Logan opened his saddlebag and pulled out a plaid, dyed black to hide the sett. “He had this in his hut. See the blood? It’s the chief’s blood. I asked Lulach why he’d done it—because the clan is cursed, he said. Then he came at me with a dirk, tried to kill me, and we fought a terrible fight. He preferred to die rather than give up his friends, so I stabbed him in the heart.”
Angus noted Logan’s lack of injury, felt a surge of unease.
“But I know his friends,” Andrew said. “His wife was my mother’s cousin. Lulach knows all the folk we know. I’ve never known him to stir away from his flocks. I always thought he was a quiet, dull sort of man.”
“It’s the quiet ones who have the deepest secrets. His son was one of the men killed at Berwick,” Angus said.
Logan raised the dyed plaid in his fist. “I made a pledge the night Padraig died that I would find the men responsible.” Logan said. “This is a start.”
Ruari frowned. “Why the devil did Dair send you out alone? He should have sent all of us. Padraig was our chief too. We have as much right to avenge him as any other Sinclair.”
Logan smiled, but his expression remained cold. “Dair didn’t send me. He didn’t send anyone, but it had to be done. I chose to go on my own.”
Angus felt his gut clench as the men looked at each other and grumbled.
“Good work, Logan, lad,” Jock said, slapping him on the back. “Come inside and have a drink with us.”
Angus looked again at Lulach’s corpse. The shepherd’s lifeless eyes were open still, staring at the patter of his own blood dripping on the dusty ground. Angus lifted his head again. Lulach hadn’t been stabbed in the heart—his throat had been cut from ear to ear, and there was a cross carved on his forehead. Now, why would that be there?
He grabbed Ruari’s arm as he passed. “We’d best find Dair. He’ll want to know about this.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
One more rock. And another. Dair’s body ached with the strain. Jeannie’s cairn was nearly done, but there were other deaths to be commemorated. It seemed every inch of Sinclair land was soaked in blood. He’d ask his clan to help him build the others, one for each of the men they’d lost, one for their murdered chief—so many, all in less than a year. There’d be a forest of cairns, a sad reminder.
He’d started this because he wanted revenge for Jeannie’s death. Did he still? He thought of the English sailors, wrongfully hanged in Edinburgh, the clansmen cut down with his father, his crew, his cousin. Perhaps it would be better to lay them to rest, remember them, but consider the future, build for it, let the past go. As chief, he’d do that.
Someone moved in the heather behind him, crouched low. Dair felt his senses sharpen. Had the murderers come for him? He drew his dirk. He wouldn’t make it easy for them . . . He strode forward, and nearly fell over Fia.
She was on her knees, her eyes on the ground, picking flowers, concentrating so hard she had no idea he was right behind her. Relief turned to anger. She was supposed to be inside the castle walls, safe. What if someone else had found her? It would be all too easy to grab her, hold a knife to her throat, pin her down . . . Nausea rose in his belly, and the memory of Jeannie’s torture and the sword slash across his father’s belly all blotted out the sunlight. He gasped at the pain in his breast.
She turned so suddenly she fell sideways and sprawled in the grass with a surprisingly colorful curse. Her dirk was poised to strike him dead. She knocked over the basket and the contents spilled—yellow flowers on golden grass, her red gown against purple heather, black earth.
He stared down at her. She was beautiful in the sunlight. Her russet hair was wind tossed, silky tendrils caressing sun-kissed cheeks. She’d kilted her skirts against the heat of the day, and her exposed legs were long and white. She’d undone the top buttons of her gown, too, and he could see the slopes of her breasts. New images forced the darker ones from his mind, made him mad all over again—with desire.
“Ach, you startled me,” she said, putting her knife away, sitting up.
“You were told not to leave the safety of the castle,” he growled. He stood over her, his shadow blocking out the sun. She held out a hand, expecting him to take it, help her up. He ignored it. She rose on her own.
“I had things to do, and so does everyone else,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest, which only served to push her cleavage higher and make the open edges of her bodice gape. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his cock stirred hopefully. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“You didn’t even see me coming.”
She tossed her head. “I knew you were at the cairn.”
“Then why was it so easy to surprise you?”
She blushed. “I was busy, and I hardly expected you’d sneak up on me. Surely I have no cause to fear you, Dair.” He shut his eyes. She had no idea of the dark thoughts going through his mind. “Or do I?” she added, scanning his expression, her cheeks flushing pink.
He glared at her. “Anyone could have slipped up behind you and—”
Fia put her hand on his wrist, her touch light and warm. She smelled of the plants she’d been gathering—something lemony and pungent. Her soft gaze caressed him, soothed him. She understood, knew what he’d imagined. She’d been there, in the night, as he ranted, relived the horror . . . she squeezed his arm, shook him, insistent, forcing him to stay with her, to seeher—live, vibrant, beautiful, desirable Fia.
He hardly realized what he was doing as he hauled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a hard, desperate kiss, rough and dangerous, but he didn’t want to be gentle. She took it, kissed him back, slid her hands around his neck, stood on her toes in the heather, and made soft sounds of need in her throat.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue sparring with hers. She tasted as sweet as she smelled. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and she tilted her head, gave him access, her eyes closed, her lips parted. His hands slid up the sides of her body, over the flare of her hips, her narrow waist. She sighed as he cupped her breast, laid kisses on the sun-warmed slopes, with the lace edging of her stays tickling his face. Her fingers twined in his hair, pulled him closer.She likes it,his body said, urging him on.
He was on fire, aching with need, and he gripped a handful of her skirt, dragged it upward, crooked his hand under her knee, brought her leg up to his waist, and ground his arousal against the apex of her body.
