She’d probably left by now, run screaming into the night, home to her papa. He wondered if he’d know if she’d gone, feel it in his tortured bones. His last chance of salvation.
He felt nothing.
Dair forced his eyes open again, saw the bulky shape of Angus Mor wrapped in his plaid, sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. He’d had a bad night, then—nightmares, screaming. No doubt Angus had carried Dair up to the tower, let him rant himself into exhaustion, then brought him back again in the early hours, before the servants could see.
As if they didn’t already know.
He stared up at the tester above his bed, at the painted scene of Neptune calling up a storm at sea, surrounded by nymphs and mermaids. He’d had the bed made in Venice, carved by hand, decorated by a famous artist, and carried it home in a Sinclair ship. It cost a king’s ransom, and when his chamber at Carraig Brigh proved too small to hold such a massive piece of furniture, he’d knocked down an ancient stone wall between his chamber and the next, and made room. His father had been shocked by both the expense of the bed and the remodeling required to accommodate it, but once it was in place, he’d teased Dair about it being a fine place to bed a bride and sire Sinclair sons, under Neptune’s lusty gaze. Too bad Neptune would have to make do with his own nymphs for titillation. Dair wouldn’t marry now. He shut his eyes again, but Jeannie was instantly there, standing beside the bed, leaning over him, reaching for him. But this time, she wasn’t screaming. She was singing.
Singing?
That was impossible—Jeannie had a voice like a skua gull. He’d teased her, suggested she should consider taking a vow of silence when she entered the convent, since the nuns wouldn’t be able to bear the sound of her singing. She’d cursed him for a fool who had no appreciation for talent. Now she came to him singing a lullaby, her voice as sweet and pure as a sea nymph’s.
He remembered the old tune—his mother sang it when he was a child, but he hadn’t heard the song, or even thought about it, in years. Why the devil was he remembering it now?
Dair forced himself to his feet, though his stomach pitched like a ship on a storm tide. He concentrated on making his way across the room to the washstand. He splashed his face with water and drank what was left in the pitcher. He probably looked even worse than he felt. He didn’t know. He kept the mirror covered, unable to bear his reflection. It was like staring at his own corpse. He looked for his clothing—his plaid and a rumpled shirt lay across a chair, left where whoever had undressed him last night had tossed them. He pulled the shirt on over his head and belted his plaid around his hips. Angus Mor was still deeply asleep. Normally, he woke at Dair’s slightest movement. Something was different.
Angus was the chief’s champion. He’d grown up with Dair, sailed with him, was loyal to him the way he was loyal to whisky, his wife and sons, and the sea. Annie had been in childbed when Dair sailed away with Jeannie, and Angus had stayed home with her. The death of Jeannie and the crew had been hard on the big clansman, especially when the babe died a few weeks after her birth, only days before Dair returned. He doubted Angus had slept through the night since Dair had come home. He stepped over him now, let him sleep.
The damned lullaby was stuck in his brain, as piercing as John’s flute, but John played bawdy folk tunes and quick dances, not lullabies. The voice in his head was sweet, beguiling, a siren’s song. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled it into a queue, and tied a scrap of leather around it.
Dair opened the window, let the sun and the breeze from the sea fill the room. The salt scent stirred Dair’s senses, the familiar feeling of excitement, and the anticipation of sailing. Only now, the sight and smell he’d always loved brought guilt and fear, made him sick.
He turned away from the window, took hold of the stick Moire had left him, and hobbled out of the room like an old man. He felt old—his head ached with drink, and his injured leg shook under him. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving.
Downstairs, the hall was empty, breakfast long over. There was no sign of Fia MacLeod or her sister. Had they fled after all?
To his surprise, the carts that had carried the MacLeods here were still in the bailey, and empty. Perhaps in her hurry to flee, Fia had ridden away on horseback, leaving her goods and gear to follow. Likely the servants were upstairs right now, packing. He felt what—regret? Nay, it must be relief. She’d gone as quickly as she’d come, and that was a good thing.
Then the cat—hercat—stepped into the square of sun in the doorway of the stable. Dair’s belly tensed. It meant Fia MacLeod was still here. He glanced around the bailey, but there was no sign of her. His father’s clansmen went about their daily routines—working in the smithy, repairing harnesses, chopping wood. Was she still abed? Surely only drunken madmen and loose women lay in bed until the sun was this high. The pure daughter of a proud Highlander would be up before the sun, doing something useful. Perhaps she was in the library, searching his books for madness cures, or she was tucked away in the chapel, praying, or she sat sewing in the solar. Maybe she was locked away in a corner of the brew house, steeping roots, berries, and magical plants into bitter potions to dose him with.
The cat took a few easy steps out of the stable. Niall Sinclair caught sight of the beast approaching him. He muttered an oath and called out a warning. The four men in the bailey instantly froze and turned to watch the cat.
“Good day to you, cat,” Niall said politely. He reached into the pouch at his waist as the cat regarded him steadily. “I have it here for you,” he said, as if the cat had spoken.
Niall tossed a bit of bannock at the cat. Instead of mocking him, the other clansmen waited quietly as the cat approached the tidbit. When it was accepted and devoured, they hurried forward with their own offerings. Dair watched as his father’s clansmen—guards, warriors, sailors all—made smacking noises with their lips, cooed and crooned like anxious mothers as the cat considered their offerings.
“Makes a nice change from mousies, eh?” Jock asked the cat.
Dair frowned. And they called him mad . . .
After eating his fill, the cat stretched and swaggered forward. He stopped when he caught sight of Dair, his yellow eyes narrowing. Dair held the beast’s glare with his own. Beelzebub looked away first, but only to flex one paw and extend his razor-sharp claws. He honed his weapons with long, leisurely strokes of his tongue. The implied threat was not lost on Dair. He noted that the dogs that usually lounged in the bailey were absent, and the clansmen were giving the cat a wide berth. It appeared that Fia MacLeod’s devil cat had taken over.
Dair headed for the postern gate, felt the cat’s stare like the point of a dirk between his shoulder blades. He ignored it, went through the gate and slammed it shut behind him.
He took the path that led along the edge of the cliff, to the cairn. It barely rose above the grass, required more rocks. He walked on until he found a suitable stone and heaved it up, his head throbbing, his teeth gritted, his ruined muscles straining to bear the weight of it as he carried it over the rough ground. He set it in place, turned away, and vomited.
“Madainnmhath,Alasdair Og. Good morning to ye.”
Dair turned to find Coll Sinclair behind him. His father’s falconer regarded him warily, the way the clansmen had looked at the cat, but the goshawk on the old man’s wrist ruffled her feathers and bobbed her head in excitement. Dair felt his heart rise at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen the bird since he returned. She tilted her head, regarded him with her sharp eyes, waited for him to hold out an arm to her.
Now, this was a welcome. Dair grinned, and felt the scars on his face bunch, and wondered if the bird would notice the changes in him, sense the fear and darkness, be as wary as his human kin. But if she did, she gave no sign. No doubt she assumed he was here to take her out the way he once did, to hunt for rabbits and pheasants and ducks to fill the cook’s pot. They had ridden for miles together, the bird soaring high above him, her eyes keen for prey, and he below, enjoying the solitude and the pleasure of riding through the crags and hills of Scotland. He loved his homeland as much as he loved the sea.
“I was just taking the lass out for a bit of exercise. The wind is right for her,” Coll said. “Would ye like to take her yourself?”
Dair felt his skin heat with frustration as he shook his head. Would he ever again be capable of enjoying the pleasures he used to take for granted? He felt the withering slump of guilt, for daring to long for such things, for life, when Jeannie and his crew . . . He pushed the thought away, stroked the goshawk’s soft breast with his forefinger. She gently caught his knuckle in her beak, a playful greeting. “I’ll watch for a while if you’re going to let her fly,” he said.
The falconer nodded and tossed the bird into the air. She took flight as gracefully as a debutante stepping onto a dance floor. The old familiar joy of watching her filled Dair’s breast, and he shaded his eyes and watched as she found a warm draft of air, rode it upward.
