A sweet, familiar fragrance stopped him as he entered his chamber. Roses and lilies. Not Fia’s perfume—Jeannie’s.
His belly turned to water, and he scanned the room, half expecting to find his cousin waiting for him. He felt the prickle of her presence, her eyes hard on the back of his skull. Had she been here, watching him with Fia? He began to shake, felt icy sweat sliding down his back. He stepped further into the twilit room, searched the shadows, his heart pounding. He stumbled on something and looked down. A silk shawl, just like the one Jeannie had worn the day they sailed, was crushed under his boot—but that was impossible. Her captors had bound her mouth with it. He picked it up. Something wet and sticky chilled his skin.
The shawl was covered with blood.
The air left his lungs, and he dropped it and stared at the stains on his skin. Blood pooled under his feet, began to spread across the floor. He could smell it now, the reek of gore mixed with her perfume, thick and overwhelming.
She was here, haunting him.
A movement caught his eye, and he recoiled again, crying out. It was his own reflection in the mirror. He stared into his own wide eyes, rolling with madness, the livid scars that marked his pallid, sweat-sheened face. He was a monster, inhuman, horrible.
“No,” he muttered. “No.”
With an oath, he drove his fist into the mirror, heard the glass shatter, and felt the shards slice his flesh.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Logan paused for effect at the foot of the stairs and looked around the great hall at the clansmen gathered for supper. He knew he looked his best—he’d studied Padraig’s portrait in the library, spent hours practicing the same chiefly pose before the mirror in his chamber until he exuded his uncle’s power. He even wore Padraig’s ruby brooch, Padraig’s lace at his throat, his diamond buckles on his shoes. Surely the Sinclairs could see Logan as chief in Dair’s place now, sane, handsome, and heroic. He reveled in the looks of speculation and surprise as he strode toward the chief’s seat at the table.
He passed Fia MacLeod, saw her glance up the stairs, searching for Dair, no doubt. His cousin wouldn’t be coming to supper tonight. Before the hour was out, Dair would begin to scream and rant. Then he, Logan, would take charge and order him carried to the tower. He’d lock his cousin in and throw the key into the sea. He held all the keys now. In the meantime, while he waited, Logan grinned, all charm and teeth, and held out his arm to Meggie MacLeod.
He cast a sideways glance at the lush swell of her breasts above her low bodice as he led her to the table. He could have her, once he was chief. No one would dare say nay to the chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh—perhaps he’d take her tonight.
He frowned. No, not tonight—he had his mad cousin to deal with, and tomorrow, when he was chief, he’d have to leave for Edinburgh for the debate on the union. Not that Logan knew much about the treaty, or union, or anything else political for that matter, but he’d seen Queensbury’s letter in Dair’s chamber, read it, and stolen it. There’d be powerful men buying votes on both sides of the issue in Edinburgh, and as the chief of the Sinclairs, Logan would be wooed, fawned over, paid well for his vote. All the pleasures of the city would be his. He hid a smile behind the lip of his cup and drank deeply.
“Where’s Dair?” Fia asked, her smile fixed and false, trying to make it sound like she was merely curious, but her eyes belied her concern.Out,he might have said.Chasing after a false rumor, looking for bandits that don’t exist.Dair was going to be seeing a lot of things that weren’t real tonight—except the madness. That would be dark and eternal. Logan almost sighed.At last, for Jeannie.
Logan hadn’t ridden out with Dair—he’d been in the village, asking casual questions about witches and curses, pointing out imaginary sores on a cow’s udder, shaking his head sympathetically over the terrible ill luck of a tacksman who’d stepped on a nail. With the death of the old chief and his men, and the madness of the new chief, it hadn’t taken long before folk began whispering and wondering. Wasn’t it always healers who were accused of witchcraft first, those with knowledge of herbs and potions and poisons?
He turned to give Fia MacLeod a sympathetic smile. “Dair’s likely drunk again, Mistress Fia.” The clansmen muttered at that, glanced at each other under lowered brows.
Fia’s eyes widened with sorrow and surprise for an instant before she lowered her lashes. Poor crippled lass. This was supposed to be a grand adventure for her, curing a madman by the power of her virtue. The fool deserved every bit of misery coming to her.
Then Fia looked up again, and Logan read something else in her eyes—suspicion, and pride. Her haughtiness would have made her almost pretty, if not for her hideous scars. It also made her dangerous. Did she know? Logan tightened his grip on his goblet, then relaxed.Impossible.The little virgin was no match for him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Fia went to Dair’s chamber as soon as she could slip away. Was he drunk, or ill, or worse? She paused outside his door, her ears pricked for any sounds inside. She heard a low moan, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She opened the door.
Dair was pacing the floor. He was disheveled, his eyes wild. There was blood on his clothing, streaking his face, covering his hands. He started back when he saw her in the doorway, and Fia’s throat tightened with dread.
Mad.
He didn’t speak. He simply stared at her. She shut the door and crossed the floor, opening her arms to him, but he backed away. “Don’t.” The word was torn from him, raw.
Something was wrong—very wrong. “I saw a light under your door, thought . . .” She stopped talking. The room was dark. The only light came from the moon, visible through the open window. It gleamed off the shards of glass that covered the floor, cast strange patterns of light and shadow on the walls. “There’s blood on your hands,” she said carefully.
“It isn’t mine,” he said. “It’s—” His mouth worked, but no words came.
“You missed supper. I could ask Ina to send something up. Have you eaten today?”
“Then you’re here as a healer this time, to check up on my health?” His tone was every bit as sharp and cutting as the broken mirror. She flinched at his coldness, avoided looking at the bed.
“I couldn’t sleep without knowing that you did not . . . have regrets about . . .”
“Regrets?” he said. “’Tis you who should have regrets, Fia.”
