“What happened in Edinburgh?” Fia asked.
“More foolishness,” Angus said. “The Scots accused the crew of an English ship called theWorcesterof stopping a Scottish ship and murdering all aboard her, just like Dair’s ship. Padraig would never let that go. They made the English captain stand trial for piracy and hanged three men as an example and a warning.”
“Was that motive enough for killing Padraig?” Fia asked.
“No,” Angus said. “No Scot ever objected to hanging an Englishman or two—begging your pardon, English John. No, the men who attacked the chief were Scots, but without the courage to show their faces or wear their plaids.”
“How do you know?” Meggie asked, her eyes wide as saucers.
“They used claymores,” Angus replied. “An Englishman can’t even lift such a mighty weapon. The chief’s escort would have sliced English attackers to ribbons while they were still trying to raise the blades.”
John ignored the taunt. “Will said they came out of nowhere, called one of Padraig’s men by name before they killed him—and they drew their weapons first.”
Angus shook his head. “A Sinclair warrior is a formidable foe. He takes no chances. I trained most of the lads in the chief’s tail myself. They were the best fighters we have.”
“What will happen now?” Fia asked.
“Dair is chief,” Angus said. “It may take time for folk to get used to that. Some will disagree, and it might take a few cracked heads to change their minds, but the chief’s final words will stand so long as I have breath in my body.”
“They fear having a mad chief, you mean,” Meggie said baldly, and Angus flushed scarlet.
“He’s not mad. Fia has healed him,” he said.
“Has she now?” Meggie said, folding her arms over her chest. “Then why didn’t she heal Padraig?”
Angus’s brow furrowed as if he hadn’t considered that. He shot a glance at Fia, and she felt her skin heating. “His wounds were too great. He’d lost so much blood,” she said.
“Men die,” John added. “You know that, Angus. You saw the wound.”
Angus grunted and looked at John. “I know you’re a friend to Dair, but mind yerself, English John. Ye aren’t one of us. Some might think . . .” He let the terrible idea trail off.
“Folk would take revenge on John?” Meggie demanded. “Even my father, who hates Sassenachs, wouldn’t do something so dishonorable.”
“Hasn’t there been revenge enough?” Fia asked. “It hasn’t helped. In fact, it’s made things worse.”
Angus leaned in. “Padraig should not have hanged innocent men, for all they were English. I’ll watch your back, John Erly, if you help me watch Dair’s.”
“You have my sword, sir,” John said in English.
“Eh?” Angus squinted at him.
“I’ll gladly fight beside ye, Angus Mor Sinclair,” John said in Gaelic instead.
Angus raised his cup again. “Then here’s to the chief—the live one and the dead—and to health and good fortune for all the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Fia paused in the doorway of the library when she saw Dair sitting at the desk. “I don’t mean to intrude. Should I go?”
He rose to his feet. “No, stay.” She noted the dark rings under his eyes and wondered when he’d last eaten or slept. She longed to touch him, brush the lock of hair back from his forehead, but there was no warmth in his eyes. His expression was flat and polite. “Have you come for a book?”
“I was hoping to read more of the Italian poems,” she said. “Angus said Meggie and I aren’t to leave the castle.” She was bored, restless, and unable to think of anything but Dair. She hadn’t seen him for days. She let her gaze fall to his mouth, remembered, and felt a blush rise like fire.
Something kindled in the gray depths of his eyes, as if he remembered too, but he looked away. “I have the book here,” he said, finding it under a pile of papers. “I was translating more of them, before—”
Her mouth went dry. “For me? I mean—” She stopped before her tongue got her into more trouble.
“Aye, Fia—for you.” He picked up a page and handed it to her, and she came forward and took it, her fingers brushing his. She read the first few lines of the poem. A lass was remembering her lover’s farewell kiss as she watched him ride away from her. She wanted him back, yearned for his touch, his body on hers in the secrecy of night . . . A blush, and something more, suffused Fia’s whole body. She understood that kind of longing now, felt it. “It’s wonderful,” she said, her voice husky.
