“You just told me to take her in hand. Which is it?” John got to his feet. “I told you that virgins aren’t my taste. I prefer experienced lovers, and I won’t play nursemaid. Do it yourself, make merry for a change. Now, have you any further orders for today, Chief Sinclair? Shall I scrub the dunnies or muck out the stables?”
“I won’t be at the bonfire,” Dair repeated stubbornly.
“Why not? It’s not religious conviction, since I know you don’t believe in anything at all. What’s the harm in drinking a little extra ale on a warm summer night, dancing, stealing a kiss or two? Isn’t it a chief’s duty to celebrate with his clan?”
“It’s old-fashioned and pagan. The priest will hate it.” In truth he didn’t want to see the fear, the anger, the suspicion in the faces of his clan when they looked at him, remembering Jeannie and the men who had died under his charge, their sons, their brothers and fathers, while he survived, came back mad.
John grinned. “If he’ll hate it, then there’s all the more reason to do it in my opinion.”
But Dair would not go. He didn’t dare. Fia in firelight would drive even the sanest man to sin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He stood in the shadows, half hidden by the window shutter, and watched Fia MacLeod as she crossed the bailey with a basket of herbs, with her devil cat at her heels. He fingered the crucifix around his neck, whispered a prayer against evil. She had a smile and a kind word for everyone, and the Sinclairs had fallen under her spell. Warriors grinned at her, simpered, even blushed. The women were wearing their hair like Fia MacLeod. Did they not see that she combed her sin-red tresses to cover the hideous scars on the side of her face?The devil’s marks.
Worst of all, she’d made them forget. The clan should be in mourning, not making ready for a pagan rite. He tugged on the cross until the chain bit into the flesh of his neck, gasped at the rapturous sting, and uttered a plea for holy guidance.
The Sinclairs were proud—too proud. Jeannie’s death was a punishment upon them, a warning. They must atone for their greed, their wealth, their pride. Only the suffering and death of the man responsible for her torment would break that curse. But Alasdair Og refused to die, and now he was improving, growing stronger. Even his madness was receding, healed by Fia MacLeod’s unholy magic. What spell did she use, what demon answered to her?
The virgin healer was a beauty, and she had a rare quality to her, something fragile and sweet that made men want to protect her. Their women weren’t jealous—theylikedher. It was witchcraft, and only he could see it.
The sound of Fia’s laughter drifted up to his hiding place. It was like a knife thrust, an abomination. He sawed on the chain, rubbing it back and forth, reveling in the pain.
He was the only one who could save the clan. Even Padraig had forgotten his sacred duty to his clan. He was as bewitched as the rest of them. It fell to him to restore honor to the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh.
He tore himself away from the window and the hateful sight of Fia MacLeod. The storeroom was piled high with boxes and trunks filled with Jeannie’s worldly goods, hastily packed and brought here on Padraig’s orders, in case the sight of them made Dair’s madness worse. They had forgotten her so easily. He crossed to the statue of the Virgin in the corner, ran his fingers over the painted wooden cheek. She’d once stood by the prie-dieu in Jeannie’s chamber. He saw Jeannie’s face when he looked at the icon. “Jeannie . . . ,” he whispered, but she did not whisper back, didn’t come to him the way she came to Dair. The room remained silent and empty. He threw open a trunk, stroked the lace edging of one of the gowns she’d left behind when she sailed for France. He pressed it to his nose, caught the ghost of her perfume, rising around him. His chest tightened with grief and fury, and his eyes stung with tears. “You will be revenged, soon—very soon,” he promised the empty air.Thenshe’llcome tome, grateful,blessme.
He turned back to watch Fia MacLeod, but the bailey was empty now of everyone but the devil cat. The beast stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring straight up at him. Fear made his breath catch in his throat, and he crossed himself again as the cat drew its lips back and hissed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ye’re a kind, sweet lass, and ye’ve got a true healing touch,” Muriel Sinclair said as Fia bathed the sores on her leg with comfrey and alder bark. The small black cat in her lap purred and blinked in agreement. Fia smiled at both of them. Muriel was grandmother to Angus Mor’s wife, Annie. She knew the stories of the clan’s history better than anyone, even Tormod Pyper, theseanchaidh. There was nothing Muriel enjoyed more than debating the details of those tales with Tormod. But of late, Muriel had been plagued with the afflictions of age—aching joints, sores that wouldn’t heal, and a desire to stay close to her own hearth instead of going about the village as she always had. When she forgot the name of one of the greatest Sinclair warriors—Sir William Sinclair, who’d fought and died at Flodden—folk began to worry, and Angus asked Fia to pay his wife’s beloved gran a visit.
“You’re a pretty wee thing. How is it you’re not wed?” Muriel asked. “I’m sure I have a grandson who’s in need of a wife. Now, which one was it? Alex, perhaps.”
“Alex is your great-grandson, dear one, and he’s only twelve,” Annie reminded her gently. She held a cup to Muriel’s lips, and the cat raised her head to sniff hopefully. “It’s naught for you, puss. It’s something Mistress MacLeod has brought to ease Gran’s pain.”
“Perhaps it’s Angus who wants a wife?” Muriel mused. “He’s a braw man, a champion warrior—”
“Angus is married to me,” Annie said.
Muriel tapped a finger against her gray temple. “Of course he is! I never forget a thing.”
Annie smiled at Fia and shrugged.
“I must go,” Fia said gently.
“Off so soon?” Muriel asked. “I meant to tell you the tale of Robert Dubh Sinclair, who once fought a giant.”
“’Twas Archie Sinclair who fought the giant, dearest,” Annie said.
“I’ll hear the story next time I come,” Fia said.
At the door, Annie slid a parcel of fresh-baked bannocks into Fia’s basket. “For your kindness—and I’ve made extra for your cat. Angus says he’s partial to bannock.”
As Fia moved between the cotts, folk hurried out to greet her. No one noticed her limp anymore or stared at her scars. They asked after Muriel or Ina—even Bel. No one mentioned Dair.
Fia didn’t see the lads coming until it was too late. Wee Alex and another boy raced pell-mell around the corner of the chapel. Folk cried a warning, but they crashed into Fia full force, knocking the wind out of her lungs, jarring her teeth together, and slamming her backward onto the muddy ground.
