The virgin healer was a beauty, and she had a rare quality to her, something fragile and sweet that made men want to protect her. Their women weren’t jealous—they liked her. It was witchcraft, and only he could see it.
The sound of Fia’s laughter drifted up to his hiding place. It was like a knife thrust, an abomination. He sawed on the chain, rubbing it back and forth, reveling in the pain.
He was the only one who could save the clan. Even Padraig had forgotten his sacred duty to his clan. He was as bewitched as the rest of them. It fell to him to restore honor to the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh.
He tore himself away from the window and the hateful sight of Fia MacLeod. The storeroom was piled high with boxes and trunks filled with Jeannie’s worldly goods, hastily packed and brought here on Padraig’s orders, in case the sight of them made Dair’s madness worse. They had forgotten her so easily. He crossed to the statue of the Virgin in the corner, ran his fingers over the painted wooden cheek. She’d once stood by the prie-dieu in Jeannie’s chamber. He saw Jeannie’s face when he looked at the icon. “Jeannie . . . ,” he whispered, but she did not whisper back, didn’t come to him the way she came to Dair. The room remained silent and empty. He threw open a trunk, stroked the lace edging of one of the gowns she’d left behind when she sailed for France. He pressed it to his nose, caught the ghost of her perfume, rising around him. His chest tightened with grief and fury, and his eyes stung with tears. “You will be revenged, soon—very soon,” he promised the empty air. Then she’ll come to me, grateful, bless me.
He turned back to watch Fia MacLeod, but the bailey was empty now of everyone but the devil cat. The beast stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring straight up at him. Fear made his breath catch in his throat, and he crossed himself again as the cat drew its lips back and hissed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ye’re a kind, sweet lass, and ye’ve got a true healing touch,” Muriel Sinclair said as Fia bathed the sores on her leg with comfrey and alder bark. The small black cat in her lap purred and blinked in agreement. Fia smiled at both of them. Muriel was grandmother to Angus Mor’s wife, Annie. She knew the stories of the clan’s history better than anyone, even Tormod Pyper, the seanchaidh. There was nothing Muriel enjoyed more than debating the details of those tales with Tormod. But of late, Muriel had been plagued with the afflictions of age—aching joints, sores that wouldn’t heal, and a desire to stay close to her own hearth instead of going about the village as she always had. When she forgot the name of one of the greatest Sinclair warriors—Sir William Sinclair, who’d fought and died at Flodden—folk began to worry, and Angus asked Fia to pay his wife’s beloved gran a visit.
“You’re a pretty wee thing. How is it you’re not wed?” Muriel asked. “I’m sure I have a grandson who’s in need of a wife. Now, which one was it? Alex, perhaps.”
“Alex is your great-grandson, dear one, and he’s only twelve,” Annie reminded her gently. She held a cup to Muriel’s lips, and the cat raised her head to sniff hopefully. “It’s naught for you, puss. It’s something Mistress MacLeod has brought to ease Gran’s pain.”
“Perhaps it’s Angus who wants a wife?” Muriel mused. “He’s a braw man, a champion warrior—”
“Angus is married to me,” Annie said.
Muriel tapped a finger against her gray temple. “Of course he is! I never forget a thing.”
Annie smiled at Fia and shrugged.
“I must go,” Fia said gently.
“Off so soon?” Muriel asked. “I meant to tell you the tale of Robert Dubh Sinclair, who once fought a giant.”
“’Twas Archie Sinclair who fought the giant, dearest,” Annie said.
“I’ll hear the story next time I come,” Fia said.
At the door, Annie slid a parcel of fresh-baked bannocks into Fia’s basket. “For your kindness—and I’ve made extra for your cat. Angus says he’s partial to bannock.”
As Fia moved between the cotts, folk hurried out to greet her. No one noticed her limp anymore or stared at her scars. They asked after Muriel or Ina—even Bel. No one mentioned Dair.
Fia didn’t see the lads coming until it was too late. Wee Alex and another boy raced pell-mell around the corner of the chapel. Folk cried a warning, but they crashed into Fia full force, knocking the wind out of her lungs, jarring her teeth together, and slamming her backward onto the muddy ground.
A dozen people were standing over her when she opened her eyes, trying to raise her and brush the mud off her plaid at the same time.
“Wee devils, those two. Never still for a moment,” one of the women said, looking in the direction the lads had gone. “Are ye badly hurt, Mistress Fia?”
“No, I’m well enough,” Fia said, getting to her feet. In truth, she was more embarrassed than hurt.
Then she noticed that Annie’s bannocks had spilled out of the basket into the mud. “Oh no.” She bent to retrieve them, but they were ruined. Not even Bel would eat them now. Still she gathered them up, put them back in the basket. Folk watched her with odd expressions. “For the birds,” she said. “Someone should have the good of them, don’t you think?”
They exchanged curious glances and bade her good day, but the weather turned suddenly as a cloud bullied its way across the sky and rudely sat itself down in front of the sun as Fia left the village. Behind her, folk chattered about the accident, and Muriel’s wee black cat hurried up the path behind her.
Then the sky opened making folk scurry indoors out of the sudden squall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Is it dark yet?” Meggie asked, sitting at the dressing table, powdering her face. Her golden hair was long and loose over her shoulders, and a crown of flowers—mugwort, meadowsweet, lavender, ferns, and roses—sat beside her, waiting to be placed on her head. She wore a simple gown—well, simple for Meggie. It was white silk, lavishly embroidered with wee flowers around the hem and bodice.
Fia wore plain blue linen. She stood by the window watching the sky for the first stars to come out, the signal to light the fire on the cliff by the sea and for the folk of Carraig Brigh to gather around it.
“I suppose everyone at Glen Iolair is celebrating,” Meggie sighed. “The lads will be flirting with the lasses. I hope Marcail behaves herself—she made a right numpty of herself last year over Colin MacLeod.”
“No harm came of it, and every lass makes a numpty of herself at midsummer,” Fia said.
“Not you,” Meggie said.
Nay, not her—Fia sat with the old folks, listened to stories, or rocked bairns while their mothers danced. No one took her hand, pulled her up to join the fun, or tried to steal a kiss. While her sisters woke to gossip about their adventures the next morning, Fia never had anything to tell. It would be the same this year. She would sit and smile and pretend she was content as others enjoyed themselves. A hard buzz filled her chest as she watched Meggie comb her hair. Her sister was so beautiful. Dair would pull Meggie into his arms, dance with her, kiss her, claim her. Would Fia still be able to smile and pretend then?
She ran her fingertips over the soft flowers of Meggie’s crown. “Lavender, roses, and meadowsweet, all the plants that attract love. Just who are you hoping to bewitch with your charms tonight?”
She braced for her sister’s reply, but Meggie just laughed. “I want to bewitch all the lads, of course, and make all the lasses jealous.”
“Be careful,” Fia said.
Meggie rose and took Fia’s hands. “You sound like Aileen, or Da. What fun is there in being careful?” Fia gave her a sober stare. “Och, all right, if I’m to be careful, then you must be reckless, or no one will think the Fearless MacLeods have any spirit at all. Do something you can rue in the morning, Fia.”
“Don’t be silly,” Fia said, and tried to pull her hands free, but Meggie held tight. “Promise me you’ll enjoy yourself tonight.”
Fia’s smile felt false. “I always do.”
Meggie snorted. “No you don’t, and
it’s time you did. I’ve heard the Sinclair lads saying how kind you are, how sweet.”
“No one loses their heart to a kind lass,” Fia said.
“Some do. One will. You’ve got a fire inside you, Fia MacLeod, and you’re as pretty as any lass.” She picked up the crown of flowers and put it on Fia’s head instead of her own. The flower petals were cool against her forehead, the scent sweet. “There now. You look very bonny indeed. Are you ready?” Meggie asked.
“Shouldn’t we wait, walk out with Dair?”
Meggie sniffed. “Alasdair Og won’t be coming, or so I’ve heard. I can’t think that’s a bad thing. He’s so—dour.”
Not coming? Fia’s jaw dropped. He was the chief while his father was away. He must come, give his blessing to the clan. She looked at the shiny patches on her fingertips where the burns were almost healed. She knew why he’d stay away—the Sinclairs feared him. They turned away when he came near, or made secrets signs against madness and curses behind their backs. They didn’t think he saw, but he did, one more wound that would not heal.
“It’s almost dark. Are you ready?” Meggie asked.
Fia bit her lip. “There’s something I must do first. You go ahead with John and Ina, and I’ll come along later.”
Meggie was too excited to wait. “Hurry then,” she said, and swept out the door.
Fia knocked on the door of Dair’s chamber.
“Come,” he said.
He was alone, standing by the window, gazing out at the cliff top where his clansmen had laid the fire, stood ready to set it alight, and he turned to look at her. He wore a loose shirt, open at the neck, and dark breeches that hugged his long legs. She halted in the doorway and her mouth went dry. He looked every inch the pirate now, lean, dangerous, and handsome.
She swallowed, forced herself to speak. “I was wondering . . . That is, I thought . . . Areyoucomingtothebonfire?” she asked in a rush.
“No.”
Her heart fell like a stone into a well. “No?”
“No, I am not going to bonfire,” he said slowly, as if she was daft.
She frowned. “But you’re the chief while your father is away. You must be there.” She crossed the room toward him. “A chief leads his people. He is a symbol of their luck and their power. He celebrates with them, shares their lives in good times and bad.” She was so close now she had to look up to hold his gaze.
His brows rose. “I am neither lucky nor welcome. Imagine the terror in the eyes of the bairns, watching the madman dance, the light of the fire gleaming in his tortured eyes, his injuries horrible to behold, his very presence reminding everyone that he—” He stopped, and his eyes moved over her flower crown. “Why aren’t you there?”
“I will be,” she said, raising her chin. “I have scars, and I cannot dance. There is no one waiting to flirt with me, but I will go and enjoy the music. You can do that much, can’t you?”
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “You want to flirt, do you? I should have told John to—” He paused again.
“What?” she said, waiting. “Told him what?”
“I should have asked John to dance with you, or even—” His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Now she was truly angry. “You would order English John to kiss me? Even my father would not do such a thing, forcing a man to do something he found distasteful himself!”
His brow furrowed. “Ach, ’tis not what I meant. You are far from distasteful, Fia. You’re beautiful. I wouldn’t have had to order John or anyone else to kiss you, more like give my permission. Surely you’ve seen how men look at you.”
“No, I have not.”
He took her hand and crossed the room. He tore away the cloth that covered the mirror. “Look,” he said, putting her before the glass, his hands on her shoulders. “You’re a rare beauty, Fia MacLeod. Has no one told you that?”
She looked at the pale reflection of her face, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light of his chamber. Her lips were full, her cheekbones high, her skin smooth. “Nay,” she whispered. “Not like Meggie.”
“Meggie?”
“When you marry her—”
“I have no intention of marrying your sister!” he snapped.
“Truly? She’s lovely, and . . .”
He looked into the mirror from behind her. “I only see you, Fia. Even if there were a hundred women here now, you’d still be the most beautiful.”
She wanted to believe him—oh, how she wanted to! She felt the tingle of his touch rushing through her body, pooling in her belly, her breasts. She shut her eyes, breathless, and he took the gesture for denial. He turned her to face him, lifted her chin with his finger, and she found herself staring up into his eyes again. “You are beautiful,” he insisted, his voice gruff. “So very—”
Fia stood on her toes and jammed her lips against his. He grunted, stiffened, and she drew back at once. “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”
His arms came around her, he pulled her against his chest, and his mouth touched hers, more gently than she had kissed him, but with a hunger even she could feel. His lips were warm and soft, then demanding. She curled her fingers in the open laces of his shirt, grazed the skin of his chest with her nails, felt the beat of his heart. He ran his tongue over the seam of her lips, and when she gasped, he invaded her open mouth. The sensation of his tongue against hers, the whisky taste of him, sent a thrill coursing through her. She made a sound of amazement, kissed him back, following his lead. He smelled of wool and sea wind. She slid her hands around his neck, wove them into his thick, soft hair, stood on her toes, and pressed herself closer against the hard length of his body, wanting more. He made a small sound in his throat and deepened the kiss, sliding his hands up the curve of her back to pull her nearer still, cupping her head while he plundered her mouth like a pirate. It was how she dreamed a kiss would be—hot, sweet, tingly, and utterly overwhelming. She couldn’t think, couldn’t stop. She would have sobbed with delight, thrilled beyond words, if her mouth wasn’t filled with his tongue.
He broke the kiss suddenly, pushed her away. Cold air rushed in where the heat of his body had touched hers. She gripped the edge of the washstand behind her and stared at him. Her lips buzzed, her breasts ached. She felt breathless, dizzy, and she dearly wanted more. But he looked—stunned, was the only word she could think of. Or regretful. Yes, regretful. Her heart sank.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice husky. “I should not have done such a thing.”
A shiver of annoyance shook her. “I believe I kissed you.”
A shudder rushed through his body, and he groaned softly, as if he was in pain. Oh dear. What had she done to him?
“You should go,” he said.
The midsummer fire, she remembered. “Will you come now?”
He blinked at her in surprise for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “How very, very innocent you are, Fia MacLeod.” He touched her cheek, traced the edge of her scar with his fingertip.
She reached up to touch the scars on his face too, but he grabbed her wrist, his grip hard, his smile fading, his anger chilling. “I don’t want your pity. I said go.” He went to the door, opened it, and waited for her to walk through. She turned in the doorway, and through the window behind him, she saw the bonfire flare to life, the orange flames leaping into the indigo sky
Then the door closed, and she was left in the dark.
Dair paced the floor of his chamber until his leg burned, willing away desire, regret, guilt, and a host of other emotions too numerous to list. He wanted Fia. Desire still burned, simmered, hummed in his veins. This was more than simple lust—he recognized that. Her kiss was tentative and endearingly clumsy, her reactions new and momentous. Yet her kiss set him on fire like no other kiss, no other woman he’d ever known. Another minute and he would have picked her up, tossed her on the bed, and taken her. But she was a virgin, and he—well, come morning, she wouldn’t be a maid any longer, and he would still be mad, with one more black regret
on his conscience.
He went back to the window and stared out at the fire, and the silhouetted figures dancing around it. She’d find someone else to kiss her tonight. He was sure of that. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so vulnerable . . . another man would smile at her, take her hand, draw her into the shadows. And that wasn’t the only danger. He pictured her hurrying along the cliff path toward the fire, shaken, made clumsy by his stupid lust. It was dark, easy to trip . . .
Dair swore softly. He grabbed his plaid, tucked a dirk into his belt, and went after Fia.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dair hurried along the edge of the cliff. He knew every rock, every hillock, every bump in the path, even in the dark. He ignored the ache in his leg. He didn’t stumble or hesitate. He stalked steadily on toward the fire, and Fia.
The sky above him was black velvet, the stars shining like jewels. The ocean glittered like a flirtatious woman’s eyes. Not Fia’s—she didn’t know how to flirt any more than she knew how to kiss. The kiss had been his fault, even if she was the one who’d started it. He could still taste her, smell her scent on his skin, heather, honey, and woman. It was madness to go after her, madness upon madness.
Fia MacLeod had known only one kiss—his. His body stirred, instantly, urgently hard, and he wondered if he’d lit the same fire of need in her that she’d set ablaze in him. He still told himself it was an entirely different male instinct that had him striding through the dark to reach her—that he merely wanted to protect a vulnerable girl from the kind of harm that drunken men might do to someone so untried. They’d blame it on the drink, the pagan fire, the darkness, but it would be all Fia—her vulnerability, the unknowingly sensual, sexual, innocent draw of her.
Beauty and the Highland Beast Page 15