Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Madainn mhath, Alasdair Og. Good morning to ye.”

  Dair turned to find Coll Sinclair behind him. His father’s falconer regarded him warily, the way the clansmen had looked at the cat, but the goshawk on the old man’s wrist ruffled her feathers and bobbed her head in excitement. Dair felt his heart rise at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen the bird since he returned. She tilted her head, regarded him with her sharp eyes, waited for him to hold out an arm to her.

  Now, this was a welcome. Dair grinned, and felt the scars on his face bunch, and wondered if the bird would notice the changes in him, sense the fear and darkness, be as wary as his human kin. But if she did, she gave no sign. No doubt she assumed he was here to take her out the way he once did, to hunt for rabbits and pheasants and ducks to fill the cook’s pot. They had ridden for miles together, the bird soaring high above him, her eyes keen for prey, and he below, enjoying the solitude and the pleasure of riding through the crags and hills of Scotland. He loved his homeland as much as he loved the sea.

  “I was just taking the lass out for a bit of exercise. The wind is right for her,” Coll said. “Would ye like to take her yourself?”

  Dair felt his skin heat with frustration as he shook his head. Would he ever again be capable of enjoying the pleasures he used to take for granted? He felt the withering slump of guilt, for daring to long for such things, for life, when Jeannie and his crew . . . He pushed the thought away, stroked the goshawk’s soft breast with his forefinger. She gently caught his knuckle in her beak, a playful greeting. “I’ll watch for a while if you’re going to let her fly,” he said.

  The falconer nodded and tossed the bird into the air. She took flight as gracefully as a debutante stepping onto a dance floor. The old familiar joy of watching her filled Dair’s breast, and he shaded his eyes and watched as she found a warm draft of air, rode it upward.

  The falconer set off over the long grass, following the bird. He checked his stride when he realized Dair was slow to follow, could not even keep up with an old man. “No hurry now,” Coll said kindly. Dair felt his skin heat. “The bird’s glad to see ye, Alasdair Og. I’ve not seen her so pleased since she caught a fine fat hare a few weeks past—the first of the season for her, it was.”

  The falconer reached into his pouch for a scrap of meat and held it on the glove. The goshawk circled, then swooped, coming in low and fast, brushing the bent tops of the grass with her wings before lifting to make an elegant landing on the heavy gauntlet. She devoured her treat and the falconer let her go again. This time she sailed out over the sea, her shadow falling on the waves as she coasted on the breeze and scanned the water below. She had one eye on him, Dair knew, even as she enjoyed her flight, reveled in the feeling of freedom and strength. He stood bound to the earth and envied her. She flew above the masts of the ships lying at anchor in the bay, idle since his return. The wind tugged on Dair’s clothes, his hair, caught itself on the rough-knit seams of his scars, but if he closed his eyes, he could imagine standing on the prow of a ship, flying . . .

  The goshawk called, her cry high and clear, like the notes of a song.

  A lullaby.

  The sweet tune he’d woken up with played again in his head. Coll handed Dair the glove and a bit of food, and Dair waited, breathless, as the bird returned, landed on his wrist, her weight familiar, her wingtips brushing his cheek like a caress.

  It was the first moment of pure joy he’d known for a very long time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Moire knew when someone was coming long before they appeared in her little clearing. It wasn’t magic—the birds went quiet in the trees, and their sudden stillness was always a warning. Still, it surprised her to see Chief Sinclair’s virgin riding along the path to her door with English John.

  The lass had only been at Carraig Brigh for a day and a night—and Moire had thought it would take her a good deal longer than that to find her way here. Did it mean something was wrong? Ah, but if something was truly amiss, then the Sinclair would have sent a troop of clansmen to fetch her, not a wee lass.

  She had tended Alasdair Og for barely a single cycle of the moon before the chief returned to Carraig Brigh with the girl. She hadn’t expected him to come back so quickly, with a virgin in hand. She’d thought the errand would be as impossible as sending him out to capture a kelpie or a fairy queen. Yet here she was, the lass herself, coming along the track. She was certainly as pretty as a fairy queen.

  Just how had the Sinclair convinced her to come—if convince was the right word for it—for what kind of kin would allow a wee virgin lass to make such a journey? Perhaps the girl had been forced to come to Carraig Brigh to heal Alasdair Og, the way Moire herself had not been given any choice in the matter. Maybe she’d been promised a fine reward. Moire felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of the poor lass’s fate if she failed, but it was in the goddess’s hands now, since it was she who had wanted a virgin brought here in the first place. It hadn’t been Moire’s idea.

  She didn’t bother to get up as the garrons stopped before her. Her hands were full. She squinted at English John, warning him away with a sharp look, and waited until he took himself off down the path once he’d helped the virgin off her horse. Such a slender, delicate lass she was—more fairy than human. Moire murmured a charm against enchantment, just in case. She would have made a sign, too, as further protection, but she was holding a fox kit she’d rescued from a hunter’s snare, and that took both hands. The creature was panting with fear and pain, its anxiety made worse by the appearance of English John and the girl.

  The fox’s paw was badly cut, swollen with corruption, much like Alasdair Og’s leg had been.

  “Come and help me,” Moire said, not bothering with a greeting. She held the trembling fox in her hands and let the girl approach. She moved with shy grace and gentle dignity, despite her limp. Her eyes were only for the injured creature, not Moire or the hut. She didn’t bother with a greeting either.

  “Snare?” she asked.

  “Aye. Bad. What to do?” Moire demanded, testing her.

  The lass gently touched the fox’s head. To Moire’s surprise, the creature didn’t flinch. “Is the wound clean?” she asked softly. This close, Moire could smell heather, the salt of the sea, and something else, something that brought to mind cool water on a hot day, a simple, delightful pleasure. She watched the fox’s nose twitch, knew the creature smelled it too and was comforted.

  “Washed with agrimony, alder bark, and hyssop,” Moire said.

  “Stitched?”

  “Not yet. Creatures hate that most, don’t know it’s to help, not harm.”

  She saw the understanding in the girl’s hazel eyes, eyes like the fox’s own, golden, soft, half wild.

  “He could take a wee tincture of nightshade, perhaps, if you have it,” the lass answered.

  “To deaden the pain, calm him,” Moire murmured. Fia MacLeod’s long fingers continued to stroke the creature’s head, and Moire felt the little body, bow-string tight in her grip, begin to ease.

  “Aye. Something mild to help him rest and heal, someplace quiet and safe for a day or two,” she said to the fox.

  Moire stared up into her young face. She could see the edge of an old scar, a thin silvery line that traced the side of her brow and curled over her cheek like a tendril of ivy. The scar wasn’t ugly—it was intriguing, made one want to come closer, read it like a rune. Moire held out the fox and let the girl take it. Their fingers brushed together for an instant. Her touch was human enough. There were scars on her hand and wrist, too, disappearing under her sleeve, which was cut long to hide the marks.

  “How many years have you? Who taught you?” Moire asked as she stepped into the hut to rummage in baskets and pots to find the nightshade, a bone needle, and a strip of cloth to bind the wound. She pinned the girl with a glance as sharp as the needle and waited for an answer.

  “There was a healer at Glen Iolair when I was a child. My father brought her to tend to me whe
n I was injured. She stayed and made her home at Glen Iolair. She taught me. And I’m twenty years old,” she said politely, saying neither too little or too much.

  “You still limp,” Moire said..

  Her cheeks flushed. “The bone was set too late.”

  Moire grunted, made the tincture of nightshade. Fia held the creature, murmured to it as she administered it. Moire reached up and plucked one of the long red hairs from Fia’s head, and the girl allowed it, knew what it was for. She cradled the drowsy fox in her arms, crooned softly to it as Moire threaded the needle with the hair and stitched the wound. Moire let Fia bandage the injury.

  There was a pen made of willow twigs and sticks outside Moire’s door, near enough that no harm would come to any wounded creature that occupied it, yet far enough away from the hut that the stink of her human ways would not frighten it. Moire deposited the sleepy fox inside on a bed of soft grass and tied the door shut.

  She went back inside her hut to see Fia looking at the bundles of herbs that hung from the rafters. Moire folded her arms.

  “Have you come for a cure for him?” she asked. “There isn’t a healer at Carraig Brigh—none will stay to tend Alasdair Og. Those that come usually bring their own medicaments. What did you bring?”

  The girl spread her empty hands, her fingers long and white in the dimness of the hut. “Nothing. I did not know what I’d find.”

  “Hmmph. No matter. ’Tis a fool’s errand anyway.”

  Fia’s eyes were luminous in the dim light, magical. “Why?”

  Moire wondered if she should warn Fia MacLeod to flee, that there was danger at Carraig Brigh, but the girl raised her chin. There was stubbornness in her, determination, so Moire left the warning unspoken for the moment. She shrugged. “He might still die.”

  “The wee fox’s road to healing will be a long one. It was mad with pain and fear, and it might still die. Without a doubt it will forever move with a limp, be slow, in danger,” Fia said. “Yet you saved its life instead of offering the kindness of a quick death. Surely that is the first assessment a healer must make. You saw something to give you hope that the creature’s life was worth saving. I have heard that Alasdair Og’s bones were broken, his wounds corrupted, that he was indeed ill enough to die. But he didn’t. He lives still.”

  The answer surprised Moire. She folded her arms over her chest. “’Tis simple enough to heal a wound, press out corruption, bring down a fever. A man is not a fox cub.”

  Fia clasped her hands. “That’s why I came to ask for your help. I have set the broken wings of birds, bound the paws of lame dogs, rescued injured badgers and wolf cubs, but other than simple things, I have never tended a person. My father would not allow it.”

  “Proud, is he?” Moire asked.

  Fia nodded. “He is. He’s also protective of me.”

  “Something mild to help you rest, somewhere quiet and safe to heal.” Moire repeated what Fia had prescribed for the fox earlier. Fia looked at her in surprise and nodded.

  “Yes. That, and I’m a wee bit clumsy. He fears I might choose the wrong herb, mix a tincture incorrectly.”

  “But you never do.”

  “Never.”

  “Come along then,” Moire said, and walked out of the hut She took the path that led through the trees to the goddess’s spring, not looking back to see if Fia MacLeod followed her. When she arrived at the spot where the ancient spring bubbled up between ferns, Moire listened for a moment. The water flowed along a channel into a black stone basin that had been set in place by hands centuries dead.

  The trees around the spring were tied with scraps of cloth and faded ribbon, and the earth was thick with coins, buttons, and smooth white pebbles, all gifts to the goddess in thanks for her assistance. They were old things—few people visited the goddess’s spring now, and if they did, they came secretly, slipping in at dusk or dawn when their Christian neighbors wouldn’t see. With midsummer coming, there would be more visitors, more offerings. The Scots were a superstitious race, and even if they devoutly attended church on Sundays, they kept the old beliefs in little ways, just in case.

  Moire reached into her pocket for a smooth shell she’d plucked from the beach at Carraig Brigh and added it to the offerings.

  When Fia arrived, Moire pointed to the basin. “Look into the water, and tell me what you see.”

  Fia knelt, her face flushed from the heat of the day and the exertion of the walk. Moire watched as Fia’s shadow blocked out the glitter of the sun on the surface of the water, turned it dark and deep.

  “Well? What’s there?”

  “I see a face,” Fia murmured.

  “Yourself?”

  “No, it’s not my reflection. It’s someone else. A fair face, golden hair, blue eyes . . .”

  Moire’s skin prickled with dread. She darted forward and swirled her fingers across the surface of the pool, shattering the image.

  “’Tis a warning. Flee, Fia MacLeod, leave this place. There is naught but danger and death here.”

  Fia rose slowly and shook her head. “I’ll stay. There’s hope for him still,” she whispered. “And hope is stronger than fear.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It seemed as if the whole of Clan Sinclair was waiting in a long queue outside the kitchen door to see Fia. She’d promised a scratched clansman or two that she could help ease the sting of the injuries Beelzebub was dealing out, and they’d all come. Ina Sinclair, Carraig Brigh’s cook, let Fia have a corner of the kitchen to tend Bel’s victims and give the curious a chance to get a look at the virgin healer. Fia was surprised at just how many scratches and injuries there were, though many of them had nothing at all to do with Bel.

  The cook watched the next clansman enter her kitchen with her arms folded over her breast, her face red from the heat of the fire. “Och, you’re here again, Jock Sinclair?” Ina demanded, looking over his shoulder at the scratch on his thumb. “Ye let a wee cat best ye?”

  Jock gave Fia a sweet-eyed grin and held out his hand.

  “It’s not so wee,” Jock said, blushing. “And it isn’t a scratch—I cut my thumb on a nail. There’s no point in taking any chances, so I came to have Mistress MacLeod see to it.”

  Ina Sinclair rolled her eyes and went back to stirring the stew bubbling over the fire. “I’ve never known so many braw men to behave like bairns. A scratch, and they come running to clutter up my kitchen with their great muddy feet.”

  Fia smiled apologetically. “Perhaps there’s a storeroom I could use instead of taking up your kitchen, Ina.”

  Ina shook the spoon at her. “Don’t ye dare—’tis fine entertainment watching so many Sinclair men make fools o’ themselves over a lass. You stay right here—I’m enjoying myself.”

  “It’s because she’s pretty, isn’t it?” Wee Alex Sinclair asked his father, and Angus Mor blushed like a lass.

  “It’s because she soothed away Alasdair Og’s nightmares,” Ina corrected him. “She has a true healing touch.” Fia felt hot blood flood her face.

  “A bonny face is as good as any medicine, if you ask me,” Jock said, moon-eyed. His grin faded as she opened the pot of salve and reached for his injured hand. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

  “Hurt?” Andrew Pyper said, overhearing. “A dirk in the gut hurts, or a caber landing on your foot. I’ve had both, of course. I didn’t even flinch.”

  “Ye fell on the dirk when you were drunk, and ye swooned like a lass when I stitched ye up,” Ina reminded him. Andrew blushed.

  “I’m ready,” Jock said. He gripped the edge of the table and screwed his eyes shut as Fia applied the salve. Jock screeched and leaped up.

  “Did that hurt?” she asked in surprise.

  He stared at his thumb. “No—but it’s cold. I was taken unawares by that.” He sat down and let her finish applying the salve, and grinned at her as he rose to take his leave.

  “What of payment?” Ina asked him.

  Jock stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that
.”

  “’Tisn’t necessary,” Fia said quickly, but Jock stood pondering the problem.

  “I’ve a litter of new pups at my house. Would you like a wee dog?”

  “That cat would eat it,” Angus predicted.

  “Really, it isn’t necessary at all,” Fia said. “I’m very happy to help—”

  But Jock pulled a brass button off his coat and pushed it across the table toward her. Soon, as the line grew shorter, Fia had a tidy pile of small payments—a wolf’s tooth on a leather thong, a brass pin, a tiny drinking cup made of horn, a bit of driftwood carved in the shape of a fish.

  The line grew shorter—not in length, but in height, as several children stood waiting for their turn to see Fia. A wee girl held a puppy out to Fia without a word, her sad eyes matching the pup’s mournful expression. The dog whimpered when Fia touched its paw, and she saw the thorn lodged in the pad.

  “Ah—here’s the trouble,” she told the child. “Will you hold him while I take the thorn out?”

  Everyone gathered round to watch. They held their breath as Fia took a pair of bone tweezers out of her pocket and plucked out the thorn. “There. It’s all better.”

  The girl smiled and hurried out with her pet.

  The child ran into someone tall standing in the doorway, bounced off, and he bent and caught her before she could fall. Alasdair Og. Fia’s mouth went dry.

  How long had he been there? He was watching her, his flat expression unreadable. He was dressed like the rest of his clansmen, in a saffron shirt and plaid over deerskin boots, his hair tied back in a queue—yet somehow he was more than any other man in the room. Fia tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was stuck there.

  “The puppy had a thorn—” she began. “Just here,” she lifted her hand to point to the space between her own fingers. Her hand hit the pot of salve on the table. It tumbled across the flagstone floor to his feet.

  They both stared at it for a moment, and Fia felt herself blushing from hairline to hem. He bent to pick it up, held the wooden pot to his nose, and sniffed the salve. She waited silently, glued to the stool. The kitchen was suddenly empty, save for the two of them. Everyone else had gone—even Ina—as if they’d turned into smoke and vanished up the chimney.