Fia swallowed but didn’t reply. When she had time to mourn, the wound would indeed be deep, painful, endless. She bent to pick up Bel.
“We’ll go to Moire first. She might be in danger too,” Fia said.
“Moire?” Meggie said. “Don’t be daft. We need to ride for home at once.”
“No!” Fia insisted, her voice sharp enough to stop even Meggie. “No. First we’ll protect the ones we love, make sure they’re safe . . . alive.” She tucked the protesting cat into her saddlebag and tied it shut. Then she searched the straw until she found the other cat, her yellow eyes wide, her hackles raised in fear. Fia lifted her gently and put her into the other saddlebag. “It’s Angel. She was Muriel’s cat. She’s full of kittens, and I daresay Bel would never forgive me if I left her behind.”
“Hurry,” John said from the doorway.
Fia could see the light from the torches now, long and dagger sharp, creeping over the muddy ground, coming up the long track, moving toward the bailey. The yelling was louder, harsher, terrifying.
“They’re nearly at the gate,” John warned.
“Up ye go, lass,” Angus said, and lifted Fia into the saddle.
She caught his hand. “Angus, what if Dair is ali—”
“Go, mistress,” he said gently, pulling his hand away. Fia wrapped her plaid around her face. Meggie and John were already mounted.
“We’ll separate once we’re out the gate,” Fia said. “Ride with Meggie, John, and meet me at Moire’s.”
She crouched low over the garron’s neck and set her heels to his flank, hard, and the horse leaped beneath her, rushed for the open door and the gate beyond. She held tight, let him carry her away as tears flowed from her eyes, blurring the light of the torches. She couldn’t see the hate in the eyes of the Sinclairs, people she’d cared for, come to love.
“Bas nobeatha!” She heard Meggie scream the MacLeod battle cry, knew her sister was right behind her. Fia turned right as she burst through the gate. Meggie and John went left. The crowd surged after the three horses, but they were no match for the garrons. John wielded his sword, driving them back. Fia rode hard until she reached the woods and the mob had fallen far behind. Only then did she pause to look back at the tower of Carraig Brigh, standing like a bony finger against the indigo sky.
“Dair,” she whispered. Was he alive? If he was not, she hoped he was at peace at last.
It took all her courage, her love for Meggie and Bel and Moire, for her to turn the garron’s head and ride on.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Moire hurried out of her cott as Fia slid off the horse. “What news? I smell smoke.” She put her hand under Fia’s chin and examined the cuts and bruises on her face.
“’Tis nothing,” Fia said, pulling away. The old healer’s face furrowed with concern and fear.
“Who did this? Not Dair . . .” She put her arm around Fia’s shoulders, led her inside.
Fia had been strong for hours, brave for herself and Dair and Meggie. She felt her courage desert her. She dropped onto the stool in front of the fire, too weary and bereft to stand. “They called me a witch.”
“The priest,” Moire hissed, and made a sign against evil.
“And Logan.”
“Then the fire’s for you.”
Fia nodded. “I came to warn you, Moire. Come to Iolair, to my father—”
Moire was gathering herbs, breaking them into a wooden bowl. She added water and stirred the mixture with her finger. The pungent smell of the herbs filled the hut, their familiar sharpness soothing. “I cannot leave this place. Nor do I wish to. I will be well enough. The goddess will keep me safe. What of Alasdair Og?”
“Gone.” Fia choked on the word. “He sailed away in the storm, is lost.”
“Gone,” Moire repeated sadly. “Took your heart, did he?”
“I don’t regret it,” Fia said fiercely.
Moire sat beside her and dipped a bit of cloth into the bowl. “Let me clean the cuts.” But she set the basin back on the table and cocked her head to listen. “More visitors,” she murmured, and took the knife from her belt.
Fia rose, but Moire pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Bide where ye are, lass,” she said, and went out.
