Beauty and the Highland Beast

by Lecia Cornwall

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  He’d never mistreated a woman before, but he’d brutalized Fia. Dair held his hands over his face. He could smell her perfume and her body on his skin, imprinted there. He’d taken her like a whore, and she had allowed it, held him anyway, knew it was what he needed. It didn’t drive his ghosts away—it brought them closer, with their bony hands outstretched to draw him down to hell where he belonged.

  Fia was the one good thing left in his life. With her, he felt whole again, as capable and confident as the old Dair, a chief—hell, a king. He loved her, and he had destroyed her. His chest ached. Was this all that was left of him, a scarred shell of man with no compassion, no grace, no love in his heart?

  He crossed to the window, threw the shutters open. “Leave me, Jeannie,” he screamed to the wind, the sea. “I cannot help you. I would have done anything to save you, taken your place, died for you, but it’s too late. Leave me.” He stared at the cairn. The stones shone white as skulls in the moonlight, one for every soul on his conscience, a record of his sins for all to see.

  Something moved in the darkness, and Dair’s mouth dried. A figure stepped out from behind the cairn. He saw the shine of golden hair, the billow of lace and muslin, the dark hollows of her eyes. His heart hit his ribs. Jeannie. He felt sorrow, longing, and terror. She lifted her arm, waving to him the way she had in life, in sunlight. She’d come for him. She had not forgiven him, would never forgive him.

  She beckoned again, and he had to go.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The knock on the door of his chamber was so faint John wondered if he’d imagined it. He opened it to find Meggie standing in the corridor, wearing a hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe. “Mistress MacLeod,” he said.

  To John’s surprise, she ducked past him into the chamber. She flung the hood back and looked at him, her expression sharp with worry. “I’m not the kind of lass who goes to a man’s room late at night, I’ll have you know, but my sister is missing.”

  John glanced across the hall at Dair’s closed door. He had a suspicion he knew exactly where Fia was and what she was doing. “Won’t you sit down?” John said, indicating a chair by the fire. Meggie measured the distance between the chair and his bed with a glance.

  “Please shut the door,” she whispered. He did so and she perched on the edge of the chair, staring at him. “You’re the first Sassenach I’ve ever met. English folk don’t venture to Glen Iolair. Papa wouldn’t have it. He’d shoot them dead before they could set one cloven toe over the doorstep—I’ve heard him say so a hundred times, though he’s never had to prove it.”

  John folded his arms over his chest. “I promise never to take my cloven toes in your father’s direction.”

  “That would be wise,” Meggie said soberly. “But that’s not why I’ve come. I know you’re his friend—Alasdair Og’s, I mean. Can I trust you?

  “Of course.”

  Meggie bit her lip. “I fear Fia might have fallen in love with him—or she imagines she’s in love. She’s too innocent to know the difference.” She worried the edge of her cloak in nervous fingers. “Would he . . .” She trailed off as a fiery blush kissed her cheeks.

  “What do you suspect?”

  She drew a breath. “I fear she may have eloped with him. My father won’t like it, one of his daughters wed to a madman . . .”

  Eloped? Now, that would be mad indeed. “He isn’t mad,” John said quickly.

  She looked doubtful. “Then where’s my sister? It’s after midnight, and I have not seen her—or him—since supper.”

  John’s mouth dried. He had no answer to the question, not until he’d spoken to Dair. The man was going to find himself married indeed, willing or not, if Meggie MacLeod had her way. “Come, Mistress MacLeod, I’ll escort you back to your chamber. Perhaps Fia’s there.” He led her to the door.

  She shook him off. “I’ve just come from there!” She looked at him sharply. “You know something, don’t you? Is she with him now?”

  Before John could stop her, Meggie MacLeod crossed the hall and pounded on Dair’s door. She didn’t wait for a response. She opened it, strode in, calling her sister’s name. John hurried after her.

  The rumpled bed was empty, and so was the rest of the room. He could smell perfume, and the tang of sex, in the air. There was blood on the floor, and shards of broken mirror—and worse. The window was wide open, the shutters banging in the wind. No. Oh, no . . .

  John crossed to the window, braced himself as he looked down. There was no one on the rocks below. He let out the breath he’d been holding, and his heart began to beat again. He straightened his tunic and turned back to Meggie.

  “There’s no one here,” Meggie said, her face filled with worry.

  Had they eloped? It was sneaky, dishonorable, and contrary to everything Dair was. But if he was truly mad, truly dangerous . . . John took Meggie’s arm. “Come, mistress, let’s check the library.” He probably wouldn’t find them there, but it was a way to distract Meggie from the dark fears that were taking shape in John’s mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The grass shivered and whispered as Dair passed by, moving steadily toward the figure by the cairn. The coming storm was closer now, and clouds crowded together on the horizon, boiling upward. He could see lightning, far off. It would be a violent gale, the kind that sank ships and tore trees in half. He could smell the warning of it in the dry, sulfurous air. Still he walked on, the wind tearing at his clothes and his hair. It whipped Jeannie’s white gown and her blond hair around her, as if her spirit thrashed, unable to find peace in the grave. She held out her hands to him as he neared, her lips curved in a sinister parody of the sweet smile he remembered. Her perfume enveloped him. Revulsion made sweat slither down his back, turn to ice in the wind. He shivered.

  This is not real. But if it wasn’t, then he was hallucinating and was truly mad.

  Jeannie reached for him. “Come with me, Dair.”

  He recoiled, unwilling to touch her. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to banish the specter before him. Fia’s perfume, the sweet, intimate scent of her body, still clung to his skin. He felt a rush of fear.

  “Where’s Fia?”

  Anger rippled over Jeannie’s pale features. Her outstretched hand balled into a fist.

  “If you want her, then come with me.” Her voice was lower and darker than he remembered. She walked away and paused at the top of the path that led down to the beach. How many times had he seen her waiting there for him, her eyes alight with joy and mischief, ready to swim or climb the cliff to look for tern’s eggs?

  She’d stood there in that same spot the day she left for the last time, her eyes shining with tears, her smile faltering. He’d been the one who led the way that day, taking her hand, scrambling down the cliff to the waiting ship . . .

  But this time, Dair followed her, his heart pounding, his body numb, his feet moving automatically, his eyes fixed on the fluttering, beckoning white muslin of her gown.

  His mind was as thick as porridge, his body slow and shaking. She reached the beach before him and stood waiting, glaring up at him, her eyes never leaving his. He stepped onto the pebbles, felt them shift under his feet, throwing him off balance.

  Jeannie had made him stop the day she left, held on to his shoulder as she shook a pebble from her shoe.

  He watched her raise her arm, the lace of her sleeve frothing like sea foam. She pointed out at the ships, bobbing and twisting on the growing storm tide.

  “There,” she said, her voice caught by the wind, swirling around him, coming at him from every direction and none at all. He felt fear rise in his throat. He hadn’t been aboard a ship since Berwick, couldn’t . . .

  Jeannie hadn’t stepped eagerly into the launch that day, the way she’d done a thousand times before. She’d stood beside it, gazing about her wistfully as the morning sun turned her hair to gold. Laughing, he’d set his hands on her waist and swung her over the gunwa
les.“We’ll lose the tide,” he’d said, and jumped in himself. She’d shaded her eyes as they rowed out to the ship, scanning the cliff, the tower, memorizing her last sight of home with a sad smile playing over her lips. There were tears in her eyes . . .

  “No.” The word was torn from Dair, pulled from grief, sorrow, guilt, and pain. “Don’t go,” Dair murmured now. He should have said it then.

  Jeannie charged across the dark beach with a curse on her lips. Her fist caught him on the jaw, knocked him off his feet. Dair didn’t resist, couldn’t. Her arm came around his throat—an arm that was stronger than he remembered. Jeannie had been as delicate and fragile as—Fia. He held his breath at the cold press of steel against his windpipe. The sharp blade bit just deep enough to draw blood, to keep him focused. The scent of Jeannie’s perfume was overlaid with the darker odors of sweat and salt and seaweed as she dragged him back to his feet.

  “It’s you who’s going this time, cousin, never to return,” she hissed in his ear. The blade pricked again, and he felt more blood, hot, then turning to ice. Her grip tightened, throttling him. She was trembling, fighting the urge to plunge the blade deep enough to kill him. For an instant, he silently willed her to do it, to end his torment. Oblivion beckoned, blurred the edges of his vision. He shut his eyes, ready to surrender. But in the dark hell of his own mind, it wasn’t Jeannie who waited for him—it was Fia, her gaze a lifeline, her soft voice calling him back to whatever shred of sanity he had left. He opened his eyes, gripped the hand that held the knife, forced it back far enough that he could breathe.

  “Where is she?” Dair demanded, struggling, but Jeannie’s shade was remarkably strong. With a growl, she propelled him with surprising speed into the water and shoved him roughly into the boat. He landed on his injured leg, winced, and righted himself, his sailor’s instincts instantly alert. “Row,” Jeannie commanded as she climbed in, and he saw the glint of the dirk in her hand, still wet with his blood.

  Dair picked up the oars, felt the familiar weight against his palms, and pulled.

  “It’s better this way,” she’d said to him the day she left, giving him a brave smile. He hadn’t missed the tears in her eyes as she held his gaze. There was something else there too . . . He’d turned away to issue an order, and when he looked back, it was gone. She climbed onto the prow, played the pirate queen. He’d laughed, rocked the boat, made her jump to find her footing, knowing she would. She’d swatted him for that, taken her seat beside him, leaned her head on his shoulder, pushed her hand into his . . .

  He stared at Jeannie now. There were dark stains on her white gown—blood? Was it his blood or hers?

  The English bastards struck her, over and over again, tore her clothes, made her scream . . .

  The wind keened through the masts of the ships at anchor, a high, sweet sound, a song as familiar as a lullaby. “Where’s Fia?” Dair demanded again.

  “Do you care so much? It can’t be love. You’re not capable of that,” his companion said. “You let them kill her, saved yourself. What did you give them to let you live? Was her body, her torment, her death, just part of the price?”

  They’d made her watch as they murdered his crew, men she’d known from childhood. They’d beaten her, raped her, and broken her bones, but they had not broken her spirit. She’d spit at the hangman as he put the noose over her head, cursed him in Gaelic. Her eyes had found his where they held him up at the barred window. What had he seen? The pain in his chest wouldn’t let him remember.

  The wind turned the tears on his face to ice. He stared into the glittering depths of Jeannie’s eyes now, silently begging forgiveness. But there was no solace, no comfort there. Only more madness. Then he knew.

  His cousin was as mad as he was.

  “No,” he managed to say, the agony of that cutting to his soul. The looming shadow of the ship cast them into deeper darkness. The Maiden. He knew the vessel well, knew all of his ships like lovers, by sight, by scent, by touch, in sunlight and in darkness. Like Fia. He squinted up at the hull. Was she aboard?

  The thought of boarding a ship again made him sick, blurred his vision, frayed his mind. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. “Cold?” Jeannie asked. “It’s cold in the grave. Dark, too. Lonely. Jeannie doesn’t belong in the grave, but you do, and she does—the witch.”

  “Fia?” he asked.

  “The witch,” Jeannie corrected him, spitting the word. Dair rowed harder, let the work and the pain keep him conscious, present.

  “Did you even know that Jeannie was in love with you, wanted to marry you? Everyone knew but you. Padraig told her she couldn’t have you, wasn’t good enough. He wanted a rich wife for you, a princess, even a queen if he could buy one for you, a match made for power, for money—Padraig could never have enough money. He told Jeannie no when she asked for you, pleaded, and it broke her heart. He said he’d marry her to someone far, far away from Carraig Brigh, never let her see you again. And you—you never even knew how much she loved you. What choice did she have but to leave on her terms, become a nun? Loving you ruined her for any other but God, and even then, you let her die. Did you care then?”

  Shock went through him like lightning. Jeannie loved him as a man? No, he hadn’t known, hadn’t thought—another sin upon his soul. She’d been his friend, his playmate, his cousin.

  She lunged at him, cursing him, pressing the dirk between his ribs. “I wish I could kill you here and now, but I’ve another fate in mind, a fitting one for a pirate and a madman.”

  The bump of the launch against the side of the ship knocked her forward. Dair looked up at the looming hull. The rope ladder hung over the side, twisting in the wind.

  Her eyes had found his as they put the noose around her neck. Her bruised lips had moved, but he couldn’t hear . . .

  Her ghost rose over him now, gripped the rope ladder. “Climb.”

  Dair rose to his feet, felt the familiar sway of a boat beneath him, breathed in the smell of the tar that coated the hull. He swung his feet onto the ladder. His leg ached, and the task he’d once done so easily was painful now, but at last he threw himself over the rail and dropped onto the deck.

  It was like coming home. He felt the ship bucking against the swells. He widened his stance, compensated, his balance instant, his body remembering. The sails were tied tight, but the furled edges of the cloth chattered eagerly in the breeze, welcoming him. He heard the creak of the timbers as they flexed, an old song, never forgotten. The salt wind blew in his face, cleared his vision and his mind.

  He turned as Jeannie climbed over the rail behind him, her skirts hitched, her leg long, strong, and hairy. Her feet weren’t clad in slippers but in hobnailed brogues. Dair slid his gaze over Jeannie’s gown, her shawl, her face. But the body under the ill-fitting garments wasn’t hers. It was tall, muscular, and male, and Dair understood at last.

  “Logan.”

  There was hatred in Logan’s eyes when he looked at Dair, the dirk clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Logan hated ships, was green already, stood uneasily, fighting the roll of the ship beneath him. “So you’re not entirely mad, then. I was starting to think you truly believed in ghosts, cousin—are you that mad? Does my sister haunt you?”

  “Aye, she haunts me,” Dair muttered. “Where’s Fia?”

  Logan gave a harsh laugh. “Dead—or as good as. Father Alphonse is taking her confession even now. Then the clan will burn her as a witch.”

  Dair’s heart contracted. “She’s not a witch, Logan. She’s as innocent as Jeannie—” But Logan brandished the dirk, waved his protest away.

  “I have to know, Dair—what did you give them to let you live? Did you bribe them, promise them gold? They killed Jeannie and every other man on that ship, but not you. What did you do, Dair?”

  Dair felt the familiar bitterness of guilt fill him. He shook his head. “Nothing. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could offer that would have saved them. I would have promised anything, done anyth
ing, to save her.” Dair took a step toward his cousin but stopped when Logan pointed the dirk at his heart. “They didn’t want that. They kept me alive—barely. I was to be the warning, you see—to the Sinclairs, to Scotland.”

  “It should have been you,” Logan insisted. “You didn’t even have the decency to die once you came home, and then she came—your virgin, your whore, the witch.” He sobbed and shook his head. “I can’t allow you to dishonor Jeannie’s memory with another woman. You must pay for your sins, for failing Jeannie and your clan.”

  As he had every day since they’d taken his ship, Dair wracked his brain again, searching for something, anything that would have allowed Jeannie and his men to live. There was still nothing. They’d taken the ship, the cargo, the coin in his purse. It hadn’t been enough. The men who had lain in wait had their orders. They had been bent on evil, filled with hatred. It was not his fault, only his burden to bear. That had been what they did to him, a living death. That was the price he’d paid.

  “Forgive them.” He heard the words now, carried on the wind over time and distance. That was what Jeannie had whispered to him from the gallows. “Forgive them.”

  Dair felt a weight lift from his heart, his mind, his soul. He looked at Logan, his face, his eyes so similar to Jeannie’s. But Logan’s eyes were clouded with hatred, ambition, and madness.

  “Do you love Fia MacLeod?” Logan asked.

  Dair met his cousin’s hot gaze. Yes, he thought. Yes, I love her. She is my salvation, my hope for the future. He said nothing.

  His silence made Logan’s mouth twist with disgust. “The little cripple has bewitched you. She brought a curse upon this clan. You cursed us by surviving, instead of dying like you were supposed to. All of this ill fortune is your fault. You went against God, and still Padraig chose you to be chief after him.”