“Is there medicine?” she asked. “Something for pain, something to soothe him?”
Padraig frowned. “’Tis for you to tell us, Mistress MacLeod. You are the healer.”
There was no charm in his face or manner now as he waited for her to conjure up a miracle from the thin air.
And while she stood there, helpless, Dair moaned and thrashed. He muttered curses, oaths, pleas, in Gaelic, in French, in English.
A cold bead of sweat drew a line down Fia’s spine. She had no idea what to do, where to begin. She had no herbs, no medicines, and certainly no magic. She looked over Dair’s body, at the long, powerful limbs covered with fine linen, like a shroud ready to be drawn up. There was no blood, no broken bones, no injured wings here. She clutched her hands together. Her fingers were cold, her legs trembling, and the icy disdain emanating from the men in the little room was terrifying, the air thick with anxiety and the expectation that she would fail.
“Well, Mistress MacLeod, what will you do?” Padraig Sinclair demanded.
“I—” She reached out her hand to touch Dair’s brow. His skin was warm and alive but not feverish. She brushed aside his hair. It was soft against her fingertips. Her touch was gentle, but he started violently, cried out, and Angus gripped her shoulders to pull her out of reach.
“Let me go,” she said firmly. His grip tightened for an instant, until Padraig Sinclair nodded. Angus dropped his hands, stepped back, but remained close.
She knelt beside the bed. If Dair lashed out now, hit her in his sleep, he’d hurt her. No carpets softened the hard stone floor. She gulped a breath of air, sent up a prayer for courage, and concentrated on the man before her. She took Dair’s hand in hers, forced him to release the linen he held bunched in his fist. He grasped her fingers instead, like a lifeline, his grip crushing.
“Mistress . . .” Angus murmured the warning, but she ignored him, squeezed Dair Sinclair’s hand back as tightly as she could.
“Hush,” she said softly—speaking to Dair and Angus both. “Hush.”
Dair’s brow furrowed. Was he in pain? There was no medicine. “Water,” she said to the priest.
He blinked at her. “How will that help?”
Padraig stepped past him impatiently and filled a goblet. Fia eased her hand out of Dair’s and slid her arm behind his head, rested the weight of it on her shoulder. She held the cup to his lips. “Drink,” she whispered. She waited, then watched his throat move as he swallowed. His eyes opened halfway, glittering slits in the dark room, staring at nothing, or perhaps there was something hovering there in the dark. She was afraid to look over her shoulder.
The priest resumed his prayers. He came closer to the bed and raised his crucifix again. Dair thrashed, moaning, twisting away from the sibilant chanting, pressing his face into her neck like a frightened child. Angus stepped toward her again as Dair’s back arched, and his chest caved inward as he gasped for air, his belly hollow, his ribs sharp ridges. Muscles twitched and fought beneath his skin. The priest came closer still, until the crucifix nearly touched Dair’s face. Dair moaned again, and Fia frowned.
She pushed Father Alphonse’s hand away. The priest drew back as if her touch had burned him, his eyes rolling white with shock at her daring.
“Will you allow this, Chief Sinclair?” the priest demanded.
Dair’s father looked at the priest, then at her. She held his gaze without speaking.Let me try . . .
“Be silent,” Padraig said to the priest.
“You think this girl can heal him, this cripple?” Alphonse cried. “She is nothing but another charlatan. Your son is possessed by the devil. I must be allowed to drive the demon out, or Satan will drag him down to hell for all eternity!”
Fia ignored him, focused her attention on Dair, still trapped in his nightmare. She knew how terrible it was . . . she’d felt the same terror. She shut her eyes against the memory, but it came anyway.Her mother came into the nursery, crying, mourning yet another baby, a son this time, born dead. She picked Fia up, her only living child, and held her tightly. Fiafeltthe scratchy tangle of her mother’s hair,smelledthe scent of sweat and perfume,andthe milk that oozed from her aching breasts.She carried Fia to the window and opened the shutters. . .
Fia’s nightmares had frightened her sisters, and her bereft father had ordered her to be kept in the tower, with her nurse to tend her day and night, sitting in a chair by her bed, rocking Fia, singing to her until the terrible dreams faded and Fia slept.
Looking down at Dair’s tortured face, Fia began to sing, her lips close to his ear, her voice a whisper only he could hear. Dair went still. She let the song rise until it filled the room, driving back the darkness and the demons. The sweet words were a blessing for a child, a charm against the terrors of the night, a wish for a bright morning full of joy and love.
The priest fell silent, his argument fading as the Gaelic lullaby rose. She knew John and Angus and the chief of the Sinclairs were staring at her, struck dumb, but she ignored them, sang for Alasdair Og alone, holding his hand in hers. She watched as the furrows in his brow relaxed and the lines of his body eased, like a rope going slack. At last his grip on her hand loosened, and he drew a deep breath and relaxed into sleep. She held his fingers in hers a moment longer, then tucked them under the covers.
The chief was staring at her as she rose to her feet, her knees cramped and aching. “You did—that—with just a sip of water? ’Tis magic!”
She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that it wasn’t the water or magic. It was simple human comfort. She met the sharp knife edge of suspicion in Father Alphonse’s eyes. His knuckles were white on his crucifix. She pulled her shawl closer around her throat, turned to Padraig. “I’ll stay with him, in case . . .”
The priest sniffed. “It is not appropriate for a woman—avirgin—to stay alone with a madm—”
“I’ll keep her company—in case she needs anything,” John said, his tone as awed as the Sinclair’s.
“It is sin!” the priest objected, but the chief silenced him with a sharp gesture.
“He sleeps.Shedid that, priest, not you. Still, it is not right for a lady to remain in agentleman’sroom at night. I could have a maid come, but . . .”
