“I see a cat,” Balfour replied . . . as if reaching a decision to agree with her.
Margaret did not appreciate the hesitation. “You don’t sound certain,” she challenged.
“With all respect, my lady, you said for me to tell Mrs. Smith I saw a cat. I said what you expected me to say.”
“I didn’t mean for you to repeat what I said,” Margaret snapped. “I want you to tell Smith the truth. There is a cat.”
“Do you wish the truth, my lady?”
“Of course, I wish the truth.”
The older man sighed and then admitted, “I don’t see a cat. I never have, not even when you pulled it from underneath the coach.”
Margaret rocked back a step, stunned.
Was this a jest?
Well, they’d picked the wrong time to play a game. She had too many matters of great importance on her mind to enjoy this. Some servants knew of the Chattan Curse but most did not.
Still, this sort of playfulness was out of the ordinary. And neither Smith nor Balfour was the playful sort.
Aware that the servants all watched carefully, Margaret didn’t know what to say.
The cat was right there in her arms. Margaret could feel Owl’s warmth, the weight of her body, the beat of her small heart.
She set Owl down.
The cat gave a small meow and then trotted to the side of the road to disappear into the brown grass and gorse to see to her private business in her usual fastidious manner.
Margaret watched the cat move away, but was conscious that everyone else’s eyes were upon her.
They did not see a cat.
And their expressions were ones of concern and worry.
Her gaze turned to Rowan. Solemn amber brown eyes met hers. He alone did not appear worried.
And Harry had insisted she trust him.
“Smith, hand me my cape,” Margaret ordered.
The abigail dutifully complied, handing Margaret the red cloak trimmed around the hood with sable.
“Rowan, walk with me a bit,” Margaret said, throwing the cape over her shoulders. She set off without waiting for him to obey. Of course, he obliged her, falling into step slightly behind her. Impatiently, she said, “Walk with me. I am not going to crane my neck to have a discussion with you.”
Fear made her voice a touch shrill. Walking would calm her and help her think.
Owl emerged from the brush and fell into pace with them. The cat was as loyal as a dog, following, then plunging into the grass, only to emerge up the road and wait for them.
When they were away from the others, she said, “You were standing beside me when I pulled Owl out from beneath the coach. You saw her, didn’t you?”
“I accept there is a cat, my lady.” His English was well-spoken with the faintest hint of an Eastern accent.
She frowned at this answer. “Did you see the cat or not?”
He didn’t answer immediately. She turned, confronting him, expecting an answer.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He nodded as if confirming something to himself and then said, “The colonel saw a cat.” The colonel was her brother Harry, who held that rank in the Horse Guard.
“He did?”
“A white cat that he described as having folded-over ears and large eyes.”
A surge of relief shot through her. “That is Owl. That’s the cat I see.”
“Then there is a cat,” Rowan answered.
“But did you see her?”
There was a beat of silence. “No, my lady. I have not had the honor.”
Owl waited for them up the road. Seeing that they were talking, she sat on her haunches, her unblinking gaze upon Margaret.
“I’d asked for a sign,” Margaret whispered.
“A sign of what, my lady?”
“That we are on the right course. There is so much at stake, Rowan, and so little time left.”
The valet conceded her words with a nod.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I hold the cat. She responds to me. She purrs and presses her nose against my hand for me to pay attention to her. Her nose is wet, cold.”
“There are many things in this world that don’t make sense, my lady.”
“Such as?”
“A curse?” he reminded her with a faint smile.
“How I wish it did not exist,” she murmured. “How different my life would be.” She looked up the road where it curved as it went around the mountain. “If Owl is part of this curse, what role could a cat play?”
“In my culture, we believe souls can reincarnate themselves in many forms. Do you understand?”
“Explain.”
“Colonel Chattan and his wife both saw the cat. The colonel’s wife said the cat arrived in her house at the same time she discovered the book. No one else has seen the cat, until now. In my country, we believe what you call the soul never dies. We believe we can return or reincarnate ourselves into people or animals.”
“An animal does not have a soul. At least that is what the church claims.”
“And do you believe that is true?”
At that moment, Owl turned her attention from Margaret. She gave a delighted sound and pounced on something only she could see in the grass. Her tail swished with excitement. She glanced over at Margaret as if to include her in the hunt, and it almost seemed as if the cat smiled her pleasure.
“Whose reincarnated soul do you believe Owl is?” she asked Rowan. The question sounded unbelievable.
The valet smiled, a silent approval of her change in thinking, and then offered apologetically, “We don’t know. Colonel Chattan believes there are only two possibilities. Could she be Fenella? Or Rose? Then again, she could be someone completely different.”
“Why did he not tell me this himself?”
“The cat was not there at the time. And if he had told you of Owl, would you have believed him?”
Margaret’s silence said she would not have.
“Have you read Fenella’s book of spells?” Rowan asked.
“Repeatedly. Harry believes it may hold a secret to ending the curse, but I’ve found nothing.”
“Because you have not opened your mind to all the true meanings of the spells,” Rowan explained gently. “There is a spell in it for bringing a soul back to life.”
Margaret frowned. Had she read one? Would she have noticed if she had? Everything was happening too quickly. It was hard for her to grasp it all.
She looked back in the direction where Owl had disappeared into the grass. “It’s madness to believe an animal can have a human spirit. It’s madness to think I am the only one who can see the cat. Why? What could her presence mean?”
The wind seemed to have turned colder. Or was it fear that made her cross her arms in protection? She thought of her dream, of the bodies falling, of the menacing forest—
There was no forest here, only rocky mountain slopes.
“You do not have to continue on, my lady,” Rowan said. “Colonel Chattan wanted me to be certain you understood you have the choice to turn back. He does not hold you accountable for anything.”
“He’s my brother. He’s going to die unless something is done. Both of my brothers will. I must go on.” She faced Rowan. “You just told me that this cat could be a mystical force, whether for good or evil, and I’m the only one who sees her. Harry is right. I could be the key to ending this. I must go to Loch Awe.”
Margaret raised her hand, a signal for the coach. They did not hesitate but drove for her.
“Climb aboard, Rowan,” she ordered, opening the passenger door herself.
“What of the cat?” he asked. Owl was still hunting through the grass.
“We leave her here,” Margaret said. “Hurry.”
As he climbed up onto the box, Margaret took her place, slamming the door shut behind her. Smith sat in the far corner of the coach watching Margaret’s every move with wide eyes, her knitting needles back in her hands.
There was a snap of the whip. The horses moved forward. The wheels turned.
Margaret leaned out of the coach window.
Owl appeared on the side of the road, a wiggling mouse in her mouth. The cat stared after the coach, not letting go of her prey.
Pulling herself inside, Margaret leaned against the seat, her hands tightened into fists—and then she noticed the book.
She picked it up and began flipping through the pages, searching for some clue that might have something to do with reincarnation.
But in truth, her heart felt as if it was breaking.
She hadn’t wanted to leave Owl behind. In a short period of time, the cat had come to mean a great deal to her. Perhaps too much.
Margaret had thought herself at peace in her loneliness. She chose to be alone. Love was not an emotion to be trusted. And, when love meant death, what other choice was there?
Whoever, or whatever, had created Owl now preyed upon Margaret’s loneliness, and she could not allow that.
Still, it hurt to abandon the pet.
She leaned to look out the coach window again. Owl was still on the road, a small white dot behind them.
They traveled around the curve in the road, and Margaret’s view of Owl was gone.
The violence of the storm caught Margaret’s small party unawares. They’d been on the road less than half an hour after leaving Owl when the weather had changed dramatically.
It started with the wind, which came roaring at them with a force stronger than any known and slammed against the coach so hard the vehicle rocked back and forth. Nor did it relent. Time and time again, the wind assailed them.
Thomas tried to keep the horses moving. The outriders flanked the coach, needing to stay close for their own protection. Progress slowed almost to a halt.
A white-faced Smith took to praying aloud and Margaret was silently echoing her words. She held Fenella’s book tightly with both arms, wishing there was a spell in it to change the weather.
Had Owl done this? Should she have left the cat?
Such thoughts were madness.
“It’s the Highlands,” Balfour shouted to Margaret through the door between them. “They say the weather changes in a blink.”
“Pull over then,” she ordered.
“We will once we find some shelter,” Balfour answered. “We are on the downward side of the mountain.” He shut the door.
“I’m not feeling so well, my lady,” Smith confessed. “How much longer will this go on?”
“Not long,” Margaret attempted to reassure her. “Lie down. You will feel better—”
The coach shook as if a huge hand of wind and fury had taken hold of it.
For a heart-wrenching second, Margaret could swear the coach was being lifted from the ground.
There were shouts from the men. The horses screamed.
The coach bounced with a mighty jolt and then listed dangerously to one side. The wheels had gone off the road and there was nothing to stop them from tumbling down the mountain slope.
Margaret realized they were doomed, and in the next moment, all thought in her brain was replaced with terror as the coach began rolling over and over down the mountain. Both women were tossed around in the coach, bouncing like marbles thrown into a container. Smith screamed and would not stop.
Margaret’s head hit the edge of the door beneath the coach’s window and the world went blessedly black.
How long Margaret had been unconscious, she did not know. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Smith’s face. The maid’s lifeless eyes were still wide open in terror.
The ground was cold and hard. Broken pieces of the coach surrounded their bodies. There were trees here. Oaks and beeches.
Every bone in Margaret’s body felt as if it had been broken. The pain was intolerable.
She wondered where Balfour, Rowan and the others were. Here and there was a moan, or was that the wind? That angry, violent wind had turned calm. Listening a moment longer, Margaret realized there was no stirring or movement of life.
In her line of sight, she could see Fenella’s book. It lay within reach of her fingers. The book held the answer. She must not lose it.
She strained to reach for it. Her arms would not obey. They couldn’t.
Margaret did not believe in tears. They served no purpose, but she began to cry now, silent tears that felt hot against her cold cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself. No, she wept for her brothers’ wives and the sons they would bear who would be marked with the curse. She wept for Balfour, Thomas, Rowan and the outriders, even for Smith, good people who did not deserve to die.
Soon, she would join them in death, here at the base of this mountain—
A purring caught her attention. Owl.
The sound came from her right side. She could not turn her head to look.
The cat nudged her cheek, and then gave it a lick as if to wipe away the tears. She felt Owl’s breath upon her skin. The cat nestled itself into the space between Margaret’s chin and shoulder. The purring grew louder and Margaret thanked God she would not die alone. In this moment, she didn’t care if the cat was Rose or Fenella or the devil. Margaret would accept comfort wherever she could find it.
Warmth replaced coldness. The purring vibrated through Margaret’s being, easing the tension and the fear. Almost blissfully, she slipped once again from consciousness to meet her fate . . .
Chapter Two
There were some days when the only thing that could make a man feel better and take the edge off life was to plow a hard fist into another man’s face.
For Heath Macnachtan, 16th chief of Macnachtan, raggedy clan that they were, today was just such a day.
He had just returned from Glasgow after a very dissatisfactory visit with his late brother’s solicitor. The news was not good. The Macnachtans were paupers in spite of everything Heath had done to clear the debts over the past year since he’d taken over as laird. He’d poured every shilling he owned and had used every ounce of ingenuity he possessed to setting his family’s books to right—and it had not been enough.
Now the family was in danger of losing the one thing that held them together as a clan—Marybone, the stone manor house that served as the seat of the Macnachtan and was the roof over his head.
He knew his sisters waited for his return, anxious for news of his discussion with the solicitor. He wasn’t eager for the interview.
Was it any wonder then that he would want to bolster his courage after a long ride with a stop at the Goldeneye, a rabbit warren of a pub beneath the shelter of some pines along Loch Awe’s shores? And perhaps between a nip of whisky and a pint or two of good ale he might realize a solution to his problems.
It was possible. Not probable . . . but the world always looked better to a man after he’d quenched his thirst.
Heath stooped as he walked through the Goldeneye’s door. As he took off his heavy woolen cloak, a remnant of his naval career, and hung it on a peg in the hall, he heard the companionable sound of male laughter coming from the taproom.
The sound made him smile until he walked into the low-ceilinged room and discovered that the laughter was directed at his cousin Rowlly Macnachtan who also served as his land factor.
Augie Campbell was making great sport of shoving Rowlly’s elbow every time he lifted his tankard up to his lips. It was apparently not the first time he’d done it. Rowlly’s shirt was covered with ale.
“I don’t understand why you can’t take a drink, Macnachtan,” Augie complained. “That’s the third pint I’ve brought for you. You should be more careful. Nate,” he said to the Goldeneye’s owner, “pour us another.”
Augie was a bully. He was twice the size of Rowlly and carried three times the weight. His eyes were red-rimmed. Apparently he was not having a good week, either, and had decided to take it out on Heath’s cousin. A good number of Campbells stood arou
nd the pub grinning like fools, obviously enjoying Rowlly being ridiculed.
Rowlly held his dripping tankard away from him, his every muscle was tense, but he had a good head on his shoulders. If he chose to battle, it would not be a fair fight. Augie would roll him up like a ball and toss him in the air.
Heath had no such disadvantage. He could look Augie in the eye, and he might not be as brawny as the Campbell but he was smarter and quicker.
Before anyone registered his presence, Heath crossed the taproom in two steps, grabbed Augie by the back of his thick neck, and brought his head down on the hard wood surface of the bar with a resounding, and satisfactory, thwack.
For a second, there was stunned silence.
Augie moved first.
He placed one heavy hand on the bar and then another. He pushed himself up. He faced Heath, his expression one of comic surprise. He started to growl, but then his eyes crossed and he fell to the floor with a thud.
“Good to see you, Laird,” Rowlly said with generous understatement. “Stopped by for a pint on your way back from Glasgow?”
“I am thirsty,” Heath said, matching Rowlly’s dry tone.
“I don’t believe you will be having a drink now,” Rowlly answered, and he was right.
Augie was not well liked by his clansmen, but he was one of them. Campbell pride was now on the line.
“I’ll take a pint, Nate,” Heath said to the landlord, even as he felt the Campbells surge forward. He then turned and buried his fist in the abundant gut of the first man coming at him—and it felt good. He’d needed a fight and a fight he was receiving.
Rowlly took the fresh pint Nate had poured and threw it in the face of his nearest attacker. In spite of his size, he was a good fighter when the stakes were even. He now proved his mettle.
Nate turned to pour fresh pints. “You will be paying for damages, Laird?” He filled another tankard.
Heath avoided a response by picking up Jamie Hightower, the blacksmith’s son and one of Augie’s mates, and throwing him over the bar. Jamie fell upon the keg that Nate had tapped. The barrel broke under his weight and ale went spilling everywhere.
A roar of outrage came from the pub patrons who had not entered the fray but who now had just cause.
Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 2
