It wasn’t the whisky that had made him sleep. It was Fia—and something she’d dosed him with, no doubt. He had no idea what it might have been.She sangmealullaby?
He found John Erly in the hall, carving a flute for one of the village children. His grin faded at the sight of the thunderous look on Dair’s face. He sent the child off with the toy and brushed the wood dust off his hands.
“What happened last night?” Dair asked. John’s grin returned.
“You had a nightmare. Angus carried you up to the tower, and Fia MacLeod—fixed it.”
“Fixed it? How?”
John shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. She gave you a drink—”
“She dosed me with some potion.”
“No, that’s the thing—it was water, just water. Your father poured it himself. I woke her, brought her to see you. She had no time to fetch anything. I wanted to prove—well, it proved nothing. Do you remember any of it?”
“She sang to me.”
“Yes. Something in Gaelic.”
“I woke up with it in my head. My mother used to sing me the same song. How could she know that?”
“Perhaps your father told her?” John suggested.
Dair shook his head. Padraig Sinclair was a man of money, politics, and war. He’d left Dair’s childhood to his mother and his nurses.
“There’s something about her,” John said softly.
“Oh no, not you too. She’s charmed half the clansmen. They’re lined up out the door for a chance to sit beside her and get a wee bit of magic salve.” Dair pointed in the direction of the bailey. “They’re feeding her bloody cat!”
John threw his head back and laughed. “I’m to blame for that, I think.”
“Is cat charming an English custom?”
“Well it does seems to work with cats, but we prefer to use our talents to charm women instead.”
“Like Fia MacLeod.”
John nodded, his grin besotted. “Like I said, there’s something about her, something I don’t think I’ve encountered before. She’s—different.”
“She’s not different—she’s odd. Don’t tell me a drink of water and a lullaby has convinced you she’s got some kind of magic power? I was drunk. I daresay the whisky helped far more than Fia MacLeod.”
John’s smug grin faded. “It hasn’t in the past. Drink makes it worse, Dair. You know that.”
Dair crossed to lean on the fireplace. “Perhaps it’s not me but you she’s bewitched. Some men find innocence irresistible. One pretty lass is much like any other, but a virgin—is that the attraction? Is every man at Carraig Brigh imagining he’ll be her first?”
For some reason, the idea made him angry. She’d be easy prey. It was obvious she had no experience of the world or men. His mere presence in the kitchen had made her blush, babble, and plunge her hand into a boiling pot of stew. He’d read the vulnerability in her eyes. She seemed impossibly fragile. And she was beautiful. Even he, a man of the world who preferred experienced, brilliant, confident women, found himself wanting to protect her, touch her, breathe in the flower scent of her hair . . . He recalled the feel of her in his arms as he tended her burned fingers. She was warm, soft, and feminine. At the mere memory he felt his body respond, stir, and rise. Now,thatwas something that hadn’t happened in months. He could have turned Fia MacLeod in his arms, pulled her close, pressed his broken body against hers, claimed her mouth . . .
He frowned. She would have thought he was a monster.
But there was no denying the evidence of his own arousal.All because of the smell of her hair?Was that what had turned every Sinclair clansman over the age of twelve into a grinning, fawning fool in Fia MacLeod’s presence? Never mind the ingredients in the salve—he should have demanded to know what was in the soap she used. Soap was soap, logic insisted. But catnip was just a plant, and look what that did to cats . . .
“One pretty lass is like any other,” he said again. “She’s no different.”
John chuckled. “So you’ve noticed she’s pretty?”
Dair shifted uncomfortably, willing the cockstand away. Instead it got harder still. “It makes no difference if she’s pretty or not,” he said angrily.
“Tell me—what do you think of her sister?” John asked.
