Father Alphonse knelt in the mud and turned his face up to the teeming sky. “It will be as you have decreed, oh Lord God. The witch shall burn, and we shall be consecrated once more to your holy will.”
Logan wrapped his plaid tighter. God could have the credit for this. He would take the chieftainship. It was too cold for a sermon, too wet. “See to it,” he commanded the priest, and went to find warmth and whisky.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
If Dair hadn’t been tied to the mast, the raging seas would have carried him over the side. His arms ached from the strain of holding on as each wave hit, feeling his body slide as far as it was able against the ropes that bound his wrists, straining bone and muscle to the breaking point. He fought his way to his feet now, chilled and aching, and read the ocean with a keen eye. There was no land in sight, and he wondered how far he’d come, and how the hell this was going to end. He supposed he was damned lucky the storm hadn’t already slammed the ship against the shore.
How lucky would he be if he managed to survive yet again but Fia did not? Logan wouldn’t dare to burn her, and surely Angus and Jock and Ruari were too sensible to allow such a thing. It would mean war with the MacLeods, revenge, still more death. He felt impotent rage burn through him. If Logan harmed Fia, Dair wouldn’t wait for her father’s revenge—he’d kill his cousin himself, tear him in two . . . He clenched his bound fists. Were the ropes looser than before? Dair tugged again as the ship swung in the wind, wild as a dolphin. His breath caught in his throat, and a spur of hope pricked—and at the moment, hope was as good as or better than luck. Logan wasn’t a sailor. He got sick at sea. Dair remembered how he and Jeannie had teased Logan about it until he cried. Then they’d go off sailing without him, leave him on the beach all alone. Eventually Logan had refused to have anything to do with ships, sailcraft, and the sea. He’d never learned to swim, or sail, or even to tie proper knots.
Dair laughed out loud, let hope warm his chilled body for an instant. Then he twisted his fingers against the knots that bound him to the mast and began to work.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Dawn draped the storeroom in rags of gray light. Outside, the rain continued, drumming like an executioner’s cadence, and Fia’s heart hammered in her breast. She was desperately thirsty, hungry, too, and her limbs were cramped and numb from sitting in the same position for so long. How many hours had it been?
No one came, not Father Alphonse or Logan, or Dair, or even Meggie. New fear washed over her. Was her sister safe? She prayed for that, and for Dair.
She heard the jangle of keys, and panic leaped in her breast. So soon? Father Alphonse entered with Angus Mor. Angus stood behind the priest, his hands clasped, his expression cold. He’d been her friend, Dair’s friend. Why was he here now? Perhaps he had news of Dair. She sent him a pleading look above the gag. Not a witch . . .
She struggled again against the ropes that bound her, though she knew it was useless. Her wrists were numb, her fingers crusted with her own blood.
“I wish to speak to her,” Angus said gruffly. “She cursed my son, my wife’s grandmother, my chief—and Dair . . .” His throat worked, and Fia felt tears fill her own eyes. Was Dair dead? Angus’s hard face was unreadable. “It is my right, since I will be the one to take her from here to the burning place,” he said. He met her eyes. “I’ve come to demand ye undo the spell ye’ve put on us.”
The priest’s eyes burned like coals. He was a foot shorter than Angus, a hundred pounds lighter, a frail man. He pressed his crucifix into the clan champion’s hand. “She is bound and gagged, but the devil is clever. Be quick.” Angus nodded and crossed to look down at her, his fist clenched, his eyes icy. He made no move to undo her bonds, and new fear kicked her heart into a run. She braced for pain as he loomed over her, his fist clenched, but he didn’t hit her.
“My son lives. He did not die.” Relief filled her briefly, but his expression didn’t change. “But others are dead. Dair—” His throat bobbed, and his eyes glittered. “Dair is gone, mad again.”
“He’s dead,” the priest interjected. “Her fault, her curse.”
Dead? Fia felt the breath flee from her lungs. Dead?
Angus’s eyes were wild with confusion and grief. “We cannot have a witch here at Carraig Brigh. Do you understand, mistress?”
She shook her head, moaned through the sodden cloth that filled her mouth. Tears flowed over her cheeks, blurred her vision.
He came closer still, bent over her, blocked out everything else in the room with his big body. Fia met his hard gaze with a soft one, a plea.
“You do not belong here,” he growled. His hand came around her body, quick and furtive. She felt something cold and hard press against her palm and grasped it. The hilt of a dirk. She looked at him in surprise, but he stepped back at once.
“I must go, father. They’re making the fire ready now. We’ll come back for her when the rain stops.” It was a warning, and a chance . . . She sent him a look of gratitude, but he didn’t see it. He opened the door and went through it without a backward glance. The priest followed. She gripped the dirk in her shaking hands and concentrated on not dropping it. It was salvation and survival. Carefully she turned the knife, slid it between the rope and her wrist, and began to saw.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
It was nearly dark when the rain slowed. Angus stood in the doorway of his cott and stared out at eager folk hurrying back and forth across the square, piling bundles of sticks and straw at the foot of the stake that they’d set up for Fia MacLeod. Soon they’d go to fetch her, drag her here, bind her, and burn her.
It wasn’t right. She’d not be able to defend herself against her captors, as wee and delicate as she was. He’d done what he could, and he hoped it was enough, that she’d understood him. If not—he shifted uneasily—he had a sgian dubh in his belt. He’d cut her throat, give her a quick, merciful end before the flames reached her. He would not let any woman suffer, especially one he wasn’t entirely sure was a witch, despite the evidence.
Several women sat with Annie, consoling her, discussing the burning, waiting for it, their eyes hard and cruel and certain. They’d regret it, come morning.
“She’s evil,” Effie said. “How long must we wait? I say if the rain doesn’t stop soon, we stone her.”
“Aye,” someone else hissed. “We’ll cut her heart out and burn that.”
Angus looked around at the familiar faces of friends and neighbors, sinister in the firelight, and felt a shiver rush over him. These same women had accepted Fia MacLeod’s kindness just days ago. And now . . . He looked at his son, still pale and hollow eyed, wrapped in a plaid, leaning against his mother’s side the way he used to as a bairn. Had Fia done this, harmed his child?
If Dair were here, he’d not allow such a thing. But Dair was gone, dead, perhaps, most certainly mad as a stoat, and this time for good. He felt a pang of grief and shut his eyes against it, mourned his captain, his friend, his chief.
“Da?” Alex tugged on his plaid, and Angus put his arm around his son.
“Aye, lad?”
“I need to speak to ye.”
Angus ruffled his hair. “Aye. We’ll go fishing when—” He paused. “Tomorrow.”
“It will be too late,” Alex insisted. “Can ye come out to the byre?” He tugged his father down and whispered. “It isn’t her fault—Fia’s. She didn’t make Robbie and me sick, or kill Alan’s cow.”
Angus led him outside. “Now, what’s this about?”
Alex kicked at the straw. “Me and Robbie found some mushrooms in the hills. Rob thought they looked good to eat, so we picked them and brought them back with some blackberries to eat in Alan’s byre. Rob ate them, but I didn’t like the taste. I threw mine over the fence to the cow.”
“Mushrooms?” Angus stared at his son. “Ye ate poison mushrooms?”
Alex began to cry. “I didn’t mean to harm Mistress Fia, or to knock her down. I was afraid to speak when folk called her a
witch. Father Alphonse says it’s so, and Ma, and Rob’s ma too. Is she?”
Angus put a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “No. She’s just a lass, and a kind one. Never be afraid to speak the truth, lad, no matter what. It’s your honor, your duty. Do ye understand?”
Alex nodded. “Must I tell them now?”
Angus considered. “No. They’re angry now, not likely to listen. We’ll wait until morning when cooler heads will see reason.”
“But the rain’s stopped,” Alex said, and Angus looked out beyond the thatch. So it had.
“I’ve got to go to the castle. Go inside to your mother, lad. Shut the door and don’t come out.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“No, lad. I’m not certain what I’ll find. Keep yer mother safe.”
Angus waited until his son had slipped inside the cott and shut the door before he set off for the castle.
Behind him, the chant began. “Bring the witch, burn her!”
He started to run.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“I smell smoke,” Meggie said, gripping John’s arm as they returned to Carraig Brigh. They’d ridden out, watched for ships along the coast, searched a dozen empty cotts and shielings. Meggie went from angry indignation, threatening to kill the pair of them when she found them, to sobbing as she imagined the terrible fate that must have befallen her sister.
“Probably Ina’s cooking,” John muttered in response to her comment, tired, hopeful they would find Dair and Fia in the hall, enjoying a hot supper and a dram. He was worried too.
He helped Meggie off her garron at the stable door, but she grabbed his arm as Angus came across the bailey, his face grim. “Something’s not right,” she said, her eyes wide, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s. “Angus Mor, have you seen my sister?”
Angus snatched his bonnet off his head. “Och, I’d forgotten ye were even here, mistress.” He turned to John. “Things are bad, there’s trouble. Take her and ride out, both of ye, now.”
Meggie crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going anywhere without Fia! What’s going on? Where is she?”
“Meggie?” Fia came to the door of the stable. They all turned to look at her.
“Fia! Where have you been?” Meggie rushed to gather her sister in a hug, then pulled back to look at her. “What’s happened to your face? You’re cut, bruised—what did that madman do to you? Papa will tear him limb from limb, and—”
Fia held up a hand to stop her and John gaped at the raw marks on her wrist as Meggie screeched at the sight of those injuries too. “He tied you up?”
Angus grabbed Meggie’s arm. “’Twasn’t Dair! He’d never—ach Dhia, there’s no time to say more. You’ve got to go.” He looked at Fia. “The rain’s stopped. They’re coming—”
“Who? Coming for what?” Meggie demanded. “I need bandages, salve, and a knife sharp enough to slice off Alasdair Og’s—”
Angus swore. “Are ye daft? Don’t you smell the smoke? They mean to burn a witch tonight.”
Meggie stared at him. “A witch? Superstitious nonsense! There are no such—” Her hand came to her mouth. “Fia?”
“Aye—ye’ve got to flee,” Angus pleaded. “John, will ye take them?”
“Angus, where’s Dair?” Fia asked.
The big clansman looked away. “There’s no time. Get on a garron and ride—”
Fia didn’t move. “Not without knowing.”
Angus met her gaze, his throat working. “He went mad, took a ship, sailed out into the storm on his own.” She stared at him, and Angus’s face fell. “He’s the best sailor I know, understands the sea like a lover knows his lass, but no one could survive a storm like that, not alone.”
Fia crumpled against the doorway of the stable, and John caught her arm, afraid she’d fall. “Dead?” she whispered. “Dead?” John felt shock and grief burn like a coal in his own breast.
“I’ll take a ship, some of the men, sail out and look for him in the morning,” Angus promised. “I’ll send word to ye, mistress, but you have to go.”
Fia swiped her hand across her eyes, one then the other, sharp, determined slashes, to clear her tears. “Meggie,” she said, looking at her sister. “I have to . . . That is, we must . . .” Her tears fell anew, streaking her bloodstained gown. She was trembling, but John watched her spine stiffen.
“Bastards,” Meggie swore. She deftly rolled back her elegant lace cuffs. “We’ll decide on our revenge once I’ve heard the whole tale . . .” She grasped the dirk strapped to her arm.
“No,” Fia said firmly. “Let it go, Meggie. Swear you won’t tell Papa any of this.” Fierce hazel eyes clashed with blue ones. Meggie looked away first.
“We’ll talk more about this when we’re home, Fia MacLeod. If we get home at all.” She turned to Angus and John. “We’ll need fresh horses.” Fia went back into the stable, and Meggie followed.
“I was expecting at least one of them to faint,” John said.
Angus grunted. “Englishwomen might have, but Scottish lasses are made of sterner stuff. Come on. Best get them away before they kill someone with that dirk.”
Logan felt a surge of power fill his veins. He ran a finger along the edge of his bonnet, adorned with the three eagle feathers that proclaimed him chief. “Go and fetch the witch,” he bellowed. His clansmen scurried to obey, carrying torches, baying for blood like hounds on a hunt. He smirked. Fia MacLeod would cower and plead, but she would be powerless. The crowd would cheer as the flames caught her clothes, her skin, her hair . . . he only had to wait. “D’ye see this, Jeannie?” he whispered. “We’ll have our revenge. Dair’s in hell, and his whore shall follow. She won’t have him.”
All he had to do was wait a few minutes more.
CHAPTER SIXTY
“They’re coming,” Angus muttered, standing in the doorway of the stable, his dirk drawn.
Fia’s fingers shook as she saddled the garron in the dark. Beelzebub crouched beside her, growling at the unfamiliar sounds outside, his white coat bristling.
“Hush,” she said, and ran her hand over him. She was afraid—very afraid—and sad beyond words, but there was no time for that now.
She could hear them coming along the cliff path, yelling for her death. “Meggie?” she called.
“Ready,” Meggie replied. She found Fia’s hand, squeezed it. “Your heart is broken, isn’t it?”
Fia swallowed but didn’t reply. When she had time to mourn, the wound would indeed be deep, painful, endless. She bent to pick up Bel.
“We’ll go to Moire first. She might be in danger too,” Fia said.
“Moire?” Meggie said. “Don’t be daft. We need to ride for home at once.”
“No!” Fia insisted, her voice sharp enough to stop even Meggie. “No. First we’ll protect the ones we love, make sure they’re safe . . . alive.” She tucked the protesting cat into her saddlebag and tied it shut. Then she searched the straw until she found the other cat, her yellow eyes wide, her hackles raised in fear. Fia lifted her gently and put her into the other saddlebag. “It’s Angel. She was Muriel’s cat. She’s full of kittens, and I daresay Bel would never forgive me if I left her behind.”
“Hurry,” John said from the doorway.
Fia could see the light from the torches now, long and dagger sharp, creeping over the muddy ground, coming up the long track, moving toward the bailey. The yelling was louder, harsher, terrifying.
“They’re nearly at the gate,” John warned.
“Up ye go, lass,” Angus said, and lifted Fia into the saddle.
She caught his hand. “Angus, what if Dair is ali—”
“Go, mistress,” he said gently, pulling his hand away. Fia wrapped her plaid around her face. Meggie and John were already mounted.
“We’ll separate once we’re out the gate,” Fia said. “Ride with Meggie, John, and meet me at Moire’s.”
She crouched low over the garron’s neck and set her heels to his flank, hard, and th
e horse leaped beneath her, rushed for the open door and the gate beyond. She held tight, let him carry her away as tears flowed from her eyes, blurring the light of the torches. She couldn’t see the hate in the eyes of the Sinclairs, people she’d cared for, come to love.
“Bas no beatha!” She heard Meggie scream the MacLeod battle cry, knew her sister was right behind her. Fia turned right as she burst through the gate. Meggie and John went left. The crowd surged after the three horses, but they were no match for the garrons. John wielded his sword, driving them back. Fia rode hard until she reached the woods and the mob had fallen far behind. Only then did she pause to look back at the tower of Carraig Brigh, standing like a bony finger against the indigo sky.
“Dair,” she whispered. Was he alive? If he was not, she hoped he was at peace at last.
It took all her courage, her love for Meggie and Bel and Moire, for her to turn the garron’s head and ride on.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Moire hurried out of her cott as Fia slid off the horse. “What news? I smell smoke.” She put her hand under Fia’s chin and examined the cuts and bruises on her face.
“’Tis nothing,” Fia said, pulling away. The old healer’s face furrowed with concern and fear.
“Who did this? Not Dair . . .” She put her arm around Fia’s shoulders, led her inside.
Fia had been strong for hours, brave for herself and Dair and Meggie. She felt her courage desert her. She dropped onto the stool in front of the fire, too weary and bereft to stand. “They called me a witch.”
“The priest,” Moire hissed, and made a sign against evil.
“And Logan.”
“Then the fire’s for you.”
Beauty and the Highland Beast Page 23