Excerpt from
My Shadow Warrior
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Chapter 2 Strathwick Castle, Northern Highlands, a fortnight later. "My lord? She's still out there. In the rain." William flicked a disinterested glance at the large scarred man-at-arms standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. The rather incongruous sight gave him a brief prick of amusement. When he made no response, Wallace went on, "She'll catch her death, she will. At least let me show her to the stables." William's brother Drake made a rude noise. He lounged in William's chair before the fire, a leg slung over the carved arm, jet black hair gleaming in the firelight. "Serves her right if she does catch her death. It's not my lord's fault if she's stupid enough to stand out in the rain like a coof." "She's not stupid," William said. The carved wooden box on his desk drew his gaze. "She'll get out of the rain eventually." He gaze swept the room. "Leave me." Drake stood and stretched, but didn't leave. When the others were gone he gave William a keen look. "You're acting strange." "Rumor has it I am strange." Drake lifted a shoulder and palm to acknowledge that. "Aye, well, more so than usual. You seem preoccupied since the MacDonell lass arrived." That was true but William didn't mean to discuss it with Drake. "I'm well enough." Drake hesitated, as if there was more he wanted to say but finally left. Alone at last, William crossed the room to his desk. He rested a hand on the wooden box, pensive. Why had he kept that letter? He'd burned all her others. He tapped the lid of the box. The musing question repeated itself with each tap of his fingers against the wood. Why? Why? Why? He removed the letter and held it in his hand, still folded, still bearing the broken red wax and her bold scrawl: Deliver to Lord William MacKay of Strathwick. He had known immediately something was wrong when he'd received this letter. All her letters were full of desperation and pleading-and authority. Her father was dying. He was her only hope. God commanded it of him. Her audacity made him smile. But still, he'd burned all the others. It had never occurred to him to reply. This letter, however, had been different. His name across the front was uneven, scrawled, lacking the brazen confidence of the others. He strolled to the fireplace, fingers caressing the parchment. He stared down at the folded letter. Feed it to the flames. Instead he sat, leaning back in his chair, and unfolded it for perhaps the hundredth time since receiving it. My dearest Lord Strathwick, Why do you ignore me? I know you must be used to such requests. You must receive scores of them with regularity and I ken I'm just another hopeful petitioner. It is impossible on parchment to convey my earnest need for you. I can only tell you that I, too, am a healer and every soul I lose is a burden to my conscience. At first, I didn't suppose a man possessing the miracle of healing by touch could understand that, but then recalled that even the Saints endured trials. You are a man with a divine gift, but you are still a man. I know that at times you must feel helpless and alone as I do now. I cannot tell you the circumstances that separated my family for twelve years, but I have only just regained them, and I am now losing my father to a mysterious ailment. The loss of my mother was the catalyst for the events that tore my sisters and I from my father and each other. That is all can say of that. I cannot bear to lose my father now when there's still so much unfinished. I feel so impotent when it seems as if there must be something I could do. Why would God give me this gift, then make it impossible to help those I loved the most? It vexes me terribly. Surely you can understand this and as a fellow healer will grant me this boon? My hand has run away with me. I plead like a fool and make little sense. I think to tear this letter to shreds and start anew, but I fear, you do not read them anyway, so what matter? Your friend eternally, Rose MacDonell From the House of Lochlaire on x June The year of our Lord 1597 William inhaled deeply, carefully refolding the parchment and tapping it against his thigh. He had replied to this letter. Twice. He'd burned both versions. That was the only reason he saved this letter, he told himself, and not very convincingly. Because the rawness of it-as if she'd opened a vein and bled onto the parchment for him alone-deserved an answer. And yet everything he wrote in response was inadequate, mere dressing to cushion the force of his reply. No. He would not help her. And she would not accept that answer. He lifted the letter so firelight reflected off the smooth surface of the parchment, smudged now from his many readings. She was here now, outside his walls. Would he really send her away without even talking to her? Without looking upon the face that had written these words? It seemed wrong to invite her in, to give her hope, and yet he needed to see her. It was a physical pull, a hole that somehow wanted filling. He rubbed the corner of the letter thoughtfully against his chin. Perhaps there was a way. # Rose's clothes were soaked through so that she shivered violently, her teeth chattering, but still she sat in the meager protection of the gatehouse, rainwater pooling about her feet and bottom. She could see faint lights from the village, but the rain and fog obscured the cottages. Logic told her to get to her feet, walk to the village, and seek shelter. Her horse stood over her, head down, the rain beating onto her back. Rose had told the porter to inform Lord Strathwick that she wasn't leaving until he spoke with her. The porter had warned her she would drown first, but she waited stubbornly. Her mother had always said she was obstinate, that when she got an idea in her head, she refused to let loose of it. She buried her face in her cold wet hands as another violent shiver racked her. It had taken a fortnight to get here, and not through easy terrain. It had been long and grueling and she'd done it alone, disguised as a lad. She'd looked forward to company on the return trip, eagerly anticipated long conversations with Strathwick about healing. Perhaps he'd even be willing to teach her something. Fool! And still she sat, stubborn as an ass. She'd said she wouldn't leave until she spoke to him and by God, she'd drown before she left this spot. Judging by the puddle forming around her it appeared that might actually occur. Laughter rippled through her unexpectedly. "Miss? Are you unwell?" The deep masculine voice startled her so a jolt went through her. She dropped her hands and squinted upward, pushing back the sopping brim of her hat. A man towered over her, his plaid pulled over his head, shielding him from the rain and her scrutiny. His face was but a dark shadow, the features indistinct, leaving her only with the impression of great height and breadth. "Just drowning," she said, then bit back a foolish smile. He said nothing for a long moment, staring down at her. Though the dark and the plaid hid his expression, she sensed he frowned at her. Probably thought she was mad. Perhaps she was. "Come," he said, his deep voice kind but impersonal. "You must get out of the rain." His sudden presence and concern sparked hope. "Inside the castle?" "No, I know someone in the village who will give you a place before their fire." Rose sighed. "My thanks, but I'm not moving." She frowned up at him thoughtfully. "Are you from the castle? I didn't see anyone cross the bridge." He hesitated then nodded. "Aye, I work in the stables." "Tell your master he can throw my bloated corpse in the moat when I drown. I'm not moving." "I doubt he'll want your body floating in his moat, making the place smell, but make no mistake, you will die out here before he'll see you." Rose's heart sank and she found herself perilously close to tears for the first time in weeks. She'd held out such hope that Strathwick was the answer to her prayers, had traveled so far, for it to come to this. There was nothing more to do. Her father's cause was lost. She held out her hand, resigned that she'd lost another battle. He stared at it for a moment, then grasped it. He was solid and warm and again she felt a wave of despair, along with the urge to sob her story on this nice groom's shoulder. He pulled her to her feet and abruptly dropped her hand. She turned and gazed up at the tall walls, at the black clouds boiling above. "Can you tell me why he won't answer my letters? Why he won't even speak to me?" The man had taken her horse's reins and had already turned Moireach around, ready to lead her across the bridge to the village. "I know not, miss. I just work in the stables." Rose turned to get a good look at her new friend. He was very tall, a head taller than her at least. His hair was dark, but that was all she could discern with his plaid covering it. He was a fine looking man, clean-shaven, with dark eyes and a strong unsmiling mouth. He had the broad thick shoulders of someone used to hard work. His trews and boots were faded, though well-made. "What is your name, sir, so I might thank you for your kindness." She slanted a poisonous glance at the castle. "You are far kinder than your master." "Dumhnull." "Well met, Dumhnull. My name is Rose and you can tell your master that I will be back on the morrow." She looked upward and grimaced. "But for tonight, I think you're right. He cannot speak to a dead woman, can he?" Dumhnull had yet to smile at her, and though he didn't now she thought perhaps there was a softening to his stern mouth. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, then shut on an exhalation. Finally he raised his dark brows and said, "No, miss, I suppose he cannot." There was a curious note of forbearance in his voice, but before she could question it, he inclined his head for her to follow him. She trudged after him, keeping her head down. The brim of her floppy hat bobbed with each step. It had long ceased protecting her from the deluge. Her hair was thoroughly soaked beneath the hat, plastered to her head and streaming in rivulets down the sides of her face and neck. She shivered convulsively, eagerly anticipating dry clothes and a warm fire. They crossed the bridge and passed several cottages before he stopped near one. Fresh thatching repelled the rain so it flowed down to shower on the ground. Bags of sand pressed up against the base of the dark stones, preventing the rain from seeping underneath. He nodded at it. "The blacksmith and his wife live there. They'll feed you and give you a place to sleep." "My thanks, friend." Rose reached for the reins, but when her fingers closed over the leather he didn't release them. She stood rather close to him. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. Blue, brilliant as a sapphire and just as startling. She stared for a long moment and he stared back. His gaze moved over her face in a manner over bold for a mere groom. Rose felt a moment of panic, her sisters' warnings echoing through her mind. He knew she was alone and unprotected. She held his gaze without wavering and tugged on the reins. He released them and averted his eyes to scan the sky. "You really should be on your way in the morn, if the rain clears." "I thank you for your warnings, but I cannot." She gave him a speculative look from beneath her lashes. "Would you be willing to help me, Dumhnull?" "How?" "Sneak me in?" He appeared scandalized at the suggestion. "Nay-you'd not want to do that, miss. Have you not heard the tales? He's a wizard, he's evil." "Idle gossip spread by ignorant rustics. I pay it no heed." He glanced around cautiously, then leaned in closer. She resisted the urge to step back. An uncomfortable fluttering had begun in her belly. He was so very large and she was very much alone. Though he'd shown her nothing but kindness, his proximity unnerved her. But if he had any inappropriate intentions it did not behoove her to show fear. She knew from experience that to men with mischief in mind, fear was oft an aphrodisiac, whereas courage nearly always discouraged them. "The villagers have tried to lynch him several times. He doesn't dare leave the castle." Rose's mouth opened on an exhalation as she gazed up at her new friend. "But I mean him no harm. I-I know about that, about lynching. Not myself," she hastened to add when he drew back from her warily. "I-well, someone I knew." He shook his head firmly. "Your sympathy is wasted, lass. Go home." She gazed helplessly at him, but he just backed away. "Ask the blacksmith. He knows. He'll tell you true. But do not mention that anyone from the castle sent you. They hate us all." She frowned at the cozy cottage, beckoning to her as she shivered in the rain. When she turned back, Dumhnull was gone.
Copyright 2005 © Jen Holling
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