Moire nodded. “Aye. Some dance. Others mark it in secret. They come to the spring to whisper a wish for love, or luck, or the health of the cattle. They gather flowers for garlands and charms, light the bonfire, leap across the flames. Lads steal kisses, though the lasses give them freely enough. I expect it’s the same on MacLeod lands.”
“Of course,” Fia said, though no lad had ever tried to steal a kiss from Donal MacLeod’s scarred, clumsy daughter—not when she had so many bonny sisters to choose from. Nor could she jump over the flames for luck.
“The clan is ripe for a celebration this year, something good instead of bad.” Moire was watching Fia, her expression thoughtful. “I could make ye a love charm, Fia MacLeod.”
Fia thought of Dair, how he had looked at her, how he’d touched her face. She closed her hand, felt the rough prickle of the healing skin on her palm. If not Dair, someone else, just a kiss . . .
“No,” she said. “No.”
“No? Took ye time to answer,” Moire said.
“No,” Fia said again, firmly.
“Can’t stay a virgin forever, or unkissed,” Moire said, then muttered a quick blessing upon the plant before digging for its roots with her knife.
“I’ve been kissed,” Fia lied, her face flaming.
Moire snorted. “No ye haven’t—not properly.”
Fia’s cheeks were on fire now. “If there’s to be a bonfire, they’ll need hazel and meadowsweet, and lavender, and—”
“I know what’s wanted,” Moire said, her eyes narrowing at the abrupt change of topic. “The Sinclairs know well enough where they grow.” Moire took Fia’s hand, touched the scar on her wrist. “Ye believe in magic, Fia MacLeod, or ye’d not be here at Carraig Brigh, trying to heal a madman. Don’t pretend ye don’t. Ye have such hope in your heart that it shows on your face. Ye wouldn’t be here, cutting plants before midsummer, learning their magic as well as ye ken their healing powers. Go look into the spring again.”
If she did, would she see her true love? It wouldn’t be Dair. Fia felt the sorrow of that and hid it from Moire by running her hand over her sweaty face. The pungent scent of herbs rose from her fingers, enveloped her. She followed Moire along the path to the spring and knelt beside the pool. She saw the pale reflection of her own face in the water. Then a flame flared in the reflected shadow of her eyes and exploded outward in a jet of sparks, filling the pool. In the orange glow, figures danced and swayed.Midsummer.But the flames turned red, sharp, jagged, and the crowd surged toward her, their faces angry and ugly. Fia felt heat fill her breast and spread through her body. Smoke seared her lungs and the fire singed her hair and her clothes. She gasped for breath, but the air was hot, filled with sparks, burned her skin, her eyes—
“What do ye see?” Moire demanded behind her.
“Fire,” Fia said. Her throat felt raw.
“The midsummer blaze,” Moire said.
Fia shook her head. “No . . .” The hungry flames threatened to spill over the edge of the spring, into the grove, to set the trees alight. Fia felt the skin of her face begin to blister. Thick smoke dried her throat, closed it around a scream of pain and terror . . .
She leaped to her feet, her heart pounding.
“’Tis the bonfire,” Moire said again, and cackled. “The heat of passion.”
The pool grew black and still, the flames gone. Fia licked her lips, found them cool, not parched by heat. Still, the vision had left her shaken.
“I must go,” she said, and turned away from the spring. Fia hurried back to where she’d left the garron tied at the edge of Moire’s clearing, her hands unsteady, the sound of flames still crackling in her ears. The beast shied as she reached for him, nostrils flaring. Fia put a hand on the horse’s shaggy neck to soothe it. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then stared at the lace cuff in horror.
The acrid smell of smoke clung to the fine fabric.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dair sat with his back against the half-built cairn. He took another long swallow from the flask beside him. He’d come back, stood on the edge of the damned cliff, and stared into the tide pool. There was no red gown, no drowned lass. He was mad, seeing things. He stared out at the waves and drank the whisky his cousin—the living one—had kindly provided.
He saw Fia MacLeod coming long before she saw him. She walked along the path that followed the cliff’s edge, her steps slow. The wind caught her russet hair, red as a battle flag—or a red gown—and whirled it around her.A red gown. . .A hot ball of anger filled his breast, expanded. He rose to his feet as she reached him, stood before her on the path.
She stopped, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him. “Good afternoon, Alasdair Og.Ciamar a tha sibhfhèin?How are you?” She greeted him formally. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the heat of the day, her skin sheened and glowing. “I have a question to ask you, a request—”
“Do you like to swim, Mistress MacLeod?” he demanded, cutting through her damned question, dismissing it unasked.
“Do I swim?” she echoed. “D’you meanin the sea?” She said it with as much astonishment as if he’d asked her if she could fly. He waited, scowling at her, demanding a reply. “No,” she said at last. “Like dancing, I never learned. My sisters swim in the loch on warm days, but—” She stopped, and her mouth formed an O of surprise. “Are you asking me to—suggesting that I—?”
It was his turn to redden. The idea was ridiculous, Fia swimming in a red gown. He should apologize, step back, but instead he pointed to the sea and proved he was indeed as mad as a man could be. “I simply wish to point out that it’s more than thirty feet straight down. If you cannot swim—” Of course it wouldn’t matter if she could swim or not if she fell thirty feet. He was making himself sound dafter by the minute. Still, he charged on. “Does your father let you walk out alone?”
She bit her lip, colored again. Her blush was most becoming. “No,” she admitted. “He’s very protective and worries I will fall, or harm myself—I never have, though.”
