Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “So you can make him want to live?” John demanded. “Be sure, Mistress MacLeod.”

  She wasn’t sure. Not even a wee bit. She opened her mouth to say so. “I—”

  “I see I’ve missed dinner. Am I in time for the dancing at least?” a loud voice asked. Fia looked up to find Alasdair Og standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He wore a brocade jacket of dark red over his plaid. Like his father’s, Alasdair Og’s shoes also glittered with diamond buckles. There the elegant image ended. His hollow eyes glittered too—with drink. He needed sleep, and barbering, and, most likely, food. He looked like a ragged marauder, rough, brash, and bold enough to interrupt an elegant supper party. His neck cloth was missing, his throat and chest exposed by the open collar of his fine linen shirt. He met her eyes across the room and grinned, and Fia felt her breath catch in her throat. The drink had perhaps dulled his pain, but it had brought out the devil in Dair Sinclair.

  The chief shot to his feet, but John was faster rising to his. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flute, held it high. “If you’ve come to dance, I’m ready when you are,” he said. “Jock, Andrew—tune your instruments. Logan, perhaps you’ll lead Mistress Meggie out?” He began to blow a happy jig, and Fia saw Alasdair Og wince at the high-pitched notes.

  Padraig Sinclair sank back into his chair and glowered at his son.

  A piper and a fiddler joined English John, a lad beat time on a small drum, and more couples joined Meggie and Logan in the broad space before the hearth, spinning to the merry music.

  No one invited Fia to dance, but she didn’t expect anyone would. Her foot tapped time under the table. She lost sight of Alasdair Og in the crowd.

  He appeared again by her side and slid into John’s empty chair. “Well, mistress, shall we sit like two old people and talk of our glory days, when we could dance better than any of them?”

  Fia could smell scented soap and the sweet-sick odor of his half-healed wounds, but stronger than both was the waft of whisky on his breath. Her spine stiffened at his audacity. He was drunk, unfit for company. It was one of her father’s strictest rules—no man came to his table worse for drink, not in front of his daughters. In the eyes of the Fearsome MacLeod, it was the worst possible insult a man could offer a woman.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered.

  He grinned at her, a baring of gleaming teeth. “Because I’m drunk? I’ll have you know my chief commanded me to make an appearance—for your benefit, not mine. So here I am.” He spread his arms wide. “I dressed for the occasion, and yet you will not agree to dance with me.”

  “Your buttons are fastened wrong, and I cannot dance,” she said tartly, running her gaze over the exposed V of tanned skin at his throat. She could see the pulse point beating there, and she stared at it. Was he as tanned everywhere? She felt her cheeks fill with hot blood.

  “Yes, you did say you were injured as a child,” he said blithely. “If you cannot dance, you might at least come and help me with my buttons.”

  The way he said it suggested he’d prefer to have them undone rather than done up. No one had ever made such a suggestion to Fia before. She felt a thrill in her breast. The shocking idea of touching his golden chest made her gasp, look away. She pretended to watch the dancers, ignoring him, though his nearness made her breathless, made every inch of her body quiver. John Erly kept glancing at her, as if to ensure she was safe—or perhaps he was afraid of what she might do to Alasdair Og.

  Her father had once tossed a tipsy clansman into a horse trough, dunked him thrice, and left him on the ground to sober up. She wondered if that was the standard treatment for it. She wished she had the strength to . . .

  “It’s your right leg, is it not?” he asked.

  “What?” She glanced at him. He’d set one elbow on the table, cupped his chin in his palm, and leaned closer. Close enough that she could look into his eyes, see blue flecks amid the gray, measure the length of his dark lashes. It was like finding herself trapped in a whirlpool. He was looking at her too, his gaze moving over her brow, her nose, her cheeks. His gaze paused on the scars that lay half-hidden under her hair, remained fixed there. She felt the stare like a touch, too probing, too intense, and she tried to turn away, to hide the damaged side of her face, but he put his hand under her chin and held her in place. The gentle warmth of his fingers on her skin was surprising. She held very still, a mouse caught in the sights of a predator, bewitched.

  “I mean, if you limp on the left, my bad leg would be opposite to yours. We might stand up together well enough after all. I shall hop to the right, you to the left, and we could manage most of the steps, don’t you think?” Was he as affected by her nearness? He was calm, in command, his voice soft and sure, while her senses were in disarray.

  She didn’t reply—she couldn’t even breathe, never mind think. What he suggested was impossible—she’d never learned any kind of dance. He looked so serious, she feared he truly meant to drag her out onto the dance floor . . .

  Then he smiled, and that smile banished the harshness from his countenance, softened the hollow planes of his face, made her insides turn to butter under the sweet charm of it. Men did not smile that way at Fia MacLeod. Ever.

  Well, until now.

  “What’s the matter, mistress? Do you not like to flirt? Has the cat got your tongue?” He chuckled at the jest, a warm, deep sound that vibrated over her nerves like a harp string plucked by a master. Was this flirting? She had no experience with flirting, She picked up her goblet and gulped. He took it from her hand, caressing her fingers as he did so, and put his mouth where her own had been, his eyes never leaving hers, and finished the rest of the wine. She watched his throat work, and her body turned to flame. She stared at the empty cup, wondering where all the air had gone, why she could not breathe.

  No, Dair Sinclair most certainly was not an injured animal, or a monster. He was something she’d had no experience of at all—a man, handsome and bold and dangerous to a woman’s senses. She looked desperately for Meggie, but her sister was dancing, happy and rosy cheeked. She’d forgotten Fia entirely, and she was on her own.

  “I must go,” she said, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself as she rose.

  He closed his hand over hers, sent more sparks flying along her skin. Fireflies. “Och, I am not at my best this evening, I fear. Do sit down, and we’ll begin again. I’ll politely ask after your health and comment on the weather. I’ll tell you how well you look tonight, that your gown becomes you and the pearl is exquisite.” He reached out and stroked the pearl with the tip of one finger, caressing it with a long, slow stroke. His hand was an inch from the edge of her bodice, the naked slope of her breast . . . “I should know—I am a collector of pearls.” His voice had dropped an octave, grown as dark and thick and sweet as molasses. “Did you know pearls symbolize innocence and purity? Fitting, that.” She met his eyes, saw something flare in the gray depths. “And beauty of course. Pearls symbolize beauty as well.”

  She could feel his breath on her mouth. Hot blood filled her face. “Stop,” she whispered.

  He raised one lazy eyebrow. “Stop, you say? Most ladies like compliments. Do you dislike them, or are you simply unused to them?” He sat back, slumped in his chair with easy elegance, and regarded her, his eyes heavy lidded. “Very well. I can converse on any topic you’d like—science, architecture, poetry . . . Or we could simply discuss the sights you saw on your journey here. Now, just how long did it take to travel from MacLeod lands to Carraig Brigh?”

  “Five days,” she murmured. She was still standing, and he raised his brows and waited until she sank back into her chair. She perched on the very edge. “We saw the Highlands, passed cotts and farms, and stopped for a pint of ale or a cup of water when we thirsted.” It came out in a rush, a dull comment.

  “It would have been faster if you’d come by ship. You might have seen dolphins and whales, stopped on islands for fresh-caught fi
sh steamed in seaweed, or devoured sweet cockles plucked fresh from the sands. Have you ever eaten fish on the seashore?”

  Her mouth watered, longed to taste such things. “No, and I’ve never been on a boat.” Her father refused to allow it, even in the placid confines of the loch, fearing his clumsy daughter would fall overboard, drown herself, and take others with her. He still blamed her . . . She forced the thought away. “What’s it like to sail?” she asked.

  His gaze shifted, and he stared into the distance. “It’s freedom. Like riding a powerful horse with a gait like silk. You speed over the waves, carried on the wind, held up over an unknowable depth of water beneath you, with the entire sky above. And that sky is a different color depending on where on earth you are. There are a thousand shades of blue. You can look up and know where you are, just by the color. And the stars at night—there’s indescribable beauty in the stars, like a woman’s eyes, flashing, shining . . . And yet, they are tools, enabling navigation, a map to follow . . .”

  She stared at his profile as he spoke, at the scars that marred his brow and cheeks, the crooked line of his broken nose, the elegant, aristocratic line of his jaw, half-hidden under the shadow of stubble, and the soft, sensual curve of his mouth. She saw the sea in his eyes, smelled the wind, tasted the salt, and she felt her chest tighten with a longing to sail, to experience speed and adventure. Breathless, she felt the presence of the man in the portrait, the rogue, the bold captain. Her heart twisted as she imagined him in prison, beaten, chained, tormented to madness. He was still a prisoner, trapped inside the cage of his injured flesh, his damaged bones, his memories of unspeakable horrors.

  What would it take to set him free?

  He suddenly turned to look at her, as if he’d read her thoughts. Something dark passed over his features. “You must promise you will never go to sea, Fia MacLeod,” he muttered, his voice so low she could barely hear him over the music. “Stay safe on land, at home.” His rapt expression faded to gray, and the shadows thickened again in the hollows of his eyes, cheeks, and throat. He scanned the room as if he’d only just realized where he was.

  Abruptly, he rose to his feet and bowed. “You are quite correct. I am unfit company. Good night, mistress.”

  She watched as he made his way around the periphery of the room, keeping to the shadows, leaning on his stick like an old man, slipping through a door at the far end of the hall.

  The dancing went on without him, merry and gay, and no one but Fia even noticed that Dair was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Mistress MacLeod.”

  Fia heard the whisper from far away, muted by the mists of sleep, but the hand that shook her awake was insistent.

  “Mistress MacLeod—Fia—wake up.”

  It was a man’s voice, close to her ear, right here in her bedchamber. Her eyes shot open. Alasdair Og, she thought, and her heart kicked at her ribs. But it was the shadowed face of John Erly that hovered over her in the dark.

  “What are you—” she began, but he put his finger to his lips. Fia glanced over her shoulder at Meggie, still fast asleep beside her and snoring softly, so worn out from dancing that she’d probably sleep through a reiving. If Lord John was here for improper purposes, Meggie would be of no help at all. Fia clutched the coverlet and stared at him.

  “Dair needs assistance, and since Moire is gone, that means you.”

  She sat up so quickly her head knocked him under the chin. He grunted and Meggie stirred. John stepped into the shadow of the bed curtains, but Meggie simply hauled on the blankets, claimed the lion’s share of them, and went back to sleep.

  Exposed, Fia crossed her arms over her nightdress. “I’ll come,” she whispered. John didn’t move. She shot him a pointed look, then wondered if he could see it in the dark. “You’ll give me a moment to dress, if you please.” She added vinegar to her tone to be sure he understood.

  “Five minutes, or I’ll come in here again,” he said, and left the room.

  The instant the door shut behind him, Fia climbed out of bed and fumbled for a gown. She pulled it over her head and laced the front over her nightdress. She tossed a shawl around her shoulders, stuffed her bare feet into shoes, and opened the door.

  John stood in the hall, holding a candle. Angus Mor stood beside him, as tall and wide as a mountain. He nodded to her, his expression grim as he took in her sleep-mussed braid and hastily donned gown.

  “Very good, Mistress MacLeod. I’ve never known a woman who could dress in under five minutes, have you, Angus?” John Erly drawled.

  The big man shook his head. “Well, not unless she was a—” He shut his mouth with an audible snap and blushed in the candlelight. “Not that I meant—”

  A distant cry echoed along the corridor, a thin, eerie, haunted sound. Fia drew a sharp breath.

  “Dair has nightmares,” John said. “He wakes screaming. Padraig has Angus Mor carry him up to the tower so he won’t disturb everyone’s sleep.” The cry came again, rushing down upon the three of them, catching on the castle’s ancient stone walls, a desperate living thing of raw pain and torment. Angus Mor crossed himself.

  “Well, he disturbs fewer people,” John muttered. “Will you come?”

  Fia didn’t reply. She simply began walking in the direction of the cries, and John and Angus Mor followed. They reached a narrow door at the end of the corridor, and John opened it.

  She gasped as the thin candlelight revealed an endless parade of narrow stone steps marching upward into the dark, miles of them by the looks of it, each one uneven, steep, and dangerous, steps it would take her hours to climb.

  She turned to Angus Mor. “I shall require assistance.”

  “’Tis no trouble at all, mistress. I’ll have you there before you know it.”

  He scooped his arms under her knees, and she felt the breathless rush of being lifted. His chest was like iron under her shoulder. Like her father’s chest, his strong arms, carrying her up to the tower room at Glen Iolair when she was a wee girl . . .

  “Och, you’re lighter than a thistle!” Angus said. “Much better than carrying Dair up these steps.” John held the candle high to light the way, and the flame illuminated the worry on the Englishman’s face. Fia felt her own uncertainty taking hold as the steps wound onward, coming out of the dark one after the other, higher and higher, and the dreadful sounds grew louder. She had no idea what to do when she got there—she only knew she could not leave him alone in the dark. She knew the terror of that too well.

  She held her breath when Angus Mor set her down outside the door, and stood for a moment, uncertain—afraid—getting her balance and waiting for her heart to still as she watched the beckoning flicker of candlelight against black stone walls inside the small room.

  “Go on,” John said, jerking his head, his eyes hard. He wanted a miracle. Her hands curled into the fine wool of her gown. She took a breath and entered. Dair Sinclair lay on a cot in the center of the room. His naked chest glistened with sweat, and harsh pink scars snaked over his flesh like binding ropes. Fia’s throat closed as she imagined the brutal blows that had caused such marks. Padraig Sinclair flicked a sheet over his son.

  Father Alphonse stood at the foot of the cot, holding a crucifix high as he muttered prayers that were barely audible over Dair’s moans. The priest’s sweat-sheened face was white against the darkness and the black of his cassock. He cast a baleful glare at Fia as she approached.

  Dair’s eyes were tightly closed, and his head tossed on the pillow. Tight cords of muscle twitched in his throat as he battled invisible demons, trapped in a nightmare. Fia remembered her own nightmares, the terror that had been real to her, even if no one else understood.

  “Can you wake him?” she asked Padraig.

  “We have found it best not to. He becomes violent, acts without knowing what he does.” The chief glanced at Angus Mor, and Angus came to stand behind her, ready to snatch her out of harm’s way if necessary. John leaned against the wall, his arms fol
ded over his chest, his eyes sharp and cold. Father Alphonse stopped praying and regarded her with a reptilian glare that made her heart crawl into her throat.

  They were all waiting.

  She felt her mouth go dry.

  “Is there medicine?” she asked. “Something for pain, something to soothe him?”

  Padraig frowned. “’Tis for you to tell us, Mistress MacLeod. You are the healer.”

  There was no charm in his face or manner now as he waited for her to conjure up a miracle from the thin air.

  And while she stood there, helpless, Dair moaned and thrashed. He muttered curses, oaths, pleas, in Gaelic, in French, in English.

  A cold bead of sweat drew a line down Fia’s spine. She had no idea what to do, where to begin. She had no herbs, no medicines, and certainly no magic. She looked over Dair’s body, at the long, powerful limbs covered with fine linen, like a shroud ready to be drawn up. There was no blood, no broken bones, no injured wings here. She clutched her hands together. Her fingers were cold, her legs trembling, and the icy disdain emanating from the men in the little room was terrifying, the air thick with anxiety and the expectation that she would fail.

  “Well, Mistress MacLeod, what will you do?” Padraig Sinclair demanded.

  “I—” She reached out her hand to touch Dair’s brow. His skin was warm and alive but not feverish. She brushed aside his hair. It was soft against her fingertips. Her touch was gentle, but he started violently, cried out, and Angus gripped her shoulders to pull her out of reach.

  “Let me go,” she said firmly. His grip tightened for an instant, until Padraig Sinclair nodded. Angus dropped his hands, stepped back, but remained close.

  She knelt beside the bed. If Dair lashed out now, hit her in his sleep, he’d hurt her. No carpets softened the hard stone floor. She gulped a breath of air, sent up a prayer for courage, and concentrated on the man before her. She took Dair’s hand in hers, forced him to release the linen he held bunched in his fist. He grasped her fingers instead, like a lifeline, his grip crushing.