They were all staring at her now. Fia felt her skin heat.
She concentrated on the injuries. She approached the Sinclair and peered at the scratches. “It would be best to let me clean those for you. I’m sure they sting like the devil.”
“Beelzebub,” Sinclair muttered, scanning her face.
She wasn’t used to such intense male scrutiny, and she turned to the other injured men. “The rest of you as well, of course. I have a salve made of herbs that will ease the pain. Beelzebub has very sharp claws. Fortunately, he wasn’t at his best—he was injured recently in a fight with an owl.”
“Poor bird,” one of the Sinclairs said dolefully.
Aileen caught Fia’s sleeve. “Chief Sinclair has come with an offer.” She waggled her brows at Fia and smiled.
“Oh? And what—”
Her father caught her arm on the opposite side. “It’s naught to concern ye, Fia. You go upstairs. Ada can take care of the injuries,” her father said sharply.
“Ada’s not nearly as skilled as Fia,” Meggie said. She batted her lashes at the Sinclairs. “It won’t take my dear sister more than a moment to see to your injuries, and it won’t hurt a bit. Go along to the stillroom.”
Fia was all too aware of her limp as she led them along the corridor, and of her scars, though her sleeve completely covered the marks on her arm, and her hair hid the ones on her brow and cheek. She could feel the curious eyes of the Sinclair clansmen boring into her back, and she tried to walk as straight as she could, but her face flamed as she imagined the pity and revulsion in their eyes. She wasn’t surprised she hadn’t known her father had visitors. He didn’t like to expose her to strangers, for both her sake and his own. It kept the need for awkward explanations to a minimum if she simply wasn’t there.
The little stillroom off the kitchen courtyard was crowded with so many big men in it. Fia crossed and opened the window shutters, let sunshine into the room, and turned to take down the pots she needed—comfrey, rose hips, and yarrow—and concentrated on mixing the herbs. It gave her a reason to avoid looking at the men directly. Still, she was aware that the Sinclair chief stood by the door with his bonnet in his hands, watching her like Bel watched prey. She hoped he was merely angry and that he wouldn’t be so bold as to ask her how she’d been injured.A fall,she’d say, as she always did, since it was mostly true. Then she’d change the subject. The Sinclair clansmen looked anxious—afraid she’d cause them pain, perhaps, or administer a strong physic, or maybe they were simply fearful of a scarred lass with a terrible limp.
When she was ready, the chief indicated with a wave of his hand that his clansmen should accept treatment before him, and one after the other they sat on the stool in front of her and let her clean their scratches. They were tense at first, braced for pain, but she was gentle, her touch sure, and they quickly relaxed. They looked up at her with surprise and gratitude, and thanked her. The Sinclair sent each man out with a nod of his head, until he was alone with her.
“If you’ll be so good as to sit here,” she said, indicating the stool his men had used. His gaze upon her was unsettling as he sat down.
“You’re a healer,” he said.
“Mostly wild creatures,” she said, dabbing at the scratches with clean linen. “Birds with broken wings, cats trying to poach from hunters’ snares, injured stoats . . .”
He was quiet for a long moment. “My son is—injured,” he said at last, and she met his eyes. “I came here to seek a bri—a healerfor him,” he said, and slid his eyes away. She waited for him to go on.
“His ship was captured off the coast of England on its way to France. He was taken prisoner. His crew and his . . .companionwere killed, and his own wounds went untended for weeks.” He drew a breath, as if wondering if he should continue. She gave him an encouraging nod. “He still has nightmares, and his wounds will not heal. People say he’s mad. They call him the Madman of Carraig Brigh.”
Fia met his eyes. “Och, I’ve heard of him.”
Padraig Sinclair’s brows shot up, which made the scratches break open and bleed again. He scarcely seemed to notice. “How? How have you heard of him here, so far from Carraig Brigh?”
She pressed gently on the scratches with a little yarrow to staunch the bleeding. “People travel. They bring tales. There’s a lass in the village with a cousin from Caithness. He told her the tale, and she told me.”
“Your father didn’t seem to know.” He said it warily, and she looked into his eyes again, saw fear warring with pride.
“I don’t repeat gossip, not even to Papa. No one would trust me if I betrayed their confidences, now, would they? They’d not tell me a thing more. When they talk, I can see what they see, travel beyond this glen, have adventures through their stories.”
“Do you not travel yourself?” he asked. “Does your . . .infirmityprevent it?”
She felt hot blood flood her face, and she concentrated on dipping her fingers into the salve and applying it.
It was true enough—her scars and the limp kept her from doing a great many things she wished she could. Her father had simply never allowed her to leave Glen Iolair. She—he—feared she would face pity, or fear, or disgust, in the eyes of strangers. No, she did not travel. Most likely she would never leave this glen, never marry, probably never even know a man’s kiss. She would have to content herself with rocking her sisters’ bairns, for she’d have none of her own.
“My family is very protective of me,” she said, realizing he was waiting for an answer.
“You’re treasured.”
“Yes.” Too treasured.Smothered.
A shadow passed across the window, and a small bird flew down to land on the lip of the bowl beside her hand. “Hello,” she said. The Sinclair chief sat very still as Fia reached into her pocket for the bread crumbs she always kept there and held them out in her palm. The bird hopped onto her bright blue fingertip, not caring that she was clumsy and had fallen into a vat of dye. Beelzebub had caught the wee sparrow last year when it was just a fledgling. Fia had rescued the bird, healed his damaged wing, and released him. She’d taken joy in watching him fly away. The bird came back from time to time to visit. Once he’d had his fill of crumbs, he sped away on a whir of wings.
“Lass, would you come to Carraig Brigh and meet my son?” the Sinclair asked.
