“You know the poem?” she asked, surprised.
“I do—I did the translations,” he said, running his hand over the page. “I bought the book in Venice, a gift for—for my cousin. She did not speak Italian either,” he said, and trailed off. His eyes scanned the page.
“You did not finish the translations,” Fia said.
His mouth pursed. “Romantic poetry did not appeal to Jeannie. She had a book of hours she preferred . . .” His gaze snapped back to hers. “Did you enjoy the poems?”
“Very much,” she said.
“Why?”
She considered. “I suppose because I shall never have adventures like these, be loved from afar, fought for, seduced. It is, um . . . pleasant, to read about those who do.” She kept her chin high, her eyes on his. She would not sob over him when he married Meggie. She would bank her feelings like embers in ashes, hide them.
He blinked, perhaps taken aback by her honesty—or her silliness. He reached out, put a hand under chin. He brushed her hair away ran his thumb over the scar that marred the left side of her face. She stood still, his touch sending sparks and icy shivers through her body. “How did you come by these? You never said.”
“I—fell—as a child,” she said, stumbling over the usual explanation. It seemed unfair, dishonest to say just that to a man who had endured so much more. She took a breath and shut her eyes. “My father wants a son more than anything in the world—a lad to be the next Fearsome MacLeod. I was—am—his third daughter. My mother had two sons after me, both born dead. She grew melancholy, fearful that there was a curse upon her, and on me, too. She held my dead brother in her arms for two days before she’d allow them to take him. When they did, she came to see me in my nursery. She picked me up and held me tight. I hugged her back. She walked to the window and jumped out, still holding me.” Fia opened her eyes and looked at him. “She died, but I survived. They thought it was my clumsiness, you see, that I must have tripped her, or fallen out the window, and she leaned out to save me, and died. They blamed me.”
His throat bobbed, but he said nothing. There was no disdain in his eyes, or disgust. He looked at her the way he’d done in the kitchen, as if he were trying to see into her soul, understand her. The lump in her throat thickened, filled her chest until she couldn’t breathe. She had never told anyone what had happened. She was unable to speak for many months after the accident. She had never even told her father, since he hadn’t asked. Dair was the first person to ever ask.
She lowered her gaze and stepped away from him, clasped her hands together. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.
“Were you truly asleep, the whole time?” he asked.
“I—” she began, unsure what to say. She shook her head. “I think you will make a fine chief while your father is away, and—”
“Begging your pardon, Alasdair Og, but there are three little ones outside asking for Fia,” a maid said from the doorway. “They have a wee lamb, mistress. The creature’s mother died, and none of the other ewes will take it. They swear you’re the only one who can help, since you helped Katie Sinclair’s wee dog.” She looked pitying, as if it was already too late to help.
“I’ll come,” Fia said, glad of the interruption. Dair didn’t try to stop her. He picked up her plaid, handed it to her, and her fingers brushed his, igniting the sparks all over again. She hurried across the room as quickly as she could. Dair didn’t follow, or even move as far as she could tell, but she could feel his eyes upon her back, as clearly as she’d felt his fingers on her face.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been a fortnight since my last confession.”
Father Alphonse sat in the darkness behind the curtain and made the sign of the cross. “What is your sin?”
“Hatred, father.”
“Whom do you hate?” the priest asked blandly, fingering the rosary in his long fingers.
“Alasdair Og.”
The priest let his brows rise. “Why do you hate him? Has he wronged you?”
There was a pause, the sound of restrained tears. The voice was thicker when it spoke again. “He killed her, let her suffer—Jeannie. He should have been the one to die.”
“Perhaps God has another purpose for him. Have you thought of that? Perhaps He called Jean Sinclair to Him for a reason—”
“What reason is there for a young woman to die in such a way—tortured unbearably, raped, murdered?” There was passion in the rising tone. “And to believe the blasphemy that a virgin will heal him, a pagan, a witch—” The final word was hissed between clenched teeth. “She’s a witch, father—Fia MacLeod—I’m sure of it. They say she worked magic over Alasdair Og, sang to the devil inside him, charmed it, cast a spell. She didn’t drive it out. She’ll raise the demon, make it stronger, and he’ll do more evil. She’ll bewitch the whole clan.”
Father Alphonse sat in stunned silence. Was the song a simple Gaelic lullaby, or had it been something else, something evil, the language of the words older and darker? He spoke very little Gaelic. “How do you know this?”
“Do you not see it?” the voice asked, anguished. “Am I the only one who sees it? The cat, father, the cat. The beast is evil. It’s her familiar. The clansmen do the creature’s bidding, feed it.”
“Yes,” Alphonse murmured. “Yes. I’ve seen that.”
“Does the Bible not tell us we shall not suffer witches among God-fearing folk? Where there’s one, there’s more. They are gathering.”
“The girl’s sister? Meggie?”
