She grinned at him, chuckled, then sighed. “I’m going,” she said, and turned.
“What did you do to Duncan?” he called after her.
She grinned again. “Do ye fear it’s a spell? I’m no more a witch than Fia is. I just gave him something strong to purge his bowels. If he believed it was poison, or a curse, it’s naught to do with me.”
He bent to buss her cheek. “You’re a clever lass, Moire o’ the Spring.”
She blushed to the roots of her gray hair. “Och, just see that you hurry. Ye’ve had your miracle, Alasdair Og. Now the lass is waiting for hers.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Donal MacLeod sat in his hall and sipped his ale miserably. On the opposite side of the room, his daughters gabbled together like geese. They were talking about Fia and Meggie, who were absent from the gaggle. Those two had been home almost a fortnight, and they’d been uncharacteristically quiet—at least with him. He knew they had left the Sinclairs in deep mourning for their chief, but the circumstances that had led to the death of the man remained murky, and try as he might, Donal could not get a straight answer from either lass.
He’d be forced to corner one of his other daughters and coax, cajole, or threaten the truth from her pretty lips. Or he’d line them all up like a regiment of soldiers and order them to tell him what the devil was going on in his own home.
Fia and Meggie had simply ridden into the bailey with an escort of MacKays one morning and announced they were home again. Fia was bruised, her face cut, her eyes ringed with terrible black circles. She told him she’d fallen off her horse and lost her plaid in the woods. He was inclined to believe it, since she was such a clumsy lass. The MacKays had nothing to add, save that they’d come upon his daughters in the woods on their land, riding alone, and had offered to see them safe home. So here they were, with no explanation of how or why, with none of the trunks and boxes and dozens of fine gowns they’d left with.
Donal’s offense was deeply felt. Could the folk of Carraig Brigh not have spared a single man to properly escort his lasses home, even if they were mourning? He’d have words to say to the new Sinclair, should he ever meet the man. “And what of Alastair Og, the chief’s heir?” Donal had asked Fia. “Do I need to send men to teach him his manners?”
“No, Papa. He’s . . . He’s dead as well,” Fia said, her face carefully blank, her chin high. She’d not said another word about it, nor had Meggie.
And now, after days without seeing hide nor hair of Fia, he’d finally found her in the stillroom, mixing a salve for one of the MacKays, who’d stayed on once they saw Donal’s lovely lasses.
To his eyes, Fia looked pale and thin. To the braw MacKay leaning against the table, watching her with a daft smile, she apparently looked good enough to eat. The lad had the good sense to blush and excuse himself when Donal entered the room.
“That wee cat you brought home with Beelzebub is rather fat,” Donal said, opening the conversation.
Fia gave him a faint smile. “She’s not fat, Papa. She’s full of kittens. Beelzebub has been bringing her all manner of tidbits—weasels, grouse, water rats—and laying them at her feet. I think he’s in love.” There—was there the slightest bit of sorrow in Fia’s hazel eyes? Donal’s own eyes narrowed. There was something in her expression that hadn’t been there before. She was . . .differentsince her return. For one thing, she hadn’t fallen or tripped or dropped anything. For another, she met people’s eyes and gave her opinion. Why, he’d seen her give her sisters a piece of her mind, and the surprise of that was enough to silence them. Now they asked for Fia’s advice, and listened. People noticed Fia when she walked into a room—and they noticed even more when she wasn’t there.
“What do you plan to do with yourself now you’re home again?” he asked her.
“I thought I’d go down to the village today, see if anyone might need salve or a kind word.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes and a sharp glitter that looked suspiciously like tears. He took her hand, rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.
“Let Ada go, lass. Get some rest,” he said. She looked at him from under her lashes, a sharp little rebuking glance, mature, womanly. It took his breath away.
“I don’t want to rest, Papa.”
“Then take a walk in the hills like you used to, or sew with Aileen.”
She shook her head.
Donal felt a wave of frustration. “Then what do you want?”
Her expression was as sad and lonely as he’d ever seen. She heaved a great sigh, full of longing and loss. He felt a shiver go through him. If he didn’t know better he’d have thought she was in love—Fia, his sensible, fey, awkward lass. But that was impossible.
Or was it? He thought again about the MacKay who’d been here with her before he entered.Interrupted.Ohh . . . Donal nearly grinned.
“Is there anything I can do, lass?” he asked her. She shook her head. For a lass in love, she looked terribly sad.
“No, Papa. Not a thing,” she said, and went right back to mixing herbs.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
“Will ye say aye, lass?” Fia sat in the hall of her father’s castle with David MacKay, a nephew of the MacKay clan chief, Lord Reay. David was attentive, kind, and solid. He had been at Iolair for only a week before he decided he wished to marry her. He was of an age to wed, he said, and his clan needed a healer. Marrying one would bring him prestige. He was his uncle’s heir, after five of his cousins, and he had a fine herd of cows, a cott of his own, and a good plot of land. All that was wanting was a wife and wee ones. They were all sound, well-considered reasons to propose, but he’d said nothing at all about love.
Fia had promised she’d consider the matter and give him a reply before he rode home again, a sennight hence.
And now, the day had come.
