My Shadow Warrior (12 page)

She’d been watching him with wide, rapt eyes, and when he fell silent, she blinked. “That’s all? You don’t know what happened to Deidra?”

He shook his head. “I woke up.”

“That
is
very strange.” Then she covered her mouth and laughed softly. “Your sword was a goose? How did it fit in the scabbard?”

He laughed, too, and shrugged. “I know not. And it was a large goose.”

“Cooked or alive?”

“Alive and honking.”

Rose felt as if she were dreaming now, sitting in the dark, laughing with the wizard of Strathwick. He was an exceedingly handsome man when he laughed—when he made her laugh. She had not felt so lighthearted in months. When was the last time she’d forgotten, for just a moment, her father and his illness? But Strathwick made her forget all that and made her recall, all too vividly, how he’d kissed her.

She bent her knees beneath her kirtle, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. She bit her lip thoughtfully. “May I ask you a question?”

“Aye.”

“Why did you pretend to be a groom?”

He leaned his head back and gazed up at the sky, his lips still curved in a slight smile that made her heart flutter and race.

“You’re not going to let me forget about that, are you?” He sighed. “Very well. More than once someone has attempted to kill me. I have guards, but if I’m severely wounded, there is little I can do. Drake and the others will fight, of course, but if they’re also hurt, I cannot help anyone until I am better. So it only makes sense. An assassin will strike their intended target—me, or the person they
think
is me. If Drake is hurt, I subdue the assassin and am still able to heal Drake.”

“What if someone were to kill Drake? Surely you cannot raise the dead.”

His expression sobered, his jaw tightening. “No, I cannot. There is always that possibility. This is our best chance.” When she didn’t respond, Strathwick gazed steadily at her. “Does that answer your question?”

“No. Not at all.”

He raised a brow with mild, mocking surprise. “Then I suppose I don’t understand the question.”

Rose gripped her legs harder. “I was not even in the castle. A threat to no one, sitting wet outside your walls. And no one but you was present, alone and unguarded. Why did you come out in the rain alone, pretending to be a groom?”

He’d looked away from her halfway through her speech, staring off to his right with unusual intensity.

“My lord?”

“I know not.” He paused, then said, his words somewhat more hesitant than before, “I had to see the author of the letters, I suppose.”

And now that he’d seen her, what did he think, beyond that she was “bonny”? She wanted to ask him that but could not. She lowered her chin so her mouth pressed against her knees, and she stared at the ground, acutely aware of the sudden silence between them. She supposed she knew what he thought. The kiss said it all. A man with honorable intentions did not kiss a woman like that without stating those intentions. Strathwick had stated nothing but that he found her bonny. He wanted to bed her, and God help her, but her body wanted to let him. Even now she trembled, sitting this close to him in the dark, being the recipient of his smiles and laughter.
Stop it!
She was being foolishly hopeful again, seeing castles in the air where there were only dunghills.

After a time she chanced looking at him again. He still contemplated the darkness, his mouth flat, jaw hard. The soft wind stirred his hair, so black it melted into the night, except for the silver, dull and indistinct in the darkness. He seemed so alone that her heart ached.

“You should sleep, my lord,” she whispered. “You’ve kept watch long enough. I will finish out the night.”

He shook his head. “Nay, I could not sleep now.”

She hesitated, knowing sleep would elude her as well. But he did not look at her; he’d forgotten she was there. She returned to the bed she’d made for herself and Deidra, and curled beneath the plaid. Sleep did not come, but she did not return to his side, though he sat through the night, unmoving in the moonlight. She wanted to go to him, to talk to him and see him laugh again, but he made her uneasy. She made herself uneasy. Who was this man who dreamed of empty castles surrounded by serpents? She wanted to know him, far more than was wise for a woman betrothed.

The next day of travel was as uneventful as the first, though near dusk, William began to suspect they were being followed. They were on a deserted moor, with naught but the occasional dead tree and the distant mountains as far as the eye could see.

They rode on, pushing the horses to exhaustion, until finally they came upon a ruined cottage. It was the best shelter they would find, and William took it. They had a cold, silent meal, and Rose bedded down with Deidra in the lee of the wall while William, Drake, and Wallace situated themselves around the ruined cottage, keeping watch on the empty moor around them. William knew Rose was aware something was amiss; her sharp gaze had followed him throughout the day, marking his watchfulness, but she’d said nothing. She did not sleep now either; she still watched him and the others as she lay with Deidra. When the child dozed off, she crept across the floor to the empty doorway where he crouched.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered, peering into the night.

“I think we’re being followed. Probably the broken men Drake spotted yesterday. They must have caught our trail and are hoping for easy prey.”

She crept back to where she’d lain down, grabbed her bag, and returned to settle beside him. She didn’t speak and he tried to ignore her, but her presence beside him was highly distracting. She never sought out Drake or Wallace as she did him, and he took note of it. Though he tried, he could not long ignore the sudden industry of the woman beside him, so he finally looked to see what she was doing.

She was cleaning her gun. He watched silently as she swabbed the barrel, then pushed down wadding and an iron ball with the short ramrod. Everything was gray in the moonlit darkness—her hair and skin and eyes shades of gray. But his imagination painted her in the vivid colors he observed in the daylight: her hair, a sleek fall of amber and roan; her skin, glowing, a faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her narrow nose; her midnight gaze, focused intently on her work, cinnamon lashes hiding her catlike eyes. Bracing the gun barrel between her knees, she poured gunpowder into the pan, inserted the spanner, and cranked the wheel until it caught, primed and ready to be fired. She set it carefully aside.

She looked up to find him watching, and she smiled. His heart skittered against his ribs.

“I’m ready now,” she declared, her eyes glinting.

He made a soft snort of amusement and shook his head.

“What? You don’t think me capable?”

“You are rather small.”

“Compared to you, perhaps,” she said tartly, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. “It doesn’t take size to aim and fire a dag.”

He laughed softly. “That it doesn’t. Just be certain your aim is true and you don’t shoot one of us.”

She scowled prettily at him, but before she could retort, Drake hissed his name.

William pivoted in his crouching position to peer across the ruin at his brother. Drake pointed to something in the darkness.

“Stay here,” William said to Rose. He crossed to his brother. When he glanced back, Rose had assumed his position, staring out into the night, dag in her lap.

“What is it?”

“Watch there and wait,” Drake said, his voice hushed. They sat motionless for several minutes, William frowning into the dark where Drake had indicated.

“There.” Drake pointed.

William saw it—a shifting of the darkness near a sparse stand of distant trees. And the harder he stared, the more he realized there was an unnatural mass to the trees.

“Bloody hell,” William breathed. “What are they waiting for?”

“They probably hope to catch us all asleep.”

William looked over his shoulder to his daughter, sleeping peacefully, oblivious of the danger laying in wait.
Damn.

“Well,” William said, removing his dag from his belt and checking the charge. “Let’s get this over with.”

Drake looked at him in disbelief, then scanned the dark, deserted moor around them pointedly. “Until they attack, what are we to do?”

“Rose,” William called in a loud whisper.

She turned and came when he gestured for her, then squatted down beside him.

“I want you to take Deidra and ride southwest, as fast as you can.”

“What? Why?”

“The broken men outnumber us,” Drake said.

“Aye. If we don’t overtake you by morn, keep going. Take her to your home and send word to my sister, Maggie Munroe. She’s married to Paden Munroe of Norcreiffe. She will take Deidra.”

William felt Drake staring at him, but he didn’t look at his brother.

Rose shook her head, confused. “If we’re outnumbered, you cannot send me away. I can shoot.”

“You’ve one shot in your dag and no time to reload. Even if we prevail, I cannot hope to keep you both from harm when they outnumber us. You
must
ride to safety.”

Rose nodded, her face pale. “Very well. Maggie. Paden Munroe of Norcreiffe.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Get the horse ready—and hurry.”

She did as he bid while William crept to the wall and picked his daughter up. Deidra stirred as he carried her to the horses hobbled at the other end of the cottage. They’d not unsaddled them in preparation for this eventuality.

Rose was beside him. “Let’s all go. Why are you staying here if they outnumber us?”

“Because they’ll keep following, and we must stop sometime. Best to do this when we’re prepared, rather than be ambushed later.”

“But you said you knew some Rosses near Strath Ben that were friends. Could we not ride there for help?”

“That’s another two days’ ride at least.” He smiled grimly. “Fash not—we’re not so bad with a sword.”

She exhaled loudly and stared at him, tight-lipped. She shook her head slightly as if she meant to say more, but finally she mounted. He passed Deidra up to her, then caught her hand, pressing on her cool, slender fingers.

“Remember what I said. Keep riding. Don’t turn back.”

Rose clasped his fingers back, gazing down at him with worry and fear.

Deidra blinked awake and stared at William, who was at eye level with her, then she glanced up at Rose.

Her confused gaze flew back to him. “Da?”

“You must go with Rose now, Squirrel. I’ll be seeing you soon.” He released Rose’s fingers and took his daughter’s hand, squeezing it and pressing a kiss to the back of her small, soft palm. He met Rose’s gaze, still fixed unhappily on him, and tried to convey to her with a look the importance of the trust he’d just placed in her. Until tonight, he’d trusted no one but Drake with his daughter’s safety.

“Go,” he said before he changed his mind.

Rose spurred her mount and raced into the night. As expected, this was a beacon to the waiting broken men. They broke from the trees and charged the cottage.

“Make haste,” William said, swinging into the saddle. His horse, sensing impending danger, pawed and snorted nervously. Drake and Wallace mounted beside him, and, with swords drawn, they burst from the cottage, bellowing their battle cry.

Rose struggled to keep a grip on the wildly thrashing child. “No! No! Da! Uncle Drake!” she cried.

Rose held her tightly, dropping the reins once when Dede would have slithered from her arms to the ground.

“Dede! Listen to me!”

Dede shrieked and kicked. Rose was forced to slow Moireach to a walk.

Dede abruptly went still. Before Rose could reason with the child, the mare veered to the right and reared. Rose’s heart leapt in panic. She sawed on the reins, but the horse was determined to turn.

“Moireach! No, damnit!”

Rose pulled and yanked, but a demon possessed the horse. Moireach pawed at the ground and screamed furiously—then bolted forward, back to the cottage.

“No! Stop!” Rose cried, pulling on the reins. Dede clutched her waist.

Lights burst ahead of them, followed by three loud
pops.
Rose pulled her dag from the saddle holster, her heart hammering in her throat. As they drew nearer the cottage, the clouds shadowing the moon scudded aside, and she could see the fighting. Bodies littered the ground around the structure. Six men still battled. Three were on horseback, and another three had been unhorsed. They fought savagely, two against one. Rose still had no control of the horse. It raced toward the men on the ground. Rose recognized Strathwick, sword in one hand and a dirk in the other, fighting off two men. He slashed at them with a fury she’d never guess of the taciturn man, single-handedly driving both men back.

Moireach ran at one of the marauders, surprising him so he had no time to react before her hooves drove him to the ground. She pounded him for good measure before wheeling away and turning back.

One of the horsed bandits appeared beside Rose. She tried to block his blow, but his fist struck her arm. She cried out and, clutching Deidra to her, toppled back. She landed on her back, knocking the wind from her lungs. Deidra sprawled across her chest. The dag skidded away.

Pain radiated through Rose’s back. She fought to catch her breath and clear her vision. Lights exploded before her, and a great weight still pressed into her.

Deidra screamed and the crushing weight disappeared, replaced with a burning on Rose’s scalp as someone pulled her to her knees using a handful of her hair.

“Two pretty ones,” a rough voice rasped gleefully. “No wonder they sent you away.”

Rose’s vision cleared enough to see the ragged plaid at eye level and Deidra screeching and struggling in the man’s other hand. Fury and fear twisted inside Rose. She drove her fist into the man’s groin. He pitched over and back, releasing Rose, but dragging Deidra down with him. Rose stumbled to her feet, pain radiating through her back. She ignored the pain and kicked the villain. “Let her go!” she screamed, then she kicked him in the head and stomped on the arm trapping Deidra.

He howled and cursed but released the child.

“Deidra, run!” Rose yelled.

Deidra sprinted toward the cottage. Rose started after her, but the man was on his feet already, furious.

Blood poured from his nose. “Stupid bitch!” he yelled, his voice strange and nasal. He lurched at Rose.

Rose ran in the opposite direction, praying Deidra found a safe place to hide rather than more trouble. Her breath wheezed in her chest, burning. The pain in her back seized at her, making her stumble. Her pursuer tackled her, dragging at her hair and arisaid. She slammed into the ground, bringing her hands up to break her fall. Stones cut her palms, and the impact jarred her shoulders. His hot, stinking body covered her, suffocating her. She bucked crazily, blind terror gripping her. The back of her head slammed into his face and he gasped, his weight easing enough for her to crawl forward on her elbows. A glint of metal caught her eye, and she scrabbled for it. The man snatched at her skirts, seizing her ankle and yanking. He laughed wickedly, his grip punishing. Rose fell, twisting so she landed on her bottom and kicked wildly at him with her free leg. She heard a feral growling and moaning and realized it was herself. She drove her heel hard into his face with a grunt of effort and was rewarded with a crunch.

He roared his fury and pain but didn’t release her. Still, she gained the few inches she needed to grab her dag. She rolled onto her back and swung the gun around, the hilt gripped hard in both hands. He lumbered up, bloodied teeth bared, hands already reaching for her. He paused only a moment when he saw the gun barrel aimed at his face, then he threw himself at her, his bearded, misshapen face distorted with rage. Rose pulled hard on the trigger. The wheel lock spun, scratching pyrite. Sparks showered around her as the gun discharged with a deafening blast. The force of it sent her reeling back, knocking her head into the ground.

A cloud of smoke surrounded her. She dropped the gun, useless now, and coughed, scooting backward. Her attacker lay in a heap on the ground, part of his head gone. Rose closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath, her stinging hands pressed to her chest. Her heart raced, and she felt nauseated.

A sharp twinge in her back reminded her of Deidra. She scanned the moor around her. The fighting was over. The wind whispered over the moor, disturbing the tufts of grass. Horses meandered about, two of them cantering together playfully. Where was everyone? Her heart raced again as she limped hurriedly to the ruined cottage. She counted four bodies of broken men and spotted several more dark mounds further away.

She found Wallace on the ground inside the cottage, leaning against a wall, grasping his side. His hand was dark and wet.

Rose dropped to the ground beside him. “What happened?”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Sword wound. Not bad.”

“Let me see.” She pulled his fingers away and pushed his plaid off his shoulder, then removed his leather vest. The linen shirt beneath was crimson with blood.

Against his feeble protests, Rose peeled the shirt off. “I need some water,” she murmured, scanning the interior for their supplies. A water flask was near and she grabbed it, returning to her patient. She pulled the cork out and held it to Wallace’s mouth so he could drink.

“My thanks,” he gasped.