Perhaps there were miracles after all.
CHAPTER NINE
Dair looked up when his father entered his chamber. Logan had already been here twice to tell Dair his father was waiting to see him. He’d ignored the summons. What could he say? He didn’t want Fia MacLeod here. Neither she nor anyone else could help him. She was too young, too fragile, and too innocent. Dair was filled with a darkness he couldn’t control. He’d nearly broken Angus Mor’s arm during one of his nightmares, and Angus was strong enough to carry a cow. He’d destroy Fia MacLeod.
He saw the worry on his father’s face when he opened the door to Dair’s chamber after a single crisp knock. His expression faded to relief when he saw his son sitting calmly in a chair by the window, then turned to annoyance at his disobedience. Dair was twenty-eight years old, had sailed the world, gained a reputation as a master mariner and trader with some and a pirate with others, but Padraig Sinclair still expected his son—and everyone else—to obey him without question. Besides Dair, Jeannie was the only other person who had ever refused to do as the chief of the Sinclairs commanded. Dair’s mouth twisted. If only shehaddone as she was told . . .
Padraig crossed the room, a tall, formidable, quick-tempered Highlander, as strong as Angus Mor, as clever as Dair, and as stubborn as Jeannie.
“I expected you in my study an hour ago. We have things to discuss,” the Sinclair said, taking a chair across from his son, crossing his booted legs. “You’re well? Father Alphonse and old Moire told me—”
“That I continue to plague the good people of Carraig Brigh with screaming nightmares, but my leg is better, though the pain has not diminished, and most sensible folk are afraid to come near me,” Dair finished for him.
His father’s jaw tensed. “Yes.”
“Yet the definition ofsensible folkapparently does not include wayward virgins who believe in the miraculous healing power of innocence. Even you must see this doesn’t make any sense, Da. You are—were—a man of science and learning. There isn’t a superstitious bone in your body.”
“Can you blame a father for hoping for a miracle?”
“I would have stopped you going, had I known. I didn’t find out until after you left that you’d gone to find me a virgin. It was a fool’s errand.”
His father bristled at the wordfoolbut let it go. He allowed it, Dair supposed, only because his son was mad, injured. “Old Moire said that a virgin caused this, and only a virgin could heal you and make you whole again. I want that, Dair. Don’t you? Don’t you want to get well, take revenge on the ones who did this to you?”
Dair stared at his father’s hand, fisted tight on the arm of his chair, and ignored the question. “I saw her in the bailey with her cat. A terrible beast.”
Padraig grinned. “The lass or the cat? Wee Fia MacLeod has a fetching way about her when you get to know her. She soothes wild creatures, heals them. I saw it with my own eyes. I thought she might . . . be the one who could help you.”
Alasdair fixed his father with a flat look. “Think what harm I could do to her in return! I am no longer fit company for a young lady of good birth, an innocent lass who has seen nothing of the world, knows nothing of men, let alone madmen. What did you promise her to get her to come? Am I supposed to marry her if she succeeds? Which she won’t. I’ve been over it in my mind a hundred times, and I can’t imagine any other reason why a lass would travel so far to see me. Am I already betrothed to Fia MacLeod?”
His father reddened. “Dear God, no!” He looked away quickly, studied his hands. “I mean, I went to find a bride for you, a virgin bride. I found Fia instead. She’s a kind lass, but she’s—well, she’s simply not suitable to be the next Lady Sinclair. Her sister Meggie, though—she’s fair of face, built to please a man and breed his heirs. She’d do. I’m sure MacLeod of Iolair will be happy enough with a match betwixt yourself and Meggie.”
Dair felt horror rise in his breast. “You mean Fia MacLeod limps. Is that what makes her unsuitable as a wife?”
Padraig Sinclair raised his chin. “Yes, among other things. She’s scarred, and she’s . . . fey, I suppose is the kindest description. No, she’s not for marrying. She was content enough at home with her own kin. In fact, I had a devil of a time convincing her to come away at all.” He forced a laugh. “AchDhia,Alasdair, you can’t think I meant her as a bride for you. No wonder you’re unhappy.”
Dair rose from his chair, went to the window. He wanted a drink, but the decanter in his room was empty. “I have scars too, and I limp. And I’m mad, remember? I’d say it was a perfect match—except I’m not a marriage prize for any woman, even fey, crippled Fia MacLeod. Do you not think that any lass would cringe on her wedding night at the sight of me? Especially when I start screaming in my sleep.”
He saw the pain in his father’s eyes, a care and concern that didn’t extend to Fia MacLeod. “You won’t. Not when you’re healed. Think of the women you had before—countesses, duchesses, the most beautiful women in Europe.”
“They wouldn’t want me now,” Dair said, turning his face to the light, letting it illuminate his scars. Padraig Sinclair barely concealed a wince. “You want a miracle, but there’s no such thing. If there was, I daresay Father Alphonse would have healed me already. He recommends a virgin too—I need only trust in Our Lady, pray day and night, and I will be whole again, like a leper restored. And old Moire wants me to bathe in the spring of her goddess. Should I try that as well?”
Padraig ran a hand over his lace cravat. “Of course not. We’re civilized men, modern men. We don’t believe in pagan superstitions.”
“And still you brought me wee Fia MacLeod. She doesn’t deserve to be sacrificed to a hopeless cause.”
“She’ll do as she’s told. She’s here by my will, to do my bidding,” the chief of the Sinclairs began arrogantly. “Father Alphonse can go to the devil. His God hasn’t seen fit—”
Dair raised his brows at the blasphemy. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in God anymore?”
“Keeping a priest was your mother’s idea. She made me promise to keep one here even after she died, for the folk in the village.”
Dair folded his arms over his chest. “And now? Have you become a pagan like Moire?”
Padraig waved his hand, dismissing the idea and the question. “Fia MacLeod has a way about her. There’s a gentleness I’ve never seen before.” He smoothed a hand over his forehead, where the silver remains of a line of scratches were fading. “I saw a wild bird fly to her hand, perch there like a pet, because she had once healed its wing.”
“Magic indeed—or witchcraft.” Dair held out his hand, the scratches there fresh and bloody. “Her cat scratched me too. She did not heal me.”
Padraig frowned, and doubt passed fleetingly through his eyes. He forced a bluff smile. “She’s only just arrived. Give her time to settle herself.”
