John took the jest in stride. “I’ve never failed to impress a woman.”
“English ladies, perhaps. Scottish women insist on more from a man. Och, you’d give them a flute when they want a fine set of pipes, a butter knife instead of a claymore,” Dair said, then grinned, felt the smile creasing the scars on his cheek. “Ah well, perhaps ’twill work out after all—virgins won’t know enough about it to be disappointed.”
John raised one eyebrow. “There’s hope for you as well. A pretty face can make even the smallest cock swell—or cure almost any ill.”
“Or cause one,” Dair answered acidly, his smile fading. He picked up his walking stick, leaned heavily on it like an old man.
“You were not at fault, Sinclair. You’re lucky to be alive yourself,” John said for the hundredth time, or the thousandth. “You’re strong. It kept you alive. You nearly broke the chains they bound you with.”
But the shackles had held fast in the end—hell, they still held him. Dair clenched his fist on the top of the walking stick so hard the wood creaked.
John refrained from telling him to forget the past and forgive his enemies. Dair had nearly brained Father Alphonse the last time he’d suggested it, especially when the priest had followed the platitude with an offer to exorcise Jeannie’s ghost from his soul. Her ghost was the only thing keeping him alive—yet she called him away, too. He lived with one foot in the grave—her grave—and her ghost still trod these fields, this cliff, the chambers and halls of Carraig Brigh. He saw her a hundred times a day out of the corner of his eye. She haunted his sleep . . . Jeannie caged out of his reach but within his sight in the dungeon of Coldburn Keep . . . Jeannie tortured and tormented in unspeakable ways . . . Jeannie screaming for his help, for God’s mercy. Dair’s gut twisted, and he stumbled. John reached out a hand, set it on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Dair snapped, pulling away. He walked on, one limping, agonizing step after the other. John matched his pace, his concern like a lead weight. “Go on ahead,” Dair said gruffly. It was no more than fifty yards to the gate, but John hesitated, measured the distance with a glance, perhaps fearing Dair would go back to the cliff’s edge and jump after all. “Get them to fetch some water up to my chamber,” Dair said. “I’ll need to wash before I meet the virgins, look my best.” He knew his hair was wild, tangled by the wind, needed cutting, and his skin itched and stank from the salves and potions that mingled with the sickly-sweet smell of his healing wounds.
Once he’d been handsome, charming, witty, bold. Women had swooned when he entered a room, no matter the state of his hair. He wore expensive brocade and lace, a rapier belted to his hip, plaid trews, dazzling jewels . . .
He looked down at the workaday plaid he wore now, at his stockingless feet stuffed into thick brogues. Under his plaid, his thigh was thickly bandaged. His face was scarred, his nose broken. The ladies would swoon for quite another reason if they saw him now. His guts contracted at the idea of meeting his father’s virgins. There’d be naught but terror and tears when they set eyes on the Madman of Carraig Brigh.
He gritted his teeth and walked on, step by agonizing step. He should have taken a garron. He would have been able to ride into the bailey, the horse giving him at least the illusion of being fit and whole. He swore under his breath, a low, obscene sailor’s curse. Damn virgins and their innocent sensibilities—he was a chief’s son, a rich man, still a prize for any man’s daughter. But he knew that wasn’t true. He was a curse no sane woman would want. Well, he’d never liked virgins, and he was damned sure he was going to hate this one. He preferred his women experienced, as bold and daring as he was, in bed and out of it. He hadn’t had a woman for months, an eternity for a man used to a regular, impromptu, lusty sex life, but the lass was safe. His lust had died at Coldburn.
He was out of breath by the time he reached the postern gate, and he paused with his hand on the latch. Surely by now the bailey was empty of strangers and his father had escorted his guests into the elegance of the ancient hall, and was proudly serving refreshments to the dazzled maidens—Carraig Brigh was a place of rare and glorious treasures, brought back on Sinclair ships from all corners of the earth.
Perhaps if he was lucky—and he scoffed at that—he could limp across the cobbles unseen, go through the kitchens, and take the back stairs to his chamber. With virgins to charm, it might be hours before anyone noticed he hadn’t arrived in the hall. Or days. Perhaps the lasses would give up and go home if he refused to appear at all. He set his jaw bitterly and opened the gate. His father had invited them here, and his father could entertain them. He wanted nothing to do with foolish superstitions. His life had ended when Jeannie drew her last breath, and no one could restore him to the man he’d once been.
CHAPTER FOUR
Curious as he was about the visiting virgins with mystical abilities to heal madness and grief, John went to find Moire instead. He found her in the small closet off the kitchen they’d given her to sleep in, already packing her few belongings into a ragged square of plaid. She didn’t bother to look round to see who was at her door.
“I’m going,” she said firmly. “Ye canna make me stay, English John. I’m too old to fall for your charms and too wise to listen to silver-tongued blether. Alasdair Og isherproblem now.”
He leaned in the doorway and watched her pack. “He needs a healer, not a virgin.”
“Ye don’t know that.”
“I know he needs medicine, not magic—or a woman to fuck.”
If he’d hoped to shock her, he hadn’t. She cackled. “I’ve done all I know to do. I’ve drained and poulticed his wounds, dosed his fevers and aches. His leg is better, but I can’t fix what truly ails him. It’s not his leg. Mayhap hedoesneed magic now—or a willing lass in his bed.” She grinned. “Not me.”
“Have you met her?”
She shrugged. “’Tis not for the likes of me to meet the chief’s guests. She’s pretty, or so I hear.”
“What use is pretty? Jeannie was pretty. What if she reminds him of—things?”
Moire pinched her lips. “That’s naught to do with me.” She tied her bundle and hung it over her shoulder. “I’m going,” she said again. “It’s in the hands of the—God.” She crossed herself awkwardly, a habit she’d adopted whenever Father Alphonse cast a suspicious eye upon her. As usual, she followed the gesture by making a secret sign to her goddess behind her back.
“What poultices did you use, what herbs?” John asked.
Moire smirked. “Oh no—youcanna heal him, John Erly. Ye’ll have to trusther—the living lass, not the dead one who plagues him, though she’s the one who holds the power over him still, might well be the one who decides if he lives or . . .” She closed her mouth and waved her hand. “Wheesht. ’Tis not my concern now.” She stepped around him and scurried down the corridor like a mouse.
John stared after her. Perhaps she was right—the virgin might be clever and capable as well as pretty—though he’d personally never found a woman with that rare combination of blessings. She’d best be brave too, if she hoped to stand against the demons that plagued Dair—Dair’s ravings terrified grown men, strong warriors. Even Moire had been afraid.
And the virgin had better have the strength to face the doubts in Padraig Sinclair’s mind too, his fear of charlatans, and the wavering flame of hope he held in his heart for his son’s recovery. She’d also have to allay Father Alphonse’s distrust of healers and women in general. Could an untried, unknown, innocent girl do all that?
John picked up a clay pot that Moire had left behind and lifted the lid. Empty.
She’d left nothing.
