Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  Fia was all too aware of her limp as she led them along the corridor, and of her scars, though her sleeve completely covered the marks on her arm, and her hair hid the ones on her brow and cheek. She could feel the curious eyes of the Sinclair clansmen boring into her back, and she tried to walk as straight as she could, but her face flamed as she imagined the pity and revulsion in their eyes. She wasn’t surprised she hadn’t known her father had visitors. He didn’t like to expose her to strangers, for both her sake and his own. It kept the need for awkward explanations to a minimum if she simply wasn’t there.

  The little stillroom off the kitchen courtyard was crowded with so many big men in it. Fia crossed and opened the window shutters, let sunshine into the room, and turned to take down the pots she needed—comfrey, rose hips, and yarrow—and concentrated on mixing the herbs. It gave her a reason to avoid looking at the men directly. Still, she was aware that the Sinclair chief stood by the door with his bonnet in his hands, watching her like Bel watched prey. She hoped he was merely angry and that he wouldn’t be so bold as to ask her how she’d been injured. A fall, she’d say, as she always did, since it was mostly true. Then she’d change the subject. The Sinclair clansmen looked anxious—afraid she’d cause them pain, perhaps, or administer a strong physic, or maybe they were simply fearful of a scarred lass with a terrible limp.

  When she was ready, the chief indicated with a wave of his hand that his clansmen should accept treatment before him, and one after the other they sat on the stool in front of her and let her clean their scratches. They were tense at first, braced for pain, but she was gentle, her touch sure, and they quickly relaxed. They looked up at her with surprise and gratitude, and thanked her. The Sinclair sent each man out with a nod of his head, until he was alone with her.

  “If you’ll be so good as to sit here,” she said, indicating the stool his men had used. His gaze upon her was unsettling as he sat down.

  “You’re a healer,” he said.

  “Mostly wild creatures,” she said, dabbing at the scratches with clean linen. “Birds with broken wings, cats trying to poach from hunters’ snares, injured stoats . . .”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “My son is—injured,” he said at last, and she met his eyes. “I came here to seek a bri—a healer for him,” he said, and slid his eyes away. She waited for him to go on.

  “His ship was captured off the coast of England on its way to France. He was taken prisoner. His crew and his . . . companion were killed, and his own wounds went untended for weeks.” He drew a breath, as if wondering if he should continue. She gave him an encouraging nod. “He still has nightmares, and his wounds will not heal. People say he’s mad. They call him the Madman of Carraig Brigh.”

  Fia met his eyes. “Och, I’ve heard of him.”

  Padraig Sinclair’s brows shot up, which made the scratches break open and bleed again. He scarcely seemed to notice. “How? How have you heard of him here, so far from Carraig Brigh?”

  She pressed gently on the scratches with a little yarrow to staunch the bleeding. “People travel. They bring tales. There’s a lass in the village with a cousin from Caithness. He told her the tale, and she told me.”

  “Your father didn’t seem to know.” He said it warily, and she looked into his eyes again, saw fear warring with pride.

  “I don’t repeat gossip, not even to Papa. No one would trust me if I betrayed their confidences, now, would they? They’d not tell me a thing more. When they talk, I can see what they see, travel beyond this glen, have adventures through their stories.”

  “Do you not travel yourself?” he asked. “Does your . . . infirmity prevent it?”

  She felt hot blood flood her face, and she concentrated on dipping her fingers into the salve and applying it.

  It was true enough—her scars and the limp kept her from doing a great many things she wished she could. Her father had simply never allowed her to leave Glen Iolair. She—he—feared she would face pity, or fear, or disgust, in the eyes of strangers. No, she did not travel. Most likely she would never leave this glen, never marry, probably never even know a man’s kiss. She would have to content herself with rocking her sisters’ bairns, for she’d have none of her own.

  “My family is very protective of me,” she said, realizing he was waiting for an answer.

  “You’re treasured.”

  “Yes.” Too treasured. Smothered.

  A shadow passed across the window, and a small bird flew down to land on the lip of the bowl beside her hand. “Hello,” she said. The Sinclair chief sat very still as Fia reached into her pocket for the bread crumbs she always kept there and held them out in her palm. The bird hopped onto her bright blue fingertip, not caring that she was clumsy and had fallen into a vat of dye. Beelzebub had caught the wee sparrow last year when it was just a fledgling. Fia had rescued the bird, healed his damaged wing, and released him. She’d taken joy in watching him fly away. The bird came back from time to time to visit. Once he’d had his fill of crumbs, he sped away on a whir of wings.

  “Lass, would you come to Carraig Brigh and meet my son?” the Sinclair asked.

  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 saying scars.

  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 honore
d 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. He was dead, 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.

  “Are you going to jump?” John asked, keeping his tone bland.

  “Would you feel the need to jump after me?”

  John grimaced. “I’d rather stop you before it comes to that.”

  Brave, foolish, faithful John. Didn’t he know Dair was already dead in all the ways that mattered? Still, he turned away from the cliff’s seductive edge. “There’s no point in your getting wet. I know how you hate the sea.”

  There was concern in John’s eyes. “And I know how much you love it. If you were going to end your life, you’d choose this.”

  Would he? Did he have the courage? “Not today.” Not yet, not until he’d choked the life out of the bastards who’d murdered Jeannie and his men.

  “Your cousin’s coming,” John said, looking back toward Carraig Brigh, away from the nauseating sight of the sea.

  For a moment, Dair’s heart leaped, and he turned, half expecting to see Jeannie, alive again, her skirts kilted at her waist, her feet bare as she raced across the grass toward him. She’d suggest climbing down the cliff path to the beach before the tide changed, to look for clams or swim . . .

  But it was Logan, Jeannie’s twin brother, who was hurrying up the path, waving his arms and calling. Dair’s heart dropped to his belly, dead as a stone, leaving him breathless and angry. John went back to his seat on the rock, put his flute to his lips, and played a jaunty English tune. The wind caught the sharp notes of the flute, swirled them around Dair like Jeannie’s cries for mercy. The seabirds wheeled high above and laughed like her captors. He turned on John. “Stop playing that damn thing, can’t you?”

  John looked at him blandly. “Perhaps a different tune would suit you better?”

  Dair wrapped his plaid more tightly over his chest, not bothering to reply. Nothing suited him. He picked up the walking stick, leaned on it like an old man, and watched Logan come. The lad’s kilt flew around his strong legs as he ran, breath singing in and out of his whole, healthy body, his face and mind still wide and fresh and open to the joys of the world. Logan had the same golden hair as his sister, the same blue eyes . . . Dair gritted his teeth against rage and sorrow and guilt.

  Logan arrived and bent with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

  “The chief sent me to fetch you, Dair. He’s home.”

  Dair looked over his cousin’s shoulder at the road leading to the keep, half-expecting to see a golden chariot climbing the steep hill in a beam of heavenly light, heralding the virgin’s arrival, but the road was empty. “Was his mission successful? Did he find a virgin?”

  Logan grinned. “Aye—he came back with two MacLeod lasses.”

  “Two? Was there a special price for doubling his order? My father always was a fine negotiator with a canny eye for a bargain. And I was foolish enough to think he’d not find even one unblemished lass willing to have me,” Dair quipped. John frowned, but Logan didn’t recognize the sarcasm in his tone—he laughed at the bitter jest. The lad was daft as a hare.

  “Perhaps the second lass is in case the first refuses you,” John said, and Logan laughed again.

  “How will I choose between them? Is one prettier than the other?” Dair asked his cousin. At twenty-one, Logan had a bold and eager eye for women.

  Logan grinned. “Both are fair enough from what I saw, but your father sent me off to find you before I could get a proper look.”

  “Ah, then you’d best hurry back,” Dair said. He put his good arm around the lad’s shoulders. “What say you go try them out for me and decide which one might suit me best? I could choose once I have your recommendation—or I could just take the one you don’t want.” He felt Logan stiffen, saw the surprise in his cousin’s eyes. Dair felt bitterness coil through his belly again. He stepped back and touched his hand to his
forehead. “Och no, what am I thinking? Then she wouldn’t be a virgin any longer, and I’d still be mad.”

  Logan’s grin faded. “Dhia, Dair. What if the old woman’s prophecy is true? What if they—she, or someone, a miracle—can heal you? Don’t you want that?”

  Dair saw Jeannie’s ghost in her brother’s face, heard her voice asking the question. He closed his eyes, rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger to banish her. It was no use. He glared at Logan. “Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as miracles—even you know that. If there was—” If there was, then she’d be alive, here now, beside him. “It’s an idiotic plan. I wonder what my father told the lasses to get them to come. Or is it just that I’ve become such a curiosity that people are willing to travel all the way across Scotland to see the madman in person? We should sell subscriptions, serve ale and cakes while I foam and rant—”

  He stopped when he saw the horror in his cousin’s eyes. It wasn’t new—everyone at Carraig Brigh looked at him like that, as if he’d killed them all with his own hands. He’d have done anything, given anything, even his own life, to save them . . . He forced himself to relax. “Never mind, lad. Go and make the lasses welcome, and I’ll be along soon.”

  Logan nodded once, serious now, the joy gone from his day. “Coming with me, English John?”

  “I’ll walk back with Dair,” the Englishman said. “We won’t be long. Save us a leg of virgin.”

  They watched the lad go. “Perhaps we should have gone ahead and made him wait here. We’ll be a poor second act after they meet Logan,” Dair said.

  John barked a laugh. “Speak for yourself. I intend to charm them.”

  “I’ll wager you won’t. These are Scottish lassies. They’ll have been brought up to believe that Englishmen have long tails and cloven hooves.”

  “I’ll be happy to prove there’s no tail on this Sassenach,” John said, grinning.

  “Ah, but if they see you without breeches they’ll know the other wee rumor about Sassenach men is true. They’d certainly not have you then.”