“Why did he send you to Skye?”
“Because Crisdean Beaton was there. My mother wanted him to tutor me. He was Fagan MacLean’s personal physician. A very fine healer.”
He frowned as he studied her expression. Rose tried to appear indifferent. She didn’t want to discuss this any longer—she’d never meant for their conversation to take this turn. She very much wanted to discourage any further probing, but she did not want to call attention to the fact that it upset her. She judged herself successful when his frown smoothed and he said, his voice bland, “And you learned well from him. What was that thing you did to me with your hands?”
Relieved, Rose raised a slightly amused brow. “You mean like that thing you did to Ailis withyourhands, before you healed her?”
The corners of his mouth deepened, and a very slight dimple indented his right cheek. “Aye, that’s it.”
Rose was powerless to do aught but smile in return, inexplicably thrilled she’d coaxed the grudging half-smile from him.
“I see colors,” she said. “They direct me to what ails someone, but naught else. You saw that I was helpless to heal Ailis.”
Strathwick nodded, his eyes lit with surprise and pleasure. “Ailis was pale yellow, aye? The fever a dark red—like merlot? The sickness in her throat was black. It had substance, too, it felt—”
“No, I felt nothing,” Rose said regretfully, and strangely she did regret it. For a moment, he’d seemed so pleased, asif discovering a kindred spirit. “The rest, though, aye, I saw that.”
He frowned. “You only see the colors? You don’t feel them?”
“That’s right. Youfeelthe colors?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly…or not the colors. But the ailments. They have form and substance.” He squinted at the terrain before them thoughtfully, then asked, his tone casual, “Have you ever been ill?”
“Not that I recall. Why?”
“As a healer, you are surrounded by illness. It would seem to follow that at times you become ill yourself.”
Rose had thought about that herself sometimes, but the truth was, she’d never even had the sniffles. She shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate.”
He slanted her a mysterious look, dark and full of unfathomable meaning, then looked away. “I’ve never been ill either,” he mused. “Outside of healing, that is.”
Rose waited for him to say more, but he only continued to meditate on the mountains. She rolled her lips, biting them, then finally gave in to the urge to ask him a question that had been nagging at her.
“I was wondering, my lord…how is your elbow complaint?”
He gave her a sour look. She tried to hide her smile but couldn’t. She laughed.
“Since you see the colors, you must also know there was naught wrong with my elbow. Ah, well.”
She had suspected but was inordinately pleased to hear him say it. “I thought it very sweet.” She looked down at her gloved hands. “I was growing rather fond ofDumhnull. I should have guessed he—er,youwere not a groom. You neither looked nor acted like one. In fact, I don’t think you even tried. Maybe you wanted me to discover you?”
The breeze rustled his silvered black hair as his blue eyes burned a slow trail over her. “Mayhap I did,” he murmured, his gaze resting on her mouth.
Her breath grew short and she looked away, to her horse’s mane. The way he looked at her made her burn inside, calling forth memories of his mouth on hers, his arms enfolding her. She gripped the pommel of her saddle to help ground herself. Did she want to do this again, entangle herself in another hopeless flirtation? No, not if it was hopeless. But was it? Her blood rushed, remembering how pleased he’d been to discover that she also saw the colors. Perhaps not hopeless.
She was betrothed, she reminded herself. She belonged to another man. Contracts had been signed, promises made. She shook her head at her wayward thoughts. So stupid to worry about these things, when he’d done nothing more than kiss her. She resolved to put it from her mind unless he gave her good reason not to.
By nightfall they had descended into a narrow forested glen, where they camped for the night. As the only other female present, Rose led Deidra to a nearby stream to wash. She combed the tangles out of the child’s hair while Deidra squirmed and protested until Rose produced a blue ribbon and held it enticingly in front of her face. The child’s eyes crossed trying to focus on it, her mouth a small O of wonder.
Rose laughed. “I’ll put it in your hair and you’ll be the prettiest lass your father has ever seen.”
Deidra grew rigid as a board, staring straight ahead as if made of stone. Rose smiled to herself and resumed combing the thousand knots from the black curls.
“Who combs your hair every night and morning?” Rose asked.
“I do!”
Rose paused in her ministrations, mildly shocked. “Who dresses you?”
