He returned to the bed and leaned over it, pressing a kiss to Rose’s closed eyelid. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, but she did not wake.
The castle was silent, and when he arrived at his chambers he slipped in, heedful not to wake his brother and daughter. The room was completely dark. He wondered who’d let the fire die. He felt his way to the shutters and pulled them open, then lit a candle. He was turning toward the bed when he noticed something on his wrist. He pulled his sleeve up. A dark bruise in the shape of a star mottled the inside of his forearm. He frowned at it for several moments, then pressed on it. Touching it caused him no discomfort. He never bruised—and besides, he couldn’t remember when he’d hit his arm. He turned to the bed, still puzzled.
Drake was asleep, buried under mounds of blankets. William crept to the bed to check on his daughter. She still slept at the end, beneath a plaid. As he watched, she twitched, then writhed, her face contorting.
“Deidra.” He touched her cheek.
Her face was flushed and damp with sweat. She began to retch violently, her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Drake!” William barked. “Get me the chamber pot!”
But his brother didn’t move. William swore and lifted his daughter into his arms. She began to cough and choke, her face turning an alarming shade of purple. William checked her color to see if he could heal her, but his examination showed nothing amiss, except a weakening of her color.
He clutched her to his chest, frantic. She was so small and frail. Her entire body jerked and spasmed with each heave, bringing nothing up. Her eyes sprang open, and she wheezed, gasping and gagging and clawing at her throat. She was dying.
William was vaguely aware that he alternately prayed under his breath and pleaded with his brother to help. He lay Deidra on the bed and forced her mouth wider, but he could see nothing in her throat. His heart stuttered as she continued to gag and make soundless noises as if she were choking, her eyes bulging and bloodshot. Her back arched, and her heels dug into the mattress. William thrust a finger down her throat, searching for the obstruction. He felt something stiff and narrow. He grasped it and quickly yanked it out.
It was a damp feather. Deidra immediately went limp, her head rolling to the side. He lowered his head beside hers, and relief washed over him when he felt her soft, warm breath against his cheek. She had choked on a feather. It made no sense. He should have seen and felt the feather in her throat when he’d examined her with his magic. And besides that, how the hell did a sleeping child manage to get a feather stuck in her throat?…Witchcraft.
He went to Drake and tried to shake him awake, buthis brother was as unresponsive as Deidra. Fingers of panic clutched at William’s chest. He was afraid to leave them, and yet this was no ailment. This was black magic. A warning.
Fear had temporarily staved off his lassitude, but he felt it returning, weighing down his limbs. He didn’t have time for weakness. He threw open the door, searching for a servant, someone to send to fetch Rose to him, but the corridor was deserted. He started to return to the bed, leaving the door open, when he spotted a piece of parchment on the floor just outside the door. It was sealed with a blob of black wax with no mark.
He picked it up, peering up and down the corridor again. After checking on his brother and Deidra and finding them the same, he broke the seal.
Your brother will wake at dawn. Your daughter will be released from the curse when you are clear of Glen Laire’s mountains. Be quit from Lochlaire within an hour of dawn, and speak to no one, or your daughter will bock up pins until she bleeds to death. I wonder if you can heal that.
William read the letter over and over again, then looked at the star-shaped bruise on his arm. The task he’d sent Sir Philip on was futile. The witch was here at Lochlaire—and he had to leave or let his daughter die. He thought of Rose, waking and finding him gone. He closed his eyes, crumpling the parchment in his fists. Finally he dropped it onto the bed, staring at the open window. The gray of predawn burned off into the pink light of daybreak. Drake groaned, rubbing his hand overhis face and pushing himself up to sitting. He groaned again, dropping his head into his hands.
“My head aches like someone spent the night hammering on it. I didn’t drink that much.”
William tossed him the letter.
Drake read it quickly. His brow furrowed, then his gaze shot to the window. “Who the hell—”
“Never mind that,” William said. “Gather our things. We must be gone from here or Deidra dies.”
Chapter 17
The wizard watched from the battlements as the skiff containing Strathwick, his brother, and the unconscious witch-child rowed across the loch. Perfect. He left the battlements and returned to the hall. It was deserted. By now the Irishman would be too sick to notice anyone coming or going. Everything was progressing as planned.
He slipped into Alan MacDonell’s chambers and was greeted by the sound of Hagan retching violently and groaning behind the painted screen across the room. Conan was gone of course, courtesy of Rose. That hadnotbeen part of his plan, but it was of no consequence.
He paused to make certain Alan still slept. He was motionless on the bed, oblivious to his guard’s infirmity. It had been most difficult to get Hagan to ingest the purgative without somehow implicating himself in it. The guard had become even more diligent since Strathwick had suggested witchcraft. Irritation pricked at him. That had been another small rut he’d not planned for. No one had seriously suspected witchcraft until the wizard of the North had arrived. Now Isobel was determined to touch every damn thing in the castle, and Gillian hunted daily for ghosts. He might have made a mistakesomewhere; he’d been arrogant before, secure in their trust. If he did not end this now, he would be discovered.
He crossed the room quickly, grabbing a pillow off the end of the bed. He stared down at Alan’s sleeping face. So many years he’d languished under Alan’s shadow, watching him pass up opportunities to expand the wealth and power of the Glen Laire MacDonells. No more.
He pressed the pillow over the sleeping man’s face. Alan reacted immediately and with more strength than the man had anticipated. He threw his weight onto the pillow and lay there until Alan stopped struggling. He removed the pillow. Alan’s mouth hung open, his eyes slitted and glazed.
“No more,” the man whispered, triumph beating in his chest.
Then he noticed Alan’s beard. It sparkled faintly in the firelight, as did the blankets covering him. He frowned, leaning closer—but there was no time to investigate. The sound of vomiting stopped abruptly, and all that could be heard was heavy breathing.
“Alan?” the Irishman called, his voice suspicious.
The man sprinted quietly to the door, taking the pillow with him; he couldn’t chance Isobel touching it and seeing everything, and he had no time to place a spell.
“Who’s there?” Hagan called, alarm in his voice.
