“The storm will be a bad one. Let’s go back to shore.”
The ship shrugged, tossed Logan against the rail. He dropped the dirk, and it spun over the side, a silver fish leaping for the sea. Logan swore. He rubbed his hand over his mouth and clenched his fists.
“Go to the mast, and put your arms around it,” he ordered Dair, screaming to be heard over the wind.
It was a position for punishment. A man would be tied to the mast for his transgressions, his back whipped.
“Do you intend to whip me for my sins, like Father Alphonse does, until he’s so crazed by pain he sees God?” Dair asked. “No. I am your chief. I won’t allow it.” Logan was already seasick, his limbs trembling.
“No,” Logan insisted. “I’ve planned it carefully, you see. When you are dead, I will tell the clan you ran mad, had to be stopped. Then I will make them vote, but since there is no one else of Padraig’s blood but me, I will be chief.”
“Then let’s go back, organize the vote, see who wins,” Dair said.
Logan’s mouth twisted. Too late, Dair saw the heavy spar in Logan’s fist. It hit the side of his head with a sickening crack, and Dair felt the world slide into blackness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Will you confess that you are in league with Satan, that you practice the dark arts of witchcraft?” Father Alphonse demanded.
The priest had come to her at dawn and lit candles in a circle around her. He hovered outside the pool of light, his crucifix clutched in his fist, ready to vanquish her if she moved to be-spell him. He’d removed her gag so she could confess.
Fia tugged against the bonds that bound her to the chair, felt the ropes bite into her wrists. Warm blood trickled over her hands. Still, she faced him fiercely. “I am not a witch.”
He struck her, and his bony knuckles split her lip. Blood dripped down her chin. He stood before her, avidly watching as it soaked the linen of her gown. She glared at him. “Release me.” He threw holy water in her face, muttering in Latin, and looked disappointed when the water did not burn her. It proved nothing, neither innocence or guilt, and his eyes continued to burn with the madness of his witch hunt.
She licked the droplets off her lips, thirsty.
“I have evidence, mistress. There are witnesses.”
“What witnesses? I have done nothing!” Fia said.
“You cursed Effie Sinclair’s son. He was well one day but sickened and died after knocking you down in the village. You cast a spell on Alan Sinclair’s cow, which also died. And Muriel Sinclair died after you visited her, laid your hands upon her. Another lad is also ill—”
Fia raised her head, her chest tightening with concern. “Who is ill? What lad?”
“Alex Sinclair, as well you know. But he is strong in the Lord, will fight your evil curse—”
“Angus Mor’s son? Angus knows I would never hurt anyone. Please, father, if Wee Alex is ill, let me tend to him.”
“I am praying for him.”
Fia felt tears prick her eyes. “Prayers alone won’t save a sick child. Send for—” She stopped. She did not dare to mention Moire’s name, not when they were hunting for witches.
His eyes flared in the candlelight. “You dare to put your power above God’s?” He brought the crucifix close to her eyes. The candlelight glinted off the polished surface, made her squint, and he made a sound of triumph. “You flinch at the sight of the cross! Are you in league with other witches? Did the Moire o’ the Spring help you in your dark deeds?”
She looked alarmed. “No! Moire is a midwife, just a midwife.”
He slapped her again. “Confess!” Her head swam, and her vision grew patchy.
“I am not a witch. I am a healer, and a MacLeod—one of the Fearsome MacLeods of Glen Iolair!” she said with surprising strength.
“How did you bewitch Alasdair Og Sinclair?”
She felt a hard knot of new fear. What would they do to Dair?
“You tempted him, turned him from God with whispered spells. I saw you with my own eyes. It wasn’t a simple lullaby you sang. It was a spell of beguilement, entrapment, wicked lust.”
“No,” she managed to say again, her mouth swollen. Where was Dair? Didhebelieve that she had bewitched him? She remembered the look in his eyes as he slammed the door. He spoke of ghosts, madness. “He’s not mad,” she murmured. “Not mad.”
