My Shadow Warrior (17 page)

“It’s pleased I am to meet you, my lord! Been praying Rose would be bringing you back.”

William was sure he was—and that he no doubt expected William to heal whatever ailed him. William gave the lad a grim nod and turned his attention to the bed.

Rose leaned over the bed’s occupant, giving her father a kiss and murmuring something to him. William could not understand the MacDonell’s reply, but it sounded gently reproving: No doubt he chastised her for running off like a little fool and frightening everyone. She straightened and beckoned for William to join her.

The man on the bed was painfully thin, enveloped in a mass of furs and plaids. His long gray beard flowed around him, freshly brushed, and his gray-streaked auburn hair was secured at his nape. Dull green eyes sunk deep in the sockets stared back at William above hollowed cheeks. He looked close to death.

Rose leaned close to her father. “Da, this is the man I told you about, William MacKay of Strathwick. He is a great healer. I’ve seen him perform miracles with my own eyes.” She smiled up at William with watery midnight eyes. “Lord Strathwick, this is my father, Alan MacDonell.”

William inclined his head in greeting. Alan said nothing at first, scrutinizing William as he absently stroked a silver Skye terrier sprawled on the bed beside him. The door shut loudly, and when William quickly scanned the room, he noted that Roderick had left.

“So, you think you can fix whatever ails me, aye?” Alan said, his voice weak and rough.

“If you permit me, we’ll see, shall we?” William replied mildly.

Alan glanced at his daughter, then back at William. He sighed, resigned. “Aye, go on.”

The poor man was likely weary of all the poking and prodding, yet he must be of extremely strong mettle to still be alive. Rose had said the illness had disabled him for months now, and despite his decrepit appearance, he survived.

“It won’t take long,” William said, touching Rose’s shoulder. She moved to stand on his other side, watching her father anxiously. Drake moved closer, always near to protect William when healing debilitated him. Isobel came to stand on the opposite side of the bed, staring at William with troubled eyes. Rose had yet to even notice her sister’s strange expression, but Sir Philip had, and he put a protective arm around his wife as he watched William warily.

“Is something amiss, Dame Isobel?” William asked.

Rose looked up at her sister then, frowning. “What is it, Isobel?”

Isobel shook her head slowly, then turned away. “It’s naught. Forgive me.”

Rose stared after her sister, then shrugged up at William, but he could tell by the line between her eyes that she only shrugged it off for his benefit. Had she not said one of her sisters had visions? Had he not seen the light of recognition in Isobel’s eyes when she’d looked at him?

He took a deep, bracing breath and rested one knee on the bed. The Skye terrier bared its teeth and gave a nasty, warbling growl.

“Hush now, Conan,” Alan said, stroking the dog.

“Father?” Rose chided him. “I told you no more dogs.”

“Oh, this is just a wee one. Let me keep him.”

The “wee one” snarled like a feral wolf, its black lips peeled back to reveal needle-sharp teeth and a mobile, curling tongue.

“Be nice,” Alan reprimanded, feebly trying to push Conan away, but he was not strong enough to even move the small dog.

Conan got to his feet and barked hysterically at William. When Sir Philip tried to remove the dog, it snapped at him.

Alan scolded Conan, but the dog would not calm. The earl approached the bed with a plaid and threw it over the snarling beast, then swiftly wrapped it up. The bundle convulsed harmlessly in his arms.

“Shall I add a stone and toss it in the loch?” the earl asked.

“Aye,” Sir Philip said testily, examining his hand for wounds.

Alan laughed at the jest. “He’s just trying to protect me. Let him out.”

The earl left the chamber, only to return seconds later, closing the door quickly on the vicious wee beast.

William returned to the bed, Rose at his side. He took a deep cleansing breath, calling on the healing magic and focusing it on the man on the bed. A pale green light shimmered faintly around Alan, weak, as if something drained him. When William saw nothing else, he used his hands, feeling his way, but could find no source to heal.

He’d seen this twice before. Once was from a slow poison, the other something he didn’t wish to contemplate. Unfortunately he saw none of the other signs of poison—such as a brackish film over areas of the body indicating that the poison had attacked certain organs and they were dying. William could heal that, though it was quite painful for him and took longer to recover from.

He passed his hands over Alan’s body again, frowning with deepening concentration. A sharp pounding began in his temples. The door opened, and Roderick reentered the room. Conan shot in between his legs, snarling viciously, and went straight for William.

“Uncle Roderick!” Rose cried helplessly, hands on hips. “No dogs! I told you that before.”

Drake intercepted the dog, trying to shove it back with a boot, but the dog only latched onto it. Drake yelped in surprise and tried to shake the dog off. The earl attempted to recapture it with the same plaid, but Conan had grown savvy to this ploy and darted under the bed.

“Confounded dog!” Alan said, the lines in his forehead deepening. “I’ve never seen him behave in such a manner.”

William stepped away from the bed so the others could attempt to recapture the dog. He rubbed his hands together, squinting slightly from the pain in his temples. He had a very bad feeling about what ailed Alan MacDonell. When he looked at Rose, she kept her gaze averted, her face and throat taut. If she hadn’t already guessed that William could not heal her father, she was beginning to suspect.

Roderick came to stand beside him. He lifted his chin at his brother. “So…is he healed?”

William looked down at the man for a long moment. “No, he’s not.”

“Canna do it, aye?”

“No, it seems not. You don’t sound surprised.”

Roderick’s smile was sharp and humorless. “I’m not. I’ve seen your kind before. Now you’ll insist on some elaborate and expensive ritual, eh? One that keeps you here leeching off our goodwill for months.”

The dog was finally recaptured, but William did not return to the bed. He’d been accused of being a charlatan before. In the past he’d either proven himself or shrugged it off. He was not one to care overmuch what others thought. But this man’s words sent a sharp stab of anger through his chest—especially since what he said was partially true.

When he did not reply, Roderick arched sardonic brows. “Hmm? Have you an answer for me, man?”

William had an answer for him, but since ladies were present and he was a guest, he kept his mouth shut.

Rose was beside him, her hand on his arm, her auburn brows drawn together. “What is it?”

Roderick looked from Rose’s face, to her hand, to William. His sneer became knowing. “Is that the way of it, now? Because if this is all to get a fine MacDonell dowry, we dinna give our lassies to cummerwalds.”

Rose’s mouth dropped open in astonished horror. “Uncle Roderick! What are you saying?”

William’s pulse pounded painfully in his temples. “Nothing I’ve not heard before.” He gave Roderick a dark look. “It will interest me greatly if he’ll have so much to say when we discuss this later. Alone.”

Roderick snorted. “We have naught to discuss, charlatan. Finish your business tonight and get gone.”

“He will not,” Rose said, the high blades of her cheeks stained red. “You
will not
speak to him in such a manner.”

“God damn it, Rose—he’s duped you! Dinna be his gawpy.”

Next to William, Rose shook, hands fisted at her sides. He recognized the moment she was about to lunge at her uncle, and he put a hand on her shoulder to stay her. “Later, lass.” He turned her so she could accompany him to the bed.

Summoning the magic again, he moved his hands over Alan’s body. And again he felt nothing on his first pass. Frowning deeply, he did a second, slower pass. Nothing. He fisted his hands against his thighs, staring hard at the man on the bed.

William’s healings were not always successful: Sometimes more than one person needed his help, and he could not heal more than one or two people at a time, as a major ailment laid him up for a day or more, making him useless if anyone else needed him. There were two other reasons he could not heal someone. A wound that had healed—however incorrectly—was healed. He could not undo that. He suspected that would be the case with young Stephen Ross.

The last reason was witchcraft. A witch he might be, but he could not undo black magic. He’d seen it once before, though it had been far different from this, the person bocking up nails and hair and such, shuddering and convulsing and acting like a madman. William had been at a loss, and the man had died.

“Let me guess,” Alan said dryly. “You can find nothing wrong.”

William did not want to admit it. He did not want to let Rose down—had not known how much it had meant to him to do this for her, to make her happy. It was so important to her, it seemed, as if her life were stagnant, waiting for her father to live or die. He’d been her last hope. She’d written that to him again and again until it had made him angry and he’d burned the letters. It made him angry now, but a different sort of anger. At himself. At her ill-tempered uncle for making it worse with his badgering.

“No,” William admitted reluctantly. “I canna find anything wrong.”

Alan shrugged, fatigue etched in every line of his face, the tilt of his head. “Didn’t think you would. I’ve been seen by every healer in Scotland, methinks, and some without. None can find a damn thing wrong with me. But all agree I’m dying.” William read the words he left unsaid—that he wished to get on with the dying part.

William heard Rose’s quick intake of breath beside him, as if she fought to control her emotions. A band tightened around his chest, urging him not to give up.

“I’m going to touch you,” he said. Though he’d never attempted to heal an ailment he couldn’t see, it was worth a try.

Alan nodded his consent. William placed his palms on the man’s sunken chest, aware of all the eyes watching him intently, hopefully. He closed his eyes, and the magic washed down his arms and into Alan. The older man gasped, but there was nothing there, nothing for William to latch onto, and it quickly surged back up inside him.

He removed his hands and straightened from the bed, shaking his head slowly. “I canna find aught wrong with you.”

Alan raised a skeptical brow. “It certainly
feels
as if something is amiss.”

William took a deep breath. “Well, I suspect something is very much amiss, and if you’ve a moment alone, I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Alone?” Roderick said, trying to shove William away so he could stand at Alan’s bedside. William didn’t move, giving the unpleasant man a warning glare.

But Roderick didn’t seem to notice, sneering at him. “Why do ye need to speak to him alone? So you can feed him lies and squeeze more payment out of him?”

“He has asked for no payment!” Rose cried, pushing to stand in front of William and confront her uncle. William stepped back for her.

“Rose will stay,” he said. “To make certain I cozen no one.”

Roderick grunted rudely. “She is completely besotted with this man. He has her in thrall.”

Alan grasped his daughter’s hand and gazed up at her, his thick auburn-and-white brows drawn together. “Is this true, Rose?”

Rose hesitated for the merest second, then shook her head. “No, Da.”

Isobel had begun to cry, and Sir Philip put an arm around her, pressing her head into his shoulder. Alan looked at the gloomy faces surrounding him.

“Come now,” he said with false cheer. “Let’s not be so fiddle-faced. What of Stephen, aye? Come here, lad.”

The young blond man stumped forward.

Alan gazed up at William hopefully. “Mayhap Lord Strathwick can heal Stephen?”

William rubbed his fingers hard into his closed eyes. The pain was nearly blinding now, compounded by the fact that he
knew
he could not heal Stephen.

He sighed and dropped his hand. “I cannot help the lad.”

At this revelation everyone began to talk at once.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you know?”

“You haven’t even looked at his back!”

“You won’t even try?”

“Do you even know what ails him?”

The lad himself said nothing; he only stood there, staring down at his hands braced over the top of his cane. William gritted his teeth, feeling like an ass and a fraud.

Rose gazed up at William, studying him with a small, worried frown. “You are unwell.”

He thought to deny it, but in truth, he wanted out of this room and away from these people, so he nodded.

“Lord Strathwick is unwell,” Rose announced, her hand on his arm, propelling him toward the door. “We’ll continue this on the morrow.”