He moved behind her; she felt him like a fire, warming her along her back. When he spoke, his voice was close to her ear. “What is wrong, Rose? You are different.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Since the night at the Fraser stronghold you have avoided me.”
Rose said nothing, willing him away with her mind while her body longed for something else entirely.
His hand touched her hair briefly, then fell away. “What did I say that made you turn away?”
Her stomach clenched. She whispered, “You knew. How did you know?”
“What do I know?”
She forced the words through her tight throat, her wooden lips. “About me. You said so, at the Fraser stronghold, you said you knew why I’d thought such horrid things of Drake. That anyone would, considering. Considering what?”
His hand went to her shoulder, and she pressed her cheek harder against the stone to keep from turning to him.
“When someone draws such a conclusion as you did about Drake, there is a reason for their way of thinking. Someone hurt you once, when you were young. A man you trusted? He asked you to keep secrets?”
Rose bit her lips and squeezed her eyes tightly, but still the burning tear slipped between her lashes. She swiped it angrily away. So stupid to let it rule her still. In truth, she hadn’t thought it did until that night on the moor—but why else would she think such a thing, without at least exploring other possibilities? She’d lain herself open, showing everyone and herself the raw ugliness that still lived in her heart.
“I’m sorry, Rose.”
She snorted. “Why? It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours, either.”
“I know that,” she said, annoyed that her voice lacked conviction. “It’shisfault.”
“Whose?”
“My father’s,” she said through gritted teeth. “He’sthe one who sent me to Skye.He’sthe one who never noticed anything when he visited. And when I ran away—he sent me back.”
“And you didn’t tell him because it was a secret?”
She laughed softly, humorlessly, shaking her head against the stone. “I was stupid and young. And by the time I realized that, it was over and I was older, making other mistakes that were entirely my fault.”
His hand on her shoulder tightened, then he drew her back, against his chest. She resisted at first, then gave in to him, leaning into his warmth, glad her face was hidden from him. She burned with shame and desire. She wanted him to hold her, didn’t care what his reasons were, so long as he didn’t let go tonight. He wrapped both arms around her, and she hugged the rounded muscle of his arm, turning her face into his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool of his plaid.
They stood that way for a long while. Rose’s heart grew calm, enveloped in the warmth and scent of him, his chin resting against the crown of her head. She closed her eyes and imagined herself wed to him. It would be a difficult life at Strathwick, but they suited well, she thought, and he liked her well enough. They were both healers. She could help him.
The locket seemed to burn into her breast. She already had a betrothed. But she hardly knew him, only remembered a dirty-faced boy with toads and rats. Shewanted the man behind her, holding her until time stood still in his arms. But how did one ask for a man?
“Tell me about your wife,” she said, then regretted the words immediately when he drew away from her.
She turned toward him, bereft and cold without his arms around her. He gazed steadily at her, his eyes black in the shadows of the battlement.
“Why?”
“Because I know so little about you and would know more, if you’d tell me.”
“I told you before. There’s nothing to tell. She was a girl—sixteen when we wed. I was one and twenty and not much interested in her. We’d been betrothed for several years, though. She was pretty; Deidra looks like her…in the eyes and mouth….” He inhaled heavily, looking down at his hands, now fisted against the embrasure. “I hardly knew her. I didn’t even try. And she was my wife.”
Rose drew closer, studying his face, the tightness of his jaw. “You said she died in childbirth. Were you not there to heal her?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was there. Deidra was breech and wouldn’t come out. The midwife said they both would die. I’d heard of babies being cut out of their mothers before…though the mothers do not survive. But I was not concerned with that, aye? I could heal her, right?” He slanted Rose a bitter look, his mouth curved into a humorless smile that did nothing to mask the pain this caused him. “Arrogant of me. Amber begged me to save her baby, so I ordered the midwife to cut it out. She refused.” He looked away, his throat working. “So I did.”
Rose put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She’d delivered many babies—and lost both mother and child before—and not once had she considered cutting them out. But then, she wasn’t William MacKay either, able to heal with touch. Such arrogance could be excused.
