“Mistress MacLeod.”
Fia heard the whisper from far away, muted by the mists of sleep, but the hand that shook her awake was insistent.
“Mistress MacLeod—Fia—wake up.”
It was a man’s voice, close to her ear, right here in her bedchamber. Her eyes shot open.AlasdairOg,she thought, and her heart kicked at her ribs. But it was the shadowed face of John Erly that hovered over her in the dark.
“What are you—” she began, but he put his finger to his lips. Fia glanced over her shoulder at Meggie, still fast asleep beside her and snoring softly, so worn out from dancing that she’d probably sleep through a reiving. If Lord John was here for improper purposes, Meggie would be of no help at all. Fia clutched the coverlet and stared at him.
“Dair needs assistance, and since Moire is gone, that means you.”
She sat up so quickly her head knocked him under the chin. He grunted and Meggie stirred. John stepped into the shadow of the bed curtains, but Meggie simply hauled on the blankets, claimed the lion’s share of them, and went back to sleep.
Exposed, Fia crossed her arms over her nightdress. “I’ll come,” she whispered. John didn’t move. She shot him a pointed look, then wondered if he could see it in the dark. “You’ll give me a moment to dress, if you please.” She added vinegar to her tone to be sure he understood.
“Five minutes, or I’ll come in here again,” he said, and left the room.
The instant the door shut behind him, Fia climbed out of bed and fumbled for a gown. She pulled it over her head and laced the front over her nightdress. She tossed a shawl around her shoulders, stuffed her bare feet into shoes, and opened the door.
John stood in the hall, holding a candle. Angus Mor stood beside him, as tall and wide as a mountain. He nodded to her, his expression grim as he took in her sleep-mussed braid and hastily donned gown.
“Very good, Mistress MacLeod. I’ve never known a woman who could dress in under five minutes, have you, Angus?” John Erly drawled.
The big man shook his head. “Well, not unless she was a—” He shut his mouth with an audible snap and blushed in the candlelight. “Not that I meant—”
A distant cry echoed along the corridor, a thin, eerie, haunted sound. Fia drew a sharp breath.
“Dair has nightmares,” John said. “He wakes screaming. Padraig has Angus Morcarry him up to the tower so he won’t disturb everyone’s sleep.” The cry came again, rushing down upon the three of them, catching on the castle’s ancient stone walls, a desperate living thing of raw pain and torment. Angus Mor crossed himself.
“Well, he disturbsfewerpeople,” John muttered. “Will you come?”
Fia didn’t reply. She simply began walking in the direction of the cries, and John and Angus Mor followed. They reached a narrow door at the end of the corridor, and John opened it.
She gasped as the thin candlelight revealed an endless parade of narrow stone steps marching upward into the dark, miles of them by the looks of it, each one uneven, steep, and dangerous, steps it would take her hours to climb.
She turned to Angus Mor. “I shall require assistance.”
“’Tis no trouble at all, mistress. I’ll have you there before you know it.”
He scooped his arms under her knees, and she felt the breathless rush of being lifted. His chest was like iron under her shoulder. Like her father’s chest, his strong arms, carrying her up to the tower room at Glen Iolair when she was a wee girl . . .
“Och, you’re lighter than a thistle!” Angus said. “Much better than carrying Dair up these steps.” John held the candle high to light the way, and the flame illuminated the worry on the Englishman’s face. Fia felt her own uncertainty taking hold as the steps wound onward, coming out of the dark one after the other, higher and higher, and the dreadful sounds grew louder. She had no idea what to do when she got there—she only knew she could not leave him alone in the dark. She knew the terror of that too well.
She held her breath when Angus Mor set her down outside the door, and stood for a moment, uncertain—afraid—getting her balance and waiting for her heart to still as she watched the beckoning flicker of candlelight against black stone walls inside the small room.
“Go on,” John said, jerking his head, his eyes hard. He wanted a miracle. Her hands curled into the fine wool of her gown. She took a breath and entered. Dair Sinclair lay on a cot in the center of the room. His naked chest glistened with sweat, and harsh pink scars snaked over his flesh like binding ropes. Fia’s throat closed as she imagined the brutal blows that had caused such marks. Padraig Sinclair flicked a sheet over his son.
Father Alphonse stood at the foot of the cot, holding a crucifix high as he muttered prayers that were barely audible over Dair’s moans. The priest’s sweat-sheened face was white against the darkness and the black of his cassock. He cast a baleful glare at Fia as she approached.
Dair’s eyes were tightly closed, and his head tossed on the pillow. Tight cords of muscle twitched in his throat as he battled invisible demons, trapped in a nightmare. Fia remembered her own nightmares, the terror that had been real to her, even if no one else understood.
“Can you wake him?” she asked Padraig.
“We have found it best not to. He becomes violent, acts without knowing what he does.” The chief glanced at Angus Mor, and Angus came to stand behind her, ready to snatch her out of harm’s way if necessary. John leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes sharp and cold. Father Alphonse stopped praying and regarded her with a reptilian glare that made her heart crawl into her throat.
They were all waiting.
She felt her mouth go dry.
