She squeezed his arm harder for a moment before releasing it. “Am I not even allowed to touch you? Mayhap you should add that to the contract, too—severe penalties for touching without permission.”
He stared down at her, hands on his narrow hips, his eyes shadowed. “You are welcome to touch me at will, mistress.”
His suggestive tone sent shivers racing down her spine. It came to her of a sudden—how she had spoken to him. The rush of anger faded, and in its place was only confusion. What did the infernal man want? He seemed far more interested in her when she was as rude as he was, and somehow that just seemed wrong to her.
He continued to watch her through dark, heavy-lidded eyes, as if he expected her to do something more. Touch him, perhaps?
“Uhm . . . that’s good, then,” she said and quickly took her leave before he noticed the hot flush suffusing her skin.
3
Over the next several days Gillian saw the earl only twice. She suspected this was intentional and that the earl was purposely avoiding her. She wondered if she should attempt to spend time with him, since thatwashis excuse for drawing out the betrothal. But the thought of forcing her company on him made her cringe. Besides, her father’s health had deteriorated again, and Kincreag’s company cheered him.
Rose kept Gillian busy reading from her library of crumbling books, searching for some clue to their father’s illness. Gillian’s help was limited, as her education was not as thorough as Rose’s had been. Many of the manuscripts were written in French and Latin, languages Gillian couldn’t even speak, let alone read. She knew her Scots and Gaelic, and could write them, too, but that was all.
They sat in their father’s study, a small, book-lined room adjacent to his bedchamber, poring over hand-sewn books. Gillian had a small stack beside her, while Rose’s stack towered. Their father’s deerhound, Broc, lay at Gillian’s feet, sleeping.
An entire candelabra blazed beside her, but still her eyes watered and stung as she peered at the handwritten manuscripts.
“What about this?” she said, her finger trailing down the page. “The author writes about a man with ‘extreme lethargy’ and ‘strange skin discolorations.’”
Rose got up from her stool opposite to stand behind Gillian, reading silently over her shoulder. She shoved Broc with her foot, and the dog whined but refused to move.
“Good work,” Rose said, taking the volume and returning to her seat.
Gillian straightened. “That’s it? Does it have a cure?”
Rose shook her head. “No, the patient died.”
Gillian’s shoulders slumped as she reached for another manuscript. “Why are all these handwritten? Have the authors never heard of a printing press?”
Rose glanced up and smiled. “There was no printing press when many of these were written—and even if there was, most of these are the personal diaries of healers and witches. Why would they have them printed?”
“How did you get them?”
“Many were Mother’s. She left them to me, of course. Others I’ve collected over the years. And the rest were given to me by the healer on Skye I trained with.”
Gillian surveyed the scores of books stacked on the table and floor around them, impressed. Surely in all ofthese healers’ experiences someone had encountered their father’s illness.
She spied a letter sticking out of a book. “Has Jamie written you again?” Rose’s betrothed was forever writing her letters.
Rose fingered the edge of the letter. “No. This is a letter I’m writing to the Wizard of the North. Have you heard of him?”
“Aye, I’ve heard some things. Strathwick, aye? Didn’t the Sinclairs try to hunt him down a few months ago to try him for witchcraft, but he disappeared?”
Rose nodded, eyes shining as she stared across the table at Gillian. “They say he turned himself into a wolf. He is a powerful witch. More powerful than Mother was. It’s said he can heal by merely putting his hands on you.” Rose looked down at her own hands, her face tight with suppressed frustration. “Not like mine. Mine only tell me what’s wrong but guarantee no cures. I must find the right remedy. Luckily I’ve a head for such things. But with Father, they tell me nothing.” Rose frowned, her eyes far away, hands fisted on the table.
“What are you thinking?” Gillian asked warily.
Rose looked around the room, as if afraid they had an eavesdropper, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve asked him to come to Lochlaire.”
Gillian looked at her in astonishment. “And do you really think he’ll come? He’s safer in the north—further south more witches are burned.”
Rose sat back, her shoulders slumping. “I know. He hasn’t written me back, anyway.”
Gillian reached across the table and covered her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Rose. I know how hard you work to heal father . . . but . . . if you cannot . . . you mustn’t blame yourself. You’ve done more than anyone—”
“No!” Rose jerked her hand away and stood. “There has to be something more. There’s no sense to this . . . this malady. It responds to nothing. When he improves, I don’t know why! When he fails—I canna understand it, either. It’sneverlike this. Never am I so completely impotent . . . even when I lose a patient—”
