“No miracle—the devil’s work. He made her into a witch.”
“Really?” Rose said, skeptical. “How do you know? What did she do?”
“She told old Gannon that if the weather turned, his chickens would die. Sure enough, when it got cold last winter, two chickens did die. Allister also said that sometimes he saw her staring at his arm, or his foot, and the next day, he’d have cramps in the limb she’d been staring at. ’She be giving you the evil eye,’ I said to him. So he turned her out, and several others drove her into the woods. But did she leave? No, she’s withhimnow. A married woman, living in sin with the chief.”
Rose raised her brows but didn’t respond. Married or not, they’d exiled poor Betty. Rose couldn’t blame her for going to her chief for succor. It was a terrible pass they’d come to if a wife could no longer look at her husband without being suspected of witchcraft.
They finished eating, and Rose had a look in Tadhg’s mouth. His breath was foul, and no wonder—he had a rotting tooth. She extracted it for him and packed the socket with a poultice, giving him instructions to bite down and not talk until the morning, when she would have another look. She waved away his wife’s profuse thanks, glad she was able to repay the couple’s kindness.
Rose bedded down before the fire with several chickens, a pig, and a large goose. She found she could not sleep, in spite of the comfortable bed and full belly. She was besieged by thoughts of Lord Strathwick and Dumhnull and all Tadhg had said. She remembered Isobel’s vision and was more convinced than ever that if she could only speak to the MacKay chief face-to-face she could convince him to aid her. He was not without mercy or kindness, otherwise he’d have left Betty to her fate—both times.
When Tadhg’s peaceful snores joined the general snuffling, scratching, and rooting of the animals, Rose slid out from beneath the warmth of her blanket. The rain had stopped. She’d brought a clean shift and gown and had kept them dry by wrapping them in oiled canvas.
She dressed quietly before the fire, putting her boy’s boots on and carrying her finer slippers. She brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it behind her head. She had no looking glass, so she smoothed her hands over her hair to be certain it was presentable. She had scrubbed her face and hands before she’d lain down. She felt like a warrior donning his armor before a great battle, except her armor was the trappings of femininity. She could only hope he would find her pleasing and feel pity for her plight.
She left coins on the blacksmith’s table, gathered her things, and left the cottage. Moireach was stabled behind the cottage with the blacksmith’s mule and goats. Rose decided to leave her there for now. She was determined to find a way in to Strathwick and it would be easier without a horse in tow.
She hurried along in the dark. She wore a dark plaid wrapped around her to aid in blending into the misty darkness. At the bridge leading to Strathwick she crouched low to the ground. Torches lit the ramparts, and two men-at-arms made a slow circuit of the walls. She tracked their path, and when they disappeared, she sprinted, racing across the bridge and up the path, stopping only when she was in the shelter of the wall. She pressed herself against it, breathing hard, her breath pluming out before her in a cloud. She clapped a plaid-covered hand over her mouth to hide it.
Her heart hammered in her ears as she waited. When she was certain she’d not been sighted, she crept along the berm, staying close to the wall. Dumhnull had left the castle somehow, and not through the gatehouse, as she’d been sitting by it and would have seen him.
She glanced upward. The sky was thick and hazy, the air close with moisture. It would rain again soon, and if she didn’t get inside, her good gown would be ruined. Then how would she look presenting herself to Lord Strathwick?
She walked for some time, circling the castle and passing two drum towers before arriving at a postern door. There was no porter window on this door, so they’d have to open it if they wanted to see who was there.
She stood there for several minutes, heart racing, considering what she would say when they opened the door. What more could she utter that she hadn’t already? Not a single plea had moved them. She would have to use force. She pressed her palm to her forehead. She was not a short woman, but she was thin, always had been. That did not mean she was weak, but still, she was no match for a man-at-arms. She bolstered herself. Speed and surprise would be her ally. She could do this. For her father.
She drew her dirk from her boot and set her bundle aside. She took a deep breath, preparing herself, and hid the dirk in the folds of her skirt. She hammered on the door purposefully.
It opened almost immediately, as if someone waited on the other side. She rushed in the open door. A woman stood on the other side, her mouth opened in almost comical surprise.
She came at Rose, frantically trying to push her back out the open doorway. Rose quickly sidestepped, pressing herself against the wall just inside the door.
“Oh, no! You must go!” The woman grabbed Rose’s arm and tried dragging her.
The woman was shorter than Rose was, but stouter. Still, when Rose dug in her heels, the woman could not budge her.
“I’m going nowhere until I speak with Lord Strathwick.”
The woman ran away, shouting for help. Rose panicked. Men-at-arms would come, prepared to deal with an intruder, and she would be thrown out or worse. Rose sprinted after the woman, fear spurring her to recklessness.
The woman was easily caught but not so easily restrained. She fought, arms flailing, screaming and scratching. Rose grappled desperately with her as two men appeared, afraid she might inadvertently stab the woman or herself in the battle.
The men were wrapped in green-and-brown wool plaids, bristling with weapons, their expressions forbidding. One seemed vaguely familiar. He had pale blond hair thinning at the crown and a ragged scar on his cheek. Rose’s heart surged. She grabbed the woman’s hair, yanking her head back. The woman screeched in pain. Rose pressed the dirk to her throat.
“Be still, woman, before I cut you,” Rose hissed in her ear. Even to her own ears she sounded dangerously unstable.
The woman finally grew still, though she trembled and moaned.
The men stopped in their tracks, hands out in a calming gesture. The other man was younger, a comely man, with thick black hair and dark, angry eyes. He had drawn his sword and looked ready to hack her in two. So much for looking pitiful.
Rose looked from one man to the other, her hand shaking so violently that she feared she would nick the woman inadvertently. She glared at the men. “Take me to Lord Strathwick or I slit her gullet.” Rose would never do such a thing, but it sounded sufficiently threatening, and she was desperate.
Apparently some of that desperation showed in her eyes. The men exchanged an alarmed look. The dark man lowered his sword but did not sheath it.
The blond man took a deep breath, his hands still out in a calming gesture. “Put it down, Mistress MacDonell. No need to hurt anyone.”
Rose nearly dropped her dirk in astonishment. He knew her name! But there was no time to ask how he knew her. She pulled the woman’s hair back, exposing more neck. “Bring me to him, damnit, or she dies!”
