“An odd choice of pet, isn’t he?” he said, his tongue thick and slow.
She smiled, and it was so sweet his belly tensed. “He’s really very nice. He’s made some terrible enemies, though. I had to bring him lest my father’s deerhounds get him while I was not there to protect him. They caught him once before, you see. It’s been war ever since. He has scars as well, like me.”
Realization squelched desire in an instant. “You’rethe virgin?” he demanded rudely, assessing her again. She looked like a servant, not a laird’s daughter. Her hair hung in damp tendrils around her pale face. Her gown was wet, and she hugged her arms over her chest protectively. She was slender and small, a dainty package. A man—or a madman in the grip of a nightmare—could snap her in half with one hand. He gaped at her, slid his eyes over her once more. He could see her innocence now, almost taste it on the charged air between them. Still, she held his gaze without fear. He tried not to admire that, to believe, for just one minute, that perhaps shecouldheal him. But that was impossible. “Do you honestly believe innocence can cure madness, heal festering wounds, restore bones left too long unset?”
Even in the dim light he saw the flush creep over her cheeks, and her eyes sharpened at his rudeness. Her chin rose, and she squared her shoulders, made herself fierce, a fitting foe to madness and pain after all, perhaps. “If Beelzebub doesn’t get you first,” she said. “I’m Fia MacLeod. I’d rather be called that than ‘the virgin,’ though that’s accurate.”
The cat jumped down, nudged its great head against her knee. It wrapped its tail around her skirts possessively and never once took its eyes off Dair.
Fia MacLeod lifted the terrible creature into her arms. It hung over her shoulder like a fur robe, tail switching, and warned Dair away with the kind of glare he was more used to from jealous husbands.
“I trust you are Alasdair Og Sinclair?” she said when he didn’t introduce himself. Her hand slid over the cat’s flank, and the beast’s purr nearly drowned out the sound of the rain on the roof. “Shall we start again? I have come here as your father’s guest, nothing more. I have—in the past—healed birds and wild creatures, set broken wings and injured paws.” She swallowed. “And I limp. I have since I was a child. I was not mocking you.” Her eyes met his—soft, golden-green eyes, hypnotic and soothing. There was no pity, no disgust. She looked at him as a man. Her awareness of his sex was betrayed by the bright spots of color in her cheeks.
He shifted, moved to lean against the nearest stall to ease his leg. The cat growled again, and she shushed it. It obeyed instantly, like magic—or witchcraft.They called Jeannie a witch and a heretic, killed her for it . . .
He assessed her again, trying to decide if she was truly as innocent as she seemed, or if she was indeed a witch, or a gold-digging wench who hoped to marry a chief’s son. Had she no man of her own at home? Were the lads on MacLeod lands blind? Honesty radiated from her, and simplicity. Her gown was plain, not styled to entice or seduce, but it was made of the finest wool and well cut. She held his gaze without a hint of coquetry, daring him to dismiss her, to say something cruel. She expected it, he realized, was braced for it. There was strength to Fia MacLeod’s delicacy, like steel wrapped in velvet. He felt the urge to draw closer, know more, but he stayed where he was.
He should have bowed, apologized, offered his arm, and escorted her indoors out of the rain. The old Dair would have done so. He would have flirted, charmed her, had her simpering and cooing.
But he wasn’t the old Dair. He glared at her, silently wished her away, hating her presence here, the reason she’d come. He was mad, broken, ashamed—unfit company for a tender young lass. He didn’t want Fia MacLeod’s help, or her frank, pretty eyes upon him, looking at him as if she could see beyond the scars and injuries to the stains on his soul.
“You’re my father’s guest, not mine. I didn’t ask you to come. I don’t believe in prophecies or magic,” he said harshly. “If you have any sense, you’ll go back where you came from, now, today, this very moment.” He snarled the warning at her, doing his best to frighten her. It was all he could do to protect her . . . But she regarded him silently and ignored the warning, or didn’t recognize it.
What now?His leg ached. The rain made his scars burn, gnawed on his half-healed bones. He felt the weight of her silence and wondered what she was thinking. He’d had enough of healers and conjurers, and now this, wee Fia MacLeod and her great cat. Things had taken a turn toward the ridiculous. He fought the urge to laugh like a loon.
“Did my father mention I’m mad? The last virgin I knew died, Mistress MacLeod. I watched it happen. Does that shock you? Can you fix that, raise the dead, wash the stains from my soul?”
She flinched, her skin paling to porcelain.Shedidn’tknow. Theyhadn’t toldher about Jeannie . . .She was afraid of him now, he thought.Good.In a moment, she’d burst into tears and flee. He took a limping step toward her and spread his arms wide. The cat growled a warning, and he ignored it. “Well? What are you waiting for? Perform your miracle.” He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes, read uncertainty in every line of her body even as she held his gaze, stood brave before him, trusting him, even now. He was between her and the door, blocking her escape, twice her size, stronger than she, the Madman of Carraig Brigh in the flesh, raging, terrifying, unpredictable, and dangerous. He shook with pain and his own horror at what he’d become.
The cat yowled louder still, warning him back, and Fia MacLeod clutched at the beast, barely containing him in the fragile cage of her arms.
“May I have myarisaid?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I’m cold.”
The request brought him up short, doused the fire of his fury. He blinked at the crumpled wool he’d dropped on the floor when he entered the stable—blue and green, the MacLeod colors. He picked it up. It was damp, covered with straw.
Fia MacLeod set the cat down. The creature leaped to a perch on the half door of a stall beside her, his tail twitching. She took her plaid from his hand. The brush of her fingers on his went through him like wildfire. He caught the faint scent of flowers. It made him want to lean closer, breathe her in. Jeannie had smelled sweet too, yet her temper was ferocious. He’d fetched her cloak too, as she stood watching the sunset from the deck of the ship, scant hours before they’d been captured.
He couldn’t seem to step away from Fia MacLeod. “Better?” he asked her. Just the way he’d asked Jeannie that night . . .
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured as she threw her plaid around her shoulders, drew it close to her neck. Her eyes met his. He felt the spark of her gaze go through him, warm him . . . He watched her throat bob as she swallowed. “I should go inside. My sister will be concerned—”
“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t move. The cat moved instead. Dair felt the rake of claws across his cheek. He leaped back with a curse as the cat exploded past him and disappeared into the loft.
He flinched when she touched his cheek, her gentle caress unexpected. He resisted the urge to press his face into her palm, jerked his head away instead, and stumbled backward as if she’d burned him. She paused with her hand suspended in midair, more of his blood on her fingertip. Her eyes widened, but not with fear. Compassion, he thought. Not pity.
“I won’t hurt you,” she said.
Hurthim? He could tearherin two, one more fragile creature destroyed at his hands, her sweetness, her innocence gone forever . . . pain gripped him, made him shake. He backed away, leaned against the wall.
“Are you so certain I will not hurt you, Mistress MacLeod?”
She hesitated a moment before she stepped around him, trailing the tantalizing scent of flowers, wet wool, and woman, and limped out of the stable without another word, her spine straight, dignity radiating from every line of her body.
He felt as if he’d trampled on a butterfly, or kicked a kitten.
He gave her enough time to make it inside the hall before he slunk out of the stable. He picked up his walking stick and turned toward the kitchen door. Unease simmered in his veins—or was it regret?
He told himself it didn’t matter. By morning, Fia MacLeod would be gone, back where she’d come from, terrified, vanquished, and whimpering. Would his last hope for salvation go with her? He paused, let the rain soak through his clothes. He’d hold the memory of her for a time, the last pretty woman who looked at him as a man, not a monster, before madness twisted even that, warped it. The last of his soul had died with Jeannie.
