Fia knew what he feared. A servant would gossip, and she was the daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod. If her father heard of such an impropriety, if he evensuspectedshe’d been in a man’s chamber at night without a suitable chaperone, he’d come for her as fast as he could get a horse saddled and cover the miles between Glen Iolair and Carraig Brigh. He’d take her home, lock her up,protecther for the rest of her life . . .
“Perhaps Father Alphonse could stay?” she said quickly. Surely a priest’s presence would still any wagging tongues. And he would see that she wasn’t casting spells or working magic.
“I must go to the chapel and keep Matins,” the priest objected.
“Say your prayers here,” Padraig ordered.
Father Alphonse’s eyes narrowed on Fia. “You will not mind?” he asked, as if she was a heathen or a witch. She swallowed a smile at the idea. In truth, since Papa’s wives had professed different faiths, there was no priest at Glen Iolair. They made do with the man of God who traveled the glens and arrived at their door once or twice a year to preach a sermon, christen babies, bless new marriages, and pray for those who had died since his last visit. While he was amongst the MacLeods, the clergyman ate and drank well—even danced if there was a party. He overlooked harmless sins and slept in a comfortable bed. He did not get up for Matins. Perhaps this French priest thought Fia would turn to smoke and fly out the window at the sound of a Hail Mary.
“No, father, I do not mind prayers.”
The priest’s thin lips twisted with disappointment before he turned his bony back to her, sank to his knees in the corner, and began to chant in a lisping drone.
Padraig Sinclair stared down at his sleeping son, his face soft. When he turned to Fia, his eyes were filled with gratitude.
“He’ll sleep now,” she said, and hoped it would be so.
“My thanks,” he said hoarsely. Without another word, he turned and left the room, and she listened to the echo of his footsteps descending the stairs.
“I’ll stay, just in case,” Angus Mor said as he lowered his big body to the floor, his back propped against the wall. He stared at her, his eyes full of admiration.
Fia felt blood rise into her cheeks. Tomorrow, she’d find Padraig Sinclair, tell him it wasn’t magic. And then? Did she still wish to go home? She glanced at Dair. Asleep, he looked younger, more vulnerable, more like the man she’d glimpsed in the portrait, the one who’d spoken to her of the sea, the color of the sky, and the stars . . .
She’d stay, she decided. If only for this, to soothe the nightmares that plagued him.
John brought the room’s only chair nearer to the side of the bed for her. She nodded her thanks and sat. The Englishman took his place next to Angus Mor on the floor. His eyes were thoughtful now instead of hostile.
They sat in silence and listened to the hum of the priest’s prayers.
And among them, Alasdair Og Sinclair, the Madman of Carraig Brigh, slept peacefully on without stirring.
“Will you take me to see the healer?” Fia asked John as he escorted her back to her room at dawn, before Meggie woke, and while Angus Mor carried Dair—still asleep—back to his own room.
“Can you ride?”
“Yes, of course. When one can’t walk quickly, one learns to ride, and ride well,” she replied.
“Sleep first, Mistress MacL—”
“Fia,” she interrupted as they arrived at the door of her chamber. “Just Fia.”
He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Oh no, not ‘just Fia’ at all. Shall we ride out after the noon meal?”
Fia nodded. She really did need to assure them that it wasn’t magic, or anything even a wee bit miraculous, but it had been nice to see gratitude and admiration in the eyes of the chief of the Sinclairs, and in John Erly’s gaze too.
As Fia climbed back into bed beside Meggie, she wondered if she’d ever see those things in Dair Sinclair’s eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dair woke in his own room with a witch of a hangover flaying his brain. Thin daggers of sunlight sliced through the shuttered window and stabbed at his eyes when he tried to open them. He put his arm over his face and wished he had something to drink—water, ale, whisky—it didn’t matter, anything to kill the taste in his mouth.
He had no idea what time it was, and his pocket watch was in the desk across the room. By the angle of the sun, he guessed it must it must be close to noon.
He remembered nothing past leaving the hall last night. There’d been music, dancing, and laughter, all of which had been in short supply at Carraig Brigh of late, and all for the benefit of Fia MacLeod and her sister. The Sinclairs had danced as if her arrival truly was a miraculous visitation, a cure for all the ills that cursed the clan and plagued poor mad Alasdair Og. His mouth twisted. There was nothing like a virgin witch and a potential wedding with her buxom sister to ease a clan’s woes. Fools. If he was lucky, he’d find it was all a bad dream. He used to be considered the luckiest man in Scotland, or on the seas, or anywhere else he happened to be, but his luck had died at Coldburn Keep, and taken the good fortune of the whole of Clan Sinclair along with it. No, it was all real—the virgin, her sister, Jeannie’s death, and his own living hell.
Dair’s belly roiled. So where was wee Fia this morning? He hoped she had a spell to cure hangovers. Or maybe she’d cursed him with this one, though logic poked at his pickled wits to tell him this was his all own fault. He should not have gone downstairs full of whisky, but he’d wanted to see Fia MacLeod again. The more he drank, the more it seemed she’d bewitched him in the stable. He couldn’t stop thinking about her soft eyes, the pure, pale oval of her face, the way she’d faced him without fear, made him feel—well, something . . . Curiosity? Lust? He kept drinking and thinking until he wasn’t sure if she was real or just a figment of his addled imagination.Like Jeannie.No, not like Jeannie—he’d never met a woman like Fia MacLeod, and he’d wanted to see her again, just to be sure.
He’d sat beside her in his father’s hall, though what they discussed he couldn’t recall. He remembered her eyes—gold, copper, and green, as clear as tide pools, as bright as stars. Stars—something about stars teased the edge of his brain. And pearls. He scrubbed his hand over the scruffy stubble on his chin. She’d been nervous, skittish . . .
