“May I know your name?” Fia asked, taking a few steps after the old woman.
The old woman paused, let her eyes flick over the empty carts, the tower, the sky. The clouds that brought the rain hovered still, restless and moody, as if they couldn’t decide if they’d move on or stay and open again.
“Moire o’ the Spring has done what she could,” the old woman muttered to the air. “Was it of use? Time will tell, and the goddess will decide.Isshe likely? She has a look about her, I say.” She turned back to Fia. “It’s in your hands whether he lives or dies, or stays as he is with one foot in each place.” She made a sign in the air with her fingers. “The chief cannot hold me, and there is neither harm nor good here for old Moire.”
With that, she spun on her heel like a sprite, went through the gate and past the sentries, who paid her no mind at all.
Fia looked up at the looming shadow of the tower above her. The very stones of Carraig Brigh felt unhappy, restless, fearful.
She shivered, and half wished she could follow the crone out the gate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Mistress MacLeod?” Fia turned to see a maidservant on the doorstep behind her. “I was sent to find ye. Yer sister is waiting upstairs.” There was curiosity and speculation in the girl’s eyes as they flicked over Fia from head to hem. Was she wondering too if Fia was capable of miracles and magic, or was she simply staring at the scars? Fia felt her cheeks heat as she nodded and let the servant lead the way.
The maid took the stairs quickly, without thinking, and had to pause to give Fia time to catch up, follow her through a warren of corridors.
At last they arrived at a set of double doors, and the girl nodded for Fia to go in.
The chamber was in chaos. Trunks had disgorged cargoes of shimmering silk, rustling taffeta, glowing velvet, and fine wool everywhere. Three Sinclair maids were busy unpacking gowns, bonnets, shoes, stockings, bodices, and petticoats.
In the midst of it all, Meggie was reclining on a settee. “Where have you been? I’m supposed to be chaperoning you,” she said, and held out a goblet made of fine glass, rare and expensive. “Taste this. I swear it’s pure nectar. The Sinclair sent it up with his compliments.” Fia took the glass and sipped the ruby wine. “Isn’t it marvelous? It’s French!”
Fia saw the maids toss knowing looks between themselves. “We’ve had French wine before,” she said, to both them and her sister.
“I know, but Papa prefers Rhenish, or whisky, or ale. Well, I prefer this. The Sinclairs bring it from France in their ships. The English cannot get it without paying dearly, since they are at war with France, but we Scots can have all we want,” Meggie gushed. “The Sinclairs are very rich. Did you know that?”
Fia glanced at the expensive brocade bed hangings, the thick Turkey rug that covered the floor, and the French tapestries that hid cold stone walls. This room was as luxurious as the library. “Yes, I know.” She wondered how much gold Padraig Sinclair would trade to heal his son, to have the fine young man in the portrait back again. “All of it,” she whispered. Meggie didn’t notice, but one of the maids looked at her sharply, as if she’d muttered a curse.
Meggie took back the goblet and immediately refilled it. Fia unwound herarisaid,desperate to wash away the dust of the road and the memory of her encounter with Alasdair Og. She didn’t feel tainted—just confused. Her body buzzed and her skin remembered every place his hands had touched her. She started to roll up her long lace-edged sleeves, then hesitated, not wanting to expose the scars on her arm to the servants. She clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to smile as if nothing at all was wrong.
Meggie rose from the settee to whisper in Fia’s ear so the maids wouldn’t hear. “I haven’t seen Alasdair Og yet, but there are plenty of other Sinclair men that are quite pleasing to the eye. I wonder what he’s like.”
Fia pictured Alasdair’s angry gray eyes—his dark, wind-tangled hair, his scarred face, the lean, damaged body. “I saw him in the bailey,” she admitted.
Meggie’s eyes widened. “Truly? No wonder you were gone so long. Is it true? Is he mad?”
The maids leaned in, all ears. Meggie could be dreadfully indiscreet. She loved to gossip, and the wine had loosened her tongue even more than usual.
“No. He’s injured, but not mad,” Fia said. The maids smirked as if they knew different.
“Is he handsome?” Meggie demanded.
Yes,Fia thought. Even scarred, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He took her breath away with fear, and compassion, and emotions she had no name for at all. She opened her mouth to tell Meggie and closed it again. She didn’t want to share him with her sister, or the Sinclair’s sharp-eyed maidservants. Not yet, at least.
“He’s his father’s son,” Fia said vaguely.
Meggie sighed. “I met Logan Sinclair, the chief’s nephew. Now, there’s a fine figure of a man, though young. And there’s Lord John Erly as well—they call him English John. He’s handsome enough for an Englishman, I suppose, but can you imagine Papa’s face if one of us took up with a Sassenach? They say he’s here because his own father disowned him for being a rake and a rogue. Scots don’t cast off their children.” She tilted her nose in the air. “Not that I’m here to find a husband, of course, just to chaperone you. You haven’t gotten into any trouble, have you?”
“I haven’t met Logan Sinclair, or anyone English,” Fia said. She changed the subject to one of Meggie’s favorite topics. “Are we to dress for dinner? I think I’ll wear the dark blue silk.”
“Oh, Fia—it’s so plain. Wear the rose velvet,” Meggie said.
Would Alasdair Og like rose velvet? The thought passed through Fia’s mind unbidden. The debonair gentleman in the portrait certainly seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate an elegantly dressed woman. The tortured man in the stable wouldn’t care if she wore sackcloth to supper.
Meggie poured more wine and chattered happily about how she intended to wear her hair that evening. Fia only half-listened. She wanted a rest, and a chance to think.
But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Alasdair Og Sinclair, standing in the rain, his eyes as cold as the winter sea.
