No one answered. Logan rolled his eyes impatiently. “Alasdair Og,” he said.
Folk looked uneasy but still not convinced.
“And Fia MacLeod—she’s an outsider, a witch, and she brought more ill luck to this clan, and—”
“Aye, the witch is to blame!” Effie cried, and at last the crowd shifted and muttered. Logan nearly sagged with relief.
“Yes! And now we must burn her.”
Ruari Sinclair looked up at the sky dubiously. “It’s pouring rain. How can we burn anything in the rain?”
“It would surely put the fire out, if we could light it at all,” Jock agreed.
Logan gritted his teeth. Were they so reluctant to set things right, to do God’s will—hiswill? “Then we’ll wait until the rain stops.” He pointed to the middle of the wee square. “Set up a post to tie her to, gather wood, make ready,” he ordered. Effie Sinclair and Alan led the way eagerly. The rest of the clan moved more slowly, but they went.
Father Alphonse knelt in the mud and turned his face up to the teeming sky. “It will be as you have decreed, oh Lord God. The witch shall burn, and we shall be consecrated once more to your holy will.”
Logan wrapped his plaid tighter. God could have the credit for this. He would take the chieftainship. It was too cold for a sermon, too wet. “See to it,” he commanded the priest, and went to find warmth and whisky.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
If Dair hadn’t been tied to the mast, the raging seas would have carried him over the side. His arms ached from the strain of holding on as each wave hit, feeling his body slide as far as it was able against the ropes that bound his wrists, straining bone and muscle to the breaking point. He fought his way to his feet now, chilled and aching, and read the ocean with a keen eye. There was no land in sight, and he wondered how far he’d come, and how the hell this was going to end. He supposed he was damned lucky the storm hadn’t already slammed the ship against the shore.
How lucky would he be if he managed to survive yet again but Fia did not? Logan wouldn’t dare to burn her, and surely Angus and Jock and Ruari were too sensible to allow such a thing. It would mean war with the MacLeods, revenge, still more death. He felt impotent rage burn through him. If Logan harmed Fia, Dair wouldn’t wait for her father’s revenge—he’d kill his cousin himself, tear him in two . . . He clenched his bound fists. Were the ropes looser than before? Dair tugged again as the ship swung in the wind, wild as a dolphin. His breath caught in his throat, and a spur of hope pricked—and at the moment, hope was as good as or better than luck. Logan wasn’t a sailor. He got sick at sea. Dair remembered how he and Jeannie had teased Logan about it until he cried. Then they’d go off sailing without him, leave him on the beach all alone. Eventually Logan had refused to have anything to do with ships, sailcraft, and the sea. He’d never learned to swim, or sail, or even to tie proper knots.
Dair laughed out loud, let hope warm his chilled body for an instant. Then he twisted his fingers against the knots that bound him to the mast and began to work.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Dawn draped the storeroom in rags of gray light. Outside, the rain continued, drumming like an executioner’s cadence, and Fia’s heart hammered in her breast. She was desperately thirsty, hungry, too, and her limbs were cramped and numb from sitting in the same position for so long. How many hours had it been?
No one came, not Father Alphonse or Logan, or Dair, or even Meggie. New fear washed over her. Was her sister safe? She prayed for that, and for Dair.
She heard the jangle of keys, and panic leaped in her breast.So soon?Father Alphonse entered with Angus Mor. Angus stood behind the priest, his hands clasped, his expression cold. He’d been her friend, Dair’s friend. Why was he here now? Perhaps he had news of Dair. She sent him a pleading look above the gag.Not a witch . . .
She struggled again against the ropes that bound her, though she knew it was useless. Her wrists were numb, her fingers crusted with her own blood.
“I wish to speak to her,” Angus said gruffly. “She cursed my son, my wife’s grandmother, my chief—and Dair . . .” His throat worked, and Fia felt tears fill her own eyes. Was Dair dead? Angus’s hard face was unreadable. “It is my right, since I will be the one to take her from here to the burning place,” he said. He met her eyes. “I’ve come to demand ye undo the spell ye’ve put on us.”
The priest’s eyes burned like coals. He was a foot shorter than Angus, a hundred pounds lighter, a frail man. He pressed his crucifix into the clan champion’s hand. “She is bound and gagged, but the devil is clever. Be quick.” Angus nodded and crossed to look down at her, his fist clenched, his eyes icy. He made no move to undo her bonds, and new fear kicked her heart into a run. She braced for pain as he loomed over her, his fist clenched, but he didn’t hit her.
“My son lives. He did not die.” Relief filled her briefly, but his expression didn’t change. “But others are dead. Dair—” His throat bobbed, and his eyes glittered. “Dair is gone, mad again.”
“He’s dead,” the priest interjected. “Her fault, her curse.”
Dead?Fia felt the breath flee from her lungs.Dead?
Angus’s eyes were wild with confusion and grief. “We cannot have a witch here at Carraig Brigh. Do you understand, mistress?”
She shook her head, moaned through the sodden cloth that filled her mouth. Tears flowed over her cheeks, blurred her vision.
He came closer still, bent over her, blocked out everything else in the room with his big body. Fia met his hard gaze with a soft one, a plea.
“You do not belong here,” he growled. His hand came around her body, quick and furtive. She felt something cold and hard press against her palm and grasped it.The hilt of a dirk.She looked at him in surprise, but he stepped back at once.
“I must go, father. They’re making the fire ready now. We’ll come back for her when the rain stops.” It was a warning, and a chance . . . She sent him a look of gratitude, but he didn’t see it. He opened the door and went through it without a backward glance. The priest followed. She gripped the dirk in her shaking hands and concentrated on not dropping it. It was salvation and survival. Carefully she turned the knife, slid it between the rope and her wrist, and began to saw.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
