Rose dug in her heels, forcing the man to stop. “Wait! I don’t understand what’s happening! Why did he pretend to be someone else?”
His hold on her arm became punishing, and he yanked her hard so she stumbled, forcing her to move. “There is no time for explanations now. He is dying.”
Rose’s heart leapt at this information. He was right—this was not the time. Strathwick’s life was in danger. Her stomach dipped. She could not be responsible for the life of such a great man. But she couldn’t say that to the man hauling her through the castle. His face was set in rigid, uncompromising lines as he pulled her into the greathall. He finally released her arm. Blood flowed again, but he immediately pushed her ahead of him, as if he feared she’d attempt escape.
“At least tell me who you are!”
“His brother.”
He shoved her down a hallway, and then into a large, dimly lit room. A fire blazed in the deep fireplace and two candelabras flanked the bed, but otherwise the room was shrouded in darkness. An enormous bed sat on a dais in the center of the room. A choking, gagging sound came from the bed, as well as a little girl shrieking, “Da! Da!”
The brother propelled Rose toward the bed. “Christ, he cannot breathe! Do something!” He snatched the child off the bed and set her aside. She grabbed at his leg, burying her face in his plaid.
Rose didn’t have to use her magic to see that Strathwick suffered from the same thing Ailis had. He lay on his back, struggling to breathe. His throat had swollen, and his skin was on fire. Blood trickled from his nose.
She didn’t have time to dig through her box for her probe, and the brother grew increasingly frantic, urging her to do somethingnow,making it difficult for her to think. Finally, she climbed on the bed, took Strathwick’s face between her hands, and looked hard into the burning blue eyes.
“Open your mouth if you want to live.”
He complied slowly, as his jaw was swollen and tender. The membrane was there, and she used her finger to open his airway. He gagged and bit her.
She jerked her hand away as he rolled onto his side,putting his back to her, coughing violently and retching. The brother pushed her aside and climbed onto the bed with Strathwick. The little girl crawled onto the bed, whimpering, tears streaking her pale face. “Da? What’s wrong?”
“Will?” the brother asked urgently, leaning over to peer into Strathwick’s face.
“I’m fine,” came the rasping voice. “Get her out of here.”
The girl threw herself on Strathwick. “No! I’m not leaving.” She buried her face in her father’s plaid, her small shoulders shaking. Strathwick made a vain attempt to sit up, only to fall back onto the pillow and lay unnaturally still. The child’s hands clutched at him as she cried, pulling at him.
The brother sat back on his knees and met Rose’s eyes. His shoulders slumped wearily. He ran a shaking hand over his pale face, shoving his fingers through his already unruly black hair so it stood up all over his head. His throat worked, and though he said nothing, there was deep gratitude in his look.
Strathwick muttered something unintelligible, but his hand cupped the child’s head, stroking the mop of black, unruly curls. Her cries quieted. He still lay with his back to Rose, broad shoulders hunched and inky black, silvered hair a stark contrast to the snowy linen of his sheets.
The brother climbed off the bed. He covered his mouth with both hands, as if trying to gather his thoughts, and took a deep breath. He dropped his hands to his narrow hips and looked back at the little girl, whose head lay on Strathwick’s leg. Her father’s limphand had fallen away, and she took it and placed it back on her head.
“Come, Deidra. Let your father rest and this woman tend to him.”
The little girl didn’t move but turned her head to observe Rose gravely. She was a chubby thing, with round cheeks and large blue eyes. She looked seven or eight years old.
“Who is she?” Deidra asked her uncle.
“Her name is Rose MacDonell, and she’s a healer.”
Rose nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Deidra.” Then she directed an inquiring gaze at the brother. “And your name?”
“Drake.” His thick black hair had fallen flat, so he shoved a weary hand through it so it stood on end again. “Sorry I gave you such a difficult time before, pretending to be Strathwick and all. It’s just that…” He shook his head. His face was haggard, and there were more important matters to attend to.
“We’ll discuss all that later,” Rose nodded to the child. “You really should get her out of the room. Yourself as well. The ailment he has is contagious. I will look after him.”
Drake nodded. “We just have to get him through the worst of it, aye? Then he’ll be fine. He always is. Come on, Dede.”
Deidra’s face set into stubborn lines, her brow lowering and her mouth puckering. She shook her head and held onto her father tighter.
Drake put a knee on the bed and reached for her. “Do you want to be getting sick? Then your father has to healyou and he’s sick like this all over again. Let Mistress MacDonell do her mending, aye? You know he’ll be all better tomorrow.”
Deidra still looked mutinous, but she let her uncle draw her off the bed and lead her from the room.
Rose set to boiling water in a small pot in the fireplace. The room was sparsely furnished, though the furniture was well made and solid. The walls were bare of ornamentation, as were the tops of the cupboards and chests. A desk sat at the opposite end of the room, and its top showed the only signs of habitation outside the bed—papers scattered across the top, a large, misshapen rock with eyes clumsily painted on it holding them down, a carved wooden box, writing implements, a tankard.
