“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 hisbrother 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 herhair, 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.
