“Oh, and Laird Donal has a message for you. Apologizes that he’s taken so long to meet you, but would like to invite you to have a cup of tea and a chat with him this afternoon in the hall. If you’re free, of course, and not drinking ale with a couple of farmers for some Godforsaken reason —”
“Laird Donal? Fiona’s husband, right?”
Gavin laughed again. “Most people call her Laird Donal’s wife.”
“I don’t. But fine. Tell him I’ll be there presently.”
“You don’t want a lift back to the castle?”
“No! Haven’t you got guard duties to get to?” The idea of sitting on the back of his horse, holding on to him around the waist… her body pressed against his, the feeling of his armor against her chest… no, not an option, definitely not an option for a number of reasons. Besides, she hated the idea of owing him a favor.
She could hear him laughing as he rode away, and she scowled to herself. God, what a terribly inconvenient set of feelings to have about the man. It was turning all of his insufferable behavior into … well, charm. Perhaps if she was hostile enough she would successfully drive him away and she’d get enough room to forget all about her little crush. Meeting the Laird of the castle sounded like a good distraction, actually. From what she understood of Donal, he was fairly young to be in power, but he’d been guided and mentored by the old Laird and his rule was well supported by the people of the castle and the MacClaran clan. Besides, if he was good enough to have won the irascible Fiona’s heart, he was good enough for Delilah. Perhaps he’d even know something about Morag, and whatever strange circumstances had caused her disappearance? It was certainly worth asking him. If he didn’t know, maybe he’d know someone who did.
Still breathing hard, she paused in the courtyard to catch her breath and brush a little of the dust of the road from her clothing. She was meeting a Laird, after all — it would do to try to be a little bit tidy. In the olden days (well, the future days… what on Earth was she going to call her old life?) her big move to signal that a meeting was important would have been to put a bit of makeup on. Lipstick for the really important events, mascara and eyeliner for the marginally important. It helped to look a bit special. But as far as she knew, cosmetics weren’t exactly popular among the rough and practical people of the castle, and it wasn’t as if she’d had eyeliner in her pocket when she’d been walking up to poke around an abandoned old ruin. A clean face and a composed demeanor was the best she could offer the Laird, it seemed. She hoped that would suffice. Did any of the women have any cosmetics going on? Surely there was something that could be done with kitchen ingredients… oils, or something? She made a note to ask Cora. The midwife was gorgeous, and her skin had been flawless, too. She must know something about medieval beauty regimens.
Whether the hall was deserted because it was well after lunch and dinner wasn’t for another few hours, or because the Laird had instructed the population of the castle to make themselves scarce, wasn’t clear. What was clear was that the room was rather foreboding when it was empty — her feet seemed louder than usual as she walked across the floor toward the high table, where a young man was sitting, midway through a cup of tea and seeming lost in thought. This must have been Donal. He wasn’t as young as she’d imagined — in his mid-twenties at least, but he seemed to have mastered the knack of holding himself like a lord. Or a Laird, to be precise. So much of authority came down to posture and confidence, and Donal seemed to have plenty of both. Well, he’d have to, with a wife like Fiona to contend with. She smiled a little, thinking of that fierce young woman. She’d love to have been a fly on the wall during their courtship.
“You must be Delilah,” Donal said, his eyes flicking up to meet hers as she approached across the floor of the hall.
“Laird Donal. It’s an honor.” She sketched a bow she’d learned at the SCA for use on high-ranking people, and she could tell by the look of surprise in his eyes that it was the right move. He inclined his head in return, and she smiled, a little emboldened by having made the right guess regarding bowing etiquette.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet with you earlier — there’s been business to attend to out of town. But I’m sure the women have been making you welcome?”
He didn’t need to specify which women he meant — there was a tone to people’s voice when they spoke about ‘the women’ that indicated very clearly who they were actually talking about. It sounded like the title of some noir thriller — The Women. She resisted the urge to giggle. “Oh, yes. Very much so. Marianne’s shared her clothes with me, Fiona’s told me all about how the castle works, and I’m sure Audrina and Cora are going to find me something useful to do around here sooner or later.”
Donal smiled — it made his face instantly brighter and younger, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders relax a little in response. This was fine. He was just a guy — she could talk to him. He wasn’t so scary. “Don’t worry too much about that. I’m sure you’ll be as much of a boon to the castle as the others have been. Just knowing where we’re headed — knowing all the miraculous things we’re capable of, as human beings, given enough time — well, I’m sure Fiona’s told you all about the improvements she’s made to the castle.”
“Unfortunately, my field of study’s a little less practical,” Delilah confessed, taking a seat at the table opposite him at his gesture of invitation. “I wish I was a doctor or a scientist or something, but I’m afraid I study folklore.”
“Folklore? Old stories and the like?”
“Yes, exactly. So being here is incredibly interesting and valuable for me, but it’s hardly of use to all of you that I’ve spent some time studying stories that came from… well, here and now.”
“You never know what will come in handy,” Donal said thoughtfully. “Marianne thought her talents weren’t transferrable to life here, but she was proven wrong. At any rate, your welcome here is not reliant on your usefulness. Castle MacClaran will be your home as long as you wish. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you, Laird Donal,” she said sincerely. “It’s — well, it’s an adjustment, certainly, but it’s good to know I’m welcome.”
“I hear you’ve been getting to know Gavin?” Donal may have been a Laird, but his diplomacy clearly needed a little more work. She could tell by the forced-casual tone in his voice that this was an enquiry that had been egged on by a certain redheaded woman she could name.
“A little,” she said, suppressing her irritation (and the flare of warmth she’d felt at the sound of his name.) This was actually an excellent opportunity to find out a bit more information than she seemed likely to get from Gavin. “I understand that I bear a certain resemblance to someone he used to know?”
“Well, that’s putting it lightly.” Donal frowned. “I assume the women have told you — there’s a certain pattern to the arrival of these lost women. You always bear a striking resemblance to someone we lost — usually young, usually unjustly. Audrina’s counterpart Maeve was the previous Laird’s wife when he was a young man — she was taken by an Englishman and killed rather horribly. Cora’s was a young Italian woman who lived here with us and was unjustly prosecuted for witchcraft … Marianne’s had a similar story. So Morag… she may well have been your ancestor, on some level. Which is interesting, if you believe what people say about curses.”
This was new. Delilah didn’t know what to ask about first — Morag’s death (especially the implication that it followed the same tragic pattern as the deaths of the other women’s ancestors) or the part about curses. She leaned forward, pulling the book out of the pocket in her trousers where she’d tucked it for safekeeping, and decided to go for the easier option. “Curses?”
Donal tilted his head to the side. “Yes, curses. You know the one.”
“I don’t,” she said blankly.
Donal looked curious.
“Truly? You didn’t wonder why people in the castle seemed so wary of you?”
Delilah o
pened her mouth to follow this intriguing new lead, but before she could speak, the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted her. Donal looked up, and she followed his eyes — Gavin MacClaran was standing in the doorway to the Hall, looking a little sheepish.
“Gavin! Why haven’t you told Delilah what you told me? About Morag, and all that? The woman has a right to know about her ancestor, doesn’t she?” Donal’s voice rose effortlessly to boom across the space to Gavin, and Delilah saw the older man flinch. He strode over to join them, moving hastily — was he avoiding eye contact with her?
“It didn’t come up,” Gavin said, uncomfortable.
“It absolutely came up,” Delilah countered him, outraged. “I asked you directly and you walked off!”
“Gavin, we’re never going to get anywhere if you insist on keeping secrets,” Donal said sternly, and Delilah could see a trace of the leader he most definitely was. “Delilah’s one of the women like Fiona. You know as well as I do that they’ve done nothing but improve life for us. Why would you hamper her in her quest to understand why she’s here?”
“I don’t —” Gavin’s face was closed off, and the look in his eyes was very similar to the way he’d looked the first time he saw her, days earlier when she’d first arrived.
“Tell her what you told me,” Donal instructed, and she could see the temper she’d heard about building in him. “She needs to know who her ancestor was. Especially if there’s trouble coming. And you know each of these women has brought no end of trouble with them. Forewarned is forearmed, isn’t it? So tell.”
Gavin’s spine stiffened. She could see the fierce reluctance in every line of his body — it was as if he was being physically compelled to stay still by some dark magic, when all he wanted was to flee the room again as he had earlier that morning, after they’d sparred. But Donal didn’t let up — she could see the intensity with which he was staring at Gavin, knew the power that he had. To defy him would be risking… what? Death? Expulsion from the castle? Just how far did Donal’s powers extend?
“Morag… she was… people say she was …” He shut his eyes, his jaw tight with anger. “She was a witch. She cursed the clan, and then she was killed. Am I dismissed?”
“Gavin —” Delilah started, eyes wide, but the man had already saluted and turned on his heel, striding out of the hall with stiff, jagged movements. She looked back at Donal, who spread his hands helplessly.
“If you believe in witchcraft, of course.”
But how could she not? How could she possibly refuse to believe in witches, when she’d been brought back through time and space to be here?
Chapter 12
They talked a little longer after that, but her heart wasn’t in it. Eventually, it seemed Donal had more work to get on with, so she said a polite goodbye to the Laird and walked back up to her room in a daze. The Laird had been sympathetic, but hadn’t been able to say much to put her mind at ease — only that he personally didn’t set much store by rumors of witchcraft, and didn’t blame her for the curse laid by her ancestor, if indeed a curse it was.
It was all becoming clear — strange little pieces of information that hadn’t quite fit together were suddenly self-evident in their meaning. She was the witch who’d cursed the clan. Or the reincarnation of her, or her descendant, or whatever. Morag. An actual witch. She’d never even been spiritual as long as she lived — her father had been too pragmatic and straightforward for that. She’d loved folk stories, of course, about witches and spells and curses and prophecies, but she’d always understood them for what they truly were — ways human beings had of explaining the unknowable, of trying to gain control over things that confused or scared them. It was hard to accept that the universe was dark and dangerous and chaotic — much easier to assume that if you said the right words or consumed the right potion, you could exercise some control over your fate. It was the same reason things like homeopathy were still so common in the twenty-first century. People wanted to believe in magic.
But what was she meant to do with this pragmatic worldview of hers now that it had become clear that, at least in this specific situation, magic was very much real? How else could she explain her presence in Scotland, hundreds of years before her birth? There were witches, that much was clear — and one of them had brought her back through time. But what for? What was the purpose of bringing her here? Revenge? That seemed to have been the case for Marianne, whose ancestor had been unjustly tortured and killed for witchcraft.
All the other women seemed to have had some part in righting a wrong that had been done to them. But what was Delilah supposed to do? Morag had been a witch — she had been executed for witchcraft. But — she had performed witchcraft. She had cursed the castle. Delilah’s very presence proved that. So as much as it was rightful for anyone to be put to death… Morag had deserved her sentence.
Hadn’t she?
Delilah lay on her bed, feeling exhausted. There was just so much information she didn’t have, would never have. She would have loved to have talked to Gavin a little more, but it seemed like that particular door was shut and barred — he would probably blame her for Laird Donal forcing him to talk about Morag like that. He wasn’t the kind of man who seemed like he’d deal with humiliation well, and it had probably been humiliating to be interrogated like that. What was his problem with Morag? He had loved her, it seemed — it would have been understandable for him to have some pretty complicated feelings about her death, especially with someone who looked just like her turning up out of the blue as Delilah had, but … why was he so reluctant to talk about it with her? He’d stayed at the castle, continued his work as a guard… clearly he didn’t blame anyone at the castle for her death. Or if he did, he was willing to put it aside and do his job. Then why couldn’t he put it aside and be civil to Delilah, answer her questions, help her figure out why she was here? It might even be good for him — he clearly lacked closure over Morag’s death.
Well, so did Delilah! Who had killed her, for a start? There had been that terrible dream she’d had the first night here — as it stood that was as much information as she had to go on. But the person who’d stabbed her in that dream had been… had it been Gavin? It had certainly looked just like him. Surely Gavin MacClaran hadn’t murdered her ancestor. If he had, he wouldn’t be behaving the way he was. Delilah rolled over, uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. No, if he had killed Morag, he’d surely have killed her, too. He’d certainly had more than a few opportunities. On the road, in the woods, even that first night when he’d come to her door then left in the middle of the night… no, it had only been a dream, she reassured herself, though the uneasiness lingered. She’d dreamed of being killed, and she’d simply inserted the face of someone she’d seen quite recently into the dream to make it make sense. That was all. Gavin MacClaran wasn’t a murderer.
Still, she decided to practice her training inside the walls of the castle, at least for the time being. Surely there was an empty room or abandoned corner somewhere she’d not be disturbed — and somewhere she’d be heard if she happened to need to scream for help. Didn’t castles have dungeons? A flash of the horrible dream she’d had the night before… she shuddered a little. Was there a room like that somewhere in the castle, buried beneath her feet? There had certainly been enough space down there to spar… but could she bring herself to creep down there with a torch and a wooden sword? Or would the creepiness and the claustrophobia get the best of her? She really did like working under an open sky, in actual sunlight… but if it was a choice between no training at all and training in a dungeon, she supposed she’d just have to take the dungeon. Unless she could get up on the roof somehow, or the battlements, or whatever they were called in a castle? That could be a nice option… but the risk of toppling over the edge would have to be considered. She did tend to get carried away in her training sometimes, and she’d rather not get carried away over the edge of the walls. Not exactly a noble ending. Morag would be disappointed she’
d done all that magic only to bring back a silly woman who fell off the edge of the castle.
And just like that, she was thinking about Morag again, and the smile that had been playing around her mouth at her whimsical train of thought faded away. Delilah flicked through the pages of her little notebook as the light died, feeling aggravated. No wonder she’d been discouraged from going down to the town — she was the spitting image of the local witch who’d died under mysterious circumstances years ago. It was a wonder her two new friends hadn’t pointed it out — but then again, they had seemed rather sympathetic toward the whole concept of witches. Almost too sympathetic, in fact. Had they been trying to get on her good side? Had they thought she was Morag, back from the dead? Well, she had to hand it to them — it was a pretty smart move. If a witch who’d been murdered for her witchcraft came back from the dead, Delilah would be pretty keen on befriending her too. God, now she couldn’t talk to them anymore. It would just be too weird, knowing they were looking at her and seeing a witch… and it wasn’t as though she could bring the subject up with them. Too much risk of incriminating herself. No, she’d keep her conversations to the castle, for now. Not that she was feeling particularly chatty.
The book had no information that was useful to her — and she didn’t want to go down for dinner. Not now — not in the kind of mood she was in. It wasn’t worth risking running into Gavin. Besides, she didn’t want to see the faces of the servants and various people of the castle now that she knew who they thought she was. It was bad enough to be such an outsider — now she knew that the only people she could ever really be friends with were the women who understand her situation, the women who’d come from the same place as her.
As if on cue, there was a soft tap on the door. Delilah sat up, scrubbed at her face with her sleeve and called for whoever it was to come in. Marianne, maybe, come to fetch her for dinner? It would be nice to see her, she supposed, though she dreaded the prospect of explaining how her meeting had gone with Donal. But no — to her surprise it was Mary.
Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 11
