She looked up in surprise. “I’ve never traveled out of Glen Iolair.”
“But there’s no reason why you could not, is there?”
She bit her lip. “I have—scars. People are often shocked when they see me.”
“My son, Dair—Alasdair Og—has scars. They are far deeper and more terrible than yours.”
Fia felt a thrill at the idea of a journey, but fear prickled as well. “A warrior should have scars. They are admired in a man, speak of bravery and bold deeds. Not so with a woman.”
“He’s my son, and I—I love him. I am protective of my family as well. He was a fine man, a sailor, a trader. Some called him a pirate. There was no man alive as clever as Dair, or braver or stronger. But he needs help, help I’ve been unable to give or find for him. I was told to find a maid—a virgin—to heal him. I think I may have found her.”
Astonishment coursed through her. “Me? I—”
“Will you come, lass? I promise you’ll be treated with the utmost kindness and respect by me and mine, if that’s what you fear, and I will reward you handsomely.”
Her father appeared in the doorway. “Is everything all right, Fia?” he asked, eying Padraig Sinclair suspiciously.
Fia turned away and wiped her hands on her apron, and put the jars and pots away. “Yes, of course, Papa. The scratches weren’t deep. They won’t leave—” She stopped herself from sayingscars.
Padraig forced a smile. “If they do, I shall tell people a wildcat did it, and a heroic maiden healed me, one of the Fearsome MacLeods of Glen Iolair.” He rose to his feet. “Will you at least think on what I asked?”
She glanced at her father. He frowned and stepped between her and Padraig Sinclair. He would always protect her, keep her safe.
But that meant she would never fly away or know anything more of the world than this. “I will consider it.”
He nodded, his jaw tightening, and turned away.
Her father took her arm, his eyes filled with pity. “You’ve done enough, lass. Go and rest,” he said.
How had she never noticed before that the strongest pity was in the eyes of her own kin? The Sinclairs hadn’t looked at her the way her father and sisters did.
She didn’t need rest. She needed—well, whatever it was, she wouldn’t find it if she didn’t look for it. She kissed her father’s cheek, stepped out of his shadow, and hurried to the door. “Wait!” she called to Padraig Sinclair. He turned slowly, regarded her hopefully.
“Yes. I will come to Carraig Brigh.”
CHAPTER THREE
Carraig Brigh
Alasdair Og Sinclair—Alasdair the Younger—was named for his grandfather Alasdair the Elder, but once his grandsire was dead, he was simply known as Dair. The shortening of his given name came as much from his daring, fearless ways on the high seas as it had from his grandfather’s honored name. He was the heir to the vast fortune and clan chiefdom of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh—at least until his father decided to appoint another successor, one who wasn’t mad.
Dair struggled to pick up a rock the size of his head, and sweat popped out on his brow. The boulder slipped out of his frail grip twice before he raised it, and agony shot through his broken body. The cairn he’d started was a dozen long yards away. It might as well have been a hundred. Every step was agony, but he welcomed the pain, for Jeannie, for his crew. His hands were claws as he positioned the stone on the cairn, a memorial, and his penance and his healing. He built it alone, refusing anyone’s help. It proved he was still alive, when by rights, he should have been dead, as dead as his Jeannie and the eight men who’d sailed with them. Hewasdead, inside—the man he’d once been stood vanquished, a ruined hulk blighted by guilt, pain, and madness. His injuries had been more than enough to kill him. It appeared his end would not be quick and merciful, but a slow withering of body, mind, and soul, a slithering descent into madness. Old Moire’s potions and poultices had brought him back from the edge of the grave, but he wasn’t sure he thanked her for that. The fever and the corruption in his leg had gone for the moment, and his muscles and bones were healing. He’d still limp for the rest of his life, bear horrific scars on his face and body.
He concentrated on his task. The cairn would take many more rocks to complete—and once he’d placed the last stone, he’d gather a hundred more. He’d load them on a ship, into a cannon, and raze Coldburn Keep to the ground, kill every last man inside the foul place where Jeannie had died.
Dair wiped his brow, let the wind cool his skin, but it did little to ease the knife-hot pain in his battered body. He was weak and frail, and the simple task of moving the stones made him shake with fatigue.
He stood on the cliff above Sinclair Bay and stared out to sea, over the masts of his father’s ships, rocking lonely and idle at anchor below, past the hypnotic march of the white-capped waves, all the way to the distant curve of the horizon. The wind roared in upon him, rushed by to whine as it swept around the tower of Carraig Brigh, looking for a way to vanquish the ancient fortress. The castle had stood strong and stubborn against every foe for nearly four hundred years, and a mere breath of air wouldn’t flatten it now.
The wind gusted again, harder, tried to knock Dair backward instead, away from the edge of the cliff. Perhaps it feared—like everyone else—that he might throw himself into the sea, but he wasn’t ready to die. The need for revenge burned like an ember in his breast, kept him alive.
He defied the breeze, moved closer to the edge, and looked down. The sea thrashed against the black rocks below, sending angry spray into the air. Dair could taste it on his lips. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was standing on the prow of a ship again, and if he spread his arms wide, leaned out over the edge, the force of the wind would hold him up, let him float between sea and solid ground. It would take just a single step—or if the wind took a breath and paused just long enough . . .
“Terrible weather for sailing,” John Erly said, close behind him. The Englishman had been huddled against the rocks a moment ago, well away from the cliff’s edge and out of the worst of the wind, playing his flute. John hated the sea and sailing. He looked green now, even safe on land, as he drew closer to the drop, ready to catch Dair if he had to.
If anyone understood why Dair Sinclair was mad, it was John. He’d been there, in the dungeon of Coldburn Keep for debt, had seen everything—well, the worst of it—and had taken pity on Dair. John had kept him alive, had brought him home, broken, fevered, and raving. Padraig had even more reason than most Scots to hate Sassenachs, yet he’d asked John to stay on, serve as his son’s companion, and Dair suspected the Englishman kept the chief informed about his son’s madness.
“I’ve seen higher seas than these,” Dair replied to John’s comment. Much higher—deadly waves that scooped men off the deck of a ship, carried them under in a single motion, and kept them. Did those men have time to feel, or think, or had it been peaceful down there below the surge, sinking from light to dark and into a death as soft and easy as a sigh? There were worse things than drowning. Far worse.
