“No, not her. They will use her, though.”
“How?” Alphonse leaned closer to listen.
“They want to marry her to Alasdair Og, to give her virtue to the devil inside him. That’s why they brought her here, to sacrifice her, the way they sacrificed Jeannie.”
The priest felt his skin crawl, and his eyes bulged in the darkness. “Deus,” he murmured. His fingers shook, and he dropped his beads. He clutched the crucifix around his neck.
“Don’t you see? They had to be rid of Jeannie, since she was good and holy. Once she was gone, they began to gather—witches, people who don’t belong here—English John, Moire o’ the Spring, and now Fia MacLeod.”
“How can you know this?” the priest said, his eyes burning holes in the darkness as he strived to recognize the whispering voice, to see the person behind the curtain.
“They’ll kill you too—you’ll be next, father. You are God’s last holy instrument at Carraig Brigh, and the witch must destroy you before they can work her evil on this place, call Satan forth . . .”
“Who are you?” Alphonse said, his hands icy, his legs trembling with fear. His fingers crept toward the edge of the curtain, ready to tear it aside, to see who was behind it.
Someone clasped his hand, stopped him, the grip strong.
“I’m someone who would help you rid Carraig Brigh of this evil forever. Have I your blessing?”
“Yes, of course. I shall pray—”
There was a dark chuckle, mirthless. The hand released him. “Oh, you’ll do more than that, father. Destroy Alasdair Og, kill him, and the devil within him will die. Burn the witch, and you’ll be a saint.”
If he vanquished a witch, saved the Sinclairs from evil, Alphonse could leave Scotland, return to France, go to Rome, even, be rewarded. “Yes, destroy the devil, burn the witch,” he muttered, his eyes burning like coals. “When?” he asked. “How?”
But behind the curtain there was only silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“’Twill be midsummer soon,” Meggie said as she strolled with Fia through what once must have been a lovely garden. The roses, according to Padraig, had been planted by his late wife but had been left to run wild since her death twenty years earlier. It was a shame, Fia thought, watching the bees buzz drunkenly amid the blossoms. A little care, some pruning, would restore them.
“Everyone at Iolair will be making ready, gathering flowers and weaving garlands. Our sisters will be fighting over which lads they’ll dance and flirt with,” Meggie mused. “Oh, Fia, I know the Sinclairs have suffered a terrible tragedy, but that was months ago. Surely they would like to dance and laugh and enjoy themselves for one night.”
Fia couldn’t imagine Dair dancing around a bonfire. And many Sinclairs were Catholic. “Perhaps they have different customs here.”
“Ach, d’you suppose the priest forbids keeping midsummer? He’s dreadfully pious. He makes everything seem sinful. I’m afraid of putting a foot wrong when he’s about. He can probably smell sin, like sweat.” She plucked a rose, held it to her nose. “Can you picture our Father Cormag refusing to allow a Midsummer’s Eve bonfire?”
Fia smiled. “He’d lead the dancing himself. But then, he’s a Scot, and he understands the old ways and the magic we hold in our hearts. Have you asked Ina or Logan if there’s to be a bonfire?”
Meggie made a face. “No, and no one else has said a word about it, though it’s only a few days off.” She dropped the rose and took Fia’s arm. “Why don’t we plan a Midsummer’s Eve celebration, like the one at Glen Iolair?”
Fia picked up the discarded rose. The petals were as pink as sunrise, soft and cool. She pictured Meggie in Dair’s arms by the fire, kissing him . . . She squeezed the rose tightly, felt a thorn pierce her skin. She watched a bead of blood well up on her fingertip. “We’re guests here, Meggie. We cannot just do as we please,” she said crossly, gritting her teeth against the sting.
“I’d ask the chief if he were here,” Meggie said. “I have no doubt he’d say aye. I’m not so sure about Alasdair Og.”
“He’s not a monster, Meggie. He’s grieving even more than the rest of the clan.”
“Well if ever there was a man who needed a party, it’s that one,” Meggie grumbled. “Papa never kept the clan from a celebration, even when he was in mourning himself. He’s buried eight wives, and bairns, too. He has more reason than anyone for grief, but he turns it into hope, shares that with the clan.”
Fia considered. Would a celebration of life and the seasons make it easier for Dair to forget the dreadful memories that plagued him?
“You could ask Alasdair Og, couldn’t you?” Meggie said. “I hardly know him at all. We could do everything the way we do at home—d’you suppose we can find some meadowsweet for love charms?”
“Love charms? I doubt Father Alphonse would allow that,” Fia said, her belly tensing.
“Who cares what he thinks? It’s not witchcraft. It’s just a wee bundle of leaves to tuck under our pillows so we can dream of true love. True love isn’t wicked,” Meggie said.
Would Meggie dream of Dair? Would he take her hand by the fire, draw her into the shadows, claim a kiss, do more? Fia shut her eyes. She intended to stay away from the bonfire and not dream at all.
