“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.” His 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 Iamstrange.”
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 I 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’d 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 that 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. Theporter 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 have been 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?”
