“You’ve never failed me. You’ve never failed Dair. Some will try to force a vote, choose another to lead the Sinclairs, but Dair must—”
“D’you ken who did this to you, Uncle?” Logan interrupted, pushing in.
Padraig turned to look at his nephew, his brow crumpling at the lad’s audacity.
“Later, Logan,” Dair said. His father’s hand tightened on his, a weak squeeze from a man renowned for his strength. Padraig kept his eyes on Logan.
“I know,” he whispered, but the rattle in his throat cut off further words.
“I’ve sent for the priest. Will you confess, be shriven?” Logan persisted.
Padraig didn’t reply. He turned his eyes toward Dair, beyond speech now, his expression pleading. Dair felt his chest tighten, and he held his father’s hand tighter still, as if he could hold him here. “You are the chief ,” he insisted, but Padraig choked again, and more blood flowed over his chin and chest. His eyes remained fixed on his son as he died, his body shuddering one last time before going slack. Dair saw the light leave his father’s eyes, watched his face ease into death.
He heard Angus’s choked sob, heard the low moans of the clansmen. Moire’s lined and freckled hand reached out and closed Padraig’s eyes. She went and opened the window for an instant to let the chief’s soul fly free, then closed it again. The candles shifted and guttered.
The clansmen came to the bed, stood in a silent ring around it, like a palisade.
Angus reached for the chief’s hand, drew the ring off his finger. He held it out to Dair.
“What would ye have us do, Chief?” Angus asked, and Dair met his gaze. He saw the tears, fierce pride, and determination in the Sinclair champion’s eyes. He looked around at the others, read far less certainty in theirs.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Fia. He recognized the scent of her hair, felt the strength in her touch. It flowed through him, carried courage. He took his father’s ring, held it in his palm. The ruby flashed like a drop of blood. He slipped it onto his own hand and claimed his birthright.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The women of Clan Sinclair washed the chief’s body for burial, keening over him.
“So Alasdair Og is to be chief,” Moire said, watching. “Is he a leader? He was once, but is he still? He’ll feel a greater measure of grief, more guilt. Could be the ruin of him.”
“Or the making,” Fia said, her lips tight, her body tired, aching with her own sorrow—for Dair’s loss, for the senseless, violent death of the chief and his clansmen. Dair had already taken charge. There had been no madness clouding his eyes when he rode out to bring back the bodies of the fallen, nor when he returned and walked among those who’d lost a son or a husband. He ensured his clan was safe, fed, and cared for before he took himself off alone to his chamber. Did he weep, or rage, or mourn in some other way? Donal MacLeod had buried eight wives. He always remained strong for his daughters and his clan, yet in the privacy of his chamber, she knew he wept, grieved alone. Fia longed to offer Dair a comforting word, a touch, but he’d stood among his people, stone-faced and rigid, and hadn’t even spared her a glance.
She couldn’t forget the kiss they’d shared, the look in his eyes when he’d come to find her by the fire. She’d been in love from that moment. She understood why he hadn’t sought her out since—with all there was to do, she was the last thing on his mind. Well, perhaps she didn’t understand at all, since her heart leapt and hoped whenever he appeared, then broke when he didn’t notice her. She was invisible yet again.
“’Twill be as the goddess chooses,” Moire mused. “But the clan won’t forget his madness or stop blaming him forherdeath. And when they remember that, ’twill be easy to blame him for these deaths too. Alasdair Og is unlucky. They won’t want an unlucky chief.”
“He’ll be a fine chief,” Fia insisted. “He was a trader, a leader, a captain, and he brought prestige and power to the Sinclairs. Surely they’ll remember that too.”
“Och, ye defend him like a woman in love. I heard how he kissed ye by the fire. As good as claiming ye for his own, though naught’s been said, no promises made.” Moire reached out to grasp Fia’s hand. “Have a care, lass. He’s fire, and fire burns, destroys. I see pain and heartache to come, and it could break you the same as it broke him.” She searched Fia’s face, then let go and got to her feet. “Ach, there’s no point in telling ye now. ’Twill all happen as it’s meant to. Not for me to interfere. I’m going.”
Fia watched her leave. Moire was wrong. Dair wasn’t fire. He was water. He could navigate through storms and heavy seas and come safe home again. She wrapped her arms around her body and shut her eyes, and hoped he’d find his way now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Really, Fia, to let him kiss you like that, in front of everyone. People will think you’re his—” Meggie paused, her cheeks pink. “You’renot,are you?”
Fia felt her own cheeks blaze under her sister’s scrutiny. They sat in the hall and she looked around to see if anyone else had heard. For the first time in days, no one was staring at her, wondering . . . She was spared the need to reply to the question when John entered the hall with Angus, and Meggie turned her attention to them instead. Angus filled pewter tankards with ale, and they sat down.
“Such a terrible time for the Sinclairs. I feel we may be intruding. Perhaps Fia and I should go home?” Meggie suggested.
Angus shook his head. “Dair has forbidden anyone to travel until we’ve discovered who attacked the chief.”
“No doubt it was a rival clan,” Meggie said. “We’re Scots—it’salwaysa rival clan.”
Angus looked up from his cup. “Padraig had plenty of enemies, but none so bold as to attack him on his own land. If they wanted him dead, they would have done it in Edinburgh.”
“Why would they want to kill him at all? He seemed a fine man to me,” Meggie said.
Angus sent Meggie a level look. “There are those who resent the Sinclairs, mistress.” He tapped his forehead. “We’re canny as well as strong. There was a scheme a few years back—you’re probably too young to recall it—where a few braw Scots came up with a plan to make Scotland’s fortune by setting up a trading colony at the Isthmus of Darien in the new world—all the trade from east and west, Atlantic and Pacific, coming through Scottish hands. If it had worked, we’d all be rich, and we could thumb our noses at the English. Many clans invested their fortunes in the venture—and they lost everything when it failed. The Sinclairs wouldna do it—Dair had been to Darien. It’s naught but flies, sickness, and nasty neighbors with sharp spears. He warned Padraig not to invest, saved the Sinclair fortune. Those who lost everything suspected some kind of treachery.”
