Aileen put a hand on his shoulder. “Ye forgot Fia, Papa. Ye always do.”
Now it was Donal’s turn to pinch his lips shut. He had indeed forgotten his third lass. “Of course I haven’t forgotten Fia. She willna do,” he said sharply.
The girls glared at him, seven sets of glittering eyes pinning him to his chair. “Of course Fia would do. She’s old enough,” Aileen said.
“Fia?” Padraig Sinclair asked. The other Sinclairs regarded Donal expectantly.
“She’s the fairest of all of us,” Meggie said.
“And the kindest,” Gillian added.
“Is she a virgin?” Sinclair asked.
“Of course she is!” Aileen said a trifle sharply, then tempered her rebuke with a smile.
“Nay!” Donal said. “Fia is . . .” How did one describe Fia to a stranger?
There was no need to. The door burst open and the hall erupted in chaos. The room filled with the scrabble of claws, a pack of barking, snapping dogs, and the terrible, unholy din of utter destruction as stools and benches toppled, rugs went askew, and cushions were torn asunder, filling the air with feathers.
The lasses shrieked, and the Sinclairs bellowed their war cry and drew their swords, seeking an invading enemy amid the chaos.
Donal saw the white ball hurtling across the hall and felt his stomach turn with dread. “Move, man!” he bellowed to Sinclair, but it was too late. The cat was upon the chief, climbing him like a tree before springing off the poor man’s forehead. Padraig Sinclair fell backward, arms flailing, as the creature landed on the tapestry and scrambled up to a roof beam high above them.
“What was that? A wolf? A wildcat?” the Sinclair asked, dazed.
“It’s Beelzebub,” Meggie said.
The dogs jumped onto the table, baying and growling, trying to follow the cat. The insolent creature stared down at them and calmly licked his paws.
Padraig Sinclair put a hand to his forehead and drew it back bloody. A long set of scratches marred his pate, and Donal winced.
The dogs boiled around the Sinclair clansmen, still straining to reach the cat, baying insults up at the insolent beast. Aileen was beating the largest deerhound with her slipper. Meggie was trying to drag the mongrel off the table. A pair of hounds eagerly lapped at the spilled whisky, and the last dog, a speckled creature with only one eye, had the fringe of the tapestry in his teeth, trying to bring it down. Everything was covered with feathers and fur.
Donal should have known what would happen next. Too late, he saw Fia rush past him, her eyes on the cat even as she vainly commanded the dogs to heel. She didn’t see Chief Sinclair, who was picking himself up from the floor, until she ran into him.
Padraig Sinclair toppled backward yet again, and Donal hooked an arm around Fia to keep her from falling on top of him. The chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh stared up in stunned surprise.
Aileen smiled sweetly as she offered the fallen chief a hand up. “Here’s Fia now. And her pet.”
CHAPTER TWO
Fiona Margaret MacPhail MacLeod, simply known as Fia to her family, bit her lip as her father steadied her, and looked around at the mayhem. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know you had visitors.”
She stared at the man on the floor and blanched at the bloody scratches on his forehead.
“What do ye mean letting those dogs in here?” her father demanded.
Fia gave him her sweetest smile. “It couldn’t be helped, Papa. I was bandaging Beelzebub’s paw, and the dogs caught me at it. They thought they could take Bel in his moment of weakness, but he took it as a challenge. I had no idea he’d come through the hall. I do apologize.”
She looked around at the strangers filling the room, all of them staring at the feathers, the blood, the broken furniture, and marveling that one cat could cause so much harm. At least they weren’t staring ather. She took stock of the injuries. Two men had long, angry scratches on their arms and legs. Another had a tear in his saffron shirt. A fourth was sneezing, his eyes already swelling. And the man on the floor had a perfect set of three bloody gouges across his brow.
Fia cast a glance up at Beelzebub, who was regarding the scene from the safety of his perch. He winked at her and smiled a feline smile.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping Ada with the weaving?” her father asked.
“Ada’s dying wool today, Papa,” Fia said, and pulled her hand out from behind her back, showing him the damage since he’d see it for himself soon enough. She’d tripped and fallen into the vat, and her left arm was brilliant blue from fingertips to elbow. “Ada decided she didn’t need my help after all.”
Her father sighed and shook his head. “You’re just like your mother, lass. She couldn’t do a thing without tripping over her own feet or someone else’s,” he said. Fia felt her face fill with hot blood at the rebuke. “Now, don’t fret. I didn’t mean anything by that,” he said soothingly, and patted her blue hand. “Come and meet our guests. This is Chief Sinclair of Carraig Brigh. Sinclair, this is my daughter Fia.”
