He glared at her, his teeth bared. “Don’t beg, Fia. She begged, you know—Jeannie—it brought her no mercy, no quarter. Go home, forget me, find a good man to love.”
“I thought I had,” she said softly. He closed his eyes.
Then the door swung shut, and she was alone.
Fia stood in the dark corridor, staring at the closed door with tears in her eyes. He needed her, she knew he did, yet he did not want her. Which Dair was real—the cruel, dangerous, angry beast or the gentle lover? “How can I know?” she whispered. “I only know I love him.”
“Casting a spell?”
She looked up to find Logan standing a few feet away, leaning on the wall, his hand on his dirk. He came closer until he loomed over her, his eyes burning in the dim light of the corridor. Her mouth went dry. “Your lips were moving, Are you aware that people think you’re a witch?” He frowned as he looked her over. “Why, you’re covered with blood, Mistress MacLeod, and your clothes are ripped. What have you been doing?”
She clutched the torn edges of her bodice tighter and swallowed. “It’s not my blood, and I’m not a witch.”
He tilted his head and smiled coldly. “Are you not? I don’t think I believe you. My cousin isn’t cured, is he? He’s still mad, and you’ve bewitched my clan into thinking he’s whole and normal, worthy to be chief. Are you aware that witchcraft is a deadly sin?”
Malevolence radiated off Logan Sinclair in waves. She could smell sweat under his cologne—Padraig’s cologne, coming from Padraig’s clothes, worn by a man who could not hope to fill Padraig’s shoes. It was like confronting a ghost. She began to back away, but he grabbed her arm. He drew his other hand back and hit her hard across the face. She fell to the floor, felt blood spurting. He still held her, his grip iron. “You should not have come to Carraig Brigh, witch.”
“Not a witch,” she gasped, struggling to rise, push him away. “Let me pass.”
He swung out his foot, kicked her twisted leg, knocked her back down again. He put his foot on her chest, preventing her from moving. “Nay, I’ve caught you, witch. I cannot let you cast any more spells on me and mine. Do you know what we do with witches?”
She stared at him, terrified. She’d seen this face before, the same savage, hateful expression. Her belly clenched. It wasn’t Jeannie’s face she’d seen in the spring—it was Logan’s. It had been a warning. And the fire she’d seen, so real she’d felt the searing heat? She felt the breath leave her lungs. She cast a frantic glance at Dair’s closed door, tried to cry out, but Logan hit her again, clamped his hand over her mouth, squeezed her jaw painfully. He pulled her toward him, until his face nearly touched hers.
“I asked you a question. Do you know what we do to witches?” Still she didn’t answer, couldn’t. “We burn them, cast them back to hell where they belong.”
She bit deep into skin of his hand that covered her mouth. It bought her an instant of freedom, and she began to crawl away from him. “Bitch,” he said, grabbing her hair. His fist swung again.
Then there was only darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Father Alphonse bit back another cry as he scourged his back with the knotted whip. The knots bit deep into his raw flesh, and he stared up at the crucifix above the altar in rapture, sharing the agony of the Christ. He was a holy man, and he’d do anything to protect his church and his flock. He’d come here six years ago to replace the aged priest who had faithfully served the Catholic Sinclairs for a generation. Father Francis had warned him that the clan was half-pagan. The old man had turned a blind eye to love charms, magic, and Highland superstitions. He limited his work to blessing babies, sanctifying marriages, praying over the dead, and saying mass for the chief’s devout wife and any clansmen who wished to follow her Catholic ways.
It had been a mistake. Sin was rampant at Carraig Brigh, and Alphonse was the only one who stood between the Sinclairs and the devil. The clan was so deep in wickedness and evil that Alphonse feared he would not be strong enough to save them. It was his holy duty to wipe their souls clean of dark beliefs and superstitions, make them obedient only to God. It was why He had sent Alphonse to this cold, backward, mannerless land. Now the time had come, and He’d shown his priest where to begin.
With the witch Fia MacLeod.
His face contorted with hatred, and he wielded the scourge again. “Grant me courage to do thy holy will,” he ground out, staring at the crucifix through a red haze of pain. With shaking hands he struck again. The knots were bloody, thick with gore. He could feel his sins fleeing through the open wounds, freeing him, hardening him for battle.
“I am thy instrument,” he said, and forced himself to stand. She would be here soon, bound and helpless, her evil magic contained. He must resist her power. Gritting his teeth, he poured seawater over his raw skin. The sting drove him to his knees, and he groveled on the stone floor before the altar, his cheek pressed to Padraig Sinclair’s newly sealed grave. “I shall not suffer the witch to live.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Fia sucked in a breath as she woke, tasted cloth. Her face hurt from the tight bond and from Logan’s blows. She tried to raise her hands, but her arms were tied behind her, and her feet were bound to the chair she occupied. She looked around. She was in a small storeroom, filled with boxes and trunks.
How long had she been here? It was dark beyond the shuttered window, still night. She turned her head gingerly and met a face illuminated by the faint light coming from a single candle, set on a trunk beside her. Her heart leaped in her chest as a pair of laughing eyes gazed back at her.Jeannie Sinclair.It was just a painting, but Fia could smell perfume—a sweet drift of roses and lilies. It mixed with the darker scents of damp and sweat. Fear made her quiver, and she struggled again, fighting her bonds, but they held tight.
The rustle of clothing made her turn. A woman was sitting before a mirror in the half-darkness, her back to Fia, combing her gleaming blond hair. Fia watched as she wound ribbons through her long locks, tied them up, and patted errant curls into place before she turned and regarded Fia. Fia’s bones turned to water. She blinked, unable—unwilling—to believe her eyes. She was dreaming or hallucinating. Is this what Dair saw in the darkness, his dead cousin standing before him? “You’re awake.” Jeannie Sinclair’s voice was low but very much alive. Fia’s gorge rose. How was this possible? Jeannie picked up a silken shawl, arranged it around her shoulders, and regarded the effect in the mirror. Then she rose to her feet and crossed the space between them. “Fool,” she said. “Little fool. You should not have interfered.”
Fia’s heart hammered in her throat, and shivers raced up her spine. She turned her head, looked at the portrait again. The holy maid’s sweet face image bore no resemblance to the hate-twisted visage before her now. The ghost came closer, and the scent of roses was overwhelming. She smelled sweat, too—did ghosts sweat? The hand that gripped her chin was warm and alive, not grave-cold. It forced her head to one side. She felt the crawl of her captor’s gaze on the scars, felt the shudder of revulsion that ran through the hand that held her. “How ugly you are. It is easy to believe you’re a witch.”
Fia made a sound low in her throat, a wordless plea.
“Do you want Dair? You can’t have him. I won’t allow him to be happy, not with you or anyone else. Is it the scars, the limp that draws you to one another? Do you think poor mad Dair will come and save you,marryyou?” Fia pleaded with her eyes, but Jeannie remained unmoved. “Others will come for you, but not Dair—after Father Alphonse makes you confess, of course. They’ll take you, tie you to the stake, and you will burn, witch, now and in hell for all eternity.”
Fia tried to scream, but the sound was muffled, useless. She tugged fiercely at the ropes that held her. The ice-blue eyes were triumphant, hateful. Jeannie laughed, and the sound was deep and cruel and hauntingly familiar. “I have things to do, Mistress MacLeod—important things—so this is farewell.” With a single puff of air, the candle went out, leaving Fia in darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
