She looked so certain. “Have you never been in love, Meggie?” John asked. “Even sensible folk do mad—impetuous—things, when they are in love.”
“Not Fia.”
John frowned at her stubbornness. “How can you know that?”
Meggie pointed back toward the castle, barely visible through the rain. “Because Beelzebub is still here, in the stable. I checked. Fia would never, ever leave him behind. She’s here, somewhere. If she’s gone, if he’s taken her, then she didn’t go willingly. Not without that cat.” She looked down at the bay, emptier by one ship. Worry clouded her eyes as she met his. “So whereismy sister?”
John was a near expert on the kinds of places lovers might go for a bit of privacy—shielings, barns, empty cotts, the woods, even caves in the hills. They could hardly check all of them in a rainstorm. He took Meggie’s arm, began walking again. “We’d better think this through.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Angus looked around his cott. It had always been a place blessed with happiness and good fortune. Now Wee Alex sat by the hearth, pale and listless. At least he was alive. Annie was sobbing over her beloved grandmother, who had died quietly during the night, as peaceful as a ship slipping its moorings and sailing away. Angus enfolded his wife in his arms, comforted her.
“Gran was well yesterday, brighter. I thought she was improving,” Annie sobbed.
“She was very old,” Angus murmured against his wife’s soft hair. She still mourned their child, and now this…
She shook her head, looked up at him.“Folk are saying it wasn’t a natural death. Not so soon after Robbie’s passing, and with Alex ill, and Alan’s cow. There was no reason for Robbie to die. He wasn’t old—he was healthy, strong. Effie says it’s witchcraft, that Robbie and Alex were be-spelled.”
“That’s nonsense,” Angus said.
“Is it? What reason was there for a healthy child to die, a healthy cow? Alan found his beast in her byre, her tongue swollen, her eyes rolled back. It wasn’t a natural death.” Annie wiped her eyes. “Fia MacLeod treated Alan’s foot after he stepped on a nail. He forgot to offer her payment, Angus.”
Angus’s mouth dried. “Fia? She’d not hurt anyone. She healed Dair—”
Annie shook her head. “No she didn’t—he’s still mad, isn’t he? The Sinclairs are cursed with a mad chief. She’s no healer at all, and she’s bewitched this clan.”
“Where did ye hear this?” Angus demanded, releasing her.
“The priest said it the night Padraig died, and others are saying it too. Folk think Logan should be chief. I know yer Dair’s friend, Angus, but our son almost died, and Gran was the only one that knew all the old spells against witches, and now she’s dead, in her prime.”
“She was past eighty,” Angus muttered, but still wondered if it might be true. Where there were miracles, the opposite existed as well. He crossed to the door.
“Where are you going?” Annie asked.
“I need to see Dair.”
Annie took the wee crucifix from her neck and stood on tiptoe to hang it around her husband’s. “Be careful,” she said, and he saw the fear in her eyes. She truly believed Fia MacLeod was a witch and the clan was cursed. He wrapped his plaid over his head against the rain and ducked out the door. He remembered Fia’s gentle hand on Wee Alex’s head, how she’d healed the pup with a thorn in its paw. MuriellikedFia. Could she truly betray them all like this? “No,” he muttered. “No.” But he felt a shiver run up his spine that had nothing to do with the rain.
The cotts were shuttered tight against both the weather and ill luck, and no one called to him as he passed through the village and took the path that led up to the castle. On such a gloomy, stormy day it was easy to believe in curses. How many Sinclairs had died—been murdered—in the span of half a year? And Dair was mad, worse than dead. And now children and cows. He paused on the cliff and crossed himself, made a sign against evil.
Then Angus noticed theMaidenwas not in the bay. He stood in the rain and stared down at the empty spot she’d occupied. She was the pride of the Sinclair fleet, and now . . .
Perhaps she’d broken free in the storm. He scanned the sea, but it was empty, and visibility was poor. The storm had raged for hours, and it was still raining.
Angus picked up his pace, the bad feeling in the pit of his belly growing worse. He had to find Dair.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The bell gathered the villagers to the chapel door. They came looking somber and stood in the rain to listen. Logan held pride of place beside the priest, his arms folded, his face grim and strong, a practiced copy of Padraig’s visage. Still, no one looked to him. They waited for the priest to speak.
“Fia MacLeod has been found guilty of witchcraft. I have her confession,” Father Alphonse said. “She must burn. We must rid this clan, this place, of her evil.”
“Where’s Dair? The chief must approve,” Tormod Pyper said, leaning on his staff. “’Tis tradition and law.”
Logan stepped forward. “Alasdair Og stole a ship and fled into the storm. Surely that proves he’s mad. I am your chief now.”
There were more expressions of sorrow than relief. What did that mean? How should he play it? Logan shook his head ruefully, strong but solemn. “The Sinclairs have been cursed with ill luck since our holy maid, my sister, Jean, died. And who was responsible for that?”
