My Shadow Warrior (24 page)

She remembered how William had hidden in her room last night, and her heart leapt, her gaze shifting to the shadows near the window. Empty, of course. If only he were there tonight, hiding, waiting for her. She would not send him away.

Rose spent another day healing in the village. The new healing technique William had taught her proved to be extremely helpful. She’d not understood the possibilities then, but now she realized that being able to feel the ailment as well as see it told her more than color alone. She’d held out hope last night that William would come to her on the pretext of returning her box, but he had not. In the morning she’d found it on the floor outside her chambers, and when she’d gone down to the quay, Jamie had been waiting for her, apparently determined to be the only man she spent time with today.

It wasn’t long, however, before he began to complain that he was hungry and that his feet hurt. Though she gently suggested a number of times that he return to Lochlaire, he refused to go without her, fixing her with a wounded and accusatory stare, as if his discomfort was entirely her fault.

“I just have one more patient,” Rose assured him as she hurried along the dirt path.

Jamie trudged glumly behind her, not touching her or even offering to help her carry her things. Earlier he’d grabbed her and tried to kiss her—only to thrust her away in disgust. Her clothes were stained with blood and other fluids. He’d kept his distance the remainder of the day.

“Can you not see them tomorrow?” Jamie asked, a slight whine to his voice. “We’ve missed dinner.”

Rose gritted her teeth, tamping down the urge to snap at him. She was tired and achy, too. She’d reset a dislocated joint earlier, and it had been a great exertion. Her shoulders and arms ached from the strain.

“Here.” From her bag, Rose dug a roll wrapped in cloth and offered it to him. He took it hesitantly but didn’t eat it, eyeing it as if it, too, was covered with blood and sweat.

Inside the next cottage, Rose was delighted to find that the patient had an abscess. Delighted because in the past, it had often been difficult to determine whether a lump was a tumorous growth or a festering. But now, she could
feel
it. Removing a tumor could be tricky, and it didn’t always fix the problem. An abscess was a simple matter of draining, flushing, stitching, and applying a poultice. Since it was in a rather sensitive area—the patient’s groin—she was forced to ask her betrothed for aid.

Jamie held the man’s leg for her, and when she finally allowed him to release it, he rushed outside and vomited. After instructing her patient how to care for his healing abscess, lest it fester again, she joined Jamie outside. He huddled on a bench beside the cottage door, his head in his hands.

She sat beside him. “Are you all right?” She pushed back the blond hair falling over his brow and pressed her palm to his clammy forehead.

He shrank from her touch, an unmistakable expression of disgust on his face, and scooted further down the bench, away from her. “You will stop this…
healing
when we are wed.”

Rose dropped her hand, wondering if she should be offended by his reaction to her touch, but all she truly felt was relief. Just the day before, he’d been anxious to bed her. It appeared that would no longer be a concern. But then again, she meant to marry him, didn’t she? She did not want her husband to be repulsed by her.

“Why should I stop?” she said. “I’m a healer. It’s what I do.”

“When we marry you’ll be a wife. The MacPherson’s lady.” When she didn’t respond, he straightened, giving her a pointed look.

She opened her palm in a placating gesture. “Someone must heal the people on your lands—”

“We already have a healer.”

“I’m better.”

He raised a brow. “How very modest of you.”

Rose shrugged. “It’s true. Besides, my mother always—”

“Your mother was burned alive. She is of no matter to us.”

Rose stiffened. “She matters to me. She was a great lady who helped all who needed it. I don’t care how she died. I can only hope to live a life as rich as hers.”

Jamie groaned and rolled his eyes. “Let’s speak of this later.”

Rose stood, angry now. “I want to discuss this now. Let’s return to Lochlaire and discuss it over dinner. I’m starving.”

Jamie sighed and stood heavily. “I do not think I can eat.” He looked down his nose at her, nostrils pinched. “You do intend to bathe, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Rose said, her cheeks hot.

He sniffed disdainfully and started for the loch. Rose followed, embarrassed as she’d never been before. She glanced down at herself, noting the stains all over her clothes. She’d never cared before; neither had anyone else who knew her. Her cheeks burned hotter with suppressed anger.

Before they reached the small dock, she noticed a skiff rowing frantically across the water.

“Miss Rose!” a lad called as she was untying a boat. “Wait, Miss Rose!”

Rose’s heart tripped, wondering what had set the lad in such a frenzy.
Her father.
She waited on the shore until the prow hit the dock.

“Get in, hurry! Tira is having her wean!”

Rose closed her eyes in relief. Jamie gave her a puzzled look, and Rose said, “My uncle’s wife is in labor.”

They clambered into the boat. With Jamie taking a set of oars, they moved swiftly through the water. When they entered the castle’s cavernous water entrance, Rose’s gaze was immediately drawn to the man waiting for her quay-side. William. Her heart stumbled at the unexpected sight of him, large and grim, a lone sentinel on the quay. He watched their approach, his hands folded behind his back, aloof. A shadow warrior, so alone in his self-inflicted exile. A lump rose in her throat. He would leave after Tira gave birth, and she would never see him again. Jamie would certainly never allow contact with him.

“What is
he
doing here?” Jamie muttered, pulling on the oars with renewed force. His eyes narrowed on the lone figure, and his jaw jutted pugnaciously.

“He has agreed to assist me with Tira.”

Jamie snorted. “That’s woman’s work.”

“Aye, unless you’re a gifted healer,” Rose said, her lips pursed together tartly. “Though I can deliver weans and mend many wounds, I cannot stop all the blood from draining out of a woman after—”

“Very well, I ken your meaning.” There was a slightly green pallor to his skin, and his rowing had slackened considerably. It had never occurred to Rose that her husband-to-be would be so squeamish. She tried not to feel scornful about it but couldn’t help remembering how William had healed others, oblivious of blood and sickness.

Jamie pulled in the oars as the boat slid the rest of the way to the quay. William descended the steps to help her from the skiff but retreated when Jamie hauled her roughly out of the boat.

“Easy, lad,” William said when Rose winced from Jamie’s hold on her arm. “She’s not a Lachaber ax for you to be tossing about.”

Jamie thrust her behind him. “You dare speak to me, scabbit bastard?”

William stood several steps above them. He stared down at Jamie, his expression mildly amused. “Scabbit? Mayhap. But no bastard. I assure you, my parents were married.”

“It’s not a legal marriage if one of the parties is a pig.”

William’s eyes narrowed, and his hand went to his dirk hilt.

“Och, need you a knife? Can you not just touch me and give me the plague, Wizard?”

“Jamie!” Rose found his jealousy no more endearing than his weak stomach. She darted out from behind him and climbed to the step above him. “You said you wouldn’t fight.”

“I promised not to kill him. I never said I wouldna speak my mind.”

“Those sounded like fighting words to me,” Rose said. She turned to William and gave him a pleading look.

He resheathed the dirk he’d pulled halfway from the scabbard at his waist. He held Jamie’s gaze over her head for another moment before looking down at her. “Come,” he said. “Tira asks for you.”

Rose followed him through the castle, Jamie trailing behind. They climbed three flights of stairs to the remote apartments at the top of the west tower. From the landing, they could hear the screaming inside.

“Uh…Rose?”

Rose turned to find Jamie hanging back on the steps. Tira screamed again and he grimaced, head sinking down into his shoulders.

“I think I’ll wait here for you, on the steps…” Tira shrieked again, as if someone tried to murder her. Jamie swallowed. “Except further down.”

“Birthings can take a long time,” Rose cautioned. “I might be in there twelve hours or more. Why don’t you find some dinner and get some rest?”

Jamie’s gazed fixed on William and his lips curled. He said, with more strength in his voice, “I’ll wait on the stairs.”

Rose sighed. “Very well.” At least he wouldn’t be in the birthing room, fighting with William. He looked her up and down, as if considering whether he wanted to kiss her, then settled for a pat on her shoulder before retreating down the steps.

Rose turned back toward the door. William leaned against the frame, watching her. “You must be near to swooning from such a passionate courting.”

Rose glared at him. “I’ve been healing all day. I look hideous. No one would want to touch me.”

He laughed and shook his head. Before she could ask him what was so amusing, the door opened and Tira’s maid glared out at them. Hilda was a stout, sour-faced woman who made certain Tira obeyed every edict Roderick set forth regarding her pregnancy. After losing two wives to childbirth, Roderick was taking no chances. Tira hadn’t left the tower room in two months.

Hilda did not allow William entrance until he moved aside slightly, giving the maid a view of Rose. Hilda fluttered a hand over her ample bosom and threw the door wide. “You’re finally here!”

When William started to follow Rose inside, Hilda blocked his way. “The master says I admit no one except him or Miss Rose.”

Rose patted her comfortingly. “Worry not. Lord Strathwick is a skilled healer.”

But Hilda did not look convinced. Her brows lowered and her thick lips pursed together in a flat line, but she let him pass.

Tira sat up in bed, her belly huge beneath the sheet. Her face was ruddy with pain, and damp hair clung to her temples. She glanced from Rose to William anxiously, her brows raised in worry.

“Good morn,” William said. “May I?” He indicated the stool beside her bed.

She nodded hesitantly. Long chestnut hair flowed over the snowy linen of her night rail and onto the bedding. Her skin was mildly scarred from smallpox, but it glowed with health, and her teeth were straight and white. She was a handsome woman, older than Rose by some years, a widow when Roderick had met her. She appeared downright robust to Rose—fully capable of delivering multiple weans with no harm to herself. Unfortunately, appearances were often deceiving.

After Rose made the introductions, she passed her hands quickly over Tira, assuring herself of her aunt’s and the wean’s health. Both mother and child were well. Rose placed her hands on Tira’s belly and found that the baby still had not turned.

The muscles contracted, bulging hard, and Tira gasped and cried out. Rose looked up at William. “The baby is still breech.”

“Can she give birth that way?” He looked uneasy, no doubt remembering Deidra’s disastrous birth.

“She’ll have to,” Rose said, comforted by William’s presence. The last breech birth she’d attended had been fatal for both mother and child.

“What does that mean? Am I going to die?” Tira cried, gritting her teeth against the pain. “It’s a monster, isn’t it? It’s too big! Oh, God!”

Hilda stood over the bed, her brow puckered in confusion. “It canna come until the master is here.”

Rose raised an amused brow. “That is of no concern to the babe—I vow it. He cares not at all whether his father is present or not. Besides, Uncle Roderick should not be present in the birthing room.”

Hilda’s gaze flew to William. “Then make him leave!”

“He’s a healer. We may have need of him if aught goes wrong.”

Tira moaned on the bed. “Oh God, Oh God!
Get it out!”

William murmured soothingly to her.

“We need sheets,” Rose said to the maid. “And while you’re fetching them, see if you can find my uncle.”

As Hilda left, Tira cried after her, “You must find him!” She clutched William’s arm as another contraction gripped her. When Rose moved to the bedside, Tira grabbed at her sleeve. “Rose, please. If he’s not here, I will die.”

Rose hushed her, stroking her hand gently over Tira’s damp hair. “Fash not, I’ve delivered many weans, and Lord Strathwick will not let you or your child die.”

William met her gaze grimly. He could not promise that, of course; he could promise only that one would live, but there was no reason to tell Tira that.

“No!” Tira cried, thrashing about on the bed. “You don’t understand—it will
kill
me! He put it in there—it’s unnatural! It’s a monster! You
must
find my husband!”

She screamed, gripping her stomach. After the contraction passed, William came to stand beside Rose. “What does she mean? A monster?”

“She’s mad from the pain,” Rose murmured.

He took her elbow and led her farther away from the bed. His expression was grave. “Which one, Rose? If it comes down to it, which one do I save?”