Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  John took the jest in stride. “I’ve never failed to impress a woman.”

  “English ladies, perhaps. Scottish women insist on more from a man. Och, you’d give them a flute when they want a fine set of pipes, a butter knife instead of a claymore,” Dair said, then grinned, felt the smile creasing the scars on his cheek. “Ah well, perhaps ’twill work out after all—virgins won’t know enough about it to be disappointed.”

  John raised one eyebrow. “There’s hope for you as well. A pretty face can make even the smallest cock swell—or cure almost any ill.”

  “Or cause one,” Dair answered acidly, his smile fading. He picked up his walking stick, leaned heavily on it like an old man.

  “You were not at fault, Sinclair. You’re lucky to be alive yourself,” John said for the hundredth time, or the thousandth. “You’re strong. It kept you alive. You nearly broke the chains they bound you with.”

  But the shackles had held fast in the end—hell, they still held him. Dair clenched his fist on the top of the walking stick so hard the wood creaked.

  John refrained from telling him to forget the past and forgive his enemies. Dair had nearly brained Father Alphonse the last time he’d suggested it, especially when the priest had followed the platitude with an offer to exorcise Jeannie’s ghost from his soul. Her ghost was the only thing keeping him alive—yet she called him away, too. He lived with one foot in the grave—her grave—and her ghost still trod these fields, this cliff, the chambers and halls of Carraig Brigh. He saw her a hundred times a day out of the corner of his eye. She haunted his sleep . . . Jeannie caged out of his reach but within his sight in the dungeon of Coldburn Keep . . . Jeannie tortured and tormented in unspeakable ways . . . Jeannie screaming for his help, for God’s mercy. Dair’s gut twisted, and he stumbled. John reached out a hand, set it on his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” Dair snapped, pulling away. He walked on, one limping, agonizing step after the other. John matched his pace, his concern like a lead weight. “Go on ahead,” Dair said gruffly. It was no more than fifty yards to the gate, but John hesitated, measured the distance with a glance, perhaps fearing Dair would go back to the cliff’s edge and jump after all. “Get them to fetch some water up to my chamber,” Dair said. “I’ll need to wash before I meet the virgins, look my best.” He knew his hair was wild, tangled by the wind, needed cutting, and his skin itched and stank from the salves and potions that mingled with the sickly-sweet smell of his healing wounds.

  Once he’d been handsome, charming, witty, bold. Women had swooned when he entered a room, no matter the state of his hair. He wore expensive brocade and lace, a rapier belted to his hip, plaid trews, dazzling jewels . . .

  He looked down at the workaday plaid he wore now, at his stockingless feet stuffed into thick brogues. Under his plaid, his thigh was thickly bandaged. His face was scarred, his nose broken. The ladies would swoon for quite another reason if they saw him now. His guts contracted at the idea of meeting his father’s virgins. There’d be naught but terror and tears when they set eyes on the Madman of Carraig Brigh.

  He gritted his teeth and walked on, step by agonizing step. He should have taken a garron. He would have been able to ride into the bailey, the horse giving him at least the illusion of being fit and whole. He swore under his breath, a low, obscene sailor’s curse. Damn virgins and their innocent sensibilities—he was a chief’s son, a rich man, still a prize for any man’s daughter. But he knew that wasn’t true. He was a curse no sane woman would want. Well, he’d never liked virgins, and he was damned sure he was going to hate this one. He preferred his women experienced, as bold and daring as he was, in bed and out of it. He hadn’t had a woman for months, an eternity for a man used to a regular, impromptu, lusty sex life, but the lass was safe. His lust had died at Coldburn.

  He was out of breath by the time he reached the postern gate, and he paused with his hand on the latch. Surely by now the bailey was empty of strangers and his father had escorted his guests into the elegance of the ancient hall, and was proudly serving refreshments to the dazzled maidens—Carraig Brigh was a place of rare and glorious treasures, brought back on Sinclair ships from all corners of the earth.

  Perhaps if he was lucky—and he scoffed at that—he could limp across the cobbles unseen, go through the kitchens, and take the back stairs to his chamber. With virgins to charm, it might be hours before anyone noticed he hadn’t arrived in the hall. Or days. Perhaps the lasses would give up and go home if he refused to appear at all. He set his jaw bitterly and opened the gate. His father had invited them here, and his father could entertain them. He wanted nothing to do with foolish superstitions. His life had ended when Jeannie drew her last breath, and no one could restore him to the man he’d once been.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Curious as he was about the visiting virgins with mystical abilities to heal madness and grief, John went to find Moire instead. He found her in the small closet off the kitchen they’d given her to sleep in, already packing her few belongings into a ragged square of plaid. She didn’t bother to look round to see who was at her door.

  “I’m going,” she said firmly. “Ye canna make me stay, English John. I’m too old to fall for your charms and too wise to listen to silver-tongued blether. Alasdair Og is her problem now.”

  He leaned in the doorway and watched her pack. “He needs a healer, not a virgin.”

  “Ye don’t know that.”

  “I know he needs medicine, not magic—or a woman to fuck.”

  If he’d hoped to shock her, he hadn’t. She cackled. “I’ve done all I know to do. I’ve drained and poulticed his wounds, dosed his fevers and aches. His leg is better, but I can’t fix what truly ails him. It’s not his leg. Mayhap he does need magic now—or a willing lass in his bed.” She grinned. “Not me.”

  “Have you met her?”

  She shrugged. “’Tis not for the likes of me to meet the chief’s guests. She’s pretty, or so I hear.”

  “What use is pretty? Jeannie was pretty. What if she reminds him of—things?”

  Moire pinched her lips. “That’s naught to do with me.” She tied her bundle and hung it over her shoulder. “I’m going,” she said again. “It’s in the hands of the—God.” She crossed herself awkwardly, a habit she’d adopted whenever Father Alphonse cast a suspicious eye upon her. As usual, she followed the gesture by making a secret sign to her goddess behind her back.

  “What poultices did you use, what herbs?” John asked.

  Moire smirked. “Oh no—you canna heal him, John Erly. Ye’ll have to trust her—the living lass, not the dead one who plagues him, though she’s the one who holds the power over him still, might well be the one who decides if he lives or . . .” She closed her mouth and waved her hand. “Wheesht. ’Tis not my concern now.” She stepped around him and scurried down the corridor like a mouse.

  John stared after her. Perhaps she was right—the virgin might be clever and capable as well as pretty—though he’d personally never found a woman with that rare combination of blessings. She’d best be brave too, if she hoped to stand against the demons that plagued Dair—Dair’s ravings terrified grown men, strong warriors. Even Moire had been afraid.

  And the virgin had better have the strength to face the doubts in Padraig Sinclair’s mind too, his fear of charlatans, and the wavering flame of hope he held in his heart for his son’s recovery. She’d also have to allay Father Alphonse’s distrust of healers and women in general. Could an untried, unknown, innocent girl do all that?

  John picked up a clay pot that Moire had left behind and lifted the lid. Empty.

  She’d left nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dair limped into the bailey. Dozens of trunks and boxes blocked his way. Did they intend to stay forever? He frowned. If he had his way, they’d be leaving as quickly as they’d come.

  He recalled the day Jeannie left. If she’d been going to her wedding, she would have had twice as much baggage and more. She had
all the elegant clothes, books, jewels, furnishings, and furs befitting the niece of a powerful man. Instead, set on becoming an impoverished Bride of Christ, she took only a wee book of hours, her rosary, and a change of linen when she left Carraig Brigh. The English guards at Coldburn had torn the book of hours apart, thrown the pages into the mud beneath the gallows. The gilt decoration on the pages glittered in the torchlight as they hanged her . . .

  He moved around the goods and gear in the bailey—trunks elegantly decorated with silver nails and inlaid glass, canvas bundles tied with ribbons, hatboxes, and baskets.

  Perhaps the virgin truly believed in magic, held a fond dream that Dair would simply look at her once, and there would be instant healing, gratitude, love, and marriage—and doves. Maidenly fantasies always seemed to include doves. Dair stalked toward the kitchen door.

  A large wicker basket tied to one of the carts shook as Dair passed, and a horrendous noise issued from it, half growl, half scream. He paused. Whatever was inside demanded immediate release—a pet dog, perhaps, forgotten in the flurry of arrival. The creature’s fragile prison shuddered and creaked, threatening to burst open. Dair reached up to untie the rope that bound the lid shut.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said from the other side of the cart, and he saw a pair of hazel eyes peering at him through a narrow space between the bundles. He could see nothing else of her but those eyes, wide and darkly golden, fringed with thick copper lashes. Familiar male appreciation for a pair of pretty eyes stirred unexpectedly, which only made the sparks of annoyance and guilt in his breast flare to anger. He glared back at her, waited until she flinched and disappeared.

  He unwound the rope and lifted the lid.

  A massive white paw shot out and raked across his knuckles, leaving a row of deep and stinging scratches. Dair jumped back just in time to avoid the rest of the creature—it certainly wasn’t a lapdog—as it burst free from its prison, sprang off his shoulder, and disappeared into the stable behind him. “What the devil was that?” he muttered, staring at the blood welling along the furrows on his hand. They stung like fire.

  “Beelzebub doesn’t like strangers. And he doesn’t like rain.”

  He turned to find the owner of the hazel eyes standing beside him, a lass of medium height, with a long braid of russet hair. She was draped in the folds of a thick arisaid, which made it impossible to judge her figure, but her face, what he could see of it, and those eyes—he hadn’t been wrong. She was indeed a beauty. He felt her gaze move over him from head to foot like a physical touch, then climb his body again. Every nerve stretched in awareness. The old Dair would have grinned, had her in his arms in an instant and on her back an hour later. She made a soft sound, a sensual mew that tightened his nerves further still. It wasn’t desire—her gaze was on his scratched hand. She reached out to him, and he took a breath, anticipating her touch and the way it would feel on his skin. But her eyes shone with some other emotion entirely—concern, perhaps, or even pity. Of course. How could it be anything else? Her hand came closer still, and he drew a sharp breath, felt all the agony rush in, mental and physical, to remind him of what he’d become.

  “Don’t touch me!” He jerked back so swiftly that blood flew from his injury and landed on her outstretched hand, marring her white skin. She stopped at once, her eyes widening.

  He looked away, unable to bear being stared at by a pretty woman, abhorred. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers shaking. Dimly, he was aware of his manners. A gentleman would have offered the kerchief to her or taken her hand in his, charmed her with a smile as he wiped away the blood and apologized for frightening her. Instead, he wrapped it around his own hand and made a fist to keep it in place. Blood instantly spotted the fine linen. She watched him silently, her gaze roaming over him again. He knew what she must feel—revulsion, horror, disgust.

  “The devil and I are hardly strangers, mistress,” he growled in reply to her comment. “And it’s not raining.”

  She tilted her head and looked up as the first fat, cold raindrop hit him on the head. “It is now,” she said with a wee smile, her tone as sweet as honey.

  Dair bristled. She wasn’t afraid of him—she was mocking him.

  She pulled her arisaid tighter around her face and picked up the empty basket. She turned and began to walk toward the stable, just like that, done with him. He felt the loss of her eyes upon him, even as he felt relief at her going.

  “Who the devil are you?” he called after her. The rain increased, speeding toward becoming a drenching downpour. Water poured off the roof, turned the hard-packed earth to mud, and spattered her gown as she hurried toward the open doors of the stable, picking her way awkwardly over the puddles. A shock ripped through him as he watched her, tightened his gut. It wasn’t the wet ground—her gait was dramatically, cruelly uneven, her limp wickedly exaggerated and so like his own. Did she think it was funny to mock him? Even broken, he had his pride, and it came roaring to the surface now. He was still Dair Sinclair, Laird o’ the Seas, a chief’s son, a Highlander.

  He dropped his walking stick and went after her, ignoring the pain it caused him. He caught her in the doorway, grabbed her arm, and pulled her around to face him, nearly oversetting them both. She put her blood-speckled hand on his arm to stay him, her wet skin cool and soft, and stared up at him in surprise. He saw a glimmer of fear in the golden depths of her eyes. Good. She was close enough that he could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat where the arisaid fell open to reveal sleek, fragile bones. She was delicately made . . . He pushed the thought away and gripped her tighter still, felt the slender shape of her elbow through her plaid. He loomed over her, bared his teeth. “How dare you mock me?” He glared down into her face. Her lips parted, but she did not cry out. The rain was soaking her, falling on her lashes, making her blink. His mouth watered with a desire to taste the crystal drops . . . She moved her hand to the one that held her, scrabbled at it, trying to make him let go.

  Her fingers were cold, but her touch ran through him like lightning. Despite his rage he saw the terror in her eyes, heard the soft gasp of fear. It reminded him of—he stared into her face, the depths of her eyes, looking for Jeannie.

  Without any warning at all, the lass slipped out of her plaid, left it hanging in his fist, and hurried into the dark recesses of the stable. He blinked in surprise, coming back to the moment, to the woman before him. Not Jeannie. Jeannie is dead . . .

  Icy rain poured down his back and blurred his vision.

  He went after her.

  Inside the stable, he stood in the doorway scanning the shadows, looking for her.

  “Please be still,” she whispered, her face white against the gloom. She was staring up at the rafters behind him. “There’s a nest of swallows under the eaves above your head. If you disturb them, Beelzebub will not rest until he’s devoured the lot.”

  “Beelzebub?” Dair turned slowly, expecting to find the devil standing behind him. Just as she’d said, several pairs of frightened avian eyes regarded him in silence.

  “My cat,” she explained, and pointed to the biggest cat he’d ever seen, perched on the door of a nearby stall. No tom, not the meanest barnyard moggie, or even the savage wildcats that prowled the mountains could compare to this creature. The beast growled a warning low in its throat, and the hair rose on Dair’s neck. He froze, bracing for the devil cat to lunge at him, tear his throat out.

  “Hush,” the lass instructed mildly, and the cat fell silent and blinked at her, vanquished by her beauty. Dair looked at her in surprise, knew how the cat felt.

  “I assume that beast kills more than just birds.”

  “He’s called Beelzebub for good reason.” She was nervous. He could tell by her stillness, the way she looked at him from under her lashes. She was afraid of him, but not the cat? He must look worse, far worse, than he thought—a monster. He’d avoided mirrors of late, but he’d seen the horror in the eyes of folk who’d known h
im all his life. This woman was a stranger, would never know the man he once was, whole and handsome. He felt regret claw at him, and he resisted the urge to rub his hand over his unshaven chin, his uncombed hair, to preen like a dandy. He couldn’t seem to look away from her eyes, soft and luminous in the rain-dim light of the stable. No, she wasn’t afraid, just uncertain. He had the idea she feared very little, this woman—or that she had so little experience of the world it hadn’t taught her fear. It was the way he’d been, once. It made him want to protect her, keep her safe. But if he failed . . . he couldn’t add another mistake, another sin, to the tally already listed against him. Still, when he looked at this woman, a stranger, he felt something deep and dangerous stir. It was because she was pretty, he decided. He’d never been immune to a beautiful woman. But he had no right to notice her beauty, not anymore. That part of his life was over, ripped from him. He dragged his gaze away from her and looked at the cat instead.

  “An odd choice of pet, isn’t he?” he said, his tongue thick and slow.

  She smiled, and it was so sweet his belly tensed. “He’s really very nice. He’s made some terrible enemies, though. I had to bring him lest my father’s deerhounds get him while I was not there to protect him. They caught him once before, you see. It’s been war ever since. He has scars as well, like me.”

  Realization squelched desire in an instant. “You’re the virgin?” he demanded rudely, assessing her again. She looked like a servant, not a laird’s daughter. Her hair hung in damp tendrils around her pale face. Her gown was wet, and she hugged her arms over her chest protectively. She was slender and small, a dainty package. A man—or a madman in the grip of a nightmare—could snap her in half with one hand. He gaped at her, slid his eyes over her once more. He could see her innocence now, almost taste it on the charged air between them. Still, she held his gaze without fear. He tried not to admire that, to believe, for just one minute, that perhaps she could heal him. But that was impossible. “Do you honestly believe innocence can cure madness, heal festering wounds, restore bones left too long unset?”