Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  The maid took the stairs quickly, without thinking, and had to pause to give Fia time to catch up, follow her through a warren of corridors.

  At last they arrived at a set of double doors, and the girl nodded for Fia to go in.

  The chamber was in chaos. Trunks had disgorged cargoes of shimmering silk, rustling taffeta, glowing velvet, and fine wool everywhere. Three Sinclair maids were busy unpacking gowns, bonnets, shoes, stockings, bodices, and petticoats.

  In the midst of it all, Meggie was reclining on a settee. “Where have you been? I’m supposed to be chaperoning you,” she said, and held out a goblet made of fine glass, rare and expensive. “Taste this. I swear it’s pure nectar. The Sinclair sent it up with his compliments.” Fia took the glass and sipped the ruby wine. “Isn’t it marvelous? It’s French!”

  Fia saw the maids toss knowing looks between themselves. “We’ve had French wine before,” she said, to both them and her sister.

  “I know, but Papa prefers Rhenish, or whisky, or ale. Well, I prefer this. The Sinclairs bring it from France in their ships. The English cannot get it without paying dearly, since they are at war with France, but we Scots can have all we want,” Meggie gushed. “The Sinclairs are very rich. Did you know that?”

  Fia glanced at the expensive brocade bed hangings, the thick Turkey rug that covered the floor, and the French tapestries that hid cold stone walls. This room was as luxurious as the library. “Yes, I know.” She wondered how much gold Padraig Sinclair would trade to heal his son, to have the fine young man in the portrait back again. “All of it,” she whispered. Meggie didn’t notice, but one of the maids looked at her sharply, as if she’d muttered a curse.

  Meggie took back the goblet and immediately refilled it. Fia unwound her arisaid, desperate to wash away the dust of the road and the memory of her encounter with Alasdair Og. She didn’t feel tainted—just confused. Her body buzzed and her skin remembered every place his hands had touched her. She started to roll up her long lace-edged sleeves, then hesitated, not wanting to expose the scars on her arm to the servants. She clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to smile as if nothing at all was wrong.

  Meggie rose from the settee to whisper in Fia’s ear so the maids wouldn’t hear. “I haven’t seen Alasdair Og yet, but there are plenty of other Sinclair men that are quite pleasing to the eye. I wonder what he’s like.”

  Fia pictured Alasdair’s angry gray eyes—his dark, wind-tangled hair, his scarred face, the lean, damaged body. “I saw him in the bailey,” she admitted.

  Meggie’s eyes widened. “Truly? No wonder you were gone so long. Is it true? Is he mad?”

  The maids leaned in, all ears. Meggie could be dreadfully indiscreet. She loved to gossip, and the wine had loosened her tongue even more than usual.

  “No. He’s injured, but not mad,” Fia said. The maids smirked as if they knew different.

  “Is he handsome?” Meggie demanded.

  Yes, Fia thought. Even scarred, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He took her breath away with fear, and compassion, and emotions she had no name for at all. She opened her mouth to tell Meggie and closed it again. She didn’t want to share him with her sister, or the Sinclair’s sharp-eyed maidservants. Not yet, at least.

  “He’s his father’s son,” Fia said vaguely.

  Meggie sighed. “I met Logan Sinclair, the chief’s nephew. Now, there’s a fine figure of a man, though young. And there’s Lord John Erly as well—they call him English John. He’s handsome enough for an Englishman, I suppose, but can you imagine Papa’s face if one of us took up with a Sassenach? They say he’s here because his own father disowned him for being a rake and a rogue. Scots don’t cast off their children.” She tilted her nose in the air. “Not that I’m here to find a husband, of course, just to chaperone you. You haven’t gotten into any trouble, have you?”

  “I haven’t met Logan Sinclair, or anyone English,” Fia said. She changed the subject to one of Meggie’s favorite topics. “Are we to dress for dinner? I think I’ll wear the dark blue silk.”

  “Oh, Fia—it’s so plain. Wear the rose velvet,” Meggie said.

  Would Alasdair Og like rose velvet? The thought passed through Fia’s mind unbidden. The debonair gentleman in the portrait certainly seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate an elegantly dressed woman. The tortured man in the stable wouldn’t care if she wore sackcloth to supper.

  Meggie poured more wine and chattered happily about how she intended to wear her hair that evening. Fia only half-listened. She wanted a rest, and a chance to think.

  But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Alasdair Og Sinclair, standing in the rain, his eyes as cold as the winter sea.

  “It’s in your hands whether he lives or dies, or stays as he is with one foot in each place,” the old woman had said.

  Doubt and homesickness opened a cavern inside her. She remembered how it felt to be filled with pain too great for her tortured mind and body, hoping someone would find her, forgive her, heal her. But now she feared Alasdair Og’s darkness would consume her, and she would be as lost as he.

  This time forever.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  John went out to the bailey to look for Dair, since he hadn’t seen him return. A small group of clansmen stood near the empty wagons.

  “Anyone seen Dair?”

  “I saw him go through the kitchen a while ago. At least he’s safe.” Niall Sinclair muttered. He jerked his thumb toward two men who stood over the prone figure of Ruari Sinclair, who lay stretched on his back in the dirt, his panicked gaze fixed on the sky, his throat working. There were bloodstains on his shirt and fresh wounds on his face and hands.

  John frowned. “Was there a fight?” The other men were bloody as well, their expressions grim. They looked like warriors returning from a battle they’d lost.

  Angus Mor wiped a smear of gore from his cheek and pointed at the open door of the stable. “There’s a terrible beast in there—something ferocious, with claws long enough to rip a man’s throat out. Poor Jock is trapped in there with it. We’ve tried to save him, but it’s no use. The creature’s got him.”

  “I think it’s a wolf,” Niall said. “Or a wildcat.”

  “Or a she-bear,” Angus suggested.

  “It’s not from this world,” Ruari whispered, struggling to sit up. “Look at my face—it nearly took my eye out with one swipe of its mighty paw!”

  A scream of pure terror rang out from the dark recesses of the stable.

  Angus Mor hung his head. “Poor Jock. Who’ll tell Morag that her man won’t be coming home again?”

  “We’ll give him a fine burial if it doesna eat him,” Niall said sadly.

  Another cry rang out, followed by a guttural growl. The hair on the back of John’s neck rose.

  “Ach Dhia, help me!” Jock pleaded from inside the stable.

  “It’s toying with him, drawing it out, torturing him,” Ruari said in a harsh whisper. The others nodded sorrowfully.

  “Surely no beast of any size is a match for half a dozen Sinclairs,” John said.

  “There’s really only the three of us here—four if ye include Wee Alex, Angus’s lad, and he’s only got ten summers,” Niall muttered.

  “I’m twelve,” the lad piped, sticking his thumbs in his belt.

  “We’ve got to do something,” John insisted, but Angus shook his head.

  “Mayhap they don’t have such beasties in England, but here—” Angus’s jaw quivered. “Nay—there’s naught to be done for Jock.”

  “Alex, go inside and fetch down an axe from the wall,” John ordered Angus’s young son. “Bring a sword, too.”

  “And a long lance and a heavy targe,” Niall added.

  “All that will just make the creature mad,” Angus hissed. They winced as Jock screeched again.

  Wee Alex came back with an eating knife and a fireplace poker. “It’s all I could reach,” he said.

  Another cry issued
from the stable, a bloodcurdling animal howl, followed by a human one. Jock Murray burst out of the dark mouth of the building, his plaid flying around his bloodied shins, his face flushed and scratched. He didn’t stop to talk. He kept on running, straight out the gate and down the hill toward the village.

  A bristling white beast chased Jock as far as the doorway, then stopped to regard the men in the bailey. The creature’s back arched, and its ears flattened against a huge head as it growled curses at them.

  The clansmen stared at it in slack-jawed silence.

  “But that’s just a wee cat!” Niall said at last, though he took a step back when the beast snarled again and bared gleaming teeth.

  “Nothing wee about it—where’d it come from?” Angus asked in a whisper.

  “Should we kill it?” Ruari asked. “Can it be killed?”

  They jumped as the door of the necessary opened with a squeal of its leather hinges and Andrew Pyper stepped out, adjusting his plaid. He looked at the gathering in surprise. “What’s going on?”

  Niall pointed. “Devil cat. Don’t move. Angus is going to kill it.”

  Andrew glanced at the cat. “Kill it? Are ye daft? One of the MacLeod lasses keeps it as a pet. You can’t kill it.”

  Ruari’s eyes popped. “A pet? That?”

  “What kind of virgin has a pet like that?” Angus asked. The men turned back to Andrew for an answer, since he’d been at Glen Iolair.

  “Och, Mistress Fia MacLeod is as sweet as a morning meadow, as lovely as the sun rising over the peaks of—”

  Angus Mor rolled his eyes. “Dhia—never ask a seanchaidh’s son to give ye a short answer.”

  Andrew looked hurt. “The cat’s name is Beelzebub, and for good reason.” He rolled back his sleeve to show them the half-healed scratches that crosshatched his arm from wrist to elbow.

  “What do we do?” Niall demanded. “We’ve got to get into the stable.” They looked at the cat. The creature switched its tail and stared them down.

  John was no stranger to finding ways to get past gatekeepers, guardians, chaperones, and nursemaids to reach a lovely virgin’s bower. Sometimes all it took was charm. Other times . . . “A bribe,” he said. The Sinclairs looked at him. “We need to bribe the cat. I once knew an old lady who was fond of jam tarts. She had a pretty niece I wished to visit, but her parents refused to allow me to see her and left her aunt to guard the girl’s virtue. I brought the old auntie a basket of tarts, spoke a few charming words, and she was most agreeable to turning her back for a short while.”

  “Now there’s a tale worthy of a seanchaidh,” Andrew said. “What happened to the lass?”

  “I think he means we should feed the cat,” Wee Alex said. “Is that right, English John?”

  John nodded. “Precisely. A bribe.”

  Niall folded his arms over his broad chest. “Highlanders don’t pay bribes. We take what we want by force. It’s a point of honor. Besides, we haven’t got any jam tarts, and our cook would box our ears before she’d give us any to feed to a cat.”

  Andrew Pyper reached into a pouch at his belt. “I have a bit of bannock left from the journey,” he said. “Will that do?”

  They looked at the cat, who raised his nose in the air, tested the breeze, then fixed an expectant yellow gaze on the tidbit in Andrew’s fingers.

  “Go on,” Angus said, elbowing him. “Give it to him.”

  Andrew swallowed. “Why me?”

  “It’s your bannock. Och, don’t worry, lad—we’ll tell your father ye died a hero, and he’ll make a fine song about ye. Get on with it.”

  They held their breath as Andrew crept forward, crooning soft nonsense, the food extended on the very tips of his fingers. The cat waited, proud as a king. Andrew tossed the bannock. It landed between Beelzebub’s massive paws.

  For a moment the cat regarded the offering disdainfully, then his whiskers swept forward as he focused his attention on the bannock. He took it in his great fangs and shook it, worked it over, and devoured it. Then the cat abandoned his post in the doorway, strolled to the mounting block in the center of the bailey, and began to wash his face.

  “It worked!” Angus said. He slapped John on the back and grinned.

  “So what happened with the lass—the one with the aunt with a fondness for tarts?” Niall asked.

  “She eventually married a marquess,” John said. “So who’s going into the stable first?”

  They looked at the cat, still bathing itself on the mounting block. “How fast can a cat run?” Andrew asked.

  John leaned on the door of the stable and kept an eye on the cat as the Sinclairs went inside to tend the horses.

  Surely any lass as sweet as a morning meadow capable of coaxing a purr and a cuddle out of a beast that had bested Padraig Sinclair’s finest warriors could manage Dair Sinclair.

  Perhaps there were miracles after all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dair looked up when his father entered his chamber. Logan had already been here twice to tell Dair his father was waiting to see him. He’d ignored the summons. What could he say? He didn’t want Fia MacLeod here. Neither she nor anyone else could help him. She was too young, too fragile, and too innocent. Dair was filled with a darkness he couldn’t control. He’d nearly broken Angus Mor’s arm during one of his nightmares, and Angus was strong enough to carry a cow. He’d destroy Fia MacLeod.

  He saw the worry on his father’s face when he opened the door to Dair’s chamber after a single crisp knock. His expression faded to relief when he saw his son sitting calmly in a chair by the window, then turned to annoyance at his disobedience. Dair was twenty-eight years old, had sailed the world, gained a reputation as a master mariner and trader with some and a pirate with others, but Padraig Sinclair still expected his son—and everyone else—to obey him without question. Besides Dair, Jeannie was the only other person who had ever refused to do as the chief of the Sinclairs commanded. Dair’s mouth twisted. If only she had done as she was told . . .

  Padraig crossed the room, a tall, formidable, quick-tempered Highlander, as strong as Angus Mor, as clever as Dair, and as stubborn as Jeannie.

  “I expected you in my study an hour ago. We have things to discuss,” the Sinclair said, taking a chair across from his son, crossing his booted legs. “You’re well? Father Alphonse and old Moire told me—”

  “That I continue to plague the good people of Carraig Brigh with screaming nightmares, but my leg is better, though the pain has not diminished, and most sensible folk are afraid to come near me,” Dair finished for him.

  His father’s jaw tensed. “Yes.”

  “Yet the definition of sensible folk apparently does not include wayward virgins who believe in the miraculous healing power of innocence. Even you must see this doesn’t make any sense, Da. You are—were—a man of science and learning. There isn’t a superstitious bone in your body.”

  “Can you blame a father for hoping for a miracle?”

  “I would have stopped you going, had I known. I didn’t find out until after you left that you’d gone to find me a virgin. It was a fool’s errand.”

  His father bristled at the word fool but let it go. He allowed it, Dair supposed, only because his son was mad, injured. “Old Moire said that a virgin caused this, and only a virgin could heal you and make you whole again. I want that, Dair. Don’t you? Don’t you want to get well, take revenge on the ones who did this to you?”

  Dair stared at his father’s hand, fisted tight on the arm of his chair, and ignored the question. “I saw her in the bailey with her cat. A terrible beast.”

  Padraig grinned. “The lass or the cat? Wee Fia MacLeod has a fetching way about her when you get to know her. She soothes wild creatures, heals them. I saw it with my own eyes. I thought she might . . . be the one who could help you.”

  Alasdair fixed his father with a flat look. “Think what harm I could do to her in return! I am no longer fit company for a young lady of good birth, an innocent lass who has s
een nothing of the world, knows nothing of men, let alone madmen. What did you promise her to get her to come? Am I supposed to marry her if she succeeds? Which she won’t. I’ve been over it in my mind a hundred times, and I can’t imagine any other reason why a lass would travel so far to see me. Am I already betrothed to Fia MacLeod?”

  His father reddened. “Dear God, no!” He looked away quickly, studied his hands. “I mean, I went to find a bride for you, a virgin bride. I found Fia instead. She’s a kind lass, but she’s—well, she’s simply not suitable to be the next Lady Sinclair. Her sister Meggie, though—she’s fair of face, built to please a man and breed his heirs. She’d do. I’m sure MacLeod of Iolair will be happy enough with a match betwixt yourself and Meggie.”

  Dair felt horror rise in his breast. “You mean Fia MacLeod limps. Is that what makes her unsuitable as a wife?”

  Padraig Sinclair raised his chin. “Yes, among other things. She’s scarred, and she’s . . . fey, I suppose is the kindest description. No, she’s not for marrying. She was content enough at home with her own kin. In fact, I had a devil of a time convincing her to come away at all.” He forced a laugh. “Ach Dhia, Alasdair, you can’t think I meant her as a bride for you. No wonder you’re unhappy.”

  Dair rose from his chair, went to the window. He wanted a drink, but the decanter in his room was empty. “I have scars too, and I limp. And I’m mad, remember? I’d say it was a perfect match—except I’m not a marriage prize for any woman, even fey, crippled Fia MacLeod. Do you not think that any lass would cringe on her wedding night at the sight of me? Especially when I start screaming in my sleep.”

  He saw the pain in his father’s eyes, a care and concern that didn’t extend to Fia MacLeod. “You won’t. Not when you’re healed. Think of the women you had before—countesses, duchesses, the most beautiful women in Europe.”