Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “And he wore scent?” Jock asked. “A woman’s perfume?”

  A murmur rippled through the hall.

  Logan turned scarlet. “You can’t prove that! My sister’s ghost walks the halls of this castle, haunts us, begs for revenge. Will you take the word of a madman, a murderer, a stealer of ships, over me, your chief?”

  “Is there proof?” Will Sinclair asked.

  “Jeannie’s clothes are in the storeroom off the kitchen,” the maid said, moving to Dair’s side of the room. “Chief Padraig ordered them packed away after she left. Logan has the key.”

  “She’d not haunt us,” Jock said, looking at Jeannie’s portrait. “She was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest of lasses.”

  “Like Fia MacLeod,” Angus said. “Now, there’s a lass with cause to haunt us—if her da doesn’t come and cut us all down for murdering her.”

  Logan flushed nearly purple. “She was a witch! The Bible says we must kill witches. I did God’s holy work by dispatching her. Send for Father Alphonse—he’ll tell you.”

  No one moved. Dair saw doubt in every man’s eyes. “Fia MacLeod wasn’t a witch, She did naught but good for this clan, and how was her kindness repaid?” His clansmen hung their heads in shame.

  “Did you truly dress up like Jeannie and haunt Dair?” Jock asked Logan again.

  Logan rolled his eyes. “I was trying to make a point! Dair’s the mad one, not me. I command you, as your chief, to lock him up.”

  “Dair seems sharp enough to me,” Will said. “Perhaps we’d best have a look in that storeroom.”

  The door opened with a bang and all eyes turned.

  English John entered with his arm in a sling, his dirk in his hand, prodding a prisoner into the room. Old Moire followed.

  “That’s Duncan Murray,” Niall said, looking at the captive. Duncan wore black clothes, and his face was blackened with soot. Only the bandage on his hand was white.

  His face was drawn with fear, and he was green with illness.

  Logan made an inarticulate sound in his throat at the sight of him, even as John’s face lit at the sight of Dair.

  “Mercy,” Duncan said, falling to his knees in front of Dair. “Don’t let her torture me anymore!”

  Moire smacked Duncan across the ear. “Tell them.”

  The man looked around wildly, clearly afraid. He clutched at Dair’s plaid, groveled. “I’m sorry, Alasdair Og. I’ve come to beg yer pardon, though I don’t deserve it. Old Moire gave me poison, swears I will die if I don’t speak. God help me, I was one of the men who ambushed yer father that night, along with—”

  Logan came at the man, screaming as his fist connected with Duncan’s jaw, knocking him flat on his back. “Take him out. He killed the chief. He must die, now, at once! Cut his tongue out! Will someone not give me a dirk?” Logan bellowed, kicking at Duncan, who rolled into a ball to protect himself.

  Dair nodded to Angus, who restrained Logan. “I think we’d better hear what Duncan has to say.”

  Moire poked Duncan sharply in the ribs, and he whimpered and began to speak. “We were supposed to take Padraig, hold him captive until he—”

  “Shut up!” Logan raged, thrashing vainly in Angus’s grip.

  Moire stepped forward and made a sign over Logan. “Haud yer wheesht or I’ll do to you what I did to him,” she warned. Duncan cringed.

  “What did she do?” Niall asked.

  Duncan only groaned.

  Moire looked at Dair. “He came to me because he’d been stabbed in the hand. He wouldn’t say who stabbed him, but he had this . . .” She pulled out a brooch and held it out to Dair.

  Dair felt his mouth dry as he took it. “It’s Fia’s.”

  “Aye,” Moire said. “He refused to say how he’d come to have it. I provided some . . . encouragement to help him remember.” Duncan moaned pitifully. “Tell Alasdair Og what you did, Duncan Murray, or I will dose you again.”

  Duncan flinched and crossed himself. “Logan knew Fia MacLeod would run for home when she escaped. We caught her in the woods, her and her sister and English John. I had her, but she stabbed me. Logan caught her—”

  “Shut up!” Logan screamed. “Liar! I’ve never seen this man before.”

  Niall scratched his head. “Ye’ve known him all yer life, Logan. We all have. I thought the two of ye were friends. I’ve often seen ye together.”

  Duncan sobbed. “It was all Logan’s idea. He said we’d be rich, that I’d be captain of the guard when he was chief.”

  “Did you ambush my father?” Dair asked, his teeth gritted. “Did you kill your own kin?”

  Duncan cringed. “Logan was supposed to ride in during the ambush, save the chief’s life, and in return, the chief would name him as his heir. No one was supposed to die, but Logan began killing men we knew, clansmen, neighbors, friends.” He pointed a shaking finger at Logan now. “It was you who stabbed the chief.”

  A cry went up in the hall, and men rose, began to rush toward Logan.

  “He’s lying! They were MacKays, sneak-thieves jealous of the Sinclairs!” Logan shouted.

  “Have you proof?” Dair asked.

  “I swear it’s true,” Duncan said. “Logan killed Lulach so he wouldn’t tell ye the truth, Dair. Lulach wasn’t part of it, but he saw us. I’m sorry now, but Logan said you were mad, evil . . . I only wanted to be captain of the guard.”

  Angus shook Logan, still hanging in his grip. “Ye murdered the chief, and ye killed an innocent lass who did no harm to anyone. If there wasn’t a curse upon us before, there is now. The MacLeods will descend upon us like wolves for her sake. We’re dead men, and you brought that down upon us, Logan, not Dair.”

  “But Fia’s not dead,” John said. Dair wondered if he’d heard the Englishman correctly over the din of raised voices. He held up a hand for silence, stared at John, and waited, holding his breath. “Three men caught us in the woods,” John said. “I saw Fia stab one of them—probably Duncan. I saw Logan grab hold of her plaid, but she undid the clasp, Dair. She left the plaid in his hand and rode away, free—Meggie too. I would have followed, but someone struck me, knocked me off my horse. I fell unconscious, and they left me for dead in the dark. I woke with a headache and a broken arm, and I went to Moire for help. I found Duncan there, having his hand stitched.” He met Dair’s eyes. “Fia’s not dead, I swear it.”

  “But Logan killed her wee cat,” Ruari said, grabbing the pelt, shaking it at Logan.

  John took it from him and frowned. “This isn’t cat fur—at least, not Beelzebub’s. His coat was as coarse as mail. This is soft. It’s rabbit, maybe, or stoat, but not cat.”

  Dair felt the weight of the lies, the horror. His father was dead, six men with him, and Fia had suffered at Logan’s hand. He turned on his cousin with a roar and hit him hard in the mouth. Logan cried out as blood spurted.

  Dair’s fist clenched again as fury burned white-hot through his veins. Moire stepped between him and Logan.

  “Nay, you’ll not do murder, Alasdair Og. The clan must decide what to do with him.”

  Logan pulled out of Angus’s grip and straightened his plaid. “You’ll do nothing. I am chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh, chosen by this clan.”

  “Actually, we never got around to holding a vote,” Will said. “What with the witch burning and all, there wasn’t time.”

  “Then we’ll vote now,” Angus said as he grabbed Dair’s arm and raised it in the air. “Who’s for Alasdair Og as chief of Clan Sinclair?”

  A roar of approval went up.

  “And who’s for Logan?” Angus asked.

  Angry glares were fixed on Logan, but the room was silent.

  “Then it’s settled. Dair’s our chief,” Angus said. “Just as Padraig wished.”

  “What’ll we do with Logan, Chief?” Will asked.

  Dair looked at his cousin. Logan looked beaten and very young. There was blood dripping from his broken nose. Dair hesitated, remembered the same look in Jeannie’s eye
s, the blood on her face.

  But Logan raised his head, sent Dair a look of absolute hatred, his eyes wild. “Damn you to hell, Dair!” Logan said. He ran for the door.

  “Go after him,” Angus ordered the men, but Dair stopped him.

  “No, I’ll go,” he said.

  “We’ll come. We’re yer tail,” Will insisted.

  The postern gate was open, and Dair went through, saw Logan by the cairn.

  “Logan!”

  His cousin spun. He was sobbing loudly. “I loved her. I loved you both, but you never had time for me, I was never good enough, or brave enough or smart enough. You laughed at me, left me standing on the shore while you sailed away together. And you let her die!” He grabbed a stone from the cairn and heaved it over the cliff. “I had to prove I loved her, that I was better than you. I had to avenge her death, make you pay.” He took another stone, threw it away with a scream of rage. “I knew she’d notice me if I was chief. She’d love me then, and look at me the way she looked at you.” He dragged another rock from the pile, strained to carry it to the edge. This time, he tripped. He screamed as he lost his balance, tumbled forward, and slid over the cliff.

  “No!” Dair ran to the edge, looked down. Logan hung on to a clump of roots, his feet dangling over the jagged rocks and hungry waves below. “Take my hand,” Dair said, reaching for him, but Logan pulled away. Madness and hatred clouded his eyes. “No,” Logan whispered. “No.”

  Dair leaned further out, struggling to reach his cousin’s hand. He almost had him, but Logan jerked away. “Don’t touch me—not with hands stained with her holy blood,” he screamed. The earth began to crumble under his hands, and his eyes widened for a moment. Dair grabbed for him again, but it was too late.

  Angus caught Dair’s belt and held him back. “Nay, Chief. It’s over.” Dair watched as Logan’s body hit the rocks, and he was killed instantly. He landed in the pool Jeannie had loved. Angus crossed himself and shook his head sadly. “He’d have taken you with him. There was naught you could have done.”

  Dair couldn’t speak. He turned away. “Find the priest. Bury him.”

  He made his way back to the castle. Moire was waiting for him in the bailey. “Well? What will ye do now, Chief? Fia lives, and so do ye, as the goddess decreed. Will ye go to her?”

  Dair nodded. “I’ll be leaving for Glen Iolair at once,” he assured her. “Is that soon enough?”

  But Will caught his sleeve. “Ye can’t, Dair—not yet. Ye have duties as chief. The Act of Union Commission is meeting in Edinburgh. Ye have to be there, and ye’re late already. If the lass is safe, she’ll just have to wait for ye.”

  Dair felt frustration well.

  “Padraig said it would be a quick decision. The English have already passed their approval. It won’t take more than a few days.”

  Dair sighed. “Then we’ll sail for Edinburgh on the next tide.”

  Moire followed him. “She loves ye,” she said. “Do ye love her?”

  Dair looked at the old woman. “Don’t you think Fia should be the first to know?”

  She grinned at him, chuckled, then sighed. “I’m going,” she said, and turned.

  “What did you do to Duncan?” he called after her.

  She grinned again. “Do ye fear it’s a spell? I’m no more a witch than Fia is. I just gave him something strong to purge his bowels. If he believed it was poison, or a curse, it’s naught to do with me.”

  He bent to buss her cheek. “You’re a clever lass, Moire o’ the Spring.”

  She blushed to the roots of her gray hair. “Och, just see that you hurry. Ye’ve had your miracle, Alasdair Og. Now the lass is waiting for hers.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Donal MacLeod sat in his hall and sipped his ale miserably. On the opposite side of the room, his daughters gabbled together like geese. They were talking about Fia and Meggie, who were absent from the gaggle. Those two had been home almost a fortnight, and they’d been uncharacteristically quiet—at least with him. He knew they had left the Sinclairs in deep mourning for their chief, but the circumstances that had led to the death of the man remained murky, and try as he might, Donal could not get a straight answer from either lass.

  He’d be forced to corner one of his other daughters and coax, cajole, or threaten the truth from her pretty lips. Or he’d line them all up like a regiment of soldiers and order them to tell him what the devil was going on in his own home.

  Fia and Meggie had simply ridden into the bailey with an escort of MacKays one morning and announced they were home again. Fia was bruised, her face cut, her eyes ringed with terrible black circles. She told him she’d fallen off her horse and lost her plaid in the woods. He was inclined to believe it, since she was such a clumsy lass. The MacKays had nothing to add, save that they’d come upon his daughters in the woods on their land, riding alone, and had offered to see them safe home. So here they were, with no explanation of how or why, with none of the trunks and boxes and dozens of fine gowns they’d left with.

  Donal’s offense was deeply felt. Could the folk of Carraig Brigh not have spared a single man to properly escort his lasses home, even if they were mourning? He’d have words to say to the new Sinclair, should he ever meet the man. “And what of Alastair Og, the chief’s heir?” Donal had asked Fia. “Do I need to send men to teach him his manners?”

  “No, Papa. He’s . . . He’s dead as well,” Fia said, her face carefully blank, her chin high. She’d not said another word about it, nor had Meggie.

  And now, after days without seeing hide nor hair of Fia, he’d finally found her in the stillroom, mixing a salve for one of the MacKays, who’d stayed on once they saw Donal’s lovely lasses.

  To his eyes, Fia looked pale and thin. To the braw MacKay leaning against the table, watching her with a daft smile, she apparently looked good enough to eat. The lad had the good sense to blush and excuse himself when Donal entered the room.

  “That wee cat you brought home with Beelzebub is rather fat,” Donal said, opening the conversation.

  Fia gave him a faint smile. “She’s not fat, Papa. She’s full of kittens. Beelzebub has been bringing her all manner of tidbits—weasels, grouse, water rats—and laying them at her feet. I think he’s in love.” There—was there the slightest bit of sorrow in Fia’s hazel eyes? Donal’s own eyes narrowed. There was something in her expression that hadn’t been there before. She was . . . different since her return. For one thing, she hadn’t fallen or tripped or dropped anything. For another, she met people’s eyes and gave her opinion. Why, he’d seen her give her sisters a piece of her mind, and the surprise of that was enough to silence them. Now they asked for Fia’s advice, and listened. People noticed Fia when she walked into a room—and they noticed even more when she wasn’t there.

  “What do you plan to do with yourself now you’re home again?” he asked her.

  “I thought I’d go down to the village today, see if anyone might need salve or a kind word.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes and a sharp glitter that looked suspiciously like tears. He took her hand, rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

  “Let Ada go, lass. Get some rest,” he said. She looked at him from under her lashes, a sharp little rebuking glance, mature, womanly. It took his breath away.

  “I don’t want to rest, Papa.”

  “Then take a walk in the hills like you used to, or sew with Aileen.”

  She shook her head.

  Donal felt a wave of frustration. “Then what do you want?”

  Her expression was as sad and lonely as he’d ever seen. She heaved a great sigh, full of longing and loss. He felt a shiver go through him. If he didn’t know better he’d have thought she was in love—Fia, his sensible, fey, awkward lass. But that was impossible.

  Or was it? He thought again about the MacKay who’d been here with her before he entered. Interrupted. Ohh . . . Donal nearly grinned.

  “Is there anything I can do, lass?” he asked her. She shook her hea
d. For a lass in love, she looked terribly sad.

  “No, Papa. Not a thing,” she said, and went right back to mixing herbs.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  “Will ye say aye, lass?” Fia sat in the hall of her father’s castle with David MacKay, a nephew of the MacKay clan chief, Lord Reay. David was attentive, kind, and solid. He had been at Iolair for only a week before he decided he wished to marry her. He was of an age to wed, he said, and his clan needed a healer. Marrying one would bring him prestige. He was his uncle’s heir, after five of his cousins, and he had a fine herd of cows, a cott of his own, and a good plot of land. All that was wanting was a wife and wee ones. They were all sound, well-considered reasons to propose, but he’d said nothing at all about love.

  Fia had promised she’d consider the matter and give him a reply before he rode home again, a sennight hence.

  And now, the day had come.

  Fia had paced the floor, her heart in a knot. She hadn’t eaten or slept. There’d been no news from Carraig Brigh, and that surely meant—she could not bear to think of Dair dead. She cried for him, mourned him, loved him still, and wondered if she always would. He’d shown her passion and love, fiery and sweet, and she didn’t think she could live without that. Still, David MacKay was a sensible choice. He’d give her a home of her own, and children, and make a reliable husband. Was that not everything she’d dreamed of? Once, perhaps, before Dair . . .

  Could she be a good wife to David, or would Dair’s ghost forever stand between them? She laid her hand over her broken heart, knew the answer to that.

  Her father was gleeful, fully expecting her to say yes—David had spoken to him as well. She should do as her father hoped, as David wished. Even Meggie, who knew the truth, encouraged her to put the past behind her and marry David.

  When the day came to give her answer, Fia sat across from David in her father’s hall. She looked at his honest, expectant face, and the equally expectant faces of her kin and his.