Dumhnull hesitated, glaring at his master before stalking to the kitchens. Rose watched his retreating back before returning her attention to the MacKay chief.
Strathwick’s face grew serious as he regarded Rose steadily beneath thick black brows. He was younger than Rose had expected, not much older than herself, it seemed. She was twenty. He couldn’t be over five and twenty. He was tall and well formed—not as pleasing to look upon as the groom, though some would argue, she suspected. He was dressed carelessly, a once-fine plaid slung about his shoulders. His trews were worn, and his quilted leather vest had a tear in it.
“Now, woman. What is so important that you threaten to murder one of my people?”
Rose swallowed convulsively at the reminder of her earlier debacle. She glanced quickly and longingly toward the kitchens, wishing for Dumhnull’s sympathetic presence, then squared her shoulders, passing a hand over her hair. She was dirty and mussed now, but there was no help for it.
“My lord, I meant her no harm, truly. I was desperate. I had to see you. I’ve been writing to you for months—have you not received my letters?”
He gazed thoughtfully at the screen that blocked the kitchen from view. Rose leaned toward him slightly to recapture his flagging attention.
“I wrote you every week. We sent a man, too. Iknowhe arrived.” She pointed to the balding blond man who stood near the entrance. She knew he’d looked familiar.“Heis the earl of Kincreag’s man. We sent him to fetch you back to Glen Laire, but he never returned.” She sent the blond man a disapproving look. “We were worried he’d been hurt.”
Lord Strathwick’s harsh countenance did not ease. “And my lack of response to your missives…to what did you attribute that?”
Rose hesitated. “I…I didn’t know.” She felt foolish suddenly. Because she had written him so often and had once sent a terribly personal letter, she’d felt certain that when she spoke with him, was able to look into his eyes, there would be some recognition there. Some kinship—healer to healer. But there was nothing of friendship in this man’s eyes. He seemed confused and annoyed.
She moistened her dry mouth. “You read none of my letters?”
Dumhnull returned with two pewter tankards, fragrant steam rising from them. He handed one to Strathwick. “Tasted, of course,” he said, a mocking tone to his voice. Strathwick gave him a strange look, but Dumhnull had already turned to offer Rose the second tankard.
She took the warm tankard between her palms and smiled gratefully at him. He studied her briefly, his eyes slightly narrowed, before returning to his position behind her. She felt his presence there, as warm and reassuring as the mulled wine spreading through her.
Strathwick sipped from his tankard, swinging the foot that dangled over the side of the chair. Then, as if he’d forgotten she stood before him, his gaze lighted on her. “What were you saying?”
Rose made a small sound of disbelief. In all her imaginings she’d never supposed the MacKay chief would be so incredibly rude. But she was the supplicant here.
“I pray you, my lord. I ken my actions were harsh, but I vow my intent was never to harm. I, too, am a healer. But I’m desperate. My father is dying. Nothing helps. No one can fathom what is wrong with him.” Her throat constricted, her vision blurred. “I pray you to aid him. The reward will be great.”
The chief’s expression remained aloof. “There is nothing you have that I want.”
Rose spread her hands, taking a hesitant step forward. “There must be something? The resources of the MacDonells are not insignificant. The earl of Kincreag offers rewards, as does my betrothed.”
Lord Strathwick waved this away. “I have no need of money.”
“There are…other things.”
His gaze slid behind her, then back to her. He raised a sardonic brow for her to continue.
She sipped nervously at her wine. For some odd reason she was compelled to glance over her shoulder at Dumhnull. He stared back at her impassively. She didn’t want to say this in front of him, but there was no help for it. Besides, his master was a wizard. Surely such things would not trouble him.
She turned back to the chief. “My sisters are powerful witches. One can divine the past or future, the other speaks with the dead. Their gifts are at your disposal.”
Strathwick considered her thoughtfully. “Dumhnull. What think you? Have we any need for divining? Any ghosts who need exorcising?”
“You ask me, my lord? What could my humble opinion matter?”
Rose cringed at the sarcasm in the groom’s voice and looked warily to the chief. But he only seemed amused.
“It matters a great deal to me, as she appears to know you, and yet I cannot fathom when you might have met.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “My lord, I beg you not to punish him. He showed me naught but kindness and warned me away from petitioning you.”
Strathwick looked at Dumhnull with mock astonishment. He swung his foot from the chair arm and leaned forward, gazing at her with new interest. “He did? Pray tell when this occurred.”
Rose glanced apologetically at the groom. He stared at the ground, his broad chest rising in a deep sigh. She was causing him trouble and she’d not meant to. Shesupposed it was partly his own fault, too. If he only sounded a bit more contrite and a bit less recalcitrant, he might save himself worse punishment.
“Uhm…last night. He took me to the blacksmith for food and shelter.”
