An hour later, Fia descended to the hall with her sisters. She almost stumbled on the last step, when she saw Dair waiting for her, and her father caught her just in time. Dair stood by the hearth with the Sinclair clansmen by his side—Ruari, Niall, Jock, and Angus. They grinned at the sight of the bride until Angus Mor wiped a tear from his eye, which started the others sniffling. Her father squeezed her hand. “Are you ready, lass?” he asked, his gaze soft, filled with love and pride. His grip on her fingers was warm and firm.
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“I’ve been married many times. I saw the way you looked at Sinclair, lass. You heard wee bells, didn’t you?”
“I heard them as clear as day.”
He reached up to tuck a flower more securely into her hair, his touch gentle. “Ach, you look like your mother the day I married her, and a more beautiful bride there never was—until now. Are you sure this is what you want? The claymore is right there by the wall . . .”
“Thank you, Papa. This is what I want.”
He tucked her arm under his. “Then we won’t wait.”
She looked into Dair’s eyes as she walked toward him. His clear gaze filled with love and joy, the rage, fear, and pain all gone. Her heart opened, and when her father placed her hand in Dair’s, his fingers closed over hers as if he’d never let her go. He wrapped two long strips of plaid over their joined hands, the MacLeod and the Sinclair setts, and they spoke their pledges to each other before God, the MacLeods, and the sobbing Sinclairs. And when Dair took her into his arms to kiss her, there were sighs and tears and shouts of joy, and fairy bells pealed for them both.
EPILOGUE
Moire woke in the night as the horses rode up to her cott. This time she was dressed and ready when the Sinclair clansmen threw back the cloth that covered the door and burst in.
“Ye’re needed.”
She scowled as their heads bumped against the herbs that hung from the roof beams, sending a shower of dry leaves to the earthen floor, but they were anxious, and she could forgive that. The scent of male sweat and whisky made the caged raven skitter and craw, fight the bit of linen that bound its broken wing. Moire fed the bird a strip of dried meat to quiet it and gathered her bundle.
The hands that lifted her onto the garron’s back were gentler than the last time. She held on as they hurried along the path to Carraig Brigh.
She heard the first scream as they passed through the great iron teeth of the gate and rode into the bailey. It echoed from the stones, high-pitched and filled with anguish. The men crossed themselves and looked at her anxiously.
“Naught to fear,” she said, and hoped she was right. English John lifted her from the garron’s back, hurried her into the keep.
“Dair won’t rest, or eat,” John said.
The cry came again, sharp and keening. John blanched. Moire reached the door of the chief’s chamber, and John moved to open it. She shook her head.
“Ye’ll stay out here,” she said sternly. “I’ll send the chief out. Your job is to keep him out, do ye ken?”
John nodded, his eyes solemn.
Moire went in. Fia was lying in the huge bed, her belly swollen, her face flushed and wet with sweat. Ina and Annie stood by the bed, mopping her brow, murmuring encouragement. Dair paced the floor, his face haggard. He rushed to Moire’s side. “It’s been hours,” he said. He was hollow eyed, unshaven, mad with worry for his wife.
Moire rolled up her sleeves, used the basin of water to wash her hands. “Aye, and it will be more hours yet. The first babe takes time.” He looked sick at the idea. Fia wailed again, and Dair immediately turned to go to her, but Moire stepped in front of him. “No ye don’t. Out. Go and order some hot water, and some broth and fresh bread. Wash yourself. Eat.”
Their eyes locked, clashed like thunderclouds, but she held firm. “Ye might be the chief of the Sinclairs of Carraig Brigh, Alasdair Og, but tonight ye’re just a man in the way. This is women’s work.”
He nodded, defeated. “I’ll be right outside, if—”
Moire waved him away. She gripped Fia’s hand when he’d gone, gave her a smile, and Fia smiled back. Brave lass.
Moire ran her hand gently, expertly, over the mound of Fia’s belly. All was well. It wouldn’t be long. She opened her bundle and took out a pouch of herbs. “Mix a pinch of this with wine, and warm it,” she ordered Ina. She opened a small vial and poured a few drops of oil into Annie’s palm. “Massage her belly with that,” she said. She turned away, began to prepare the linens, humming to herself.
Fia looked at her. “Will it be a lass or a lad?”
Moire regarded her sharply.
“I know you’ve looked at the omens, asked the goddess, Moire. What did you see?”
Moire swallowed a smile. “Ye’ll have to wait. Ye’ve work ahead of ye—ye’d do better to think on that.”
Fia frowned, but Moire laughed. “Ye’ll not give commands tonight, Lady Sinclair. The little one rules now.”
Fia’s face crumpled as another pain took her, and Moire counted the seconds under her breath. “Time to get her up,” Moire said to the women, and they positioned Fia on the birthing stool.
The child came quickly. “Ye have a son,” Moire said.
“A son?” Fia’s smile was radiant. “Is he healthy, strong?” The child gave a mighty squall, and Fia laughed with joy. It was short-lived. She grimaced as another pain took her.
“Twins?” Annie said. “Oh, Fia, how wonderful!”
The second child was born a few minutes later. “And a lass,” Moire said.
The women cooed and laughed until they cried for joy and hurried out to tell the chief.
“Would you like to hold your bairns, Chief Sinclair?” Fia asked.
He looked at Moire first, the great chief, asking for permission. She helped him position first one and then the other child in his arms, and the babes looked all the smaller for the size of their braw father. The wee lassie grinned at him, and the man melted. Wonder shone in his eyes. He looked at Fia again, and she smiled, reached out to stroke the child’s fuzz of russet hair.
“I thought we’d call her Jeannie,” Fia said. “And Padraig for our son—if you agree.”
Dair grinned. “Aye.”
Outside, the wind blew around the cairn on the cliff, a soft, benevolent sigh, carrying the faint scent of rose perfume. It wound around the castle, lingered for a moment outside the warm lighted window of the chief’s chamber, and then swept out to sea, and was gone.
Acknowledgments
Thank-yous are very much in order . . .
Writing a book is a team sport. As always, I am grateful to my wonderful agent, Kevan Lyon—your unwavering support and belief in me and my stories is the wind beneath my wings. To my new editor, Eileen Rothschild, thank you for bringing these stories to life with your wonderful suggestions and brilliant ideas. You are the music behind the words, and I’m looking forward to watching our books bloom bright under your guidance. Thanks to Donna Tunney, critique partner extraordinaire and dear friend, who patiently shows me the trees in my tangled forest. And to my family, who listen to the wails of the angst-ridden writer day after day, year after year, and always talk me down off the ledge, I love you more than you can know.
About the Author
Olivia Cotton Cornwall
Lecia Cornwall lives and writes in Calgary, Canada, amid the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies, with four cats, two univ
ersity students, a crazy chocolate Lab, and one very patient husband. She is hard at work on her next book. Come visit Lecia at www.leciacornwall.com. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BEAUTY AND THE HIGHLAND BEAST. Copyright © 2016 by Lecia Cornwall. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: woman © Bernadette Newberry/Arcangel; castle © Istvan Csak/Shutterstock; mountains © David Redondo/Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-250-11161-6 (e-book)
First Edition: June 2016
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