A movement caught his eye, and he recoiled again, crying out. It was his own reflection in the mirror. He stared into his own wide eyes, rolling with madness, the livid scars that marked his pallid, sweat-sheened face. He was a monster, inhuman, horrible.
“No,” he muttered. “No.”
With an oath, he drove his fist into the mirror, heard the glass shatter, and felt the shards slice his flesh.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Logan paused for effect at the foot of the stairs and looked around the great hall at the clansmen gathered for supper. He knew he looked his best—he’d studied Padraig’s portrait in the library, spent hours practicing the same chiefly pose before the mirror in his chamber until he exuded his uncle’s power. He even wore Padraig’s ruby brooch, Padraig’s lace at his throat, his diamond buckles on his shoes. Surely the Sinclairs could see Logan as chief in Dair’s place now, sane, handsome, and heroic. He reveled in the looks of speculation and surprise as he strode toward the chief’s seat at the table.
He passed Fia MacLeod, saw her glance up the stairs, searching for Dair, no doubt. His cousin wouldn’t be coming to supper tonight. Before the hour was out, Dair would begin to scream and rant. Then he, Logan, would take charge and order him carried to the tower. He’d lock his cousin in and throw the key into the sea. He held all the keys now. In the meantime, while he waited, Logan grinned, all charm and teeth, and held out his arm to Meggie MacLeod.
He cast a sideways glance at the lush swell of her breasts above her low bodice as he led her to the table. He could have her, once he was chief. No one would dare say nay to the chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh—perhaps he’d take her tonight.
He frowned. No, not tonight—he had his mad cousin to deal with, and tomorrow, when he was chief, he’d have to leave for Edinburgh for the debate on the union. Not that Logan knew much about the treaty, or union, or anything else political for that matter, but he’d seen Queensbury’s letter in Dair’s chamber, read it, and stolen it. There’d be powerful men buying votes on both sides of the issue in Edinburgh, and as the chief of the Sinclairs, Logan would be wooed, fawned over, paid well for his vote. All the pleasures of the city would be his. He hid a smile behind the lip of his cup and drank deeply.
“Where’s Dair?” Fia asked, her smile fixed and false, trying to make it sound like she was merely curious, but her eyes belied her concern. Out, he might have said. Chasing after a false rumor, looking for bandits that don’t exist. Dair was going to be seeing a lot of things that weren’t real tonight—except the madness. That would be dark and eternal. Logan almost sighed. At last, for Jeannie.
Logan hadn’t ridden out with Dair—he’d been in the village, asking casual questions about witches and curses, pointing out imaginary sores on a cow’s udder, shaking his head sympathetically over the terrible ill luck of a tacksman who’d stepped on a nail. With the death of the old chief and his men, and the madness of the new chief, it hadn’t taken long before folk began whispering and wondering. Wasn’t it always healers who were accused of witchcraft first, those with knowledge of herbs and potions and poisons?
He turned to give Fia MacLeod a sympathetic smile. “Dair’s likely drunk again, Mistress Fia.” The clansmen muttered at that, glanced at each other under lowered brows.
Fia’s eyes widened with sorrow and surprise for an instant before she lowered her lashes. Poor crippled lass. This was supposed to be a grand adventure for her, curing a madman by the power of her virtue. The fool deserved every bit of misery coming to her.
Then Fia looked up again, and Logan read something else in her eyes—suspicion, and pride. Her haughtiness would have made her almost pretty, if not for her hideous scars. It also made her dangerous. Did she know? Logan tightened his grip on his goblet, then relaxed. Impossible. The little virgin was no match for him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Fia went to Dair’s chamber as soon as she could slip away. Was he drunk, or ill, or worse? She paused outside his door, her ears pricked for any sounds inside. She heard a low moan, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She opened the door.
Dair was pacing the floor. He was disheveled, his eyes wild. There was blood on his clothing, streaking his face, covering his hands. He started back when he saw her in the doorway, and Fia’s throat tightened with dread.
Mad.
He didn’t speak. He simply stared at her. She shut the door and crossed the floor, opening her arms to him, but he backed away. “Don’t.” The word was torn from him, raw.
Something was wrong—very wrong. “I saw a light under your door, thought . . .” She stopped talking. The room was dark. The only light came from the moon, visible through the open window. It gleamed off the shards of glass that covered the floor, cast strange patterns of light and shadow on the walls. “There’s blood on your hands,” she said carefully.
“It isn’t mine,” he said. “It’s—” His mouth worked, but no words came.
“You missed supper. I could ask Ina to send something up. Have you eaten today?”
“Then you’re here as a healer this time, to check up on my health?” His tone was every bit as sharp and cutting as the broken mirror. She flinched at his coldness, avoided looking at the bed.
“I couldn’t sleep without knowing that you did not . . . have regrets about . . .”
“Regrets?” he said. “’Tis you who should have regrets, Fia.”
She raised her chin. “I have none. It was—” She sought the right word. Magical? Breathtaking? “Everything I wanted. More, even.” She watched his throat bob, saw desire rise in his eyes, overcome the madness for an instant before he closed them, rubbed them with his thumb and finger. “What we shared was freely offered, Dair. I don’t regret it. I wanted it, wanted you, because . . .” I love you. She could not speak the words aloud, knew he wouldn’t believe them.
Instead she crossed the room, took his hand, looked at his torn knuckles. The cuts were deep, had bled freely. He was trembling. She put her hand on his chest, felt his heart hammering. He stood without moving for a moment, then brought his arms around her with a groan, held her tight.
“You have to leave, Fia. Tomorrow, at first light.”
Despair coursed through her. So soon? “I’d rather stay,” she whispered back, her voice husky. “I need to stitch your hands.”
He pushed her away, began pacing again. “It isn’t safe here.” He glanced around the room nervously. She felt a chill creep up her spine as his eyes burned into hers. “It’s Jeannie. She won’t allow this, with you. I owe her everything, you see.”
Fia felt a flare of desperation fill her breast. “You owe her nothing, Dair. She’s dead, at peace. Let her go.”
He crossed the room in three strides, scooped a bit of cloth from the floor, and held it out to her, bunched in his fist. “She isn’t gone. She’s here. Do you see this? It’s hers. She was wearing it the day we sailed, and the day we were captured. It’s her blood . . .”
Fia took the silk shawl. The delicate silk was indeed covered with dark stains. She let it fall. “It isn’t her blood, Dair, it’s yours, from the cuts on your hand. Let me help you.”
He pulled away. “This is what she wants, what she needs—my blood, my mind, my soul.”
She stared at him. “That sounds—”
“Mad?” The word was harsh, ugly, desperate, and she winced.
She could not accept that, despite the evidence before her. “No. You are not mad.”
His face split in a death’s-head grin. “Because you cured me, made me whole again by giving me your body? It was sex, Fia, nothing more. I am—was—a sailor. It’s what sailors do. They fuck where they can, and then they sail on, alone. Always alone.”
She felt tears sting her eyes.
“I will arrange an escort for you and your sister. Go home, Fia. There’s nothing for you here.”
Shock kept her rooted the spot. Her own body trembled now. “I won’t just turn my back on y
ou, leave you to ghosts and madness.”
“Think of it as an adventure gone awry. That, if nothing else, will keep you from making the same mistake in the future. Stay away from madmen.” She saw regret flash through his eyes, alleviate the madness. He was still there, her Dair, the man she loved. He wasn’t mad, only lost.
“You called me yours, told me you’d kill any other man who—”
“Men say a lot of things in the heat of lust.”
She raised her chin. “You’re cruel, Dair Sinclair, but you aren’t mad.” He looked at her, his lips drawn back in a snarl, but she stood her ground. “You aren’t mad!” she said again. She opened her arms to him, and he tumbled into her embrace, buried his face in her neck. He was trembling with fear, or need. She kissed his scarred cheek, whispered in his ear. “Take me.” She led him to the bed, fell backward, still holding him.
“God, Fia, I want you—” He ground his erection against the apex of her body. He dug his fingers into the lacings of her gown, tore them open. He shoved her skirts up, pulled aside his plaid, and plunged into her with a guttural oath. It was hard and fast, over in moments, and he rolled off of her, lay beside her with his arm over his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, and reached for him. He pulled away.
“I didn’t mean you,” he said, rising, straightening his clothing.
Fia shivered and got up, let her skirts fall. Her bodice was torn. She folded her arms over her exposed breasts. “Dair—”
“Go, Fia, just go.”
She stood behind him, her legs shaking, her heart pounding.
“Get out.” His voice was as sharp as a dirk. “I don’t want to see you again.”
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. With a curse he spun, grabbed her arm, dragged her across the room. He opened the door and flung her through it, his face as hard as stone.
She held out her hand before he could slam it shut. He was ashamed, in pain, afraid. “Please, Dair, don’t do this.”
He glared at her, his teeth bared. “Don’t beg, Fia. She begged, you know—Jeannie—it brought her no mercy, no quarter. Go home, forget me, find a good man to love.”
“I thought I had,” she said softly. He closed his eyes.
Then the door swung shut, and she was alone.
Fia stood in the dark corridor, staring at the closed door with tears in her eyes. He needed her, she knew he did, yet he did not want her. Which Dair was real—the cruel, dangerous, angry beast or the gentle lover? “How can I know?” she whispered. “I only know I love him.”
“Casting a spell?”
She looked up to find Logan standing a few feet away, leaning on the wall, his hand on his dirk. He came closer until he loomed over her, his eyes burning in the dim light of the corridor. Her mouth went dry. “Your lips were moving, Are you aware that people think you’re a witch?” He frowned as he looked her over. “Why, you’re covered with blood, Mistress MacLeod, and your clothes are ripped. What have you been doing?”
She clutched the torn edges of her bodice tighter and swallowed. “It’s not my blood, and I’m not a witch.”
He tilted his head and smiled coldly. “Are you not? I don’t think I believe you. My cousin isn’t cured, is he? He’s still mad, and you’ve bewitched my clan into thinking he’s whole and normal, worthy to be chief. Are you aware that witchcraft is a deadly sin?”
Malevolence radiated off Logan Sinclair in waves. She could smell sweat under his cologne—Padraig’s cologne, coming from Padraig’s clothes, worn by a man who could not hope to fill Padraig’s shoes. It was like confronting a ghost. She began to back away, but he grabbed her arm. He drew his other hand back and hit her hard across the face. She fell to the floor, felt blood spurting. He still held her, his grip iron. “You should not have come to Carraig Brigh, witch.”
“Not a witch,” she gasped, struggling to rise, push him away. “Let me pass.”
He swung out his foot, kicked her twisted leg, knocked her back down again. He put his foot on her chest, preventing her from moving. “Nay, I’ve caught you, witch. I cannot let you cast any more spells on me and mine. Do you know what we do with witches?”
She stared at him, terrified. She’d seen this face before, the same savage, hateful expression. Her belly clenched. It wasn’t Jeannie’s face she’d seen in the spring—it was Logan’s. It had been a warning. And the fire she’d seen, so real she’d felt the searing heat? She felt the breath leave her lungs. She cast a frantic glance at Dair’s closed door, tried to cry out, but Logan hit her again, clamped his hand over her mouth, squeezed her jaw painfully. He pulled her toward him, until his face nearly touched hers.
“I asked you a question. Do you know what we do to witches?” Still she didn’t answer, couldn’t. “We burn them, cast them back to hell where they belong.”
She bit deep into skin of his hand that covered her mouth. It bought her an instant of freedom, and she began to crawl away from him. “Bitch,” he said, grabbing her hair. His fist swung again.
Then there was only darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Father Alphonse bit back another cry as he scourged his back with the knotted whip. The knots bit deep into his raw flesh, and he stared up at the crucifix above the altar in rapture, sharing the agony of the Christ. He was a holy man, and he’d do anything to protect his church and his flock. He’d come here six years ago to replace the aged priest who had faithfully served the Catholic Sinclairs for a generation. Father Francis had warned him that the clan was half-pagan. The old man had turned a blind eye to love charms, magic, and Highland superstitions. He limited his work to blessing babies, sanctifying marriages, praying over the dead, and saying mass for the chief’s devout wife and any clansmen who wished to follow her Catholic ways.
It had been a mistake. Sin was rampant at Carraig Brigh, and Alphonse was the only one who stood between the Sinclairs and the devil. The clan was so deep in wickedness and evil that Alphonse feared he would not be strong enough to save them. It was his holy duty to wipe their souls clean of dark beliefs and superstitions, make them obedient only to God. It was why He had sent Alphonse to this cold, backward, mannerless land. Now the time had come, and He’d shown his priest where to begin.
With the witch Fia MacLeod.
His face contorted with hatred, and he wielded the scourge again. “Grant me courage to do thy holy will,” he ground out, staring at the crucifix through a red haze of pain. With shaking hands he struck again. The knots were bloody, thick with gore. He could feel his sins fleeing through the open wounds, freeing him, hardening him for battle.
“I am thy instrument,” he said, and forced himself to stand. She would be here soon, bound and helpless, her evil magic contained. He must resist her power. Gritting his teeth, he poured seawater over his raw skin. The sting drove him to his knees, and he groveled on the stone floor before the altar, his cheek pressed to Padraig Sinclair’s newly sealed grave. “I shall not suffer the witch to live.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Fia sucked in a breath as she woke, tasted cloth. Her face hurt from the tight bond and from Logan’s blows. She tried to raise her hands, but her arms were tied behind her, and her feet were bound to the chair she occupied. She looked around. She was in a small storeroom, filled with boxes and trunks.
How long had she been here? It was dark beyond the shuttered window, still night. She turned her head gingerly and met a face illuminated by the faint light coming from a single candle, set on a trunk beside her. Her heart leaped in her chest as a pair of laughing eyes gazed back at her. Jeannie Sinclair. It was just a painting, but Fia could smell perfume—a sweet drift of roses and lilies. It mixed with the darker scents of damp and sweat. Fear made her quiver, and she struggled again, fighting her bonds, but they held tight.
The rustle of clothing made her turn. A woman was sitting before a mirror in the half-darkness, her back to Fia, combing her gleaming blond hair. F
ia watched as she wound ribbons through her long locks, tied them up, and patted errant curls into place before she turned and regarded Fia. Fia’s bones turned to water. She blinked, unable—unwilling—to believe her eyes. She was dreaming or hallucinating. Is this what Dair saw in the darkness, his dead cousin standing before him? “You’re awake.” Jeannie Sinclair’s voice was low but very much alive. Fia’s gorge rose. How was this possible? Jeannie picked up a silken shawl, arranged it around her shoulders, and regarded the effect in the mirror. Then she rose to her feet and crossed the space between them. “Fool,” she said. “Little fool. You should not have interfered.”
Fia’s heart hammered in her throat, and shivers raced up her spine. She turned her head, looked at the portrait again. The holy maid’s sweet face image bore no resemblance to the hate-twisted visage before her now. The ghost came closer, and the scent of roses was overwhelming. She smelled sweat, too—did ghosts sweat? The hand that gripped her chin was warm and alive, not grave-cold. It forced her head to one side. She felt the crawl of her captor’s gaze on the scars, felt the shudder of revulsion that ran through the hand that held her. “How ugly you are. It is easy to believe you’re a witch.”
Fia made a sound low in her throat, a wordless plea.
“Do you want Dair? You can’t have him. I won’t allow him to be happy, not with you or anyone else. Is it the scars, the limp that draws you to one another? Do you think poor mad Dair will come and save you, marry you?” Fia pleaded with her eyes, but Jeannie remained unmoved. “Others will come for you, but not Dair—after Father Alphonse makes you confess, of course. They’ll take you, tie you to the stake, and you will burn, witch, now and in hell for all eternity.”
Fia tried to scream, but the sound was muffled, useless. She tugged fiercely at the ropes that held her. The ice-blue eyes were triumphant, hateful. Jeannie laughed, and the sound was deep and cruel and hauntingly familiar. “I have things to do, Mistress MacLeod—important things—so this is farewell.” With a single puff of air, the candle went out, leaving Fia in darkness.
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