it obeyed. She saw it in her chest, a dark ball of light. She opened her eyes. Tira’s pale pink light flickered, fading, blackness and streaks of dark red centered in her abdomen. Rose placed her hands there, against Tira’s skin. She remembered that when William had healed Wallace, he’d sent his light into the man, then had drawn the ailment out. Rose sent the magic down her arms to her hands, then further, and she gasped, nearly losing it when her color spread outward from her fingers, into Tira’s belly, circling the blackness. Then she called it back.

  It happened so quickly that she was not prepared for the pain. She opened her mouth to cry out but made no sound. She toppled off her stool and lay on the floor, trying desperately to curl herself around the deep, stabbing pain in her belly. Her stomach revolted and gray specks danced before her eyes, but still she could not call out. Before the blackness engulfed her, she heard Tira’s voice, panicked and confused…and strong. “Rose? What happened? What’s wrong?”

  Chapter 15

  Rose did not know how much time had passed, trapped in this nightmare from which she could not wake. Agony gripped her body, so intense that she had no control over her own thoughts or movements. Her sisters came and went from the room. And though Rose was aware of all that went on around her, she was nearly insensible from the pain. She was dying. She had no idea how she’d come to be in her own chambers, but she did remember the vomiting and dry heaves. Something was cutting her in two, killing her body. If she lived through this torture, she would surely never bear children.

  Shouting and arguing roused her from the swirling tempest of misery. She heard her uncle in the distance once, yelling obscenities, and someone else—Drake?—demanding to see her. Isobel sat on the bed, wiping a cool cloth over Rose’s brow. Rose raised a hand, impossibly heavy, pushing through mud.

  “I want to see him.” Her voice was a mere breath.

  Isobel frowned and leaned close.

  “I want to see him. Drake.”

  Isobel nodded and straightened, looking over her shoulder. Rose was relieved, as she couldn’t speak any louder. It hurt too much. Speaking hurt, as if it vibrated through her, ripping at her womb. Everything hurt, even breathing.

  Isobel left her side, and Rose soon heard her sister’s voice raised with the other angry voices. Seconds later Drake was beside her.

  He knelt close, his face creased with worry. “What happened?”

  “William?”

  “He is alive. But sleeps deeply and cannot be woken.”

  “He saved my nephew…born dead.”

  “Then he tried to save your aunt?”

  Rose tried to shake her head but only turned it slightly against the pillow. “No…I saved her.”

  Drake’s brow furrowed as he stared at her. “You?”

  “Aye, William told me I could…and he was right.”

  He glanced at someone behind him and murmured, “She doesn’t know.”

  “What? I don’t know what?”

  He straightened, turning away from her and speaking to Isobel in a soft, urgent undertone that Rose could not understand. Both stole worried glances at her throughout. Rose wanted to demand that they tell her what the problem was, but the pain was too great, washing over her in nauseating waves. She closed her eyes and groaned, trying to curl harder into herself. Someone jammed a rolled-up blanket into her stomach, and she clutched at it, pressing it hard into her gut.

  “Here, drink this,” said a soft voice beside her.

  Gillian’s cool hand slid beneath her neck, lifting and pressing a cup to her lips. Rose drank, recognizing the scents and flavor—valerian and willow bark. Good. She wanted to sleep.

  When she woke next, the room was dim and quiet, except for the crackle and pop of the fire. She sat up in bed, her hand to her empty belly. It was sore and achy, but the pain was bearable. A head popped up beside her bed—wiry gray fur and a long snout. Broc, Gillian’s deerhound. He snorted and gave a short bark.

  Gillian sat in a chair near the fire. She set her sewing aside and came to the bed. “You are awake! How do you feel?”

  “Better…how is William?”

  Gillian handed Rose a cup of herbed wine. “Lord Strathwick? I know not.”

  Rose drank deeply, then said, “I need to see him.”

  “Can you eat?” Gillian asked.

  Rose nodded, her belly rumbling hollowly.

  “I will get you some dinner and check on Lord Strathwick. You lay here and rest, aye? Y
ou’ve been very ill. Broc will look after you.”

  Upon hearing his name, the deerhound sat up and whined softly, licking frantically at his mistress’s hand. She scratched his head and ordered him to stay. He obeyed, though he watched her longingly as she left, fidgeting as if restraining himself from bounding after her. When the door shut, he lay back down.

  Rose felt better after washing and combing her hair, and changing into a clean shift. She wanted to check on Tira and the baby. The thought of Tira sent a surge of dizzying excitement through her. She’d done it. She was a healer, just like William. She could hardly believe it, except she knew it to be true. She sat heavily on the bed, stunned to finally understand how William suffered when he healed. He’d been doing this for years. And now she truly understood what he’d said to her on the battlements. He would not put himself in a position of having to choose between wife and child again. He could not save both. If not for Rose’s presence, Tira would have died.

  The waves of wonder and awe that washed through her left her weak and tearful. She was giving thanks to God for this gift when the door opened. She expected Gillian with her dinner, so she was surprised to see William’s broad shoulders filling the doorway. He gazed at her for a long while, his expression grave.

  She could not speak at first, could only stare back at him, overwhelmed by what they had done. Together. Finally she said, “You knew. You knew and didn’t tell me.”

  He left the door open and crossed the room. “I suspected.” He took the stool beside the bed, sitting opposite her, their knees nearly touching. He didn’t look at her. “I didn’t wish to curse you to a life such as mine.”

  She let out an incredulous breath. “How can it be a curse? Tira and her child are alive. They both would have died, otherwise.” She looked down at her own hands, then added, “There is no need for choices anymore, William. There’s two of us now.”

  He took her hands in his; they were warm and strong, and she felt his touch to the pit of her belly.

  “Rose, listen to me carefully.”

  His voice was so somber that she looked up quickly, searching his face. Something was wrong.

  “Tira is dead.”

  It felt as if someone kicked Rose in the stomach. “Tha-that’s impossible. I healed her. I felt it—I heard her. She spoke to me, after. And what about how ill I was? That’s exactly what happens when you do it. Why would I suffer with her pain if I didn’t heal her?”

  He released one of her hands to rub his fingers over his whiskered jaw, then he pushed them through his hair. There was a significant new sprinkling of silver-gray at his temples. “I know not. I don’t understand. You suffered a great deal. Your sisters told me about it. MacPherson and your uncle told me, too, when accusing me of attacking you with witchcraft.”

  “What?” Rose tried to stand, but he pulled her back to the bed by the hand. “You saved his son! How dare he accuse you of anything.”

  The look on his face tore at her heart. He was resigned to the thankless injustice of it. This was his life. “I’ll fash on that later. For now, I want you to tell me what happened when you tried to heal Tira.”

  Tried. A weight settled in her heart. There was not two of them now. Nothing had changed. And yet she’d been so certain she’d succeeded. If Tira had died anyway, why had Rose suffered with her affliction? It made no sense.

  “I…don’t know. It was like always…then I sent the magic into her and called it back. When it came…it hurt so I couldn’t breathe or think. Then Tira—who had been at death’s door and not even opened her eyes—she spoke to me, asked me what happened!” Rose shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I just don’t understand how I could have failed!”

  The blue eyes that gazed back at her were grim and disappointed. “I don’t either.” He put a hand to the side of her head and stroked her hair, his gaze dark and intense as it moved over her face.

  Rose wanted to give in to him, to lean into his arms, sink into his kiss, but nothing had changed. She sighed, subtly moving her head so he dropped his hand. “I need to speak with my uncle and check on the baby. Then I must look in on my father.”

  He nodded, still solemn and thoughtful. “I’ll go with you.”

  She eschewed the hand he offered, standing under her own power and wrapping her arisaid around her shoulders. They were at the door when Gillian returned with the tray, protesting that Rose couldn’t leave until she’d eaten. Rose took an oatcake and promised to eat the rest later.

  On the way to Roderick’s apartments, William said, “You are still vexed with me.”

  Rose looked at him, surprised. “I’m not. I’m just…sad, about many things. We have a truce, remember? I agreed to it.”

  “That pleases me, as I know you can hold a grudge.”

  “That’s not true. I don’t hold grudges.”

  “Really? Hm…”

  When he didn’t elaborate further, she stopped on the curve of the staircase, turning so she looked down on him several steps below her. He gazed up at her inquiringly.

  “Why do you think I hold grudges?”

  “Because you’re still so angry at your father about what happened on Skye.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  He climbed a step, bringing them closer together. “Oh, aye, I would, but at the one who caused the injury. Your father didn’t even know.”

  “He knew I was unhappy and still he made me stay.”

  “A witch he may be, but I don’t think he’s a seer like Dame Isobel. How was he to know why you were unhappy? Most lads and lassies are unhappy when sent away from their families.”

  Rose pulled her arisaid closer around her. “I tried to run away.”

  He smiled slightly. “Aye, you also came to fetch the wizard of Strathwick alone, disguised as a lad. Such acts are in your nature, methinks, and indicate naught more than an indomitable will.”

  Her hands fisted into the wool. “What are you saying? That I have no reason to be angry?”

  “Nay, nay—you have every reason to be. But at the man responsible.”

  Her jaw clenched, hands tightening in the soft wool. “He’s dead.”

  “Ah.” He said it on a breath as he leaned his shoulder against the wall, a world of understanding in the single sound. He stared down at the steps between them, his mouth flat and hard.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The object of your ire is dead. So you’ve found another.”

  Something twisted hard in Rose’s chest, and when she spoke, her voice was brittle. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do, Rose.” He looked up at her from beneath thick black lashes. “I think you should tell your father instead of letting it fester.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, no. He’s dying. I cannot let him die thinking I hate him.”

  “So you seek to heal him at any cost.” Again his voice was rife with sudden comprehension that she found distressing. He couldn’t understand. He thought he did, but no one truly understood.

  “Aye! But you don’t understand. I should have told him—it’s my fault! If I’d told him long ago, it wouldn’t have gone on. If I hadn’t been so stupid and scared. I have to tell him or—or—”

  “Or what?” He watched her intently.

  She put her hands to the sides of her head, fingers curling into her hair. “I know not.”

  “It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again. You’re a woman now, a strong, clever one.” He climbed a step so they were nearly eye to eye. He took her hands and pulled them away from her face. “If the man who did this to you were still alive, I would kill him—after breaking every bone in his body—then maybe healing him so I could do it again. Then I’d kill him.”

  Rose put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. His arms came around her waist, holding her close. She loved him. It rose inside her, sweet and piercing. She hugged him tighter. She’d thought that maybe she’d fallen in love with him the first time she’d met hi
m, when he’d pretended to be a groom, but she was certain of it now. She wanted to tell him how she felt but couldn’t place that burden on him. He’d made his position clear. If she carried their relationship any further, she’d suffer the consequences in silence. She thought that perhaps she was willing, just to be with him.

  Heart pounding madly, she pulled back, looking into his eyes, letting him see that she wanted him. She slid her fingers into the soft hair at his nape, memorizing the silken slide of his hair, the lambent sapphire of his eyes, the austere line of his mouth, the mouth that could be so soft and warm….

  She knew the moment he understood what she was about. His breathing grew uneven, his gaze falling to her mouth as his throat worked. His fingers flexed into her waist. She leaned forward, holding his face, the scrape of whiskers against her palms, and she kissed him. His mouth opened beneath hers, warm and sweet and full of promise.

  Approaching footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Rose pulled away from him. His fingers clung to her arisaid for a moment, his expression thunderous with frustration, then he let her go. His mouth curved into a sardonic smile and he gestured for her to precede him.

  Rose hurried up the stairs again, her heart still racing, her body flushed with anticipation, the sensation of his fingers on her waist still burning. When she reached the landing, she turned to find a frowning Jamie appear behind them.

  His suspicious gaze darted from Rose to William as the three of them stood on the landing. “I didn’t hear you on the stairs until just a second ago.”

  William arched a brow. “Well, obviously we were there.”

  “Aye, but the countess said you’d left a few moments before I arrived at your chambers—not seconds before. Besides…I would have seen you leaving. What were you doing on the stairs?”

  Rose’s heart beat furiously against her ribs, now with fear of discovery. She had no intention of marrying Jamie, but neither would she be marrying William. Jamie hated him enough without adding cuckold to the list of crimes. And if she did indulge in an indiscretion with the Wizard of the North, she had every intention of keeping it discreet.