“And if she fails?” The question hung in the air for a long moment. “There are some already saying Logan would make a better chief after you than a madman responsible for the death of a holy maid and a crew of eight men. Perhaps they’re right.”
“No!” Padraig slammed his hand down. “You are my heir, not Logan. You were—are—the best of all the Sinclairs. You will be again. Iorderyou to do your duty, Alasdair Og. You will be restored to health, you will have your revenge, and you will lead this clan after me, do you hear? Not Logan. Should I send the boy away? Would that make you forget her?”
“You can’t even speak her name, can you? Jeannie. You took down her portrait, stripped her chamber, removed all trace of her from Carraig Brigh—except Logan of course. He has her face, her eyes, her laugh. But he’s your brother’s son. It wouldn’t be honorable to send him away.”
His father muttered a curse and rose to his feet. “This is pointless. Supper is at eight o’clock. I expect you to be present. If you are not, I’ll have Angus Mor come and carry you down to the hall.”
“Is that an order too?” Dair asked softly.
His father paused at the door and glared at him. “Yes, by God. Eight o’clock,” he said again, and was gone.
Dair found his chair again and pressed the knot in his chest. Padraig had brought Fia MacLeod here intending to betray her. Did his father imagine because she limped, had scars, that she had no feelings, no heart? He shut his eyes, saw the pale oval of Fia MacLeod’s face in his mind. Her image became Jeannie’s, her smile full of mischief. Then Jeannie’s lips drew back in a scream as her eyes rolled white in agony. Dair stifled a cry and opened his eyes, his heart pounding. He’d failed his cousin, let her die . . . And now, Fia MacLeod had come, and he was supposed to betray her too, use her, hurt her, even destroy her . . . no, not him this time, though he’d be just as helpless to prevent it.
He rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth. She should have stayed home, safe among those who loved her, unscathed by his madness—or Padraig’s. He rose, paced, though it hurt. He let the pain burn through him. Was he thinking of Jeannie or Fia?
It didn’t matter. Jeannie was dead, and Fia MacLeod wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t brought her here.
He needed a drink. He looked again at the empty bottle in his room. He drank too much, and Padraig had ordered the servants to water the whisky they brought him—as if Dair was too mad to notice.
He crossed the corridor to John’s room and found it empty. There was an uncut bottle of fine Sinclair whisky on the table, two-thirds full. Alasdair took it and went back to his own room. He didn’t bother with a cup. He intended to drink down every soul-numbing drop.
CHAPTER TEN
The clock in the hall was chiming eight when Fia and Meggie descended the stairs to the hall. Fia felt her face flame as the assembled company watched her move slowly down the steps, holding her sister’s arm. Meggie’s eyes darted over the Sinclairs like curious birds. “Dhia,how grand!” she whispered. Indeed itwasgrand—every Sinclair was finely dressed, and the chief was the finest of all in a green velvet coat trimmed with gold, with French lace at his throat, his plaid pinned with a magnificent ruby.
Fia took a deep breath and looked around the room for Alasdair Og, both anticipating and dreading the moment when her eyes would meet his.
He wasn’t here.
She let the breath out again.
It was relief she felt, not disappointment—or so she told herself. If he did not care to come to dinner, it was hardly her concern. He’d made it perfectly clear that she could expect no welcome from him. Then she wondered if it was pain or illness that kept him away. Maybe they had simply forgotten to tell him dinner was about to be served. That often happened to her at Glen Iolair. Someone eventually noticed that she was missing. They blamed it on forgetfulness—Fia’s, of course, not theirs.
She was certainly getting plenty of attention now, from the Sinclairs—most of them were staring ather, not Meggie, which was something new.
Copying her sister, she raised her chin, thrust out her bosom, and smiled. Whatever the reason for Alasdair Og’s absence, he was missing the dazzling sight of two of the Fearsome MacLeod’s lovely daughters dressed in their finest.
Meggie was wearing violet silk embroidered with purple thistles and white lilies, and trimmed with lace and pale blue ribbons that exactly matched her sparkling eyes.
Fia’s gown was sapphire blue, which looked well with her russet hair and creamy skin. She wore a sash of MacLeod plaid, held in place with a pearl brooch that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother and was rumored to have been a gift to her favored lady-in-waiting from Mary, Queen of Scots, herself. Her father called Fia his pearl, said she had a deep glow rather than the sharp sparkle of her sisters, was a banked fire instead of a short-lived blaze.
Fia took each step carefully, concentrating on not tripping on her hem—or on Meggie’s, for that matter.
“Hurry up,” Meggie whispered.
“I can’t,” Fia whispered back.
They were saved by the gallant gesture of the Sinclair. He swept forward, made a deep bow, and ascended the last few steps to take the arms of his guests and escort them down the stairs.
“How lovely you both look,” Padraig Sinclair said. Fia kept her eyes on the diamond buckles on his shoes.
“Tapadh leibh,” she said, thanking him in Gaelic, aware the assembled company was staring at her, assessing her.The virgin, come to heal the madman.She felt hot blood rising in her cheeks as the Sinclairs moved in and surrounded her. It was like standing in a forest, and every one of them seemed as tall and braw as Alasdair Og. Their eyes weren’t unkind, simply curious. She noticed at once that several clansmen bore scratches on their faces and hands, Bel’s signature. She gave each one an apologetic smile, since it was obviously too late for a word of warning. Tomorrow she’d seek them all out, offer a proper apology and some soothing salve. Still, despite their injuries, each person bowed politely. Fia brightened her smile all the more and glowed with all her might.
She scanned the room again, but Alasdair Og still had not arrived. She greeted by name the men who had traveled to Glen Iolair with the chief and had escorted herself and Meggie to Carraig Brigh. She was introduced to a black-gowned priest, a rarity even here in the Highlands, where the strict Protestant Scottish kirk had less of a hold on the religious practices of isolated country folk. Suspicion burned in Father Alphonse’s pebble-dark eyes as she was introduced. He did not smile, or even nod. He stood stiff as a stick and glared at her, and Fia felt a chill creep up her spine.
“This is Lord John Erly—a friend of Dair’s,” the Sinclair said, and Fia looked up into another pair of hard, dark eyes crouching under furrowed brows. He didn’t look any more pleased to see her than Father Alphonse, or Alasdair Og himself. His bow was crisp, formal, and perfunctory, the very opposite of a warm welcome.
“He’s English,” Meggie whispered unnecessarily. “They call him English John.”
