Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  Even in the dim light he saw the flush creep over her cheeks, and her eyes sharpened at his rudeness. Her chin rose, and she squared her shoulders, made herself fierce, a fitting foe to madness and pain after all, perhaps. “If Beelzebub doesn’t get you first,” she said. “I’m Fia MacLeod. I’d rather be called that than ‘the virgin,’ though that’s accurate.”

  The cat jumped down, nudged its great head against her knee. It wrapped its tail around her skirts possessively and never once took its eyes off Dair.

  Fia MacLeod lifted the terrible creature into her arms. It hung over her shoulder like a fur robe, tail switching, and warned Dair away with the kind of glare he was more used to from jealous husbands.

  “I trust you are Alasdair Og Sinclair?” she said when he didn’t introduce himself. Her hand slid over the cat’s flank, and the beast’s purr nearly drowned out the sound of the rain on the roof. “Shall we start again? I have come here as your father’s guest, nothing more. I have—in the past—healed birds and wild creatures, set broken wings and injured paws.” She swallowed. “And I limp. I have since I was a child. I was not mocking you.” Her eyes met his—soft, golden-green eyes, hypnotic and soothing. There was no pity, no disgust. She looked at him as a man. Her awareness of his sex was betrayed by the bright spots of color in her cheeks.

  He shifted, moved to lean against the nearest stall to ease his leg. The cat growled again, and she shushed it. It obeyed instantly, like magic—or witchcraft. They called Jeannie a witch and a heretic, killed her for it . . .

  He assessed her again, trying to decide if she was truly as innocent as she seemed, or if she was indeed a witch, or a gold-digging wench who hoped to marry a chief’s son. Had she no man of her own at home? Were the lads on MacLeod lands blind? Honesty radiated from her, and simplicity. Her gown was plain, not styled to entice or seduce, but it was made of the finest wool and well cut. She held his gaze without a hint of coquetry, daring him to dismiss her, to say something cruel. She expected it, he realized, was braced for it. There was strength to Fia MacLeod’s delicacy, like steel wrapped in velvet. He felt the urge to draw closer, know more, but he stayed where he was.

  He should have bowed, apologized, offered his arm, and escorted her indoors out of the rain. The old Dair would have done so. He would have flirted, charmed her, had her simpering and cooing.

  But he wasn’t the old Dair. He glared at her, silently wished her away, hating her presence here, the reason she’d come. He was mad, broken, ashamed—unfit company for a tender young lass. He didn’t want Fia MacLeod’s help, or her frank, pretty eyes upon him, looking at him as if she could see beyond the scars and injuries to the stains on his soul.

  “You’re my father’s guest, not mine. I didn’t ask you to come. I don’t believe in prophecies or magic,” he said harshly. “If you have any sense, you’ll go back where you came from, now, today, this very moment.” He snarled the warning at her, doing his best to frighten her. It was all he could do to protect her . . . But she regarded him silently and ignored the warning, or didn’t recognize it.

  What now? His leg ached. The rain made his scars burn, gnawed on his half-healed bones. He felt the weight of her silence and wondered what she was thinking. He’d had enough of healers and conjurers, and now this, wee Fia MacLeod and her great cat. Things had taken a turn toward the ridiculous. He fought the urge to laugh like a loon.

  “Did my father mention I’m mad? The last virgin I knew died, Mistress MacLeod. I watched it happen. Does that shock you? Can you fix that, raise the dead, wash the stains from my soul?”

  She flinched, her skin paling to porcelain. She didn’t know. They hadn’t told her about Jeannie . . . She was afraid of him now, he thought. Good. In a moment, she’d burst into tears and flee. He took a limping step toward her and spread his arms wide. The cat growled a warning, and he ignored it. “Well? What are you waiting for? Perform your miracle.” He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes, read uncertainty in every line of her body even as she held his gaze, stood brave before him, trusting him, even now. He was between her and the door, blocking her escape, twice her size, stronger than she, the Madman of Carraig Brigh in the flesh, raging, terrifying, unpredictable, and dangerous. He shook with pain and his own horror at what he’d become.

  The cat yowled louder still, warning him back, and Fia MacLeod clutched at the beast, barely containing him in the fragile cage of her arms.

  “May I have my arisaid?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I’m cold.”

  The request brought him up short, doused the fire of his fury. He blinked at the crumpled wool he’d dropped on the floor when he entered the stable—blue and green, the MacLeod colors. He picked it up. It was damp, covered with straw.

  Fia MacLeod set the cat down. The creature leaped to a perch on the half door of a stall beside her, his tail twitching. She took her plaid from his hand. The brush of her fingers on his went through him like wildfire. He caught the faint scent of flowers. It made him want to lean closer, breathe her in. Jeannie had smelled sweet too, yet her temper was ferocious. He’d fetched her cloak too, as she stood watching the sunset from the deck of the ship, scant hours before they’d been captured.

  He couldn’t seem to step away from Fia MacLeod. “Better?” he asked her. Just the way he’d asked Jeannie that night . . .

  “Yes, thank you,” she murmured as she threw her plaid around her shoulders, drew it close to her neck. Her eyes met his. He felt the spark of her gaze go through him, warm him . . . He watched her throat bob as she swallowed. “I should go inside. My sister will be concerned—”

  “Yes,” he said, but he didn’t move. The cat moved instead. Dair felt the rake of claws across his cheek. He leaped back with a curse as the cat exploded past him and disappeared into the loft.

  He flinched when she touched his cheek, her gentle caress unexpected. He resisted the urge to press his face into her palm, jerked his head away instead, and stumbled backward as if she’d burned him. She paused with her hand suspended in midair, more of his blood on her fingertip. Her eyes widened, but not with fear. Compassion, he thought. Not pity.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she said.

  Hurt him? He could tear her in two, one more fragile creature destroyed at his hands, her sweetness, her innocence gone forever . . . pain gripped him, made him shake. He backed away, leaned against the wall.

  “Are you so certain I will not hurt you, Mistress MacLeod?”

  She hesitated a moment before she stepped around him, trailing the tantalizing scent of flowers, wet wool, and woman, and limped out of the stable without another word, her spine straight, dignity radiating from every line of her body.

  He felt as if he’d trampled on a butterfly, or kicked a kitten.

  He gave her enough time to make it inside the hall before he slunk out of the stable. He picked up his walking stick and turned toward the kitchen door. Unease simmered in his veins—or was it regret?

  He told himself it didn’t matter. By morning, Fia MacLeod would be gone, back where she’d come from, terrified, vanquished, and whimpering. Would his last hope for salvation go with her? He paused, let the rain soak through his clothes. He’d hold the memory of her for a time, the last pretty woman who looked at him as a man, not a monster, before madness twisted even that, warped it. The last of his soul had died with Jeannie.

  There was nothing left of Alasdair Og Sinclair for anyone to save.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fia felt the warmth of Alasdair Og’s body as she passed him—or perhaps it was the searing heat of his rage. Still, it made her own body heat in response, sent fire crackling along her limbs, pooling in her breasts and belly. He was a handsome man, or he had been. She could see that in the long, lean strength of his body, an old athletic grace, evident even through the pain walking caused him. She could see the elegant structure of the bones beneath the damaged surface, the high, arrogant cheekbones, the wide brow. His nose had been broken, but his lips were soft, sensual, and
well shaped. His mouth gave away his thoughts, since he kept his eyes carefully blank, when they weren’t filled with rage and torment. His dark hair was wild, in need of cutting, but she longed to touch it, to brush the locks out of his eyes, to smooth the lines from his brow.

  She braced for a cruel comment or worse as she moved around him, but he didn’t stop her. He stood with his fists and his jaw tightly clenched, Bel’s bloody scratches adding to the scars on his face, and watched her go. She felt his eyes on her like a touch. She made her bearing proud, half-hoped he’d call her back, even while it took all her courage not to run.

  She could not help Alasdair Og Sinclair. Whatever ailed him was out of her ken. He said he’d watched a woman die. If that was true, he was worse than mad, and she couldn’t fix that. Whatever else he was, Alasdair Og was the proudest, angriest man she’d ever met. He made her more afraid then she’d ever been. There was a wildness about him that made her heart beat faster, made her quiver with fear—and excitement too—as if she’d happened on an injured wolf caught in a snare. She put her hand to her heart, felt it beating like a trapped bird.

  But the ache in her chest was familiar. It came from a desire to help, to heal, to soothe, but he didn’t want her help. He’d jerked away from her touch, his pride every bit as formidable as a wolf’s. She suspected he wasn’t one to accept help when he was whole and healthy, and now he was ashamed of his wounds, of what had happened to him, of what he’d become.

  She was familiar with that feeling too.

  Still, despite the disaster of their encounter, Alasdair Og Sinclair hadn’t looked at her with pity or disgust. Those emotions had been turned inward on himself. He was every bit as afraid of her as she was of him—well, perhaps not afraid of her, but of the reason she had come to Carraig Brigh. No, she couldn’t help him. Fia stepped inside the door of the hall, out of Alasdair Og’s sight, and shut her eyes.

  She wanted to go home.

  She imagined her sisters gathering around her, comforting her, telling her she was right to come home, that she should never have gone in the first place. They’d tell her she belonged where she was safe, that there was no need for her to ever set foot outside the glen again. Her father would smile fondly and tell her Ada needed help, and send her off with a kiss on the cheek—the unscarred one. Then her family would forget her yet again.

  She knew her kin loved her dearly in their own distracted way, but none of them needed her.

  Alasdair Og Sinclair needed her, a little voice said—or at least he needed someone. She’d never met anyone more alone than he.

  She moved out of the way as servants bustled through the door with one of Meggie’s trunks. There’d been a great flurry of sewing, trimming, and packing of frocks and finery in the days before they left Glen Iolair—and now it all had to be carried inside and up the stairs.

  Fia bit her lip. She should stop them, tell them to put the trunks back on the carts, but as usual, no one even noticed she was there, standing quietly by the door. She was all but invisible to most people. She’d come to believe they simply preferred not to see her, so they wouldn’t have to consider the person behind the limp and the scars. She’d have to allow the servants to finish their task before she climbed the stairs to find her sister. As clumsy as Fia was, she’d only cause a situation, and that was not how she wished to begin her visit to Carraig Brigh—or end it. Especially now, after the disastrous encounter with Alasdair Og in the stables.

  Perhaps she should find the chief first and make arrangements to return home at once, tell him she was sorry, but she couldn’t help his son. But Padraig Sinclair was nowhere in sight, and the servants continued to stream through the door and up the stairs with luggage.

  The Sinclair had told her that his son had seen innumerable healers. She wondered what he’d endured at their hands. Her father had taken her to Edinburgh when she was just one-and-ten, to doctors who assured him they could straighten her leg with iron rods and ropes, and burn away her scars with potions. From the first touch it had been agonizingly painful. Fortunately, her father could not bear her suffering. He stopped the treatments at once, took her home again, and left her as she was. But she was just a daughter—a proud man like Padraig Sinclair must have found it hard to have a broken man for his son and heir. She’d given him false hope by coming to Carraig Brigh, and for that she felt a surge of guilt. A wounded man was very different from an injured sparrow, and pain and fear made injured wolves more dangerous than whole ones. She clasped her hands together and shivered.

  She looked around the great hall of Carraig Brigh. The stone walls were hung with tapestries—not homemade, but expensive, expertly woven ones, with scenes of knights in armor and great battles—how her father would have loved them! The sideboard held a luxurious display of glass and porcelain beside the usual pewter plates and cups. The draperies that enclosed the deep window seats were of brocade and velvet. Yet behind the grand decorations, the hall was venerable, ancient, and Scottish. Above the French hangings, the walls bristled with swords, shields, and axes, proclaiming the pride and might of the clan that had sheltered, fought, and celebrated within these walls for long centuries.

  On one side of the room she noticed an arched doorway. Curious, she crossed the room and slipped through the open doors. She gaped at the magnificence of the room before her, a huge library, grander by far than the little collection of books at Glen Iolair, kept on a single shelf in one corner of the solar. This room was filled with books from floor to ceiling. The rain-light poured through tall windows and glittered on gold-embossed spines, made them dazzle the eye, as if the sun lived in this room, in these tomes. There were tables covered with scientific objects and cabinets filled with curiosities. An etched leather globe stood near the window next to a brass telescope. The soaring ceiling was painted with clouds and angels. No, not angels—she recognized a younger Padraig Sinclair, dressed in Greek armor and the Sinclair plaid. A young boy stood next to him, dark hair curling back from his brow, his smile enigmatic. Other family members flanked them—a golden pair of twins, one male, one female, and a woman who regarded the others fondly. It made her dizzy to stare up at the pantheon of Sinclairs, hovering above her like gods. Glen Iolair had nothing so grand as this.

  She looked at the paintings that adorned the walls—scenes of ships tossed on moody seas, exotic landscapes, and fine portraits of Sinclair men and women. There was a painting of Padraig in full regalia, standing by the sea with his ships behind him, his hand on the head of a long-legged deerhound.

  She stopped in her tracks when she met Alasdair Og’s painted gaze. The portrait showed a charming rogue in a fashionable wig that cascaded over a lace cravat and an elegant gray-blue velvet coat that matched the color of his eyes. The Sinclair plaid was thrown over his shoulder and pinned with a massive ruby. There was no trace of madness in his eyes, and there were no scars. This man was all grace, pride, and wit, and handsome as the devil. Fia put a hand to her fluttering heart. She gripped the back of a gilded chair and stared into his painted eyes. This was not the man she’d met in the stable. Or was it?

  A gilded French clock on the mantel chimed, and Fia gasped at the hour. She’d promised her sister she’d be gone just long enough to settle Bel in a corner of the stable.

  She cast a last look at the portrait of Alasdair Og and hurried back to the hall to ask directions to the chamber she’d share with her sister, but the servants had finished their work and gone. She went back outside to look for help.

  An old woman was crossing the bailey with a bundle on her back, muttering to herself. She stopped when she saw Fia, and her gray brows quirked skyward.

  “So he found ye.”

  “Your pardon?” Fia said.

  “The chief. You’re the virgin.” She cocked her head like a bird, drew nearer. “What else are ye? Are ye healer or witch, or just a lass who wishes to marry a wealthy man, mad or sane?”

  Fia was taken aback by the old woman’s bold questions. “Do you know
where I might find Chief Sinclair?”

  The old woman ignored her query. “Ye don’t look likely. ’Tis a dangerous business, especially with—” She twirled a bony finger next to her ear.

  Fia frowned. “He’s not mad.”

  The old woman cackled. “So ye’ve seen that already. Perhaps you’re likely after all. No, mayhap he’s not mad, but he won’t heal, can’t—d’ye ken that too? His wounds feed on his rage, grow stronger. A man canna live with such things gnawing on him.” She poked her finger into Fia’s shoulder. “Can ye fix that? If ye canna, then . . .” She shrugged and stepped back. “Well—I won’t be here to see it. I’m going.”

  “May I know your name?” Fia asked, taking a few steps after the old woman.

  The old woman paused, let her eyes flick over the empty carts, the tower, the sky. The clouds that brought the rain hovered still, restless and moody, as if they couldn’t decide if they’d move on or stay and open again.

  “Moire o’ the Spring has done what she could,” the old woman muttered to the air. “Was it of use? Time will tell, and the goddess will decide. Is she likely? She has a look about her, I say.” She turned back to Fia. “It’s in your hands whether he lives or dies, or stays as he is with one foot in each place.” She made a sign in the air with her fingers. “The chief cannot hold me, and there is neither harm nor good here for old Moire.”

  With that, she spun on her heel like a sprite, went through the gate and past the sentries, who paid her no mind at all.

  Fia looked up at the looming shadow of the tower above her. The very stones of Carraig Brigh felt unhappy, restless, fearful.

  She shivered, and half wished she could follow the crone out the gate.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Mistress MacLeod?” Fia turned to see a maidservant on the doorstep behind her. “I was sent to find ye. Yer sister is waiting upstairs.” There was curiosity and speculation in the girl’s eyes as they flicked over Fia from head to hem. Was she wondering too if Fia was capable of miracles and magic, or was she simply staring at the scars? Fia felt her cheeks heat as she nodded and let the servant lead the way.