Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03]

by The Devils Heart

  Laird Macnachtan bypassed Swepston to address his people. “Now look at the Macnachtan,” he said. “We have not prospered so well. Our corner of Scotland is small and growing smaller as change takes place. Our crops do not give us good yields. Our livestock do not replenish themselves, and we struggle to find the coin to purchase better. At one time, the name Macnachtan rang through the Highlands with pride. We were powerful and our counsel sought. Now we are alone and in danger of losing all.” He faced Swepston. “So tell me, who has carried the curse? In all these years that have passed since the woman who wrote that book shouted her curse, who has prospered and who is in danger of truly dying out? Oh, and before you make more claims, remember I am of her line, the connection between Fenella and the present, the here and now. And there is one thing I know, hate never reaps a good reward. We have cursed ourselves, and the time has come to bring it to an end.”

  His was a rallying cry, and it did not land on deaf ears. Heads nodded. They understood his reasoning, and Swepston was not pleased.

  Laird Macnachtan turned to him. “Hand the book to me. You stole it from this woman and I shall not tolerate thievery.”

  Swepston’s response was to grab a torch out of the hand of the man nearest him, throw the book on the ground, and set it afire.

  Chapter Eight

  The torch flared and the book burned with the speed of dry tinder.

  Shocked, Margaret cried out. She lurched toward the fire, even as the laird began stomping on the flames. She fell to her knees, reaching forward, ready to save the book with her gloved hands.

  Laird Macnachtan caught her by the wrists. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “But I can’t let it burn.”

  “It’s gone, my lady. It’s gone.”

  He was right. The book had been so old that it was close to ashes in a blink of the eye.

  Margaret felt as if she had been ripped wide open and thrown asunder. The book was her one link to Fenella. It was all she had.

  Swepston stood over them, raising his hands, and announced, “The curse lives. It will never end until the last of the Chattan are gone—”

  Laird Macnachtan leaped for Swepston, grabbing him by the throat and cutting off his words.

  Swepston raised his hands to his neck but he was no match for the laird’s angry strength. The laird lifted Swepston into the air until his toes barely touched the ground.

  “Did you move Lady Margaret when you came upon the accident?” Laird Macnachtan demanded. “Answer me, man. Did you know of the accident and tell no one? Did you touch her?”

  Swepston appeared stunned at his laird’s anger. When he didn’t answer immediately, Laird Macnachtan gave him a forceful shake. “Did you touch her?” he repeated.

  Lady Macnachtan came forward. “Heath, please, he can’t speak. You are choking him to death.”

  The laird loosened his hold and Swepston fell to the ground. The man started dry heaving. Laird Macnachtan stood over him. He prodded Swepston with the toe of his boot. “You can answer me now.”

  Swepston’s gaze flicked over Margaret before he managed to say, “I did not touch her. I thought her dead.”

  “Where did she lay?” the laird ground out.

  “There. She was right there. Lying on her belly.” Swepston pointed to hard ground and the place where Margaret had remembered herself being.

  Laird Macnachtan knelt so that he was eye level with Swepston. “And what of my brother?” he asked. “Did you put an arrow through my brother’s heart? Did you murder him, Swepston?”

  Now the man reacted with true fear. He held up his arms as if the laird’s words were blows.

  “Did you murder my brother, man?” Laird Macnachtan repeated. “Do you hate us so much you would kill?”

  “I did not,” Swepston said. Gone was the arrogance. In its place was fear for his life. Nor did any of his followers rush forward to help him. They drew back as if wanting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Swepston.

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” the laird said.

  “You must believe me. I’d not ambush a man. Did I not confront you directly just now?”

  Laird Macnachtan seemed to consider this and straightened to his full height. He was taller, stronger, and more powerful now than his nemesis. “To the devil with you, Swepston. Leave here and never return to these lands again. I banish you.”

  “You cannot do that,” Swepston answered.

  “I already have.” Laird Macnachtan stood and lifted his voice so that all could hear him. “Angus Swepston is no kinsman of the Macnachtan. He shall receive no succor from one of us. He shall sit at no table amongst my clan or step foot upon my land. The man that aids him, that shelters him, is banished as well as is his family.”

  The pronouncement rang through the forest, carrying a power that was both thrilling and frightening.

  “You are cursing me?” Swepston said with angry surprise.

  “Aye, I am cursing you, Swepston, and as Fenella was my ancestor, know that I shall destroy you if you return to these parts.”

  Swepston’s manner changed. He had gone from defiant to terrified.

  He began crawling backward on the ground away from the laird. As soon as he was able, he scrambled to his feet and went running through the woods.

  The laird looked at the others gathered round. “And what of you?” he demanded. “Are you my men or not? If you are not, then leave, for your fate shall be Swepston’s.”

  They began bowing and backing away from him. “We are your men, laird,” one dared to say as they left. The others nodded and faded back into the woods, taking their families with them.

  Laird Macnachtan watched them go before muttering, “Aye, and they’ll turn their backs on me at the first chance.”

  Anice stepped forward. “Heath, you were magnificent.”

  “Brilliant,” her sister Laren echoed. “I now feel sorry for the sailors who were under your command, brother.”

  “Do you believe him when he said he had nothing to do with Brodie’s murder?” Lady Macnachtan asked.

  “I don’t know what I believe,” the laird said, no satisfaction in his voice. “But if I meet him again, I’ll put an end to him. His accusations and pronouncements have only served to keep us poor.”

  Margaret barely attended their conversation. She was distraught.

  The book was gone.

  She was still on her knees. A new wind swirled around her, colder than it had been before. It picked up the last charred remnants of the Fenella’s book and blew it through the air to where she knew not.

  One small bright ember of burning parchment whirled right by her face, its edges glowing before it turned black and disappeared.

  There was nothing left.

  And Swepston was right. The curse would last forever. Both of her brothers would die and their sons would carry this terrible burden.

  She’d come to fight with everything she had, and now it was over. She had failed.

  There would be no stopping Fenella.

  Her shoulders lifted with the horror of her thoughts. She heard a keening and realized it came from her. She’d felt such despair, her body had to set it free—

  Strong arms took her by the shoulders. She tried to push Laird Macnachtan away. He held fast.

  “Hey now,” he said, his voice low near her ear, “is this the lass who was brave enough to put a bullet in me?”

  She shook her head and tried to free herself.

  He tightened his hold. “You can’t give up. Not now.” When he could see that she was not going to listen, that she refused, he gripped her shoulders, bringing her to her feet and turning her so that she had no choice but to face him. “Margaret,” he said in a stern voice, “you must not give up.”

  She heard him. She knew he was wrong.

  “You have Scots blood in you, woman. Scots do not give up.”

  “I have very little Scots blood, and I’ve lost the one connection we had to Fene
lla. It has taken years to find it. There is nothing else,” she said, the words like knife points in her throat. “I have lost.”

  “You lose only if you give up. And don’t be thinking you are alone. I’ll not let my clan be ruled by superstition. This curse has roused my temper. I’m by your side in this battle.”

  “He is right,” Laren said, words echoed by Anice.

  “And there is something more we can do, my lady,” the laird said.

  “More?” Margaret raised her head. “What more can be done?”

  He took a step away from her. She frowned, suspicious. “Is there something?” she demanded.

  Drawing a breath and releasing it as if he feared he might have regrets over what he was about to say, he said, “We can go to Macnachtan Keep,” he said. “That is the ancestral home, the one in being at the time of Fenella and Rose.”

  “Wasn’t Marybone built on the grounds of the keep?”

  “No, the ruins of the keep itself are on an island in Loch Awe.”

  His words were not only a bane to her spirits, but a stimulus for her anger. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  “Did it come up in conversation?” he asked rhetorically. “I believe not.”

  “You know I’m in search of anything that can help destroy this curse,” she shot back.

  “The tower is a pile of rock,” he explained. “If anyone jumped off it now, they might sprain an ankle, no more, no less.”

  Margaret could barely speak. He made a perfect target for her frustration over losing the book.

  “I know that look,” he said. “My sisters give it to me often. You are thinking I am responsible for something I am not responsible for and you want to take me to task. It won’t work. Be honest, if you were I would you believe your story? But then Swepston shows up with a book and supports what you’ve said of being injured in that accident and we find you without a scratch, and, well, I have to start to believe there is some truth in it, don’t I?”

  She looked into his eyes, realizing he was handing her a victory. “Yes, you do.”

  “Can you wait for the morrow to go?”

  “Do I have a choice?” she countered.

  “Not a logical one.”

  “First light then,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Margaret reached for his hand and brought it up to her lips, kissing the back of his gloved fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

  Heath gasped.

  Even through his gloves he could feel the warmth of her breath, and something tight and defensive inside him gave way to feelings he’d never experienced before. Ever.

  He’d always sworn he’d been born to be a bachelor. He’d had no desire to put his feet up in front of any hearth. He’d chafed at the responsibilities of being laird. Hated them.

  And yet, in this moment, he sensed he was exactly where he wanted to be.

  There was a connection between them, something more than the simple lust a man had for a lovely woman.

  Yes, he desired her. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. If he hadn’t been with the other officers of his ship, he might have fallen in line with her other admirers. He might have trailed after her with a moony look on his face and a quill for writing poetry in his hand.

  With a glance or a gesture, she could make him feel ridiculously noble. He wanted to please her.

  He wanted to lay a hand on her silky hair, to pull her close, to hold her, comfort her . . . love her.

  Heath took a step away, startled by the direction of his thoughts. He turned to see his sisters watching him with speculation in their eyes. They were no fools and they knew him better than anyone else. Anice appeared almost gleeful while Laren’s brow was furrowed in concern. Dara frowned.

  He looked around this place that had seen so much death, trying to redirect his thoughts. “If Swepston did not move you to the pine grove, I wonder who did?”

  “I do not know,” she said.

  “What are you thinking, Heath?” Laren asked.

  “I’m wondering if that person might also be involved in Brodie’s death,” he answered.

  At that moment, the wind whipped through the trees around them. A wind that knew what had happened to Brodie.

  “Perhaps we’d best leave now,” Laren said, a hint of apprehension in her voice. “It will be dark soon.”

  She didn’t have to make the suggestion twice. An ominous feeling seemed to have crept around them. Even Lady Margaret was ready to go.

  However, he noticed as they left the woods, she turned back for one more look at the ground where the book had burned.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m so glad you are all here without our guest,” Dara said as she entered the sitting room where Heath, Laren and Anice had gathered, waiting for supper.

  They’d enjoyed a moment to refresh themselves after the ride. Anice stood in front of the fire, slightly lifting the back of her skirts to warm her legs, a habit of hers even from childhood. Heath sat in the wooden chair not far from her enjoying a nip of whisky, his favorite method of heating his blood.

  Dara glanced at the hallway stair. “Is she joining us for dinner?”

  “I don’t know,” Laren answered. She had her darning in her lap as if she wished to mend a few things before dinner, but the light was not good and Heath knew they were all tired. She set aside the sock she’d been planning to sew. “She said she was going to see to Rowan.”

  “Rowan?” Dara repeated.

  “Her Indian servant,” Anice supplied helpfully.

  Dara frowned slightly. Sensing she had something on her mind, Heath asked, “Is all well, Dara?”

  There was one last glance at the stairs, and then Dara said, “I believe you should send Lady Margaret on her way with all due haste.”

  “And why is that?” Heath asked. Dara had been quiet on the ride home. He’d noticed because he’d kept an eye on her considering the importance of her visit to the place where Brodie had died.

  “Why is that?” she echoed before saying, “Is not her tale of curses enough? Or her erratic behavior? Such as shooting at you?”

  “She is not the first woman who has wanted to do that,” Heath admitted.

  “Please, tell me she is the first woman who has actually carried through with the idea,” Dara responded without any humor.

  He set his glass on the side table. “Dara, what is truly bothering you?”

  She came over to sit in the chair opposite his, her expression tight. For a second, she clasped and unclasped her hands before saying, “I know she is a guest, but I don’t have a good feeling about her . . . especially when it comes to you, Heath.”

  “What do you mean?” He didn’t like this conversation.

  “One could easily see today that she has you wrapped around her finger. And I fear you may do something foolish.”

  “She’s paying Heath to help her,” Anice said.

  “And you are obviously quite taken with Lady Margaret yourself,” Dara challenged. “And that is what has me concerned. You all appear happy to give her the benefit of a doubt.” She turned so that she was including Laren in the conversation. “What if this is all a hoax?”

  “To what purpose?” Heath asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dara said. “Perhaps the Chattans were bored in London and decided to play a game to amuse themselves.”

  “People died in the coach accident, Dara,” he responded. “That would be an elaborate and criminal hoax.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Dara sighed her frustration and then said, “Perhaps it is seeing that tree where they left Brodie . . .” Her voice trailed off, tears welling in her eyes.

  Anice and Laren went immediately to her side. Heath stayed where he was. It was understandable that the sight of the oak would upset her.

  Dara took Anice and Laren’s hands and said to Heath, “I suppose I’m troubled because while we entertain Lady Margaret’s wild notions, we are falling de
eper in debt.” She paused as if gathering herself, then continued, “I believe you should sell Marybone to Owen Campbell.”

  “And why is that?” Heath asked, startled by her abrupt change of subject. His sisters were equally surprised by the turn of the conversation. Laren and Anice were aware Campbell wanted Marybone and of the family’s woeful financial affairs. However, he’d not yet discussed his meeting with the solicitor because of Lady Margaret’s accident and his own desire to avoid the unpleasant topic.

  “Because,” Dara said, squeezing each hand she held, “your sisters deserve better than what they have here. They need dowries and husbands. You deserve better as well. I watched you today, Heath. I noticed you enjoyed your confrontation with Swepston. You are a man of action. You like a fight. But you are not a farmer. Brodie was . . . and that is the big difference between the two of you.”

  Heath sat silent a moment. She was not saying anything he hadn’t already been told or thought himself.

  The clock on the mantel seemed to tick off the moments of his life.

  Finally, he spoke. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”

  “Is it giving up to follow a path you prefer? You don’t have too much time left,” Dara answered. “I know how severe our circumstances are. Are you thinking that the richest heiress in England will fall into your arms? Don’t pretend different,” she warned. “I can see your interest in the way you look at her. Marrying her would solve all your problems. But don’t forget, Heath, she may depend upon you now, but the two of you are from very different classes. She would never see you as a man.”

  There was truth in Dara’s words and he disliked them all the more because of it.

  Before he could answer, she continued boldly, “Be your own person. Let us have our pride restored to us.”

  “By selling Marybone?”

  She turned her head from him as if she could not meet his eye. “There are so many memories here,” she whispered. “Sometimes too many.”

  Anice and Laren’s gazes softened in empathy, but Heath sat forward. “Dara, if you are not happy here, tell me where you wish to go.”