“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.
Chapter 4
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 toher,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, butIwill 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.
