Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Yes, of course. I shall pray—”

  There was a dark chuckle, mirthless. The hand released him. “Oh, you’ll do more than that, father. Destroy Alasdair Og, kill him, and the devil within him will die. Burn the witch, and you’ll be a saint.”

  If he vanquished a witch, saved the Sinclairs from evil, Alphonse could leave Scotland, return to France, go to Rome, even, be rewarded. “Yes, destroy the devil, burn the witch,” he muttered, his eyes burning like coals. “When?” he asked. “How?”

  But behind the curtain there was only silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “’Twill be midsummer soon,” Meggie said as she strolled with Fia through what once must have been a lovely garden. The roses, according to Padraig, had been planted by his late wife but had been left to run wild since her death twenty years earlier. It was a shame, Fia thought, watching the bees buzz drunkenly amid the blossoms. A little care, some pruning, would restore them.

  “Everyone at Iolair will be making ready, gathering flowers and weaving garlands. Our sisters will be fighting over which lads they’ll dance and flirt with,” Meggie mused. “Oh, Fia, I know the Sinclairs have suffered a terrible tragedy, but that was months ago. Surely they would like to dance and laugh and enjoy themselves for one night.”

  Fia couldn’t imagine Dair dancing around a bonfire. And many Sinclairs were Catholic. “Perhaps they have different customs here.”

  “Ach, d’you suppose the priest forbids keeping midsummer? He’s dreadfully pious. He makes everything seem sinful. I’m afraid of putting a foot wrong when he’s about. He can probably smell sin, like sweat.” She plucked a rose, held it to her nose. “Can you picture our Father Cormag refusing to allow a Midsummer’s Eve bonfire?”

  Fia smiled. “He’d lead the dancing himself. But then, he’s a Scot, and he understands the old ways and the magic we hold in our hearts. Have you asked Ina or Logan if there’s to be a bonfire?”

  Meggie made a face. “No, and no one else has said a word about it, though it’s only a few days off.” She dropped the rose and took Fia’s arm. “Why don’t we plan a Midsummer’s Eve celebration, like the one at Glen Iolair?”

  Fia picked up the discarded rose. The petals were as pink as sunrise, soft and cool. She pictured Meggie in Dair’s arms by the fire, kissing him . . . She squeezed the rose tightly, felt a thorn pierce her skin. She watched a bead of blood well up on her fingertip. “We’re guests here, Meggie. We cannot just do as we please,” she said crossly, gritting her teeth against the sting.

  “I’d ask the chief if he were here,” Meggie said. “I have no doubt he’d say aye. I’m not so sure about Alasdair Og.”

  “He’s not a monster, Meggie. He’s grieving even more than the rest of the clan.”

  “Well if ever there was a man who needed a party, it’s that one,” Meggie grumbled. “Papa never kept the clan from a celebration, even when he was in mourning himself. He’s buried eight wives, and bairns, too. He has more reason than anyone for grief, but he turns it into hope, shares that with the clan.”

  Fia considered. Would a celebration of life and the seasons make it easier for Dair to forget the dreadful memories that plagued him?

  “You could ask Alasdair Og, couldn’t you?” Meggie said. “I hardly know him at all. We could do everything the way we do at home—d’you suppose we can find some meadowsweet for love charms?”

  “Love charms? I doubt Father Alphonse would allow that,” Fia said, her belly tensing.

  “Who cares what he thinks? It’s not witchcraft. It’s just a wee bundle of leaves to tuck under our pillows so we can dream of true love. True love isn’t wicked,” Meggie said.

  Would Meggie dream of Dair? Would he take her hand by the fire, draw her into the shadows, claim a kiss, do more? Fia shut her eyes. She intended to stay away from the bonfire and not dream at all.

  “Will you ask him?” Meggie pleaded again. Fia scanned her eager face. Meggie’s blond hair shone in the sun, and her lips were pink, her eyes bright. She was beautiful. What man could resist? And Padraig had said it himself—Meggie would make the perfect wife for his son.

  Fia turned away, looked out over the sea, her heart in turmoil. “I’ll ask him if I see him,” she said. She planned to avoid him completely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “’Tis fine weather for sailing, is it not?” Logan asked, walking up to where Dair stood on the cliff, next to the growing cairn. He’d added three rocks today, worked until his aching muscles refused to do more.

  He followed Logan’s gaze to where the two Sinclair ships, the Lileas and the Maiden, tugged at their anchor chains in the bay below, longing for the open sea.

  Dair felt the same pull, but he had not set foot on the deck of a ship since he’d returned. Couldn’t. Logan hated sailing, stayed firmly on land, so Dair didn’t reply to his cousin’s comment.

  “Jeannie loved to take a boat out when the sun was warm,” Logan mused. “Remember how she swam, Dair? Like a dolphin, she was. She’d dive off the rocks, swim way down deep.” He looked at the rocks below them, jagged and black. “I keep expecting her to surface by the flat rock, just like she used to, bobbing like a seal. I can’t help but look for her in just that spot.”

  Dair knew the place. The rocks formed a warm pool at low tide, a place to step out of the water and dry off in the sun. He’d spent many summer days there with Jeannie. A wave crashed, and a column of white spray shot into the air, like a lass rising from the sea.

  “Her governess would scold her when she came home with salt in her hair, but that never stopped her,” Logan went on.

  Dair looked down at the tide pool, felt his throat close. There was something in the water, something red. Jeannie had a red gown. It was one of her favorites . . . Dair couldn’t breathe. He saw her, floating below him, her hair a yellow tangle—or was it just kelp? He held his breath, waited for her to turn onto her back, sleek as an otter, and look up.

  She’d be screaming, her eyes wide with agony.

  Dair tried to force air into his lungs, but it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t take his eyes off the red gown. Shards of light pierced his eyes, dazzled, made him squint. He couldn’t see. Was it a red gown, or just a trick of sunlight on the water? He felt himself swaying, leaning closer to the edge . . .

  Logan’s fists bunched in the back of Dair’s shirt. For an instant, he let Dair hang in his grip, halfway between land and sea, life and death. Dair drew a breath, felt fear. Logan means to shove me off the cliff. But his cousin yanked him backward instead.

  Dair gulped air like a swimmer coming up from too long underwater. He looked at his cousin.

  “Careful, cousin, ’tis easy to fall,” Logan said companionably. “’Tis a hot afternoon. Let’s go back and have a drink. I have whisky in my chamber.”

  “Aye,” Dair muttered, his heart still pounding, craving the hard bite of the whisky, the burn that proved he still lived, then numbed the pain. He let Logan lead him away from the cliff like an old man. He’d imagined it, the red gown, Jeannie in the water. Yet it seemed so real . . .

  “Logan, did you see anything in the water?”

  Logan looked at Dair with concern. “Did you see something?” he asked, his tone kind, careful.

  Dair felt bitterness fill his mouth. He was mad. He resisted the urge to go back to the edge of the cliff, look again. He felt the skin between his shoulders prickle. He could feel her there, behind him. He rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth. He wanted that drink very badly indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Herbs must be gathered in before midsummer,” Moire said as she cut a patch of meadowsweet with her small bone knife.

  “The oils are too strong after,” Fia said, remembering Ada’s lessons.

  “The spirit within them turns to making fruit.” Moire chuckled. “’Tis the same with folk. Many a spring babe is born from midsummer revels.”

  Fia concentrated on cutting long stems of St. John’s wort, the leaf o
f the blessed. She didn’t want to think about midsummer, or Dair and Meggie. She laid the cuttings in Moire’s willow basket.

  “Well?” Moire asked.

  “To heal wounds, nervousness, and burns,” Fia said obediently.

  Moire sent her a sharp look. “No, not that. Ye’re worrying over something.”

  Fia felt her cheeks flush.

  “Is it Alasdair Og?” Moire demanded. Fia’s face grew hotter still, and Moire grinned. “Aye, that’s it. Not worry—something deeper and sweeter. And it’s midsummer . . .”

  Fia kept her eyes on the plants in her hand. “Do they celebrate midsummer here at Carraig Brigh?”

  Moire nodded. “Aye. Some dance. Others mark it in secret. They come to the spring to whisper a wish for love, or luck, or the health of the cattle. They gather flowers for garlands and charms, light the bonfire, leap across the flames. Lads steal kisses, though the lasses give them freely enough. I expect it’s the same on MacLeod lands.”

  “Of course,” Fia said, though no lad had ever tried to steal a kiss from Donal MacLeod’s scarred, clumsy daughter—not when she had so many bonny sisters to choose from. Nor could she jump over the flames for luck.

  “The clan is ripe for a celebration this year, something good instead of bad.” Moire was watching Fia, her expression thoughtful. “I could make ye a love charm, Fia MacLeod.”

  Fia thought of Dair, how he had looked at her, how he’d touched her face. She closed her hand, felt the rough prickle of the healing skin on her palm. If not Dair, someone else, just a kiss . . .

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  “No? Took ye time to answer,” Moire said.

  “No,” Fia said again, firmly.

  “Can’t stay a virgin forever, or unkissed,” Moire said, then muttered a quick blessing upon the plant before digging for its roots with her knife.

  “I’ve been kissed,” Fia lied, her face flaming.

  Moire snorted. “No ye haven’t—not properly.”

  Fia’s cheeks were on fire now. “If there’s to be a bonfire, they’ll need hazel and meadowsweet, and lavender, and—”

  “I know what’s wanted,” Moire said, her eyes narrowing at the abrupt change of topic. “The Sinclairs know well enough where they grow.” Moire took Fia’s hand, touched the scar on her wrist. “Ye believe in magic, Fia MacLeod, or ye’d not be here at Carraig Brigh, trying to heal a madman. Don’t pretend ye don’t. Ye have such hope in your heart that it shows on your face. Ye wouldn’t be here, cutting plants before midsummer, learning their magic as well as ye ken their healing powers. Go look into the spring again.”

  If she did, would she see her true love? It wouldn’t be Dair. Fia felt the sorrow of that and hid it from Moire by running her hand over her sweaty face. The pungent scent of herbs rose from her fingers, enveloped her. She followed Moire along the path to the spring and knelt beside the pool. She saw the pale reflection of her own face in the water. Then a flame flared in the reflected shadow of her eyes and exploded outward in a jet of sparks, filling the pool. In the orange glow, figures danced and swayed. Midsummer. But the flames turned red, sharp, jagged, and the crowd surged toward her, their faces angry and ugly. Fia felt heat fill her breast and spread through her body. Smoke seared her lungs and the fire singed her hair and her clothes. She gasped for breath, but the air was hot, filled with sparks, burned her skin, her eyes—

  “What do ye see?” Moire demanded behind her.

  “Fire,” Fia said. Her throat felt raw.

  “The midsummer blaze,” Moire said.

  Fia shook her head. “No . . .” The hungry flames threatened to spill over the edge of the spring, into the grove, to set the trees alight. Fia felt the skin of her face begin to blister. Thick smoke dried her throat, closed it around a scream of pain and terror . . .

  She leaped to her feet, her heart pounding.

  “’Tis the bonfire,” Moire said again, and cackled. “The heat of passion.”

  The pool grew black and still, the flames gone. Fia licked her lips, found them cool, not parched by heat. Still, the vision had left her shaken.

  “I must go,” she said, and turned away from the spring. Fia hurried back to where she’d left the garron tied at the edge of Moire’s clearing, her hands unsteady, the sound of flames still crackling in her ears. The beast shied as she reached for him, nostrils flaring. Fia put a hand on the horse’s shaggy neck to soothe it. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then stared at the lace cuff in horror.

  The acrid smell of smoke clung to the fine fabric.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dair sat with his back against the half-built cairn. He took another long swallow from the flask beside him. He’d come back, stood on the edge of the damned cliff, and stared into the tide pool. There was no red gown, no drowned lass. He was mad, seeing things. He stared out at the waves and drank the whisky his cousin—the living one—had kindly provided.

  He saw Fia MacLeod coming long before she saw him. She walked along the path that followed the cliff’s edge, her steps slow. The wind caught her russet hair, red as a battle flag—or a red gown—and whirled it around her. A red gown . . . A hot ball of anger filled his breast, expanded. He rose to his feet as she reached him, stood before her on the path.

  She stopped, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him. “Good afternoon, Alasdair Og. Ciamar a tha sibh fhèin? How are you?” She greeted him formally. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the heat of the day, her skin sheened and glowing. “I have a question to ask you, a request—”

  “Do you like to swim, Mistress MacLeod?” he demanded, cutting through her damned question, dismissing it unasked.

  “Do I swim?” she echoed. “D’you mean in the sea?” She said it with as much astonishment as if he’d asked her if she could fly. He waited, scowling at her, demanding a reply. “No,” she said at last. “Like dancing, I never learned. My sisters swim in the loch on warm days, but—” She stopped, and her mouth formed an O of surprise. “Are you asking me to—suggesting that I—?”

  It was his turn to redden. The idea was ridiculous, Fia swimming in a red gown. He should apologize, step back, but instead he pointed to the sea and proved he was indeed as mad as a man could be. “I simply wish to point out that it’s more than thirty feet straight down. If you cannot swim—” Of course it wouldn’t matter if she could swim or not if she fell thirty feet. He was making himself sound dafter by the minute. Still, he charged on. “Does your father let you walk out alone?”

  She bit her lip, colored again. Her blush was most becoming. “No,” she admitted. “He’s very protective and worries I will fall, or harm myself—I never have, though.”

  She tried to move past him, continue along the path, but he gripped her arm. “There are plenty of other dangers. Wild animals, strangers.” Men. “The Sinclairs have enemies, and you are—” Young, innocent, and lovely. Fair game. A man might come upon her walking alone, steal a kiss, or want to very badly. The wind carried a tendril of her hair across the small distance between them, and it caressed his face. The sweet scent of her surrounded him. Dair let his eyes fall to her mouth. It was a mistake.

  She licked her lips as if she was thirsty, a nervous flick of her tongue that made his pulse pick up and his own mouth water. He wondered what she tasted like. He gritted his teeth against his body’s response to that. If she wasn’t afraid, she should be—he could easily overpower her, bear her down into the grass, toss her skirts up, take her . . .

  She set her hand on his where it gripped her arm. Another jolt of lightning shot through his veins, made his cock rise higher still. “You’re here, and I’m safe enough,” she said.

  Dhia, that was the kind of thing a lass said to someone old, or an invalid—not a man with an erection, half drunk, mad. He tightened his hold on her. “You are not safe,” he insisted. “You should not have left the confines of the castle alone. If you cannot stay put, then I will order you kept under guard.”

  S
omething fierce sparked in the depths of her golden eyes, and her brows arched. “Am I a guest or a prisoner, Alasdair Og?”

  He hesitated. Jeannie had been a prisoner. She’d been so easily hurt . . . Even if she’d had a dozen strong men by her side it would not have made any difference, and Fia MacLeod was all alone . . . “While I am in charge, the safety of my father’s guests is my responsibility. I will assign Angus to accompany you . . .” Angus was a good choice, safely married, in love with his wife.

  She tossed her nose into the air to show him what she thought of that. “I can take care of myself.”

  She stepped back and lifted the hem of her skirt, showed him the dirk strapped to her ankle. “My father believes his daughters should know how to keep themselves safe.”

  He brought his face close to hers, snarled at her. “I could snap you in two before you have time to reach for that dirk.”

  Fire kindled in her eyes. “Care to try? We MacLeods are called fearsome for good reason, Alasdair Og Sinclair.”

  Quick as a snake he drew his own dirk and pointed it at her—only to find hers was already raised against him, pressed to his throat. He stared at her in surprise. She gave him a smug wee grin.

  “Satisfied?” She put her knife back in the neat little sheath, and he caught a glimpse of her slim and shapely calf before she lowered her skirt. “Now may I go?”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Then feasgar math to you, Alasdair Og, good afternoon.” She slipped past him, leaving the scent of her hair to torment him as she continued back toward the castle.

  He watched her go, her back straight as a ramrod, her head high, and he realized she had not asked her question. Och, if it was important, surely she would find him later.

  He was almost looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Fia was awake at the sound of Dair’s first cry, before Angus Mor had even tapped on her door. By the time he did, she was fully dressed. She stepped out and put her finger to her lips, since Meggie was still asleep.