Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  He heard laughter and singing as he approached the fire. The sea breeze was benevolent tonight, carrying glowing sparks high into the air like fireflies, where they danced over the heads of his clansmen. The piper was playing a reel, and couples whirled in and out of light and shadow. Dair squinted through the smoke and searched the faces. He couldn’t see her.

  Someone rushed past him, bumped into his shoulder—a lass chased by a lad. She paused, looked at him, and her eyes widened in horror at the sight of him. Then she was gone, rushing into the dark.

  Waves of smoke and heat made faces ripple, shift, glow. He saw Annie, Niall, Ruari, Ina . . . Meggie MacLeod was dancing, her pale skirt a moth in the firelight, her golden hair shimmering, her face alight with joy. Couples were already pairing off, lads pulling lasses into the darkness. Some stood in each other’s arms by the fire, kissing . . .

  He saw the lush, blood-red gleam of russet curls, saw a lass held tight in a lover’s arms. Fia? Dair recognized the man—John Erly. He held her close, and her hips shifted against his as he plundered her mouth. John tugged the ribbon from her hair and filled his hands with the glorious red locks. Dair clenched his fists, started forward. He’d drag Fia out of the Englishman’s arms if he had to . . . but the woman laughed, high and flirtatious. It wasn’t Fia. He looked around, frantic now. Where the devil was she?

  A hand on his sleeve made him turn. The top half of her face was in shadow under the damned crown of flowers. The sweet scent of it took him back to his chamber, reminded him of the feel of her in his arms, the taste . . . The firelight lit only her sweet, half-parted lips, still kiss swollen and pink, enticing. His heart pounded like a drum, and longing flowed through him in a rush. “You’re here,” she said, her voice husky, barely audible over the laughter and the music. He watched her lips curve into a smile. His body ached for her. She held out her hand, and he took it, clasped her fingers in his, and even that simple touch shot through him, raised his cock further still.

  “You’re here,” she said again, stepping closer. The scent of roses and meadowsweet and lavender mixed with wood smoke, sea wind, and Fia.

  “I want—” he began. What did he want? To drag her into the shadows, lay her down in the soft grass under the stars, and make love to her. Oh yes, he wanted that very badly indeed. He pulled her into his arms, pressed her body to his, let his mouth find hers. He kissed her in the firelight, in full view of his clan and her sister. Where was his good sense now, his honor? He didn’t know, didn’t care. He heard voices around them, laughter, music. No doubt folk had seen, were watching him claim her, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t tear his lips from hers. She met him kiss for kiss, copying, learning fast, tangling her tongue with his. She made soft sounds only he could hear as her arms crept around his neck, drew him closer, invited him to deepen the kiss, to do more . . .

  A movement beyond her shoulder caught his eye—someone coming toward him out of the darkness. He knew her at once—Jeannie, her image blurred and distorted by the smoke rising off the fire. Dair’s chest tightened with dread, guilt, and anguish. Jeannie’s pale hair was loose on her shoulders, the dark pools of her eyes fixed on him, filled with sorrow. Dair felt his bones turn to water. He pushed Fia away, thrust her behind him, faced Jeannie as she stepped through the haze, coming for him.

  But it was Logan who stepped around the fire. Angus was behind him, his face grim and gray. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Dair’s belly caved against his spine.

  “Dair? Thank the Lord I found you,” Logan said. “Your father’s home, but he’s hurt. You’ve got to come at once.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Fia felt Dair’s body stiffen in her arms, and he stopped kissing her. She opened her eyes, looked at him in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at something behind her, desire fading to horror in his eyes. He pulled her arms away from his neck, thrust her behind him, set his hand on his dirk. She peered around him, saw Logan, his expression filled with sorrow. Her heart dropped to her belly.

  “Your father’s home, but he’s hurt . . .”

  The breath left her lungs. She heard the dismayed cries of those who stood nearby. Pleasure turned to despair in an instant.

  Fia reached for Dair, but he stepped away, and her hands fell to her sides, empty.

  “John, where are you?” he called. “Fetch Moire.”

  He began to walk away with Angus, and Fia hurried to catch up. “I can help.”

  Dair didn’t reply, but Angus nodded, so she followed, her heart pounding.

  There was a cart nearby, and Dair climbed aboard without even a glance in her direction. It was Angus who lifted Fia onto the back. Logan climbed up next to her.

  “What happened?” Dair asked Angus as the cart jerked forward.

  “The chief was attacked on the road. It’s bad, Dair.”

  “Where was his tail, his escort?” Dair demanded. “He took thirty men with him.”

  “I know—I was one of them. He left twenty men in Edinburgh. There was unrest. The mob hoped to find some of the crewmen from the English ship, and they wanted revenge for Jeannie, and for you. Your father allowed it, encouraged it. He got your message and we left at once. He wrote to you he was coming home—did you not get the message?” Dair shook his head. “Nor did I send one.”

  Angus frowned, but went on. “We rode back with ten men, the best warriors—six are dead, two injured. We didn’t see them coming. They were savage, Dair. It wasn’t a robbery or a reiving. It was murder—they meant to kill us. We barely managed to escape with the chief.” Fia noticed the blood on Angus’s face, and more was seeping through his shirt.

  “Who did it?” Dair ground the words through gritted teeth. Fury vibrated through him like a living thing. Fia resisted the urge to touch him, to offer comfort. He wouldn’t want it. Not now.

  “No one knows,” Logan said. “I questioned the men who came back with the chief, since I couldn’t find you. The assailants wore no plaids or badges, uttered no battle cry. They just came out of the dark, took the chief’s party by surprise.”

  “My father—how bad?” Dair asked Angus, the words strangled.

  Tears glittered in Angus’s eyes. “He was stabbed in the gut. We were on Sinclair lands but still a dozen miles from home. It was a rough ride.” Fia put a hand to her mouth, felt tears of her own falling. She looked up to see Logan watching her, his expression unreadable.

  Dair stared straight ahead at the dark bulk of the castle as they approached it and said nothing. He climbed down before the cart had even stopped, ignoring his injured leg, hurrying toward the door.

  Father Alphonse stepped out of the shadows and blocked Dair’s path. His eyes burned like lighted coals. “This is your fault, Alasdair Og. You have called God’s wrath down upon Carraig Brigh by allowing pagan rites. Sin! Blasphemy! Evil! You have cursed this clan.” The words rang off the stones of the keep.

  The priest cried out when he saw Fia. He raised his crucifix. “Begone—I know what you are! You cannot enter here!”

  Dair grabbed the front of the priest’s cassock in both fists and lifted him off the ground, his eyes wild with fury. “Get the hell out of my way.” Father Alphonse wailed as he was tossed aside.

  Dair strode through the door without looking back.

  Fia held out a hand to help the priest rise, but he shrank away from her touch. He wielded his crucifix like a weapon. The torchlight illuminated her reflection in the silver surface, distorted and ugly.

  “Witch!” the priest hissed. “You have cursed Carraig Brigh, turned these good people from God’s holy ways.”

  Fia took a step back, stunned. “I am no witch!” She looked around for someone to speak for her. Logan stood watching her silently, his expression closed and dark. By the gate, a guard overheard, crossed himself, and muttered a prayer. Other people had arrived, and they too heard. A whisper passed among them, the dreadful word said over and over. They regarded her silently, in mourning once again and looking
for someone to blame. The priest was yelling still, invoking God and condemning the devil, his bony finger pointed at her, sharp as a dirk.

  Hot blood filled Fia’s face, knotted her tongue. She turned and hurried inside, away from the terrible accusations.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Padraig Sinclair lay unconscious on his bed, his face deathly pale. His belly was bound with makeshift bandages, ragged strips torn from the shirts and plaids of his men. All were soaked with blood, as was the sheet under him. Dair’s heart shrank in his breast, and his mouth dried with fear.

  Two clansmen stood by the bed, guarding their wounded leader, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Dair knew them both. They’d been part of Padraig’s tail. Their duty was to protect their chief, keep him safe, and they’d failed. They knew it—their faces were gray with fatigue, and their hard eyes and clenched jaws said they believed they should be lying there instead of the Sinclair. They had not removed their weapons, or bathed. They had carried the chief home and stayed by his side, exhausted, bloody, and dirty. If they had any hope the chief would survive, it didn’t show.

  “Are you injured?” Dair asked them.

  “Nothing serious. A wee scratch or two. ’Tis nothing,” Callum Sinclair said, though the sleeve of his leather jack was torn and soaked with blood, and his arm hung at an impossible angle.

  Fia entered the room. Dair watched her gaze fall on Padraig, saw the blood drain from her cheeks. His own hope ran out. There were no miracles to be done here. She crossed the room, took in the bloody bandages binding Padraig’s chest, and made a small sound of dismay. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Dair swallowed.

  “We’ll wait for Moire. See to Callum,” he said. Fia’s face was pale as snow, but she didn’t flinch at the sight of all the blood. She deftly slit Callum’s jack with a dirk. The sword slash was long and deep, and the clansman’s blood dripped onto a floor already covered with blood—his father’s blood, Sinclair blood, his blood. Dair swallowed anger, grief, and shock. More clansmen crowded into the room, stood staring at him, afraid and silent, waiting for him to take charge, to make sense of this for them. Dread closed his throat as he looked from one to the next.

  He met Fia’s eyes, read the quiet confidence there, in herself and in him. It gave him courage.

  “Go and see what’s keeping Moire,” Dair commanded the man closest to the door.

  “English John and three others went to fetch her, Alasdair Og,” the man said, pulling off his bonnet and twisting it in his hands. “Logan said ye’d want to see me, since I was with the chief—” His voice failed as he looked at the still figure on the bed.

  “What happened?” Dair asked him.

  “The chief got your message, and we left Edinburgh at once. We were almost home, on Sinclair lands, when they came at us out of the dark. We surrounded the chief, but they fought like devils. They took six of our men, murdered them in cold blood, and cut down the chief. Angus grabbed the reins of his horse, rode hard for home. Is he . . .”

  There’d been no message—at least not from him. “Who did this?” Dair demanded.

  The clansman shook his head. “They were dressed in black, wearing hoods. It was dark on the road, hard to tell foe from shadow.”

  “How many were there?” Dair asked. “Did you kill them?”

  “I don’t know. I swear we landed blows, but the chief—we had to see him safe. We left the dead on the road.”

  “Where’s Will?” Angus asked, looking for Padraig’s captain.

  “Here,” Will Sinclair said, coming forward. “I need to speak with ye, Dair.” He looked at the gray and bloodless face of his chief and swallowed hard.

  Will’s plaid was dark with blood.“Are you hurt?” Dair asked.

  Will shook his head. “No—’tis the chief’s blood. He told me to tell ye . . .” He swallowed again and shifted his feet. “He named you as the next chief, if . . . I mean, if he shouldna—”

  Ina arrived, and Fia gave the stitching of Callum’s arm over to her and crossed to the bed again. She took the chief’s limp hand in hers, checked his pulse, then looked at Dair. “Moire may be some time yet,” she said, wordlessly asking his permission to tend his father. He nodded. She set to work at once, used the chief’s own dirk to cut away the bloody bandages. Dair’s belly rolled at what he saw beneath. “Ina—fetch me some clean shirts,” Fia said quietly. He watched as she pressed the linen against the wound. The fine lace trim was quickly soaked with gore.

  “Is it bad, mistress?” Angus asked.

  “Aye, ’tis bad,” she muttered as she rolled up her sleeves, revealed slender arms that seemed too delicate for the task before her, saving a man’s—a chief’s—life. The silver lines of her scar twined around her wrist like a vine.

  “What do you need?” Dair asked. He needed to do something, to help, to save his father’s life. He could not be chief. Not now.

  “We need to stop the bleeding. Press here,” she said, taking his hand, putting it over the wadded cloth. He felt the strength in her fingers. It went through him like a bolt. Then he felt the wet heat of his father’s blood seeping through the fabric, and tears pricked his eyes. Fia lifted his hand, replaced the sodden cloth with another shirt, and another after that, calm and careful. Ina softly hummed softly a lament under her breath. The room was silent around them as the clan watched and waited.

  The warriors stepped back to let Moire in. She leaned over Padraig and lifted his eyelid. “He lives,” she said. She looked at Fia. “Bleeding?”

  “He’s lost a great deal.” Fia replied.

  Moire lifted the linen pad. “Woundwort, and yarrow,” she muttered as she opened her bundle. She put a handful of dry leaves into the wound, and Padraig flinched.

  “’Tis a good sign, not too far gone to feel pain,” Fia said. Moire didn’t reply.

  The midwife put a clean wad of linen over the raw wound, then looked around her, noticing the crowd of clansmen for the first time. “Go on out, all of ye, great oak trees crowding out the light. Out—there’s naught for ye to do but wait.”

  “We’ll stay, old woman. He’s our chief,” Angus said.

  She pointed to the far corner of the room. “Then ye’ll stay over there, so he has room to breathe.”

  The men took places along the wall. Dair remained by the bed. There was a white flower petal caught in Fia’s red hair, and he stared at it. The crown of flowers had gone, and her blue gown was soaked with blood.

  “Dair?” The word was a thread of sound, and Dair turned to look at his father. Moire was there before him, her gnarled hands fluttering over the chief, checking for fever, keeping him still.

  “Here, Da,” Dair said.

  Padraig frowned at Moire. “Stop fussing, old woman.”

  She scowled at him. “Chief or no, you’ll do as I say now if you want to keep on breathing.”

  Padraig grimaced. “We both know there’s little chance of that, and I need to speak to my son and Angus while I’ve time to do so.”

  Dair took his father’s hand. Padraig’s signet ring flashed in the candlelight. His grip was feeble, his hand already cold.

  “Your note said there was trouble here,” Padraig whispered. “I expected you to meet me at the river.”

  Dair frowned. “I sent no note. Nor did I receive yours.”

  Padraig shut his eyes. “A trick. Then there is danger indeed. You know how to handle that. You’re a pirate, a Highlander, and the best of all the Sinclairs.” He coughed, and blood bubbled over his lips. “It is my will that you shall be chief after me. Angus—are you there? Bear witness.”

  “Aye, Chief,” Angus said.

  “You’ve never failed me. You’ve never failed Dair. Some will try to force a vote, choose another to lead the Sinclairs, but Dair must—”

  “D’you ken who did this to you, Uncle?” Logan interrupted, pushing in.

  Padraig turned to look at his nephew, his brow crumpling at the lad’s audacity.

  �
��Later, Logan,” Dair said. His father’s hand tightened on his, a weak squeeze from a man renowned for his strength. Padraig kept his eyes on Logan.

  “I know,” he whispered, but the rattle in his throat cut off further words.

  “I’ve sent for the priest. Will you confess, be shriven?” Logan persisted.

  Padraig didn’t reply. He turned his eyes toward Dair, beyond speech now, his expression pleading. Dair felt his chest tighten, and he held his father’s hand tighter still, as if he could hold him here. “You are the chief ,” he insisted, but Padraig choked again, and more blood flowed over his chin and chest. His eyes remained fixed on his son as he died, his body shuddering one last time before going slack. Dair saw the light leave his father’s eyes, watched his face ease into death.

  He heard Angus’s choked sob, heard the low moans of the clansmen. Moire’s lined and freckled hand reached out and closed Padraig’s eyes. She went and opened the window for an instant to let the chief’s soul fly free, then closed it again. The candles shifted and guttered.

  The clansmen came to the bed, stood in a silent ring around it, like a palisade.

  Angus reached for the chief’s hand, drew the ring off his finger. He held it out to Dair.

  “What would ye have us do, Chief?” Angus asked, and Dair met his gaze. He saw the tears, fierce pride, and determination in the Sinclair champion’s eyes. He looked around at the others, read far less certainty in theirs.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Fia. He recognized the scent of her hair, felt the strength in her touch. It flowed through him, carried courage. He took his father’s ring, held it in his palm. The ruby flashed like a drop of blood. He slipped it onto his own hand and claimed his birthright.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The women of Clan Sinclair washed the chief’s body for burial, keening over him.

  “So Alasdair Og is to be chief,” Moire said, watching. “Is he a leader? He was once, but is he still? He’ll feel a greater measure of grief, more guilt. Could be the ruin of him.”