Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Preston, Rebecca

  Ah, well, too late to regret all that now. The servant was leading her through the manor, which was beautifully decorated — almost too beautifully, she thought. There were so many ornate items of furniture, paintings, sculptures and works of art that the whole place felt profoundly cluttered — like Weatherby was trying so hard to prove how cultured he was that he’d forgotten that the purpose of a house was to have people in it. Half the little sitting areas they moved past looked as though they had no room at all for human beings to exist in them. She assumed the woman was leading her to whatever guest quarters Baldric had offered her to stay in. If they were anything like the rest of this house, they were going to be rather crowded, she thought crossly, missing the simple layout of the room she’d had at Castle MacClaran. Perhaps she could move things around a little without offending the house owner.

  The little woman slowed and stopped in front of a door at the end of a corridor, and Delilah opened her mouth to thank her for showing her the way, silent and strange as the journey may have been. But she was distracted by the woman finally choosing to make eye contact with her. The woman turned a pair of bright blue eyes to meet Delilah’s — and they were full of such naked fear that Delilah felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked without thinking — but the woman just ducked her head and scurried off down the hallway, dodging around ornaments with the ease of long practice.

  The lingering unease that had been building in the back of Delilah’s mind flared to life like a fire, and she stared up and down the hallway, trying to find the source of her own fear — and the little servant’s. What could be happening? Had she been threatened somehow? Or had the rumors of Delilah being a witch reached her somehow? Why would Baldric have shared that with the staff — it didn’t seem especially like him to gossip like that, especially when he knew she wasn’t a witch. Or did he? She had sent that letter about not remembering her past, about the imaginary scars on her stomach… maybe he hadn’t realized that that had been a trap for the witch hunters.

  Something about the theory didn’t seem right. She wished Baldric were there to explain what was happening — the man had a comforting aura, despite his fearsome appearance. It felt strange to be alone in this huge old house, unfamiliar territory belonging to an unfamiliar and not necessarily friendly man. But here she was — she’d made her bed, and now it was time to lie in it.

  Things will feel better in the morning, she reassured herself, reaching out to open the door. It was easy to feel spooked and frightened in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar house — in the morning, the sun would be out and she could set about putting the record straight. Step one — make sure the servants knew she wasn’t a vengeful witch who’d been resurrected from the dead. Step two… she sighed. Try to heal from the betrayal, she supposed. Maybe she’d write a letter to Gavin expressing her disappointment at his conduct. Maybe she’d write a few — one draft with everything she wanted to say, and a subsequent draft with everything she should say.

  She was so caught up in these thoughts that, stepping into the room, she barely even registered the bizarre tableau that was there to meet her. She stared around, completely stunned for a moment by what she saw. Where she’d anticipated a comfortable, if stuffy room with a bed for her to sleep in, there was instead a kind of sitting room, full of sofas and chairs. But more importantly than the furniture — the room was full of people.

  “Delilah, I’m so sorry —”

  Her eyes fell on Baldric, first — he was slumped against the wall by the door, and to her horror she saw that his shirt was covered in dried blood. His nose looked as though it had been broken, and he had a black eye. But a peal of smug laughter pulled her attention away from him, and on to the center of the room — and her stomach dropped into her feet.

  “Delilah Cortland,” purred Brother Willows, posing in the center of the room for all the world like some kind of Shakespearean villain with his men arrayed behind him. Sitting in an armchair behind him was an unfamiliar man in a rather elegant black cloak, looking shaken but furious — she guessed from the clothing, and from the way one of Willows’ men was casually pointing a sword at his throat, that this was Lord Weatherby. A series of puzzle pieces fell into place. The loose seal on the letter… the strange handwriting of Baldric’s last letter… the fear on the servant’s face as she left Delilah to her fate.

  The witch hunters hadn’t left. They’d taken over.

  “Oh, sorry,” Brother Willows said now, peering intently at her face as she frantically tried to think of a way out of this mess. “Do you prefer to be called Morag? That was your name originally, wasn’t it? Before the pact you made with Satan himself pulled you out of the ground and back to stalk among the living?”

  “Demon,” spat one of the men standing behind him — the one holding the sword on Lord Weatherby. Delilah looked at him, feeling a flare of anger in her chest. It was the scarred man — this time without the helmet. It seemed he had nothing to hide here, at the house he and his men had invaded without permission.

  “Hello, Kenneth. You’ve stopped trying to hide your face, I see,” she said levelly, and through her fear she felt a surge of triumph at the look of naked terror in his eyes. Of course — they hadn’t realized that she’d been there the day they’d visited the MacClarans. The day Gavin had unmasked Kenneth, called him out in front of his cronies, driven them out. She’d though that it had been enough to drive them out of the county, too, ideally all the way back to wherever it was they’d come from — but it seemed clear now that all of that was a ruse. And she’d walked right into it, too.

  She imagined them rubbing their hands together in glee when they’d gotten her letter, asking if she could come and stay. After all that work spent trying to avoid the witch hunters, to keep her and her friends safe, she’d literally walked right into their trap. She should have trusted her intuition — should have run away the minute she’d felt a pang of concern. Even the servant had tried to warn her, consciously or not, with that terrified expression she’d turned onto her. But she’d been too caught up in her own problems to actually think critically about her situation, and now she was going to pay the price.

  And so were her friends, she thought with a sick lurch of fear. What if these men tortured her — tried to get her to tell them more about the other women? How strong could she be — how long could she hold out in the face of their attack? She realized with a horrible, sinking feeling of dread that she hadn’t even told anyone where she was. How long would it be before anyone even realized she was gone? How long until someone actually tried to get into her room, and realized she wasn’t still in there, wallowing in self-pity? And would they think to try to find her here? Would they even bother to come and get her?

  Her thoughts must have been showing on her face, because Kenneth laughed now, an ugly sound coming from an even uglier face. “Look, lads. She’s realizing what a mess she’s in.”

  One of the other men — the smaller one — had moved around behind her to lock the door she’d come through, and she looked down at him, recoiling a little. From a distance, she hadn’t been able to tell — this close, it was clear that he was disfigured. A hunchback, with long arms — whether it was that that made him seem monstrous, or the wicked knives that were tucked into his belt, she wasn’t sure. Brother Willows spoke again, a mocking tone of gentility still in his voice.

  “Oh, how rude of us not to have done any introductions. Morag, my name is Brother Willows. I have come directly from the Lord our God to enact his righteous will upon you. You seem to remember Kenneth from your last altercation. These two are Octavian and Madoc.” Willows gestured to each of the men in turn. The twisted little man beside her — Madoc — sketched a mocking little bow — Octavian, the tall, bald man beside Brother Willows, didn’t react at all to his name.

  Was it really just four of them? Surely Weatherby had more staff than that — surely these evil men were outnumbered? She shot a glance at
the Lord, who seemed to be trying to pretend that none of this was happening. He didn’t seem injured, unlike Baldric, who’d clearly been through hell, but she could see from his posture and the gentle tremor in his body that he was terrified. He’d been menaced at least. Hard not to be frightened of these men.

  “Don’t get any ideas now,” Brother Willows said, wagging a finger at her. “There may only be four of us in here, but we’ve a mercenary force more than capable of putting down any pathetic little resistance you might have brought along with you.”

  “I don’t think she’s got anyone with her,” Madoc put in, his voice as wheedling and nasal as she’d expected. “I think she came alone.”

  He was right — she couldn’t keep her fear off her face, and the smug grin that spread across Brother Willows’ face indicated that he was well aware that Madoc was telling the truth. She was completely alone.

  Chapter 27

  There was no point in trying to make a run for it — Madoc had locked the door behind her, and at any rate, she didn’t trust herself to find her way through the winding hallways of this manor at a dead sprint with four murderous witch hunters on her heels. And leaving Baldric and Lord Weatherby behind… that would make her feel awful, too… and there was no guarantee she’d even get away. Even if she was able to evade the mercenary army they claimed to have on guard, would she be able to ride back to the castle fast enough to raise the alarm? What if she just wound up bringing an entire army down onto Clan MacClaran? It wouldn’t be fair — they wouldn’t be ready, not in the middle of the night. There would be deaths, and they’d be squarely on her head. It was bad enough that she felt partly to blame for all the deaths caused by Morag, her ancestor, without adding the result of a bloody battle to the mix.

  No, her only hope was to somehow talk her way out of this situation. Could she lie to Brother Willows somehow? Was there a way of scaring him, of making him think she was a real witch with real power — to drive him away with threats of a curse on him and his own family? No — she could tell by the demented gleam in his eye that, though he might be a showman by nature, there was nothing artificial about his faith in God. He thought he was protected by God, his deeds endorsed by his faith in a higher power. It made him dangerous — and it made him impervious to the suggestion of witchcraft. Which, after all, was all Delilah had. She’d tried, once or twice, since getting to Scotland and learning about her ancestor, to channel some magic powers. Thinking of a movie she’d loved as a child, she set a pencil on a table and stared at it, willing it to move. But it hadn’t even wobbled — not even a stray gust of wind had come up. Morag may have been a witch powerful enough to bring people through time and space, and to cause untold death and destruction with a curse, but Delilah was a completely regular woman.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t think so. These men thought she was Morag — a direct reincarnation of her, or perhaps they suspected that she’d survived her injuries through nefarious means. That was what she had tried to imply with the letter, after all. Perhaps they’d be frightened enough to keep their distance? There had to be some reason they hadn’t already started torturing her. Unfortunately, she knew only too well what happened to witches in these days.

  “Now, Morag,” Brother Willows purred. His eyes hadn’t left her face, and he was clearly aware of her discomfiture. He gestured to an empty armchair, moving forward to put his arm around her shoulder and lead her to it. His body was unpleasantly warm, but as he squeezed her to his side, she could feel how muscular it was. Definitely more to him than appearances would let on, she realized — he seemed rotund, but it was clearly a thin layer of fat over a dense packing of muscle. This was a powerful man. That didn’t mean she couldn’t take him in a fight, of course — but four on one? Even four on three, if Weatherby and Baldric joined her? It didn’t look good. They might stand a chance if one or two of the men could be persuaded to leave the room… the beginnings of a plan began to turn over in her head. She sat in the armchair as directed, her eyes flicking casually to Baldric to check if he was still conscious.

  Not only was he still conscious, his eyes were fixed on her. His posture suggested that he was out for the count, but she could see the readiness in his body. Baldric was more than ready to fight their way out. She became all the more determined to find a way to make it happen. Could Weatherby fight? She flicked her eyes toward the Lord, who was still sitting silently in his chair — and with a tiny little gesture, Baldric shook his head, almost imperceptible. So, two against four, then. Not great odds… but maybe she could do something to even them.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Morag,” Brother Willows was saying softly, his arm still around her shoulders in an uncomfortable mockery of companionship. “Truly, I don’t. Pain is a horrible visitor. And I can see it in your eyes that you know how wrong your crimes are. Our Lord is a forgiving one — you would be absolutely amazed by how forgiving he can be. His grace has redeemed us all — even Madoc, who was once nothing but a petty murderer, has been elevated to greatness in the light of the Lord.”

  The hunchbacked man crept forward, nodding seriously — but she could see the wicked gleam in his eyes, and wondered how significant his transition from murderer to man of God had truly been. From the well-used look of those knives, it didn’t seem as though his old trade had been left very far in the past.

  “And Octavian! He, too, fell so far from grace he felt he would never be restored… a doctor and a scholar, he was expelled from his place of study for taking a few too many liberties with the dissection of bodies. But the good Lord forgave him, and found him a place here with me — and now, we all do the Lord’s work.”

  Octavian’s eyes barely flickered with life as his name was mentioned, and he showed no response of any kind to what Brother Willows was saying. Could he even hear? There was a folded piece of black velvet tucked under his arm — she squinted at it, just making out a glint of silver in its depths. Something told her she didn’t want to know what kind of tools a disgraced surgeon might be carrying.

  “As for Kenneth… well, it seems you know all about his story. Banished from his home, simply for hating sin? Well, the MacClarans certainly make some strange choices when it comes to heresy, but that’s not my business to judge. Only the Lord will pass judgment. What will he say about you, Morag?”

  He jabbed a fleshy finger into her chest, startling her.

  “That’s not my name,” she said, trying to sound unfazed by the situation. “I don’t know anyone called Morag. My name is Delilah. I have no memory —”

  “— of your life before now, we know, we know,” Willows said, flicking his hand dismissively. “We read your letter. The thing about witches, though… they lie. It’s not their fault.” He caressed her face, and she shuddered at his touch. “It’s the sin, infecting them like a canker at the root of the tooth. And there are two ways of treating them… we either find a way to heal the canker, or we rip the tooth out. What do we need to do with you, Delilah? Do we need to rip you out, or can we mend you somehow?”

  “What do you want, Willows?” she snapped, with her best show of confidence.

  “A confession would be a wonderful start,” Willows said thoughtfully. “Tell us the details of all of your crimes — confession, after all, is the first step to salvation. And once all your heresy is laid out on the table… why, then we can get to work. So tell me, Delilah, Morag… when did you first begin practicing witchcraft?”

  “I’m not a witch.”

  Brother Willows shut his eyes as though she’d hurt him deeply, and heaved a pained sigh. “Oh, Delilah. Please, my dear. I want so badly to help you overcome this evil that’s taken hold at the root of you, but I need you to fight it. Can you do that? Can you fight it for me?”

  What could she say? It was the honest truth that she’d never performed witchcraft in her life — but she couldn’t explain what had happened to her without incriminating all of the other women of the castle. And she couldn’t do that. It was her own
stupid fault that she’d gotten caught like this — she wasn’t sending these evil men after her friends at Clan MacClaran, even if they beat her to death. Resolute, she tensed her jaw and repeated her denial.

  Brother Willows sighed again, but this time she could see a mean little glint appear in his eye as he seemed to come to some kind of decision. He withdrew from her, jerked his head to Madoc — who took his place behind her chair, reaching down and extending his strangely long arms to press his hideous, clamming hands over her wrists to hold her in place in the chair. She tugged at the hands, revolted — he was eerily strong, and she realized with some alarm that she was well and truly stuck.

  Meanwhile, Willows was standing behind Octavian, who had placed his little velvet roll onto a low table and was unrolling it with the care of a surgeon. Sure enough, as she’d expected, it was full of a series of delicate metal tools, exquisitely forged. Worth a fortune, she’d imagine — it wasn’t as though they had factories to produce things like scalpels in the medieval era. And there was certainly a scalpel among the tools he was laying out — as well as a collection of other things that made her mouth dry and her heart pound sickly in her chest. There was a ghoulish man at the SCA whom she’d always disliked — torture devices were his absolute favorite subject, and he’d talk for hours to anyone who would listen about the inventive ways medieval people had found to harm each other. Now she was getting first-hand experience… and she liked it even less.