There was nothing left of Alasdair Og Sinclair for anyone to save.
CHAPTER SIX
Fia felt the warmth of Alasdair Og’s body as she passed him—or perhaps it was the searing heat of his rage. Still, it made her own body heat in response, sent fire crackling along her limbs, pooling in her breasts and belly. He was a handsome man, or he had been. She could see that in the long, lean strength of his body, an old athletic grace, evident even through the pain walking caused him. She could see the elegant structure of the bones beneath the damaged surface, the high, arrogant cheekbones, the wide brow. His nose had been broken, but his lips were soft, sensual, and well shaped. His mouth gave away his thoughts, since he kept his eyes carefully blank, when they weren’t filled with rage and torment. His dark hair was wild, in need of cutting, but she longed to touch it, to brush the locks out of his eyes, to smooth the lines from his brow.
She braced for a cruel comment or worse as she moved around him, but he didn’t stop her. He stood with his fists and his jaw tightly clenched, Bel’s bloody scratches adding to the scars on his face, and watched her go. She felt his eyes on her like a touch. She made her bearing proud, half-hoped he’d call her back, even while it took all her courage not to run.
She could not help Alasdair Og Sinclair. Whatever ailed him was out of her ken. He said he’d watched a woman die. If that was true, he was worse than mad, and she couldn’t fix that. Whatever else he was, Alasdair Og was the proudest, angriest man she’d ever met. He made her more afraid then she’d ever been. There was a wildness about him that made her heart beat faster, made her quiver with fear—and excitement too—as if she’d happened on an injured wolf caught in a snare. She put her hand to her heart, felt it beating like a trapped bird.
But the ache in her chest was familiar. It came from a desire to help, to heal, to soothe, but he didn’t want her help. He’d jerked away from her touch, his pride every bit as formidable as a wolf’s. She suspected he wasn’t one to accept help when he was whole and healthy, and now he was ashamed of his wounds, of what had happened to him, of what he’d become.
She was familiar with that feeling too.
Still, despite the disaster of their encounter, Alasdair Og Sinclair hadn’t looked at her with pity or disgust. Those emotions had been turned inward on himself. He was every bit as afraid of her as she was of him—well, perhaps not afraid ofher,but of the reason she had come to Carraig Brigh. No, she couldn’t help him. Fia stepped inside the door of the hall, out of Alasdair Og’s sight, and shut her eyes.
She wanted to go home.
She imagined her sisters gathering around her, comforting her, telling her she was right to come home, that she should never have gone in the first place. They’d tell her she belonged where she was safe, that there was no need for her to ever set foot outside the glen again. Her father would smile fondly and tell her Ada needed help, and send her off with a kiss on the cheek—the unscarred one. Then her family would forget her yet again.
She knew her kin loved her dearly in their own distracted way, but none of themneededher.
Alasdair Og Sinclair needed her, a little voice said—or at least he neededsomeone. She’d never met anyone more alone than he.
She moved out of the way as servants bustled through the door with one of Meggie’s trunks. There’d been a great flurry of sewing, trimming, and packing of frocks and finery in the days before they left Glen Iolair—and now it all had to be carried inside and up the stairs.
Fia bit her lip. She should stop them, tell them to put the trunks back on the carts, but as usual, no one even noticed she was there, standing quietly by the door. She was all but invisible to most people. She’d come to believe they simply preferred not to see her, so they wouldn’t have to consider the person behind the limp and the scars. She’d have to allow the servants to finish their task before she climbed the stairs to find her sister. As clumsy as Fia was, she’d only cause a situation, and that was not how she wished to begin her visit to Carraig Brigh—or end it. Especially now, after the disastrous encounter with Alasdair Og in the stables.
Perhaps she should find the chief first and make arrangements to return home at once, tell him she was sorry, but she couldn’t help his son. But Padraig Sinclair was nowhere in sight, and the servants continued to stream through the door and up the stairs with luggage.
The Sinclair had told her that his son had seen innumerable healers. She wondered what he’d endured at their hands. Her father had taken her to Edinburgh when she was just one-and-ten, to doctors who assured him they could straighten her leg with iron rods and ropes, and burn away her scars with potions. From the first touch it had been agonizingly painful. Fortunately, her father could not bear her suffering. He stopped the treatments at once, took her home again, and left her as she was. But she was just a daughter—a proud man like Padraig Sinclair must have found it hard to have a broken man for his son and heir. She’d given him false hope by coming to Carraig Brigh, and for that she felt a surge of guilt. A wounded man was very different from an injured sparrow, and pain and fear made injured wolves more dangerous than whole ones. She clasped her hands together and shivered.
She looked around the great hall of Carraig Brigh. The stone walls were hung with tapestries—not homemade, but expensive, expertly woven ones, with scenes of knights in armor and great battles—how her father would have loved them! The sideboard held a luxurious display of glass and porcelain beside the usual pewter plates and cups. The draperies that enclosed the deep window seats were of brocade and velvet. Yet behind the grand decorations, the hall was venerable, ancient, and Scottish. Above the French hangings, the walls bristled with swords, shields, and axes, proclaiming the pride and might of the clan that had sheltered, fought, and celebrated within these walls for long centuries.
On one side of the room she noticed an arched doorway. Curious, she crossed the room and slipped through the open doors. She gaped at the magnificence of the room before her, a huge library, grander by far than the little collection of books at Glen Iolair, kept on a single shelf in one corner of the solar. This room was filled with books from floor to ceiling. The rain-light poured through tall windows and glittered on gold-embossed spines, made them dazzle the eye, as if the sun lived in this room, in these tomes. There were tables covered with scientific objects and cabinets filled with curiosities. An etched leather globe stood near the window next to a brass telescope. The soaring ceiling was painted with clouds and angels. No, not angels—she recognized a younger Padraig Sinclair, dressed in Greek armor and the Sinclair plaid. A young boy stood next to him, dark hair curling back from his brow, his smile enigmatic. Other family members flanked them—a golden pair of twins, one male, one female, and a woman who regarded the others fondly. It made her dizzy to stare up at the pantheon of Sinclairs, hovering above her like gods. Glen Iolair had nothing so grand as this.
She looked at the paintings that adorned the walls—scenes of ships tossed on moody seas, exotic landscapes, and fine portraits of Sinclair men and women. There was a painting of Padraig in full regalia, standing by the sea with his ships behind him, his hand on the head of a long-legged deerhound.
She stopped in her tracks when she met Alasdair Og’s painted gaze. The portrait showed a charming rogue in a fashionable wig that cascaded over a lace cravat and an elegant gray-blue velvet coat that matched the color of his eyes. The Sinclair plaid was thrown over his shoulder and pinned with a massive ruby. There was no trace of madness in his eyes, and there were no scars. This man was all grace, pride, and wit, and handsome as the devil. Fia put a hand to her fluttering heart. She gripped the back of a gilded chair and stared into his painted eyes. This was not the man she’d met in the stable. Or was it?
A gilded French clock on the mantel chimed, and Fia gasped at the hour. She’d promised her sister she’d be gone just long enough to settle Bel in a corner of the stable.
She cast a last look at the portrait of Alasdair Og and hurried back to the hall to ask directions to the chamber she’d share with her sister, but the servants had finished their work and gone. She went back outside to look for help.
An old woman was crossing the bailey with a bundle on her back, muttering to herself. She stopped when she saw Fia, and her gray brows quirked skyward.
“So he found ye.”
“Your pardon?” Fia said.
“The chief. You’re the virgin.” She cocked her head like a bird, drew nearer. “What else are ye? Are ye healer or witch, or just a lass who wishes to marry a wealthy man, mad or sane?”
Fia was taken aback by the old woman’s bold questions. “Do you know where I might find Chief Sinclair?”
The old woman ignored her query. “Ye don’t look likely. ’Tis a dangerous business, especially with—” She twirled a bony finger next to her ear.
Fia frowned. “He’s not mad.”
The old woman cackled. “So ye’ve seen that already. Perhaps you’re likely after all. No, mayhap he’s not mad, but he won’t heal, can’t—d’ye ken that too? His wounds feed on his rage, grow stronger. A man canna live with such things gnawing on him.” She poked her finger into Fia’s shoulder. “Can ye fixthat? If ye canna, then . . .” She shrugged and stepped back. “Well—I won’t be here to see it. I’m going.”
