Hagan looked abashed and didn’t reply until Rose put the dog outside and closed the door behind it.
“He loves the wee thing. I see no harm in allowing him his favorite pets, aye? It gives him peace.”
Rose planted her hands on her hips. “After he gave Broc to Gillian, he did not have any pets. Why did you allow him another?”
“It was a gift from his brother.”
A muscle ticked in Rose’s jaw. She seemed on edge, ready to explode at someone or something. “I told Uncle Roderick no more dogs, too. What is so hard for everyone to understand about that?”
Hagan looked at her helplessly, beefy hands spread before him. “I just don’t understand, Rose. You say you fear that the dog’s fur affects his breathing, but I don’t see it. He breathes no different with or without the dogs. And besides,” Hagan’s voice lowered, “the man is dying and the dogs comfort him. Can you not allow him that?”
Rose was definitely on the verge of some explosion, so William placed a hand on her shoulder. “Should we come back?” he asked Hagan, nodding to the sleeping figure on the bed.
Hagan shook his head, returning to his darning. “Nay, he had a bad night but has slept most of the morn. He’s well enough I reckon, and his birse will be up if he finds out I didn’t wake him for your visit.”
“Och—he’s a gift for exaggeration,” came the gruff voice from the bed.
Hagan smiled to himself. “See you there? He’s already awake and in a chuff.”
“You’ll see me in a chuff if I don’t have some food posthaste.”
Hagan stood, setting his hose on the chair, and left Rose and William alone with Alan.
As William approached the bed, he saw that theMacDonell’s show of spirit was for the guard’s benefit. He looked worse than he had the night before; his face was gaunt, and a gray pallor tinged his skin. The arm that rested atop his blanket was bruised.
William leaned forward to inspect the marks. “How did this happen?”
Alan shrugged and sighed. “I know not.”
Rose stared at the bruise, her face slack with disbelief. “They’ve begun again, the nightmares?”
Alan reached for his daughter’s hand. “Aye, they have. Worry not for me, love. I’ve told you, I remember nothing of them when I wake.”
But William could see she was more than worried. She was grief-stricken and unable to adequately hide it anymore. However, William found the bruises encouraging—at least in light of his theory.
“Rose, these bruises, they reinforce what I mentioned to you last night.” William passed his finger over it, outlining the crescent shape. “An odd thing to appear while one is asleep—and in such a shape. This is nothing natural.”
Alan studied him with weary green eyes. “What is your opinion?”
“Witchcraft. I believe there is a spell or curse on you.”
Alan glanced at Rose, who tried to smile encouragingly but failed, her mouth a wobbling line, eyes bleak.
“And if this were a spell,” Alan asked slowly, “what could be done about it?”
William sighed. “I know not. I do not deal in spells. I think our first task should be to discover who is behind it. Only they can undo it—or mayhap, with somepersuasion,tell us how. Rose can think of no one, but what of you? I understand your family has been apart for a dozen years. Perhaps there are things your daughter doesn’t know.”
Alan frowned thoughtfully. “Another witch wishing me ill? Aye, there is one.”
Rose blinked and stepped forward, her eyes finally showing some life. “Who?”
Alan reached a hand out to his daughter, and she grasped his fingers. “Your late stepmother. You never knew her. She died in childbirth. She was a bit of a witch, but she’s dead, aye? So it cannot be her. Her father is the person I speak of—Sir Donnan. He lives still and blames me for his daughter’s death. He used to send me terrible, evil letters with ill wishes inside.”
Rose looked at William hopefully. “Could he cast such a curse from afar?”
“I know not. Perhaps if he had personal items—hair and nails—he could make an effigy.”
Alan fingered the white hair of his beard. “But how would he get such things?”
