Jamie pushed himself up, his hands to his throat, blinking in confusion. His nose was even healed, perfect and aquiline again.
“Stay away from him!” Rose yelled, clutching William closer. The earl and his men surrounded them, protecting William, but she still feared Jamie would somehow harm him.
Jamie said nothing for a long while, staring at Rose and William, his expression odd. Then his gaze moved to the doorway of the cottage. The witchpricker stood there, no longer holding a dirk to Deidra’s throat. His hand was still on her shoulder, though. The child looked up at the witchpricker. When his eyes remained fixed on Rose and William, she broke away, throwing herself on her father’s inert form.
“I’m sorry, Da! I’m sorry!” she cried, clutching him, burying her face in his bloodied plaid.
William was unable to speak. He put a hand on his daughter’s head before his eyes closed.
“Is he dead?” Jamie asked, staring down at William with narrowed eyes.
Rose feared the same, and her fingers sought thepulse in his neck. “No,” she said, relieved. She smoothed the silvered black hair from his forehead and pressed her lips to his fevered skin.
Jamie stood, his hand still gripping his neck. He looked at the wolves. They’d left the cottage and were nosing through a nearby midden pile. He turned his troubled gaze on Deidra, then back to William. He gingerly fingered his nose. He seemed bewildered and afraid. Finally his gaze met Rose’s.
After a long moment he nodded, as if in some internal conversation with himself, and turned away. He mounted his horse, gestured to his men, and rode out of the village.
Rose heard footsteps beside her and looked up to see the witchpricker. He frowned down at William for a long time, then crouched suddenly, his tattered black robes pooling on the ground around him. He studied William’s face closely.
“There is no evil in what he does,” Rose said softly, holding him tighter to her breast. “He is a healer.”
“But the child—”
“Is a child.”
His thin gray brows arched. “She nearly killed a man. He would be dead if not for Lord Strathwick.”
“I did not see her do anything,” Lord Kincreag said. “You had a knife to her throat. I know the king doesn’t allow such tactics in the questioning of children.”
The witchpricker glanced up at the earl, unimpressed but seeing the truth in his words. He had violated the king’s edict. He rubbed a thin-fingered hand over his mouth, eyeing Deidra, who still lay on her father’s chest.Under the witchpricker’s intense stare, she turned her head away and hunched her shoulders.
The witchpricker stood. “Let us hope our paths do not cross again.” He strode into the cottage and shut the door.
Rose let out the breath she’d been holding. She looked up at Drake and the earl. “Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.”
Roderick MacDonell passed from life two days later. He never regained his power of speech, but unfortunately for Gillian, in death he was exceedingly vocal. He pursued her through corridors and into her bed at night. The earl lamented that she refused to even kiss her own husband with her dead uncle looking on.
Rose stood on the quay, embracing her sister warmly as she and the earl prepared to leave. “Forgive me, Rose,” Gillian said, “but I cannot stay. He is so angry. Forebye, Father is doing so well, I feel no guilt.”
“But what about us?”
Gillian lifted her shoulders helplessly. “He’s a ghost—and a new one. He can do nothing. No one has even seen him but me. We will return in a month or so, and by then mayhap he’ll tire of haunting this place and be ready to move on.”
The earl took his wife’s hand to lead her down the steps. “We’ll send word if we cannot return within the month,” he said. “I have great hope that the king will consider my counsel.”
Rose did, too. He and Gillian were traveling to Edinburgh to petition the king to rescind his witch-huntingcommission and return the jurisdiction for trying witches to the king and privy council only. He planned to use the near lynching of William and Deidra as evidence that the commission had been grossly abused.
Rose said her good-byes and returned to her father’s chambers. It had been nearly a fortnight since Roderick had attempted to murder him, and his recovery was nothing short of miraculous. But, of course, it wasn’t sufficient for him.
Rose found Hagan fighting to get him back in bed.
“Da!” she cried, rushing to Hagan’s aid. “I told you, you must take it slowly.”
“I feel fine,” he said, brows drawn together crossly. “I will never regain my strength if I must lay in bed eating broth.”
Though Rose pressed on his shoulder, urging him to sit, he resisted—with considerable strength. He was eating a great deal more than broth, and she was pleased to see his face filling out again. The graying beard had been trimmed, and his green eyes were clear and lively.
Conan barked and ran in circles, excited to see his master out of bed. With Roderick’s death, his spells had lost their power. Conan was free of the dark magic that had bound him, and he was no longer content to lie around. Isobel had been spending a great deal of time in Roderick’s chambers, trying to discover more about their uncle and what he’d done. She’d managed to unravel the spell he’d used on the wax effigies, and they were destroyed, much to everyone’s relief. Sir Philip had returned with news that Sir Donnan had passed away nearly a year prior.
