“Mistress . . .” Angus murmured the warning, but she ignored him, squeezed Dair Sinclair’s hand back as tightly as she could.
“Hush,” she said softly—speaking to Dair and Angus both. “Hush.”
Dair’s brow furrowed. Was he in pain? There was no medicine. “Water,” she said to the priest.
He blinked at her. “How will that help?”
Padraig stepped past him impatiently and filled a goblet. Fia eased her hand out of Dair’s and slid her arm behind his head, rested the weight of it on her shoulder. She held the cup to his lips. “Drink,” she whispered. She waited, then watched his throat move as he swallowed. His eyes opened halfway, glittering slits in the dark room, staring at nothing, or perhaps there was something hovering there in the dark. She was afraid to look over her shoulder.
The priest resumed his prayers. He came closer to the bed and raised his crucifix again. Dair thrashed, moaning, twisting away from the sibilant chanting, pressing his face into her neck like a frightened child. Angus stepped toward her again as Dair’s back arched, and his chest caved inward as he gasped for air, his belly hollow, his ribs sharp ridges. Muscles twitched and fought beneath his skin. The priest came closer still, until the crucifix nearly touched Dair’s face. Dair moaned again, and Fia frowned.
She pushed Father Alphonse’s hand away. The priest drew back as if her touch had burned him, his eyes rolling white with shock at her daring.
“Will you allow this, Chief Sinclair?” the priest demanded.
Dair’s father looked at the priest, then at her. She held his gaze without speaking. Let me try . . .
“Be silent,” Padraig said to the priest.
“You think this girl can heal him, this cripple?” Alphonse cried. “She is nothing but another charlatan. Your son is possessed by the devil. I must be allowed to drive the demon out, or Satan will drag him down to hell for all eternity!”
Fia ignored him, focused her attention on Dair, still trapped in his nightmare. She knew how terrible it was . . . she’d felt the same terror. She shut her eyes against the memory, but it came anyway. Her mother came into the nursery, crying, mourning yet another baby, a son this time, born dead. She picked Fia up, her only living child, and held her tightly. Fia felt the scratchy tangle of her mother’s hair, smelled the scent of sweat and perfume, and the milk that oozed from her aching breasts. She carried Fia to the window and opened the shutters . . .
Fia’s nightmares had frightened her sisters, and her bereft father had ordered her to be kept in the tower, with her nurse to tend her day and night, sitting in a chair by her bed, rocking Fia, singing to her until the terrible dreams faded and Fia slept.
Looking down at Dair’s tortured face, Fia began to sing, her lips close to his ear, her voice a whisper only he could hear. Dair went still. She let the song rise until it filled the room, driving back the darkness and the demons. The sweet words were a blessing for a child, a charm against the terrors of the night, a wish for a bright morning full of joy and love.
The priest fell silent, his argument fading as the Gaelic lullaby rose. She knew John and Angus and the chief of the Sinclairs were staring at her, struck dumb, but she ignored them, sang for Alasdair Og alone, holding his hand in hers. She watched as the furrows in his brow relaxed and the lines of his body eased, like a rope going slack. At last his grip on her hand loosened, and he drew a deep breath and relaxed into sleep. She held his fingers in hers a moment longer, then tucked them under the covers.
The chief was staring at her as she rose to her feet, her knees cramped and aching. “You did—that—with just a sip of water? ’Tis magic!”
She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that it wasn’t the water or magic. It was simple human comfort. She met the sharp knife edge of suspicion in Father Alphonse’s eyes. His knuckles were white on his crucifix. She pulled her shawl closer around her throat, turned to Padraig. “I’ll stay with him, in case . . .”
The priest sniffed. “It is not appropriate for a woman—a virgin—to stay alone with a madm—”
“I’ll keep her company—in case she needs anything,” John said, his tone as awed as the Sinclair’s.
“It is sin!” the priest objected, but the chief silenced him with a sharp gesture.
“He sleeps. She did that, priest, not you. Still, it is not right for a lady to remain in a gentleman’s room at night. I could have a maid come, but . . .”
Fia knew what he feared. A servant would gossip, and she was the daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod. If her father heard of such an impropriety, if he even suspected she’d been in a man’s chamber at night without a suitable chaperone, he’d come for her as fast as he could get a horse saddled and cover the miles between Glen Iolair and Carraig Brigh. He’d take her home, lock her up, protect her for the rest of her life . . .
“Perhaps Father Alphonse could stay?” she said quickly. Surely a priest’s presence would still any wagging tongues. And he would see that she wasn’t casting spells or working magic.
“I must go to the chapel and keep Matins,” the priest objected.
“Say your prayers here,” Padraig ordered.
Father Alphonse’s eyes narrowed on Fia. “You will not mind?” he asked, as if she was a heathen or a witch. She swallowed a smile at the idea. In truth, since Papa’s wives had professed different faiths, there was no priest at Glen Iolair. They made do with the man of God who traveled the glens and arrived at their door once or twice a year to preach a sermon, christen babies, bless new marriages, and pray for those who had died since his last visit. While he was amongst the MacLeods, the clergyman ate and drank well—even danced if there was a party. He overlooked harmless sins and slept in a comfortable bed. He did not get up for Matins. Perhaps this French priest thought Fia would turn to smoke and fly out the window at the sound of a Hail Mary.
“No, father, I do not mind prayers.”
The priest’s thin lips twisted with disappointment before he turned his bony back to her, sank to his knees in the corner, and began to chant in a lisping drone.
Padraig Sinclair stared down at his sleeping son, his face soft. When he turned to Fia, his eyes were filled with gratitude.
“He’ll sleep now,” she said, and hoped it would be so.
“My thanks,” he said hoarsely. Without another word, he turned and left the room, and she listened to the echo of his footsteps descending the stairs.
“I’ll stay, just in case,” Angus Mor said as he lowered his big body to the floor, his back propped against the wall. He stared at her, his eyes full of admiration.
Fia felt blood rise into her cheeks. Tomorrow, she’d find Padraig Sinclair, tell him it wasn’t magic. And then? Did she still wish to go home? She glanced at Dair. Asleep, he looked younger, more vulnerable, more like the man she’d glimpsed in the portrait, the one who’d spoken to her of the sea, the color of the sky, and the stars . . .
She’d stay, she decided. If only for this, to soothe the nightmares that plagued him.
John brought the room’s only chair nearer to the side of the bed for her. She nodded her thanks and sat. The Englishman took his place next to Angus Mor on the floor. His eyes were thoughtful now instead of hostile.
They sat in silence and listened to the hum of the priest’s prayers.
And among them, Alasdair Og Sinclair, the Madman of Carraig Brigh, slept peacefully on without stirring.
“Will you take me to see the healer?” Fia asked John as he escorted her back to her room at dawn, before Meggie woke, and while Angus Mor carried Dair—still asleep—back to his own room.
“Can you ride?”
“Yes, of course. When one can’t walk quickly, one learns to ride, and ride well,” she replied.
“Sleep first, Mistress MacL—”
“Fia,” she interrupted as they arrived at the door of her chamber. “Just Fia.”
He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Oh no, not ‘just Fia’ at all. Shall we ride out after
the noon meal?”
Fia nodded. She really did need to assure them that it wasn’t magic, or anything even a wee bit miraculous, but it had been nice to see gratitude and admiration in the eyes of the chief of the Sinclairs, and in John Erly’s gaze too.
As Fia climbed back into bed beside Meggie, she wondered if she’d ever see those things in Dair Sinclair’s eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dair woke in his own room with a witch of a hangover flaying his brain. Thin daggers of sunlight sliced through the shuttered window and stabbed at his eyes when he tried to open them. He put his arm over his face and wished he had something to drink—water, ale, whisky—it didn’t matter, anything to kill the taste in his mouth.
He had no idea what time it was, and his pocket watch was in the desk across the room. By the angle of the sun, he guessed it must it must be close to noon.
He remembered nothing past leaving the hall last night. There’d been music, dancing, and laughter, all of which had been in short supply at Carraig Brigh of late, and all for the benefit of Fia MacLeod and her sister. The Sinclairs had danced as if her arrival truly was a miraculous visitation, a cure for all the ills that cursed the clan and plagued poor mad Alasdair Og. His mouth twisted. There was nothing like a virgin witch and a potential wedding with her buxom sister to ease a clan’s woes. Fools. If he was lucky, he’d find it was all a bad dream. He used to be considered the luckiest man in Scotland, or on the seas, or anywhere else he happened to be, but his luck had died at Coldburn Keep, and taken the good fortune of the whole of Clan Sinclair along with it. No, it was all real—the virgin, her sister, Jeannie’s death, and his own living hell.
Dair’s belly roiled. So where was wee Fia this morning? He hoped she had a spell to cure hangovers. Or maybe she’d cursed him with this one, though logic poked at his pickled wits to tell him this was his all own fault. He should not have gone downstairs full of whisky, but he’d wanted to see Fia MacLeod again. The more he drank, the more it seemed she’d bewitched him in the stable. He couldn’t stop thinking about her soft eyes, the pure, pale oval of her face, the way she’d faced him without fear, made him feel—well, something . . . Curiosity? Lust? He kept drinking and thinking until he wasn’t sure if she was real or just a figment of his addled imagination. Like Jeannie. No, not like Jeannie—he’d never met a woman like Fia MacLeod, and he’d wanted to see her again, just to be sure.
He’d sat beside her in his father’s hall, though what they discussed he couldn’t recall. He remembered her eyes—gold, copper, and green, as clear as tide pools, as bright as stars. Stars—something about stars teased the edge of his brain. And pearls. He scrubbed his hand over the scruffy stubble on his chin. She’d been nervous, skittish . . .
She’d probably left by now, run screaming into the night, home to her papa. He wondered if he’d know if she’d gone, feel it in his tortured bones. His last chance of salvation.
He felt nothing.
Dair forced his eyes open again, saw the bulky shape of Angus Mor wrapped in his plaid, sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. He’d had a bad night, then—nightmares, screaming. No doubt Angus had carried Dair up to the tower, let him rant himself into exhaustion, then brought him back again in the early hours, before the servants could see.
As if they didn’t already know.
He stared up at the tester above his bed, at the painted scene of Neptune calling up a storm at sea, surrounded by nymphs and mermaids. He’d had the bed made in Venice, carved by hand, decorated by a famous artist, and carried it home in a Sinclair ship. It cost a king’s ransom, and when his chamber at Carraig Brigh proved too small to hold such a massive piece of furniture, he’d knocked down an ancient stone wall between his chamber and the next, and made room. His father had been shocked by both the expense of the bed and the remodeling required to accommodate it, but once it was in place, he’d teased Dair about it being a fine place to bed a bride and sire Sinclair sons, under Neptune’s lusty gaze. Too bad Neptune would have to make do with his own nymphs for titillation. Dair wouldn’t marry now. He shut his eyes again, but Jeannie was instantly there, standing beside the bed, leaning over him, reaching for him. But this time, she wasn’t screaming. She was singing.
Singing?
That was impossible—Jeannie had a voice like a skua gull. He’d teased her, suggested she should consider taking a vow of silence when she entered the convent, since the nuns wouldn’t be able to bear the sound of her singing. She’d cursed him for a fool who had no appreciation for talent. Now she came to him singing a lullaby, her voice as sweet and pure as a sea nymph’s.
He remembered the old tune—his mother sang it when he was a child, but he hadn’t heard the song, or even thought about it, in years. Why the devil was he remembering it now?
Dair forced himself to his feet, though his stomach pitched like a ship on a storm tide. He concentrated on making his way across the room to the washstand. He splashed his face with water and drank what was left in the pitcher. He probably looked even worse than he felt. He didn’t know. He kept the mirror covered, unable to bear his reflection. It was like staring at his own corpse. He looked for his clothing—his plaid and a rumpled shirt lay across a chair, left where whoever had undressed him last night had tossed them. He pulled the shirt on over his head and belted his plaid around his hips. Angus Mor was still deeply asleep. Normally, he woke at Dair’s slightest movement. Something was different.
Angus was the chief’s champion. He’d grown up with Dair, sailed with him, was loyal to him the way he was loyal to whisky, his wife and sons, and the sea. Annie had been in childbed when Dair sailed away with Jeannie, and Angus had stayed home with her. The death of Jeannie and the crew had been hard on the big clansman, especially when the babe died a few weeks after her birth, only days before Dair returned. He doubted Angus had slept through the night since Dair had come home. He stepped over him now, let him sleep.
The damned lullaby was stuck in his brain, as piercing as John’s flute, but John played bawdy folk tunes and quick dances, not lullabies. The voice in his head was sweet, beguiling, a siren’s song. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled it into a queue, and tied a scrap of leather around it.
Dair opened the window, let the sun and the breeze from the sea fill the room. The salt scent stirred Dair’s senses, the familiar feeling of excitement, and the anticipation of sailing. Only now, the sight and smell he’d always loved brought guilt and fear, made him sick.
He turned away from the window, took hold of the stick Moire had left him, and hobbled out of the room like an old man. He felt old—his head ached with drink, and his injured leg shook under him. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving.
Downstairs, the hall was empty, breakfast long over. There was no sign of Fia MacLeod or her sister. Had they fled after all?
To his surprise, the carts that had carried the MacLeods here were still in the bailey, and empty. Perhaps in her hurry to flee, Fia had ridden away on horseback, leaving her goods and gear to follow. Likely the servants were upstairs right now, packing. He felt what—regret? Nay, it must be relief. She’d gone as quickly as she’d come, and that was a good thing.
Then the cat—her cat—stepped into the square of sun in the doorway of the stable. Dair’s belly tensed. It meant Fia MacLeod was still here. He glanced around the bailey, but there was no sign of her. His father’s clansmen went about their daily routines—working in the smithy, repairing harnesses, chopping wood. Was she still abed? Surely only drunken madmen and loose women lay in bed until the sun was this high. The pure daughter of a proud Highlander would be up before the sun, doing something useful. Perhaps she was in the library, searching his books for madness cures, or she was tucked away in the chapel, praying, or she sat sewing in the solar. Maybe she was locked away in a corner of the brew house, steeping roots, berries, and magical plants into bitter potions to dose him with.
The cat took a few easy steps out of the stable. Niall Sinclair caug
ht sight of the beast approaching him. He muttered an oath and called out a warning. The four men in the bailey instantly froze and turned to watch the cat.
“Good day to you, cat,” Niall said politely. He reached into the pouch at his waist as the cat regarded him steadily. “I have it here for you,” he said, as if the cat had spoken.
Niall tossed a bit of bannock at the cat. Instead of mocking him, the other clansmen waited quietly as the cat approached the tidbit. When it was accepted and devoured, they hurried forward with their own offerings. Dair watched as his father’s clansmen—guards, warriors, sailors all—made smacking noises with their lips, cooed and crooned like anxious mothers as the cat considered their offerings.
“Makes a nice change from mousies, eh?” Jock asked the cat.
Dair frowned. And they called him mad . . .
After eating his fill, the cat stretched and swaggered forward. He stopped when he caught sight of Dair, his yellow eyes narrowing. Dair held the beast’s glare with his own. Beelzebub looked away first, but only to flex one paw and extend his razor-sharp claws. He honed his weapons with long, leisurely strokes of his tongue. The implied threat was not lost on Dair. He noted that the dogs that usually lounged in the bailey were absent, and the clansmen were giving the cat a wide berth. It appeared that Fia MacLeod’s devil cat had taken over.
Dair headed for the postern gate, felt the cat’s stare like the point of a dirk between his shoulder blades. He ignored it, went through the gate and slammed it shut behind him.
He took the path that led along the edge of the cliff, to the cairn. It barely rose above the grass, required more rocks. He walked on until he found a suitable stone and heaved it up, his head throbbing, his teeth gritted, his ruined muscles straining to bear the weight of it as he carried it over the rough ground. He set it in place, turned away, and vomited.
Beauty and the Highland Beast Page 9