“I trust your journey was pleasant?” he said to Fia in his native tongue.
“Very pleasant,” Fia replied, also in English. Papa’s sixth wife had insisted her stepdaughters must learn English, and French as well.
“But for the weather,” Meggie said. “And the roads. And the food at the inns, of course.” Another young man appeared at Padraig’s elbow, golden haired, blue eyed, handsome as the devil, and grinning from ear to ear. Meggie lit up like a pine torch as Logan Sinclair bowed low over her hand and kissed it with a resounding smack before he turned to Fia.
“Mistress Fia MacLeod, may I make known to you my nephew, Logan Sinclair?” the chief said.
He gripped her hand and brushed back the long lace frill that edged her sleeve. Fia tried to pull away, but it was too late. Logan Sinclair’s roguish grin faltered, turned to horror as he stared down at the crosshatch of silver scars on her wrist, and his pucker became a grimace. Mortified, Fia snatched her hand away, let the sleeve fall, and tucked her hand behind her back.
“How do you do?” she murmured hastily. She dipped a curtsy and nearly toppled. John Erly caught her elbow, righted her, and quickly let go.
“The flagstones are three hundred years old, I’m told, and a trifle uneven,” he murmured. He’d seen her scars too, she was sure, but his face remained impassive.
“Thank you.” Fia tilted her chin up and looked at the faces around her, afraid of what she’d see, but there was no disgust, no fear in their eyes. Curiosity, yes, but no more than that—perhaps they hadn’t noticed. She forced a smile, but her heart thumped against the low bodice of her gown.
“May I escort you to the table?” Lord John asked stiffly, since Chief Sinclair was already taking Meggie to her place.
Fia laid her unscarred hand on John’s sleeve and took her seat. The Englishman sat on Fia’s left.
The chair to her right remained empty—Alasdair Og’s, most likely, since the rest of the seats at the long table were quickly filled. Padraig Sinclair was next to the empty chair.
“I understand the white cat in the stable belongs to you, Mistress MacLeod?” English John asked.
She felt her skin heat yet again. “Yes—his name is Bel. Please call me Fia.”
“It’s short for Beelzebub,” Meggie added quickly, leaning around the chief. “Bel, I mean, not Fia.” She giggled at her own jest. Logan laughed as well.
Fia cast her eyes over John’s face and hands, looking for scratches, found none. “Is he—Bel, I mean—did he . . . ?”
Lord John’s lips rippled. “He did indeed.”
“Oh no,” Fia said softly.
“Not to worry, Mistress MacLeod. Your pet is safe in the stable,” John replied. “No one will do him any harm.”
“Where is my son this evening, John?” the Sinclair asked blandly. Too blandly. His tone was at odds with the sharpness of his gaze on the Englishman.
Fia watched John’s fist tighten almost imperceptibly. “Oh, I daresay he’s simply preening, wanting to look his best this evening in honor of our lovely guests.”
Padraig sent an irritated glare toward the staircase, which remained dark and empty. “Dair has never preened. No Highlanderpreens. Perhaps I should send Angus Mor to fetch him down.”
Fia could feel the tension in the Englishman’s body, though he hid it behind a broad grin. He knew where Dair was and why he wasn’t here.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary.” John turned to look at Fia once more. “No doubt you’re eager to meet Alasdair Og, mistress, since you are here to cure him.”
It was mildly spoken, but his eyes were sharp as dirks.
Fia swallowed. “In truth I met him this afternoon while I was settling Bel in the stable,” she replied. His brows rose, and he scanned her face, searching for a clue as to her opinion of his friend. She kept her expression placid, her opinion her own.
“I hope my son made a good impression,” Padraig Sinclair said, as if he was speaking of a child, not a man, and would send Alasdair Og to bed without his supper if he’d misbehaved.
Heisthe most extraordinary manI’veever met.But she could not say that, or truly say their introduction had been pleasant. She studied her hands in her lap.
Lord John came to her rescue. “My guess is Dair was as surprised by the cat as the rest of us. Perhaps that’s what’s delayed him.” The scratched clansmen murmured agreement and sympathy.
The Englishman was Alasdair Og’s friend, his protector, Fia realized. He didn’t believe for an instant she was capable of healing him. That made two of them—three if you included Alasdair Og himself. Tension tightened her belly, and she opened her mouth to tell Padraig she wished to speak to him after the meal, but he beckoned his steward.
“I see no reason to wait any longer for Alasdair Og. Let us dine.”
