Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “They wouldn’t want me now,” Dair said, turning his face to the light, letting it illuminate his scars. Padraig Sinclair barely concealed a wince. “You want a miracle, but there’s no such thing. If there was, I daresay Father Alphonse would have healed me already. He recommends a virgin too—I need only trust in Our Lady, pray day and night, and I will be whole again, like a leper restored. And old Moire wants me to bathe in the spring of her goddess. Should I try that as well?”

  Padraig ran a hand over his lace cravat. “Of course not. We’re civilized men, modern men. We don’t believe in pagan superstitions.”

  “And still you brought me wee Fia MacLeod. She doesn’t deserve to be sacrificed to a hopeless cause.”

  “She’ll do as she’s told. She’s here by my will, to do my bidding,” the chief of the Sinclairs began arrogantly. “Father Alphonse can go to the devil. His God hasn’t seen fit—”

  Dair raised his brows at the blasphemy. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in God anymore?”

  “Keeping a priest was your mother’s idea. She made me promise to keep one here even after she died, for the folk in the village.”

  Dair folded his arms over his chest. “And now? Have you become a pagan like Moire?”

  Padraig waved his hand, dismissing the idea and the question. “Fia MacLeod has a way about her. There’s a gentleness I’ve never seen before.” He smoothed a hand over his forehead, where the silver remains of a line of scratches were fading. “I saw a wild bird fly to her hand, perch there like a pet, because she had once healed its wing.”

  “Magic indeed—or witchcraft.” Dair held out his hand, the scratches there fresh and bloody. “Her cat scratched me too. She did not heal me.”

  Padraig frowned, and doubt passed fleetingly through his eyes. He forced a bluff smile. “She’s only just arrived. Give her time to settle herself.”

  “And if she fails?” The question hung in the air for a long moment. “There are some already saying Logan would make a better chief after you than a madman responsible for the death of a holy maid and a crew of eight men. Perhaps they’re right.”

  “No!” Padraig slammed his hand down. “You are my heir, not Logan. You were—are—the best of all the Sinclairs. You will be again. I order you to do your duty, Alasdair Og. You will be restored to health, you will have your revenge, and you will lead this clan after me, do you hear? Not Logan. Should I send the boy away? Would that make you forget her?”

  “You can’t even speak her name, can you? Jeannie. You took down her portrait, stripped her chamber, removed all trace of her from Carraig Brigh—except Logan of course. He has her face, her eyes, her laugh. But he’s your brother’s son. It wouldn’t be honorable to send him away.”

  His father muttered a curse and rose to his feet. “This is pointless. Supper is at eight o’clock. I expect you to be present. If you are not, I’ll have Angus Mor come and carry you down to the hall.”

  “Is that an order too?” Dair asked softly.

  His father paused at the door and glared at him. “Yes, by God. Eight o’clock,” he said again, and was gone.

  Dair found his chair again and pressed the knot in his chest. Padraig had brought Fia MacLeod here intending to betray her. Did his father imagine because she limped, had scars, that she had no feelings, no heart? He shut his eyes, saw the pale oval of Fia MacLeod’s face in his mind. Her image became Jeannie’s, her smile full of mischief. Then Jeannie’s lips drew back in a scream as her eyes rolled white in agony. Dair stifled a cry and opened his eyes, his heart pounding. He’d failed his cousin, let her die . . . And now, Fia MacLeod had come, and he was supposed to betray her too, use her, hurt her, even destroy her . . . no, not him this time, though he’d be just as helpless to prevent it.

  He rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth. She should have stayed home, safe among those who loved her, unscathed by his madness—or Padraig’s. He rose, paced, though it hurt. He let the pain burn through him. Was he thinking of Jeannie or Fia?

  It didn’t matter. Jeannie was dead, and Fia MacLeod wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t brought her here.

  He needed a drink. He looked again at the empty bottle in his room. He drank too much, and Padraig had ordered the servants to water the whisky they brought him—as if Dair was too mad to notice.

  He crossed the corridor to John’s room and found it empty. There was an uncut bottle of fine Sinclair whisky on the table, two-thirds full. Alasdair took it and went back to his own room. He didn’t bother with a cup. He intended to drink down every soul-numbing drop.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The clock in the hall was chiming eight when Fia and Meggie descended the stairs to the hall. Fia felt her face flame as the assembled company watched her move slowly down the steps, holding her sister’s arm. Meggie’s eyes darted over the Sinclairs like curious birds. “Dhia, how grand!” she whispered. Indeed it was grand—every Sinclair was finely dressed, and the chief was the finest of all in a green velvet coat trimmed with gold, with French lace at his throat, his plaid pinned with a magnificent ruby.

  Fia took a deep breath and looked around the room for Alasdair Og, both anticipating and dreading the moment when her eyes would meet his.

  He wasn’t here.

  She let the breath out again.

  It was relief she felt, not disappointment—or so she told herself. If he did not care to come to dinner, it was hardly her concern. He’d made it perfectly clear that she could expect no welcome from him. Then she wondered if it was pain or illness that kept him away. Maybe they had simply forgotten to tell him dinner was about to be served. That often happened to her at Glen Iolair. Someone eventually noticed that she was missing. They blamed it on forgetfulness—Fia’s, of course, not theirs.

  She was certainly getting plenty of attention now, from the Sinclairs—most of them were staring at her, not Meggie, which was something new.

  Copying her sister, she raised her chin, thrust out her bosom, and smiled. Whatever the reason for Alasdair Og’s absence, he was missing the dazzling sight of two of the Fearsome MacLeod’s lovely daughters dressed in their finest.

  Meggie was wearing violet silk embroidered with purple thistles and white lilies, and trimmed with lace and pale blue ribbons that exactly matched her sparkling eyes.

  Fia’s gown was sapphire blue, which looked well with her russet hair and creamy skin. She wore a sash of MacLeod plaid, held in place with a pearl brooch that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother and was rumored to have been a gift to her favored lady-in-waiting from Mary, Queen of Scots, herself. Her father called Fia his pearl, said she had a deep glow rather than the sharp sparkle of her sisters, was a banked fire instead of a short-lived blaze.

  Fia took each step carefully, concentrating on not tripping on her hem—or on Meggie’s, for that matter.

  “Hurry up,” Meggie whispered.

  “I can’t,” Fia whispered back.

  They were saved by the gallant gesture of the Sinclair. He swept forward, made a deep bow, and ascended the last few steps to take the arms of his guests and escort them down the stairs.

  “How lovely you both look,” Padraig Sinclair said. Fia kept her eyes on the diamond buckles on his shoes.

  “Tapadh leibh,” she said, thanking him in Gaelic, aware the assembled company was staring at her, assessing her. The virgin, come to heal the madman. She felt hot blood rising in her cheeks as the Sinclairs moved in and surrounded her. It was like standing in a forest, and every one of them seemed as tall and braw as Alasdair Og. Their eyes weren’t unkind, simply curious. She noticed at once that several clansmen bore scratches on their faces and hands, Bel’s signature. She gave each one an apologetic smile, since it was obviously too late for a word of warning. Tomorrow she’d seek them all out, offer a proper apology and some soothing salve. Still, despite their injuries, each person bowed politely. Fia brightened her smile all the more and glowed with all her might.

  She scanned the room again, but Alasdair Og
still had not arrived. She greeted by name the men who had traveled to Glen Iolair with the chief and had escorted herself and Meggie to Carraig Brigh. She was introduced to a black-gowned priest, a rarity even here in the Highlands, where the strict Protestant Scottish kirk had less of a hold on the religious practices of isolated country folk. Suspicion burned in Father Alphonse’s pebble-dark eyes as she was introduced. He did not smile, or even nod. He stood stiff as a stick and glared at her, and Fia felt a chill creep up her spine.

  “This is Lord John Erly—a friend of Dair’s,” the Sinclair said, and Fia looked up into another pair of hard, dark eyes crouching under furrowed brows. He didn’t look any more pleased to see her than Father Alphonse, or Alasdair Og himself. His bow was crisp, formal, and perfunctory, the very opposite of a warm welcome.

  “He’s English,” Meggie whispered unnecessarily. “They call him English John.”

  “I trust your journey was pleasant?” he said to Fia in his native tongue.

  “Very pleasant,” Fia replied, also in English. Papa’s sixth wife had insisted her stepdaughters must learn English, and French as well.

  “But for the weather,” Meggie said. “And the roads. And the food at the inns, of course.” Another young man appeared at Padraig’s elbow, golden haired, blue eyed, handsome as the devil, and grinning from ear to ear. Meggie lit up like a pine torch as Logan Sinclair bowed low over her hand and kissed it with a resounding smack before he turned to Fia.

  “Mistress Fia MacLeod, may I make known to you my nephew, Logan Sinclair?” the chief said.

  He gripped her hand and brushed back the long lace frill that edged her sleeve. Fia tried to pull away, but it was too late. Logan Sinclair’s roguish grin faltered, turned to horror as he stared down at the crosshatch of silver scars on her wrist, and his pucker became a grimace. Mortified, Fia snatched her hand away, let the sleeve fall, and tucked her hand behind her back.

  “How do you do?” she murmured hastily. She dipped a curtsy and nearly toppled. John Erly caught her elbow, righted her, and quickly let go.

  “The flagstones are three hundred years old, I’m told, and a trifle uneven,” he murmured. He’d seen her scars too, she was sure, but his face remained impassive.

  “Thank you.” Fia tilted her chin up and looked at the faces around her, afraid of what she’d see, but there was no disgust, no fear in their eyes. Curiosity, yes, but no more than that—perhaps they hadn’t noticed. She forced a smile, but her heart thumped against the low bodice of her gown.

  “May I escort you to the table?” Lord John asked stiffly, since Chief Sinclair was already taking Meggie to her place.

  Fia laid her unscarred hand on John’s sleeve and took her seat. The Englishman sat on Fia’s left.

  The chair to her right remained empty—Alasdair Og’s, most likely, since the rest of the seats at the long table were quickly filled. Padraig Sinclair was next to the empty chair.

  “I understand the white cat in the stable belongs to you, Mistress MacLeod?” English John asked.

  She felt her skin heat yet again. “Yes—his name is Bel. Please call me Fia.”

  “It’s short for Beelzebub,” Meggie added quickly, leaning around the chief. “Bel, I mean, not Fia.” She giggled at her own jest. Logan laughed as well.

  Fia cast her eyes over John’s face and hands, looking for scratches, found none. “Is he—Bel, I mean—did he . . . ?”

  Lord John’s lips rippled. “He did indeed.”

  “Oh no,” Fia said softly.

  “Not to worry, Mistress MacLeod. Your pet is safe in the stable,” John replied. “No one will do him any harm.”

  “Where is my son this evening, John?” the Sinclair asked blandly. Too blandly. His tone was at odds with the sharpness of his gaze on the Englishman.

  Fia watched John’s fist tighten almost imperceptibly. “Oh, I daresay he’s simply preening, wanting to look his best this evening in honor of our lovely guests.”

  Padraig sent an irritated glare toward the staircase, which remained dark and empty. “Dair has never preened. No Highlander preens. Perhaps I should send Angus Mor to fetch him down.”

  Fia could feel the tension in the Englishman’s body, though he hid it behind a broad grin. He knew where Dair was and why he wasn’t here.

  “I’m sure that’s not necessary.” John turned to look at Fia once more. “No doubt you’re eager to meet Alasdair Og, mistress, since you are here to cure him.”

  It was mildly spoken, but his eyes were sharp as dirks.

  Fia swallowed. “In truth I met him this afternoon while I was settling Bel in the stable,” she replied. His brows rose, and he scanned her face, searching for a clue as to her opinion of his friend. She kept her expression placid, her opinion her own.

  “I hope my son made a good impression,” Padraig Sinclair said, as if he was speaking of a child, not a man, and would send Alasdair Og to bed without his supper if he’d misbehaved.

  He is the most extraordinary man I’ve ever met. But she could not say that, or truly say their introduction had been pleasant. She studied her hands in her lap.

  Lord John came to her rescue. “My guess is Dair was as surprised by the cat as the rest of us. Perhaps that’s what’s delayed him.” The scratched clansmen murmured agreement and sympathy.

  The Englishman was Alasdair Og’s friend, his protector, Fia realized. He didn’t believe for an instant she was capable of healing him. That made two of them—three if you included Alasdair Og himself. Tension tightened her belly, and she opened her mouth to tell Padraig she wished to speak to him after the meal, but he beckoned his steward.

  “I see no reason to wait any longer for Alasdair Og. Let us dine.”

  Fia cast a quick glance at John Erly. His face was carefully blank. He was a stranger here, as she was, cautious about his place and his welcome. A maid let her gaze travel over Fia as she filled her glass with ruby wine. Fia ignored her, heard Meggie sigh with pleasure and ask Padraig Sinclair about the source of the wines he imported.

  “How did you come to be injured, Mistress MacLeod?” Lord John asked as the soup was served and others seated near them were deep in their own conversations.

  She swallowed a mouthful of soup too quickly and burned her tongue. She picked up her glass and took a gulp of wine. “Just Fia, please,” she reminded him when she could speak. He did not reply, waiting for an answer to his question. “I fell when I was a wee child. Apparently I was quite clumsy as a bairn.” She set her glass down on the handle of her spoon and sent it spinning across the table. Worse, the goblet toppled, and wine spilled across the white linen cloth like a bloodstain. Conversation stopped. She felt her stomach rise to her throat, and hot blood flooded her face.

  “Your pardon, Mistress MacLeod—I must have hit your glass with my knife,” John said, and tossed a napkin over the stain. He summoned a servant. “More wine for the lady, if you please.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, both to the lass who refilled her cup and to English John. Again he had come to her rescue. It appeared to be a habit of his. “I suppose I’m still rather clumsy.”

  He didn’t ask for further details. For a long moment he simply concentrated on his food. “It’s the most dreadful things that happen to us that shape us,” he said, and she wondered if he was talking to himself, until he turned to meet her eyes. “Some are hard to forget. They leave scars, both visible and invisible.”

  She knew he was speaking of Alasdair Og.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  His brows rose. “Not ‘What’s wrong with him’? Do you honestly believe you can cure him?”

  She looked down at her plate. “I have only just met him, and it was not . . .” She swallowed. “I also saw the portrait in the library. What was he like—before?”

  John shrugged. “I don’t know. I met him in an English prison, after a fortnight of—shall we say rough treatment? This is hardly the place to speak of it.”

  “Should I ask hi
m instead?” Fia said.

  He scanned her face, as if gauging whether she would dare to do so, if she could bear to hear the true tale, the unpleasant details. She held his gaze until he relented. “You could ask him, but he doesn’t talk about it. I know only what I saw, what I overheard. When they let us go, Dair was in no condition to make his way alone, so I brought him home. He cursed me for it.” He toyed with his glass. “He wished—well, as I said, it is not a subject for a lady, or for the dinner table.”

  “I know what he wished,” she said. “I saw it in his eyes today.”

  He looked surprised. “He relives that fortnight over and over again, by day, at night. He sees her, I think—his cousin Jean. Whatever they did to him in Coldburn, they did worse to her, and they did it before his eyes, while he was chained to the wall, unable to stop them or help her. They finally hanged her, and forced Dair to watch that too.”

  Fia felt the blood drain from her face and imagined just what had occurred. She put her spoon down.

  “Have I shocked you, mistress? Do you still believe you can heal him? A virgin who’s seen nothing of the world, a man who’s seen the very worst of it?” John demanded, his voice hard edged.

  The desire to stay, to try to help, filled her breast. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “Then why did you come? Did you expect he’d marry you?” he grated.

  Fia stared at her hands. “I—no, of course not. No, I’ve no hope of that.” But she had hoped, at least secretly, that if not Alasdair Og, then perhaps someone else . . . “I find injured creatures, you see—at Iolair. I bind their wounds, nurse them, and give them time to mend. Bel was one of those. I don’t expect them to remain with me forever, or even to be grateful. I am simply compelled to help if I can.”

  “Dair isn’t an injured bird, Mistress MacLeod.”

  Confusion brought tears to her eyes, and she blinked them away. “No, he most definitely is not. I’ve not tried to heal a person of anything so dire before. I do think healing comes from here.” She put her hand to her chest. “If a creature—or a man—doesn’t wish to heal, he won’t.”