Paper Roses Read online

  The smile that lit Valerie's face faded. Her dark blue eyes lowered and thin fingers stroked an embroidered quilt.

  "I know I look a fright."

  With a heavy heart, Ciara entered the room. "Not at all, Val. I just -- that is -- I had no idea you were ill."

  Valerie raised her head, a weak smile on her lips. "I am dying, Ciara. The healer has done all he can, but naught helps this horrid plague that haunts me."

  Grief grasped her heart in a cold grip. Death. Must she face losing someone she cared about so soon after burying her mother?

  With a great effort, she forced back the tears that stung her eyes. She would not show weakness in the presence of others. 'Twas a lesson not wasted on her.

  "Come, tell me how your mother fares."

  Ciara eased herself onto the edge of the bed. She gathered Valerie's hand in hers. So small and frail. "Mother now rests in the arms of Christ, Val. 'Tis what delayed my arrival."

  Sorrow filled Valerie's eyes and choked her voice. "I am so sorry. Your mother was a fine woman."

  "Aye, she was," Ciara whispered.

  Sadness settled over her heart. Slowly dying of a mysterious affliction and a broken heart, her mother's last request was to die in the land of her birth. Quarrels with Eneas weakened her mother and affirmed her decision to return to France. As the sole daughter amid a brood of twelve, Ciara had accompanied her mother on her final voyage.

  With determination, Ciara forced aside her memories and met Valerie's worried gaze. "When did this strike you?"

  Valerie shrugged. "Shortly after I wed Alastair." At the mention of her husband, her eyes sparkled and a genuine smile curved her lips. "Have you met him yet? Oh, Ciara, he is so good to me."

  "Aye, I met him."

  "Is he not wonderful?" Valerie gushed. "I could not have asked for a kinder, gentler man to be my husband than Alastair."

  A disbelieving snort escaped Ciara's lips before she could stop it. Instantly, she regretted her lack of control. The smile and color drained from Valerie's face.

  "'Tis the truth, Ciara. Although our union was arranged, he has been most kind."

  "I ask your pardon for being rude, Val." Ciara rubbed the back of her friend's hand and lowered her gaze. "MacDonells do not rate high with my clan."

  "My Alastair was not among those who ambushed your sire and his men."

  The sadness that touched Valerie's voice did naught to ease the guilt in Ciara's heart. No one knew which MacDonells were responsible. No one. A stranded horse and a scrap of MacDonell tartan were all that was found among the bodies.

  For the sake of her friend, she would not condemn Alastair. At least, not within Valerie's hearing.

  Ciara forced aside the grief that rose in her throat. This was not why she was here, she reminded herself as she met her friend's worried gaze. She forced a smile to her lips and patted her hand.

  "Do not fret about it, Val. I dare say I can handle one MacDonell, should our paths happen to cross."

  "Oh, they will cross; 'tis why I sent for you."

  Unease settled in the pit of Ciara's belly. Her fingers stilled against the translucent skin of Val's hand. "What do you mean by that?"

  Valerie suddenly looked very tired. She rested against her pillows, a tender smile on her lips.

  "My motives for wanting you here will seem like trickery, I fear. And, mayhap, it is." Tears filled her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks. "You see, Ciara, although my husband does not love me as I love him, he is a very good man with a wounded soul."

  Ciara didn't like the way this conversation was heading. "What has that to do with me?"

  With a shaky hand, Valerie wiped her cheeks. "'Tis simple, my friend." She met Ciara's gaze and did her best to smile. "You see, I want you to take my place in Alastair's life when I am gone." A ragged breath filled her lungs. "I plan for you to wed Alastair."

  Chapter Two

  Disbelief coiled through Ciara's belly. Surely, she had not heard Valerie properly. What wife, dying or not, would arrange a marriage for her husband?

  Valerie smiled. "I knew you would think me daft; 'tis why I did not mention my plan in the missive."

  Ciara took a calming breath and shook her head. "'Tis utter madness."

  "Nay, 'tis the rational request of a woman who will soon meet death." Valerie's soft voice held the sadness of her fate. "Consider this, Ciara. In all the years we have been friends, have I ever misled you?"

  "Aye. You convinced me that if I kissed Bryan McDermott, he would turn into a prince and love me forever."

  A chuckle escaped her friend's lips. "Och, aye, I forgot about that."

  Ciara frowned. "'Twas a revolting thing to do, Val. Bryan was a deplorable lad who picked his nose, then ate what he found. A prince, indeed!"

  Laughter bubbled in Valerie's chest until tears glistened in her eyes. "I can assure you that Alastair does not have that disgusting habit, yet he does bear princely qualities."

  "Then there was James Cameron," Ciara continued, not wanting to consider the good traits of a MacDonell.

  Val sobered a bit and wiped away the moisture that clung to her lashes. "What about him?"

  "You know what." Ciara wasn't amused in the least. "He peed his kilt nightly and did not bathe. Half the flies in the Highlands called him home. Yet, for some reason, I allowed you to convince me that if I rolled with him in a thistle patch, it would cure him of his affliction."

  Again Valerie laughed.

  "I am pleased you find merriment in my misfortune." Arms crossed over her belly, Ciara scowled. "My mother picked thorns from my bum for a week."

  "Och, I am sorry, my friend." Val dabbed her eyes with the edge of her nightdress and tried not to smile. "But these things you mention happened when we were wee bairns. Since we swore ourselves sisters, have I done anything to deceive you?"

  Ciara hated to admit it, but the truth could not be denied. Mirrored in her friend's eyes, she saw times long past when they had been happy and full of promise for the future. Sorrow touched her heart. Valerie had no future. She was dying.

  Unwilling to disgrace herself by succumbing to her feelings, Ciara turned her gaze toward the windows. Pristine curtains that matched the spread over Valerie were pulled back to reveal the gray skies beyond. To Ciara, it felt as if the heavens reflected her soul.

  "Well, have I?"

  The tenderness of Valerie's voice drew her gaze. Ciara sighed and shook her head. "Nay."

  "Since reaching the age of ten and two, have I not protected you?"

  This was most unfair of Valerie -- to draw on her emotions like this to gain her way. "You have been a true friend to me."

  A delicate smile touched Valerie's lips. "Then, why do you not trust me now?"

  "'Tis not you I mistrust, Val, but surely you must see the folly in your plan. He is a MacDonell!"

  It was obvious to Ciara that a match between herself and MacDonell could never be. Why couldn't Valerie see this? The women had been together the night her clansmen carried her father into the keep, blood seeping from his body. 'Twas Valerie who tended Ciara through anger and grief over the loss of the only man she had ever loved.

  "Ciara, please, listen to what I have to say before you call me irrational."

  The pleading tone of her friend's voice drew on the love Ciara bore for Valerie in her heart. In defeat, she nodded. "Speak your peace."

  A somber look entered Valerie's eyes. She stared at the quilt and idly ran a finger over a tiny rose. "I know you better than any person on earth, Ciara. I know what is in your heart." She looked up and placed a thin hand over Ciara's. "Alastair has a very troubled soul. I hoped I could reach into the recesses and help him, but the depth of his hurt is beyond my grasp."

  Ciara's heart ached. Valerie's voice held such despair. "What makes you think I can succeed where you have failed?"

  A gentle smile touched Valerie's lips. "Because, my dear sister, only one who has shared a similar hurt can understand his pain."

 
Hurt? What kind of hurt had the MacDonell suffered, and why should she care? He and his kin could have been among the men who slew her father in his saddle.

  "You have hardened your heart to all things soft for fear of being belittled. In a way, Alastair has done the same."

  Her friend's voice drew Ciara's gaze. In the glistening depths of her blue eyes, Ciara saw the love Valerie bore for her husband -- a love that, according to her friend, was not returned.

  "Please, Ciara, consider my wish. Do not force me to make it a dying request."

  Ciara bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from sobbing. A dying wish would condemn her, for no matter what was asked, Ciara would be obligated to fulfill it.

  A thought occurred to her; a way out of this dilemma. "You have failed to think of one aspect of this plan of yours, Valerie."

  A furrow creased her brow. "What would that be?"

  Relief tumbled through her veins. It was the only solution to this problem. Ciara cleared her throat. "You have not considered MacDonell's reaction."

  "But I have."

  "Have you? Truly?" she asked, not allowing Valerie to continue. "Look upon me, my friend. Not as a sister of the heart, but as a person. I have no qualities at all that would lure a handsome man to ask for my hand. I have no wealth to fill his coffers, nor beauty to soothe his eyes."

  A long silence passed while Valerie studied Ciara. 'Twas an awkward moment and Ciara regretted her inability to gracefully accept her friend's wish, yet she had to make her see things in a rational light. This was one request Ciara could never honor.

  "You called him handsome."

  The assured tone puzzled Ciara. "What?"

  "Alastair," Valerie said with confidence. "You said he was handsome."

  Dear Lord, Valerie's mind was more than half gone. "I did no such thing."

  "Aye, you did, so do not dare deny it." Valerie sat up a little straighter in bed and took Ciara's hands in her own. "You are a beautiful person inside, Ciara, where it counts. Your heart is pure and good." She lifted their hands and gently rubbed them together. "And what talent you hold in your palm! I have always envied your creations."

  "Creating beauty is one thing. Pretending to possess it is quite another."

  "You will trust me in this and agree to my ploy before I die." Valerie leaned against her pillows, her exhaustion clear. "Now, leave me for a spell so that I may rest."

  A torrent of emotions spiraled through Ciara's belly. She carefully removed her hands from Valerie's and rose from the bed.

  "If I must, I will beg you not to make this fantasy a dying request. Please do not do this to me, my friend."

  "'Tis for your good, as well as Alastair's. The two of you share the same soul."

  Ciara could argue with her friend no more. The short time they were together had taken a visible toll on Valerie. Darkness colored the skin beneath her eyes, and her voice betrayed her weariness. The matter would have to rest for now.

  "I will return with the evening meal and sup with you, dear." She leaned over and placed a sisterly kiss on her friend's cool brow. "Sweet dreams."

  With a heavy heart, she moved toward the door.

  "Ciara?"

  She turned. Valerie lay sleepily against her pillows, a pleased smile on her lips.

  "Thank you for coming."

  Ciara returned the smile. Although Valerie had spent her strength relaying her wishes, it could not hide the genuine caring that lay in her heart. "Naught could have kept me away, my friend."

  Silently, she closed the door behind her. In the dim light of the stone hall, Ciara leaned heavily against the door and closed her eyes.

  Valerie was not long for this earth. The stench of death permeated the air. 'Twas a odor Ciara knew all too well. It had lingered around her mother during her final days, and was something Ciara would never forget.

  Grief constricted her heart. It threaded its way up her spine and lodged in a choking lump in her throat. The burn of tears again tried to make its way to the surface. Ciara bit her lip and shook her head. She would not succumb to weakness. Not again.

  "Does she sleep?"

  The quiet male voice startled Ciara. She spun in the direction and found the proud laird MacDonell watching her.

  A frown furrowed his brow. He stepped closer. "Did you upset her?"

  Och, the cocksure fool. If only he knew what his wife had planned. Ciara mustered her dislike for all things MacDonell and moved away from the door.

  "She grew weary and begged for a rest." Avoiding his dark eyes, she attempted to move around him. His breadth made it impossible. Given no choice, she lifted her gaze to his. "If you have no objections, I would like to refresh myself."

  Seconds that passed as slowly as an eternity lingered between them. He hid his feelings well, providing he had any. Yet something in his eyes held her captive. Sorrow, perhaps. Did he know his wife would soon breathe her last?

  'Twas foolish, indeed, but her heart reacted to what she imagined she saw. It fluttered against her breast and attempted to capture the very air she breathed.

  Could MacDonell actually care about something or someone other than himself?

  Finally, much to her relief, he stepped aside and nodded to a nearby door.

  "I assigned you this room for the duration of your stay, and had your trunk placed inside."

  Somehow Ciara managed to whisper, "Thank you," before disappearing into her room.

  Valerie's foolish idea had Ciara as nervous as a pheasant in a fox den. If only the fox were as appalling as Bryan, or stank like James. Then it would be much simpler to convince her friend that she would sooner wed one of those unfortunates than the laird McDonnell.

  * * *

  Alastair sat in a chair worn to fit his body from many hours of use. In the dark of the witching hour, he listened to the rattled breath that filled his wife's lungs.

  How much time would pass before she was released from her tortured life?

  Regret stabbed his heart. Despite the assurance of the healer that the illness was caused by a fragile constitution and could not possibly be his fault, Alastair could not escape the feeling that he had somehow failed his bride.

  After their marriage, when they journeyed deeper into the Highlands, rain descended upon them. Although she complained not at all, Alastair chastised himself for not seeking shelter.

  He shivered at the memory. Valerie had been near frozen when they arrived on his mountain. Soon after, lung fever set in. For a fortnight Alastair paced the floors, certain he had sent his wife to an early grave.

  If only he had taken more care -- if only he had delayed their journey until the weather had cleared -- if only he had never met her. Perhaps she would never have become ill.

  Yet, she recovered. In the months that passed, although she grew weary quite easily, he thought she would survive.

  With the first kiss of autumn, Valerie once again succumbed to illness. Even now, as he sat in their room and watched her sleep, the lingering odor of death hung in the air.

  Valerie sighed in her sleep. The gentle rush of her breath reminded him of the first glimpse he'd had of her. 'Twas in a meadow near her home. From afar, he watched her run barefoot through the glen, her laughter embracing the air. Skirts hiked to her knees, she played with the children of her village and attempted to avoid their grasp.

  It seemed impossible that a mere year had passed since then.

  Alastair eased himself forward and gently stroked his wife's cheek, hollow from her illness.

  He had brought her here to his paradise, the land, the sea, the beauty as far as the eye cared to see. This place had made him strong, and many MacDonells before him. Yet none of his strength could he give to his wife.

  Anything within his grasp could be hers. All she had to do was ask. But his love -- that he could not give. Why? What did he know of love? 'Twas a silly emotion that transformed men into fools.

  Valerie turned to her side. From her fingers, a small item tumbled to the floor. He
frowned and retrieved the object.

  Held in his powerful hand was a rose. A perfect creation, from what he could tell. In silence, he stood and approached the window. Beyond the protective walls of his manor, snow fell in quiet beauty to blanket the earth. It offered light to an otherwise dark night.

  He lifted the blossom before him and studied the delicate petals. The tip of one finger touched the bloom. 'Twas then he realized the meaning of the flower.

  The rose was made of paper. Delicate folds formed a bud in the center. Around that, careful petals fanned out, like a dove spreading its wings.

  Paper roses. That was the odd hobby the witch across the hall possessed. She created beauty from scraps one would normally discard. Beauty that, once painted, looked as real as any bloom cut from the vine.

  He turned his attention out the window and stared at the falling snow. Roses made of paper and a witch with the tongue of an asp. Somehow the two combined to form delicate beauty that could never be duplicated.

  With a sigh, he returned to his wife's bed. He settled the flower on the table beside her, then leaned over to place a tender kiss on her upturned cheek.

  Quietly, he left the room and made his way down the hall to the bed he occupied since his wife took ill. Much had happened in the short space of a day.

  Alastair slid between the cool sheets of his narrow bed and folded an arm beneath his head. He stared out at the falling snow and wondered how his wife had formed such a strong bond with a red-haired witch.

  Ciara. He would tolerate her in his home for a time, for Valerie's sake. Only for Valerie.

  Chapter Three

  "I want Valerie moved."

  Alastair turned from his stance before the hearth and stared at Ciara, framed in the doorway. Dressed in a simple patched, clean frock, her wild hair pulled away from her face, she looked as if she had slept very little.

  He understood that feeling. Sleep was a luxury he himself had done without for what seemed a lifetime.

  With a sigh that belied his weariness, he looked away. "I do not need you to tell me how to tend my wife."

  The witch snorted. "I beg to differ."