CHAPTER FIVE
Dair limped into the bailey. Dozens of trunks and boxes blocked his way. Did they intend to stay forever? He frowned. If he had his way, they’d be leaving as quickly as they’d come.
He recalled the day Jeannie left. If she’d been going to her wedding, she would have had twice as much baggage and more. She had all the elegant clothes, books, jewels, furnishings, and furs befitting the niece of a powerful man. Instead, set on becoming an impoverished Bride of Christ, she took only a wee book of hours, her rosary, and a change of linen when she left Carraig Brigh. The English guards at Coldburn had torn the book of hours apart, thrown the pages into the mud beneath the gallows. The gilt decoration on the pages glittered in the torchlight as they hanged her . . .
He moved around the goods and gear in the bailey—trunks elegantly decorated with silver nails and inlaid glass, canvas bundles tied with ribbons, hatboxes, and baskets.
Perhaps the virgin truly believed in magic, held a fond dream that Dair would simply look at her once, and there would be instant healing, gratitude, love, and marriage—and doves. Maidenly fantasies always seemed to include doves. Dair stalked toward the kitchen door.
A large wicker basket tied to one of the carts shook as Dair passed, and a horrendous noise issued from it, half growl, half scream. He paused. Whatever was inside demanded immediate release—a pet dog, perhaps, forgotten in the flurry of arrival. The creature’s fragile prison shuddered and creaked, threatening to burst open. Dair reached up to untie the rope that bound the lid shut.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said from the other side of the cart, and he saw a pair of hazel eyes peering at him through a narrow space between the bundles. He could see nothing else of her but those eyes, wide and darkly golden, fringed with thick copper lashes. Familiar male appreciation for a pair of pretty eyes stirred unexpectedly, which only made the sparks of annoyance and guilt in his breast flare to anger. He glared back at her, waited until she flinched and disappeared.
He unwound the rope and lifted the lid.
A massive white paw shot out and raked across his knuckles, leaving a row of deep and stinging scratches. Dair jumped back just in time to avoid the rest of the creature—it certainly wasn’t a lapdog—as it burst free from its prison, sprang off his shoulder, and disappeared into the stable behind him. “What the devil was that?” he muttered, staring at the blood welling along the furrows on his hand. They stung like fire.
“Beelzebub doesn’t like strangers. And he doesn’t like rain.”
He turned to find the owner of the hazel eyes standing beside him, a lass of medium height, with a long braid of russet hair. She was draped in the folds of a thickarisaid, which made it impossible to judge her figure, but her face, what he could see of it, and those eyes—he hadn’t been wrong. She was indeed a beauty. He felt her gaze move over him from head to foot like a physical touch, then climb his body again. Every nerve stretched in awareness. The old Dair would have grinned, had her in his arms in an instant and on her back an hour later. She made a soft sound, a sensual mew that tightened his nerves further still. It wasn’t desire—her gaze was on his scratched hand. She reached out to him, and he took a breath, anticipating her touch and the way it would feel on his skin. But her eyes shone with some other emotion entirely—concern, perhaps, or even pity. Of course. How could it be anything else? Her hand came closer still, and he drew a sharp breath, felt all the agony rush in, mental and physical, to remind him of what he’d become.
“Don’t touch me!” He jerked back so swiftly that blood flew from his injury and landed on her outstretched hand, marring her white skin. She stopped at once, her eyes widening.
He looked away, unable to bear being stared at by a pretty woman, abhorred. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers shaking. Dimly, he was aware of his manners. A gentleman would have offered the kerchief to her or taken her hand in his, charmed her with a smile as he wiped away the blood and apologized for frightening her. Instead, he wrapped it around his own hand and made a fist to keep it in place. Blood instantly spotted the fine linen. She watched him silently, her gaze roaming over him again. He knew what she must feel—revulsion, horror, disgust.
“The devil and I are hardly strangers, mistress,” he growled in reply to her comment. “And it’s not raining.”
She tilted her head and looked up as the first fat, cold raindrop hit him on the head. “It is now,” she said with a wee smile, her tone as sweet as honey.
Dair bristled. She wasn’t afraid of him—she was mocking him.
She pulled herarisaidtighter around her face and picked up the empty basket. She turned and began to walk toward the stable, just like that, done with him. He felt the loss of her eyes upon him, even as he felt relief at her going.
“Who the devil are you?” he called after her. The rain increased, speeding toward becoming a drenching downpour. Water poured off the roof, turned the hard-packed earth to mud, and spattered her gown as she hurried toward the open doors of the stable, picking her way awkwardly over the puddles. A shock ripped through him as he watched her, tightened his gut. It wasn’t the wet ground—her gait was dramatically, cruelly uneven, her limp wickedly exaggerated and so like his own. Did she think it was funny to mock him? Even broken, he had his pride, and it came roaring to the surface now. He was still Dair Sinclair, Laird o’ the Seas, a chief’s son, a Highlander.
He dropped his walking stick and went after her, ignoring the pain it caused him. He caught her in the doorway, grabbed her arm, and pulled her around to face him, nearly oversetting them both. She put her blood-speckled hand on his arm to stay him, her wet skin cool and soft, and stared up at him in surprise. He saw a glimmer of fear in the golden depths of her eyes.Good.She was close enough that he could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat where thearisaidfell open to reveal sleek, fragile bones. She was delicately made . . . He pushed the thought away and gripped her tighter still, felt the slender shape of her elbow through her plaid. He loomed over her, bared his teeth. “How dare you mock me?” He glared down into her face. Her lips parted, but she did not cry out. The rain was soaking her, falling on her lashes, making her blink. His mouth watered with a desire to taste the crystal drops . . . She moved her hand to the one that held her, scrabbled at it, trying to make him let go.
Her fingers were cold, but her touch ran through him like lightning. Despite his rage he saw the terror in her eyes, heard the soft gasp of fear. It reminded him of—he stared into her face, the depths of her eyes, looking for Jeannie.
Without any warning at all, the lass slipped out of her plaid, left it hanging in his fist, and hurried into the dark recesses of the stable. He blinked in surprise, coming back to the moment, to the woman before him.Not Jeannie.Jeannieisdead . . .
Icy rain poured down his back and blurred his vision.
He went after her.
Inside the stable, he stood in the doorway scanning the shadows, looking for her.
“Please be still,” she whispered, her face white against the gloom. She was staring up at the rafters behind him. “There’s a nest of swallows under the eaves above your head. If you disturb them, Beelzebub will not rest until he’s devoured the lot.”
“Beelzebub?” Dair turned slowly, expecting to find the devil standing behind him. Just as she’d said, several pairs of frightened avian eyes regarded him in silence.
“My cat,” she explained, and pointed to the biggest cat he’d ever seen, perched on the door of a nearby stall. No tom, not the meanest barnyard moggie, or even the savage wildcats that prowled the mountains could compare to this creature. The beast growled a warning low in its throat, and the hair rose on Dair’s neck. He froze, bracing for the devil cat to lunge at him, tear his throat out.
“Hush,” the lass instructed mildly, and the cat fell silent and blinked at her, vanquished by her beauty. Dair looked at her in surprise, knew how the cat felt.
“I assume that beast kills more than just birds.”
“He’s called Beelzebub for good reason.” She was nervous. He could tell by her stillness, the way she looked at him from under her lashes. She was afraid of him, but not the cat? He must look worse, far worse, than he thought—a monster. He’d avoided mirrors of late, but he’d seen the horror in the eyes of folk who’d known him all his life. This woman was a stranger, would never know the man he once was, whole and handsome. He felt regret claw at him, and he resisted the urge to rub his hand over his unshaven chin, his uncombed hair, to preen like a dandy. He couldn’t seem to look away from her eyes, soft and luminous in the rain-dim light of the stable. No, she wasn’t afraid, just uncertain. He had the idea she feared very little, this woman—or that she had so little experience of the world it hadn’t taught her fear. It was the way he’d been, once. It made him want to protect her, keep her safe. But if he failed . . . he couldn’t add another mistake, another sin, to the tally already listed against him. Still, when he looked at this woman, a stranger, he felt something deep and dangerous stir. It was because she was pretty, he decided. He’d never been immune to a beautiful woman. But he had no right to notice her beauty, not anymore. That part of his life was over, ripped from him. He dragged his gaze away from her and looked at the cat instead.
