My Shadow Warrior (6 page)

“What was that?” he asked sharply, his arm tensing beneath her hand.

She looked up at him, surprised. “What was what?”

“What you did with your hand there?”

Rose dropped her hands and stepped back, flustered. No one ever seemed to pay any mind to what she did during an examination. All thought she healed through skill alone. He was the first to notice anything different.

“Nothing,” she lied. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He continued to frown at her for a moment, then looked back down at his bare arm. Rose debated what to do. There was nothing wrong with this man’s elbow. Even without the benefit of her magic she could see it was functional—no bruising, swelling, or discoloration. This must be a ploy to spend time with her again, and she was flattered. She enjoyed his company and felt no small amount of attraction for him. She’d grown somewhat jaded over the past few years, so although she was no stranger to flirtations—especially from her male patients—she rarely returned the interest. This felt different somehow, wicked and unsafe, but darkly alluring. She decided to play along, refusing to deny herself the pleasure of his presence, however unwise the decision.

She gestured to an overturned bucket. “Have a seat and I’ll put some liniment on it. It should feel better in the morning. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried out of the stable, returning to the blacksmith’s cottage and retrieving her pot of liniment. She found herself sprinting back to the stable, as if she feared he would leave if she was gone too long. She stopped herself just outside and caught her breath, not wanting him to notice how she’d exerted herself. She knew her behavior was unconscionable. She was betrothed. He was a bastard and a stable hand, for heaven’s sake. And yet for this moment, she didn’t particularly care about any of that. She was enjoying herself, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d found real enjoyment in anything.

Inside the stable Dumhnull waited on the bucket, his shirtsleeve rolled up to his muscled biceps. Rose stared at him in the gloaming, her breathing disturbed by the sight of him. He was so very large—he seemed to fill the small stable, even crouched on a bucket. Such a fine-looking man. No wonder he was overbold for one of his station—she doubted even a princess would be offended by his interest. He looked up at her, shadowed eyes fringed with such thick lashes, set deep beneath thick black brows.

She realized she stared rudely and came briskly forward, kneeling beside him. “Give me your arm.”

He gave it to her. As she rubbed the strong-scented liniment into his elbow, she felt his gaze on her, weighty, nearly a physical thing, as if he touched her. Her skin reacted all over, warm and prickly.

He said, “We did not mock you.”

Rose looked up at him quizzically, then immediately realized her mistake. Their faces were inches apart. She returned her gaze to her work, to the strong bulge of muscle above the bend of his elbow. She could see the veins in it, protruding slightly, dark blue. The skin in the crease of his elbow was soft and tender, such a contrast to the rough, muscular man before her.

“What are you talking about?” she mumbled.

“Your letters. You were wroth earlier, thinking we mocked you. I want you to know that is not what happened at all.”

“You’re still worried about that? I’m not,” she lied blithely. “It doesn’t matter what Lord Strathwick thought, does it? He won’t help me. It’s behind me now. Let him laugh his arse off at my letters.”

He let out an irritated breath. “He did not laugh, and I certainly didn’t either.”

She gave him a perceptive smile, amused by his attempts to flatter her. She was leaving tomorrow and he knew it. She couldn’t imagine what he hoped to accomplish here tonight. A roll in the hay? He wouldn’t succeed, but she enjoyed his attempt.

He was silent for a moment. “You are a courageous woman, to come all this way alone.”

Again, she made the mistake of glancing up and being caught in his darkly beautiful gaze. Her heart already raced from touching him so freely, savoring it, in fact, her fingers kneading into his supple skin. It struck her that she was being far too nonchalant about this game, pretending she could control it. She’d played it before and lost—and this time she had a betrothed. Had she no wits?

She stood and backed away, wiping her fingers on her skirts. “That should help.”

He stood, too, looking at his arm for a moment before rolling his sleeve back down and snagging his doublet from where he’d dropped it on the ground. “My thanks, Mistress MacDonell. You’re a fine healer.”

She nodded, finding it suddenly difficult to meet his gaze. The room seemed stuffy and close, her skin over-warm. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and stood aside to let him pass, but he didn’t pass. He stopped in front of her.

One of his long fingers touched her beneath her chin, tilting her face upward so she was forced to look at him. She should not allow him to touch her with such familiarity. She should demand he remove his hand and leave. But she did nothing of the sort. Her skin beneath his fingers tingled, her heart trembled in anticipation.

She met his gaze as it swept over her upturned face, and waited for him to kiss her, knowing she would let him, knowing she’d walked into this trap willingly, knowingly—eagerly.

But he didn’t kiss her; he just gazed down at her, his expression dark and unfathomable. Then he sighed deeply and regretfully. “I wish the world were different, Mistress MacDonell. I really do.” He dragged his fingers along her jaw, let them drop to his side.

And then he left her standing there, blinking in disbelief and disappointment, her heart still stuttering against her ribs, skin burning where he’d touched her.

A frantic pounding ripped Rose from the grips of another nightmare. Rain chattered on the thatching. She inhaled sharply, peat smoke choking her. The small smoke hole in the thatching had been stopped up to keep the rain out and the warmth in.

The blacksmith stumbled out of bed and threw the door open.

“Is the healer still here?” a desperate voice asked.

Rose pushed herself up. “Aye, I am.”

A boy darted under the blacksmith’s arm. “You must come! My sister is dying!”

Rose had not bothered to undress, so she slipped on her shoes, threw her arisaid over her head, grabbed her wooden box, and followed the boy into the rain. He led her to a cottage at the edge of the small village. The door opened immediately at their knock. A painfully thin woman stood there, her damp, hollowed eyes passing over Rose and the boy, scanning the emptiness behind them. Her face fell when she realized they were alone.

“Where’s the MacKay?” she asked.

“He won’t come,” the boy said.

Rose gritted her teeth.
Some healer
. Had he not said to her,
I certainly cannot go hieing off to heal strangers when people I know are in need?
And here, one of his own people was dying and he couldn’t trouble himself. For the first time she began to believe that perhaps his miraculous healing was nothing more than fakery.

She put her anger aside and placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Lord Strathwick might not be here, but
I
will do my best for your child.”

The woman shook her head, hands over her mouth, as if holding back a scream. She pulled away from Rose and dashed out into the storm.

The boy looked after his mother morosely. Water dripped from the dark hair plastered to his head, making tracks down his cheeks. “She’ll be back.”

“Where is she going?”

“To stand outside the castle and scream. We all do that.”

“Does it work?” Rose remembered Tadhg’s story about Betty’s husband, how he’d stood outside the castle and threatened to murder Strathwick if he didn’t come heal his wife.

“Sometimes.” The boy took Rose’s hand and led her to the back of the cottage. A small child lay upon the large bed, plaids and furs smothering her. He gazed at his sister with large, worried eyes. “Her name is Ailis. She’s six.”

Rose pulled most of the coverings off and tossed them aside. Ailis was a small girl with a mop of dirty blond hair curling around her face. She was very red, her skin alarmingly hot to the touch, and clear fluid drained from her nostrils. Every inhalation rattled through her narrow chest.

Rose sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. Her heart twisted with the knowledge that this was most likely an ailment she could not help, but she refused to dwell on that until she knew for certain. She forced everything else from her mind—the rain, her father, Strathwick, Dumhnull—and the calm settled over her. Sometimes it was difficult to do, but when the situation was urgent, as this was, no matter how upset or anxious she was, she could always focus quickly.

The magic curled inside her, twisting and turning like a serpent. She opened her eyes and the world was different. She placed her hands just over the child’s head, cupping it but not touching it. The color around her hands was a pale yellow overlaid with a vivid angry red from the child’s fever. She continued over the face to the throat, where she paused. A blackness clouded the throat. She continued down the rest of the body and saw nothing else.

She returned to the throat to examine it now with her eyes, rather than magic. The throat was swollen beneath the jaw. Rose pressed on it and the child moaned fretfully. Rose motioned the hovering boy to fetch her box. He moved quickly, setting it on the bed beside her. She found her glass and a candle. She bade him to light it at the fireplace.

“I need you to hold this near her mouth so I can see.”

He nodded and did as she bid. Rose opened the child’s mouth. When she moved close, a sickly sweet odor assailed her, sending her back to her box to tie a handkerchief around her face and nose. Thus protected, she peered inside the child’s mouth, motioning to the boy several times to move the candle about so she could view it from different angles. Then she took her glass and peered through it, using the base of a spoon to depress Ailis’s tongue. She saw it then, the thick gray membrane spanning the back of the swollen throat. Her heart contracted with the knowledge that this small, sweet girl would probably die and there was little she could do to prevent that eventuality.

She composed her expression, then shooed the boy away. “Stay back, lad. No need for you to get ill, too.”

“My name is Lucas and I want to help my sister.”

Rose forced a smile and squeezed his thin wrist. “You’ve been a great help to us both, but I need you to stay away now, aye?”

He nodded, large dark eyes grave, and backed away to crouch in the shadows and ashes beside the hearth.

Rose sat on the bed, gazing at the child. Bull throat. She quickly scanned her memory for possible remedies, but defeat settled hard on her shoulders as she realized there was nothing she could do but attempt to make the child comfortable. It was the curse of her hands, to show her what was wrong, even when she could do nothing. If it was a cancer or a wound—even a festering one—there was much Rose could do, but with an illness like Ailis’s Rose was as helpless as any other healer. She could try to bring the fever down and ease her patient’s discomfort, but beyond that, it was in God’s hands. The magic still constricted her chest, curling down to knot uselessly in the pit of her belly. She closed her eyes and willed it away before it made her sick and weak.

When the mother returned Rose was boiling water at the fireplace for an infusion. The mother was filthy, mud splattered her skirts, her coarse gown soaked, her hair straggling around her face. Her eyes were empty. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her child.

“How long has she been like this?” Rose asked softly.

“Last night she said her throat hurt, but she seemed fine today. Then…then this…” The woman’s voice was dull. Her empty gaze met Rose’s. “What’s wrong with her?”

Rose licked her lips. “Morbus suffocus—bull throat. I’ve seen it before.”

“Bull throat…” The woman looked back at her daughter, her eyes wide with horror. “Will she die?”

Rose bit her lip. “I don’t know.” It was a lie, but Rose couldn’t take away the mother’s hope, especially when in some part of her heart she had not yet released hope. But the fact was, Ailis would most likely die. Certainly people pulled through even the direst illnesses, but rarely children as small and frail as Ailis. The last person she’d seen with bull throat had suffocated—a man, hale and strong. His throat had swollen, and a black, leathery membrane had formed, closing his throat off. When Rose had removed the membrane, he’d bled, almost drowning in his own blood. The membrane had re-formed, and he’d died a horrible death.

Rose rubbed a trembling hand over her mouth at the memory, chilled by a deep reluctance to relive it through this small child. She pushed it away and fisted her hands to ward off the shaking. This was what she did. She was all Ailis had now, and she would do her best for the child, however paltry that aid might be.

“My lord is not coming, is he?” the woman said, her voice empty, resigned. “He’s punishing us for hunting him.” Tears tracked her face.

Rose knelt beside the woman and took her hands, squeezing them firmly. “Aye, I’m sorry to say it looks that way. There’s naught we can do about that now, though. We cannot force him to do what he doesn’t wish to—and it would be foolish to sit about and wait for a miracle. We must act now to help your daughter. I need your help. Will you help me?” She gave the woman’s hands another hard squeeze. “What is your name?”

She was a few years older than Rose’s twenty years. She looked so lost and empty, but her gaze focused on Rose. “I am Iona, and I will do anything you ask, cut out my own heart if it means saving Ailis.”

Rose choked back her emotion, putting it firmly where it belonged—deep in the recesses of her heart, to be examined later, when this was over. But not now. “Well met, Iona. Let’s get busy.”

Rose stayed with Ailis through the night. She wiped the child’s small, delicate limbs with rags dipped in cool water and gave her infusions of willow bark for the fever, cantharis for the swelling, and monkshood to assuage her pain and help her sleep. When the moon rose, hope filled Rose that this time she’d made a difference. The child’s fevered skin had cooled and the swelling was reduced. But around midnight, Ailis began to wheeze. Rose opened the child’s mouth and peered inside. The membrane nearly covered the throat.

She checked Ailis’s fingernails. Pale blue. She turned to her box as if in a dream, her heart beating slow and calm. This time she would do it. She couldn’t watch Ailis suffer a horribly painful death, would not force Iona through it. She took out the bottle of laudanum, stared at it for a long moment.

“What is it? What’s wrong with her?” Iona asked, her voice still hopeful, still believing Rose could make a difference.

Rose replaced the laudanum in the box, choosing instead a small probe.

“I need your help again,” Rose said. “What I must do will hurt and frighten her, but it will help her breathe again. Please hold her down.”

Iona’s eyes widened, looking from the gleaming probe to the resolve in Rose’s eyes, and she nodded slowly, grasping her child’s limbs. She trusted Rose and would do anything Rose asked now.

Ailis struggled against her mother. Tears streamed down their faces. With Iona’s help Rose managed to push back part of the membrane, widening the opening. In the short term it caused Ailis to choke and cough terribly, but when the spasm passed, she breathed easier. For the moment.

Lucas still huddled in the corner, his face buried in his knees, thin arms wrapped tightly about his legs, as if trying to block out the horror of it. Iona lay close to Ailis, whispering how sorry she was. She looked up, meeting Rose’s eyes, and mouthed her thanks. For what? Rose wondered. For prolonging her daughter’s suffering? She had to look away from Iona’s grateful eyes, wondering why she still tried.

She sat by the bed all night, alternately pouring infusions down Ailis’s throat and battling the membrane. By morning it became impossible. Her efforts caused the child’s throat to bleed. A tracery of veins webbed her red cheeks, and a thin line of blood trickled from her nose. Ailis had not even struggled the last time Rose had attempted to remove the black and putrid membrane, so Rose had not needed Iona’s help. A blessing, that, as the odor had become so foul that it had sent the mother heaving in the chamber pot afterward.

Iona was asleep on the mattress beside her daughter. Rose wondered if she should wake her, for the end was surely near. Rose watched helplessly as Ailis’s small body strained to take in each breath, the fever burning her alive. Wallace had come a short time ago, peered in the door, then left with Lucas before Rose could give him a tongue lashing to take back to his master. How could Strathwick allow this child to suffer? Heartless, he was. Either that or a charlatan even more useless than she was. Even so, Rose was grateful the boy was gone. He should not have to witness his sister’s painful death.

Rose was for all purposes alone. Reluctantly, she took the bottle of laudanum in her hands. Enough of the dark poppy juice would give Ailis a painless death, a deep dark sleep from which she would never wake. Rose should have given it to her earlier, not made her and her mother suffer. A wave of hopelessness washed over Rose.
Useless.
She was useless to everyone. She wanted to help people live, not help them to an easier death, but what else could she do for the child?

She rarely gave in to self-indulgent bouts of despair, instead choosing to channel her frustration into working harder to heal the next person. But this…after all that had gone on before, her disappointment in Strathwick, the hopelessness of her father’s illness…it was too much. Her useless hands clutched the small bottle, pressing it hard into her stomach, trying to alleviate the hollow ache, shutting her eyes against the burning, clenching her teeth against the scream that threatened to rip from her throat.

She was leaning forward, making a keening sound, tears squeezing from her tightly closed eyes, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, tumbling from her stool beside the bed. She looked up from where she sprawled on the packed dirt floor.

Dumhnull stood above her, his face grim and taut, as if facing a terrible foe alone and unarmed but resigned to the necessity of it. Rose put a hand to her chest and let out the breath he’d startled out of her.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered. She started to get to her feet, but he squatted beside her.

He didn’t speak, studying her with grave eyes. He reached his hand out and took hers, pulling her fingers open and staring down at the vial of laudanum she held. He met her gaze again.

Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she heard herself saying. “I tried. I feel as if I should be able to do more, but I’m useless when it matters.”

He frowned slightly and made a soft sound to hush her. She quieted immediately, staring up at him, confused by his presence and yet comforted by it.

“It’s clear,” someone said at the door.