As for him and Maggie, love brought a host of surprises.
The frustration and low level of anger Heath had experienced since the day they’d told him his brother had died and he was now chieftain and laird of his motley collection of clansmen had evaporated. The best part of being in love was having a partner. He enjoyed discussing his plans with Maggie. He could not have made it through the funeral without her by his side. They alone knew the truth of Brodie’s death and it made the bond between them stronger.
Laren and Anice were happy for them. Each sister approached him at a different time and told him that she approved of Margaret.
“I think she is good for you,” Anice said with her usual candor. “The moment I met her, I thought, finally, here is a woman as stubborn as my brother. And she’s wealthy as well. Brodie is taking care of us, isn’t he?”
Heath had not thought of matters that way. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose he is.”
Laren was more practical. “I pray you will be a good husband to her.”
“Why would you believe I wouldn’t?” he answered, mildly offended.
“Because you are male.”
Her comment intrigued him. They were walking side by side after the burial. The other mourners were lost in their own thoughts of mortality and the meaning of life. Anice and Margaret accompanied Janet and her sons. Janet had placed a hand on Margaret’s arm as if valuing her presence at this moment.
“In what way are men not good to their wives?” he asked. In his mind, Dara had not been a good wife to his brother.
“Sometimes in little ways that they don’t even notice,” Laren answered. “I believe Brodie cared deeply for Dara but he didn’t understand her.”
Now she really had his attention. “Why do you say that?”
“He expected her to work hard. He expected all of us to work hard. He was working hard . . . but Dara wasn’t happy and he never noticed. That is important, isn’t it? Noticing those close to us and caring how they feel?”
“Do I notice you enough, Laren?”
His sister walked a moment in thought and then said, “I believe the time has come when I want my own household.”
Dara had told him that, hadn’t she?
“Do you have the man chosen?” he asked.
“Not yet. But I believe that I might have a liking for Reverend Allen, the new minister in Dalmally.”
“The one who came to dinner last month?”
“The same. We’ve been meeting from time to time, depending on where our separate duties take us. Of course we will wait a respectful mourning period for Dara.”
Heath would not mourn for Dara. Considering the robust way he and Maggie went after each other, the sooner he married her, the better. There would be bairns on the way.
“And Anice? Has she set her cap on anyone?” Heath had to ask, a bit stunned to realize that while he thought he was in control of everything, he knew nothing.
“No, but,” Laren said, a smile coming to her lips, “she might prefer a visit to London. Since you are going to do us all a favor and marry well.” She put her arm around his. “And I mean that, Heath. I like Margaret very much. I will be proud to call her sister . . . and it doesn’t hurt that we shall have some room to breathe where money is concerned. Papa and Brodie both felt that Marybone could be a grand estate. They lacked the wealth to see their vision fulfilled. That has all changed now and it is good.”
It is good.
His sister’s blessing was all that he could wish.
During the supper following the burial, he spoke to the minister in the kirk about a marriage. The clergyman understood Heath’s suggestions that he wanted to marry as soon as their mourning had passed, which would be in six weeks. He agreed that the banns would be announced at the next morning’s service, a service both Heath and Margaret attended.
A week ago, there would have been many who would have resisted the idea of a marriage between a Chattan and a Macnachtan. But as Heath stood when called in front of the members of the kirk, he saw nothing but approval on the faces of his clansmen and neighbors.
The only person who had any cause to object would be Owen Campbell, and he never attended church.
That afternoon, when they returned from services, the messenger Heath had sent to London had finally returned.
“Lord Lyon is very ill,” he reported, as he handed Margaret a letter from her brother, although it had not been written by him. “I did not have the chance for an audience with him, but he sent word that he prays his sister is well and . . .” The messenger paused as if wishing to repeat the words as he’d been instructed. “ . . . And he assures Lady Margaret that he has no doubts that his was the right course. Those were his exact words he bade me give you.”
Heath was intensely curious to know what Lord Lyon had to say. From his vantage point a few steps away, he could spy the dark, slashing handwriting. The note was no more than a few lines. Margaret read them, nodded as if confirming something to herself, and folded over the note.
She did not speak of it to Heath.
And he couldn’t stand his curiosity.
He pulled the messenger over. “Douglas, I know it was a long trip and you wish to spend time with your wife but I need a message sent, this one to Glenfinnan.”
“It was not that long a trip, Laird,” Douglas answered. He was a redheaded man whose cheeks were always the same color as his hair, making it appear as if he put great energy into everything he did. He lowered his voice to confide, “In truth, I just reached London four days ago. On the way down, any disaster that could befall me did. My horse went lame, I ran into a storm that washed out a bridge, and I was chased by robbers who turned out not to be anything.”
“What do you mean?”
Douglas shrugged as if thinking himself a fool. “I could have sworn I was under attack. I reached an inn and told my story. A group of lads having a drink came out with me and I felt the fool when we searched and searched and there was no sign of anyone. But I could swear I saw three men in dark capes chasing me on horses.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“I didn’t. I was too busy running. After that, the rest of the trip was easy. And I’m happy to go to Glenfinnan if you give me a bit of a rest.”
“I can do that,” Heath answered, his mind busy on the implications of what Douglas had said. As his kinsman started to walk off, he stopped him by asking, “Tell me, you didn’t see a small white cat, did you? It is a strange, deformed animal. Her little ears are folded over. She has the air of an owl.”
Douglas frowned as if he thought Heath asking after a cat an odd matter. “I saw plenty of cats. I didn’t pay much attention to any of them. I don’t like the creatures.”
“You would remember this one,” Heath assured him.
“I doubt that,” Douglas promised, and bowed, a request for dismissal.
Heath waved him on, although the interview unsettled him. Travel was never easy. There were always hazards on the road, but Douglas’s report was beyond the ordinary. Heath said as much to Margaret a bit later as they walked around the charred ruins of the stable.
“She was trying to stop him,” Margaret said, nodding with understanding, and then she changed the subject to the stables. “I think you should build the new building twice as large as the old,” she said.
“Who is she?” Heath pressed.
Margaret looked at him. She was so lovely, especially with her hair loosely gathered at her neck. “Fenella. I believe she wanted time.”
“Time for what?” he said, letting his impatience be known. He was tired of this talk. He didn’t like it.
“Time for us to fall in love. It makes for perfect justice, don’t you think? My fortune helps restore yours. Maybe she’ll let me live. Perhaps our child will be safe.”
“Stop this,” he ordered. “Don’t give this—” He almost said “curse,” a word he’d come to hate. “Don’t give this nonsense power. Think on it, Maggie. You and your bro
thers believe, and because you believe, it has meaning. Stop it. Let it all go.”
“I wish I could, Heath. And yet, this is not so terrible. Lyon’s wife Thea wrote the letter for him. Her lying-in time will soon arrive and she is feeling strong.”
“Even with her husband ill?”
“He’s not just ill, Heath. He is dying,” Margaret said gently.
“Then all the more reason for her to be alarmed,” Heath snapped.
“You don’t understand—” Margaret started with that complacent tone to her voice, and Heath interrupted her.
“I don’t understand. You act as if it is acceptable for your brother to be dying. And if I ask what is the cause, you refer to some legend.” He took her by her shoulders, suddenly so filled with fear for her, it was hard for him to breathe. “Margaret, don’t give in to this. Don’t accept it.”
Her response was to lean in and rest her head on his chest. “I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you.”
That wasn’t the answer he wanted.
She refused to speak more on the matter. She refused to listen to him.
He felt as he did when he was at sea and saw a thunderhead forming. He could see it coming and knew it was unavoidable. Its presence gave him an edgy feeling.
But he could prepare for a storm.
How could he prepare for his wife’s mistaken beliefs?
His wife. She’d been completely his from the moment they had handfasted. The church service would be a mere formality. His spirit was already wed to hers.
And he would go mad if he didn’t change her thinking, but he didn’t know how.
For that reason, he sought out the counsel of the strange Indian servant Rowan. The bones in his body were healing nicely but keeping him confined to his bed.
While his sisters and Margaret enjoyed a game of chess after dinner, Heath sought out the servant in his quarters. The valet was able to sit up, although he still could not move without help.
“It is good to see you, my laird,” Rowan said in his accented English.
“Laird,” Heath corrected. “You don’t have to say ‘my laird.’ ”
“Yes, Laird,” Rowan answered. “What may I do for you?” His golden brown eyes had an expectant look as if he already knew Heath’s questions.
Heath sat in the chair by his bedside. He didn’t dither with conversation but said outright, “Do you believe in this curse? I assume Colonel Chattan believed.”
“He did, Laird. He believed very much.”
“And yourself?”
“I believe.” Rowan held out his arms wrapped in boards to brace the bones for healing. “I have proof.”
Heath wanted to deny the man’s words, and yet there was something in his quiet certainty that unnerved Heath more than Margaret’s insistence.
“I can’t lose her,” Heath said at last.
“You love her very much,” Rowan answered as if confirming the truth in his own mind.
“I was meant to love her,” Heath confessed. “Does that sound daft?”
“Perhaps it is as it should be,” Rowan suggested. “Perhaps the two of you were supposed to meet.”
“And then what?”
“Only you can say, Laird.”
Heath frowned and came to his feet. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “There is nothing at work here. All of it is imagined in our minds.”
“All of life is imagined in our minds,” Rowan said.
Heath picked up the wooden chair. “Are you saying this is in my mind and not solid and real?”
“I am saying there are matters that are beyond man’s small brain. In my country, we listen to what we do not see and cannot touch as well as that which is solid.”
“That is backward,” Heath announced.
“Is it?” Rowan challenged him. “Is it more forward to only believe in what you can touch? What of your beliefs in God? Is that backward?”
“It isn’t the same.”
“Is it not? You pray, and if your prayer is answered, do you not accept that as proof?”
Heath shook his head. “A prayer does not give credence to a heathen-being like a witch. The Chattans claim that one of my ancestors had unworldly powers. I cannot believe it. We are flesh and blood and mortal.”
“Have you never thought there might more to the world than your eye beholds?”
Like a small white cat that disappeared when he touched it.
Heath was quiet a moment and then he asked, “Then how can I defeat this curse? How can I defeat what I can only sense?” Heath asked.
“There will be a way,” Rowan said. “When you decide to fight, there will be a way.”
“I want to fight now,” Heath declared.
“Then you will find a way,” Rowan answered in his calm, annoying manner.
“That would be easy if I knew my opponent.”
“Then you must think like your opponent,” Rowan said.
“Think like an imaginary witch who has cursed people for generations?” Heath snorted his thoughts.
“Nothing is forever,” Rowan said, his eyes intense. “All is written in sand. There is always a way to change what is. But first, you must change your thinking.”
Heath set down the chair. Change his thinking . . . change Margaret’s thinking. “That would mean accepting there is an enemy who could be defeated.”
“What would you do if there was?” Rowan asked.
“My first question would be what is she afraid of? And if I were she—?” He thought a moment. “She cursed the Chattan because Charles did not honor her daughter, her family. She didn’t want just Charles to suffer, she wanted all of them to pay.” He gave his head a shake. “Now I’m beginning to sound like the rest of you.”
“And I believe Colonel Chattan was right. His sister does hold the answer. She is the first female born of the line. Is there something there?”
Heath shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m the last male of Fenella’s line. The first, the last . . .”
Rowan’s grim expression lightened. “Yes, yes. The first and the last. It must have meaning.”
“If it does, I’m at a loss. Good night, Rowan.” Heath raked his hands through his hair as he left the room.
The first and the last.
The thought stuck in his mind as he went downstairs to the sitting room, but before he joined the women, he heard their laughter. For a moment, he lingered in the hall where he could see them. Anice, Laren and his Maggie. Laren and Margaret were playing chess while Anice chattered, suggesting moves that Laren waved away.
Margaret sat with her left hand in her lap, giggling over Anice’s antics. When it was her turn to move, she concentrated on the board a moment, started to use her left hand but then pulled it back as if in pain. She moved with her right hand instead. Then she caught sight of him watching from the hall. She beckoned him with a smile to sit beside her.
He was happy to do so. However, when they went upstairs, he had to ask, “Is something the matter with your arm?”
Margaret’s brows rose as if she was surprised he had noticed. “It’s nothing. I must have strained it in some way.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve favored it quite often recently.”
“Do I?” She shrugged. And yet, he sensed a tension in her as well. “It will be better in the morning,” she said as if to placate him. She started toward her room.
He spoke, wanting to keep her with him a moment more. “Douglas, the messenger that went to London, left for Glenfinnan. I wanted to be certain your other brother knew that you are safe and in good hands.”
Her eyes saddened and her lips tightened into a smile that held back a well of sadness. “I pray Douglas finds Harry well.”
“He will.”
“I doubt it. The impact of the curse was almost immediate on Harry. It hits harder, we think, the closer we are to the heart of the curse.”
The damn curse. He wanted to relieve her mind in any way he could. So he said, “I spoke
to Rowan earlier. He has a different way of looking at the world.”
She nodded.
“We were thinking of ways of defeating the curse.”
“The curse you don’t believe in.”
Heath leaned against the door frame. “I’m here to protect you, Maggie.”
“I know,” she said softly in an infuriatingly placating manner, “and I love you for it.” She started to open the door to her room again, but he placed his hand over hers on the door handle and pulled it shut.
He then kissed her, deeply, fully, passionately.
And she responded.
After a few minutes, she turned her head so she could say, “I thought we were going to put this off until our wedding night.”
Heath kissed a line from the lobe of her ear down her neck to her shoulder. “We had the intention,” he murmured.
“It was a silly promise,” she whispered, her voice catching as he found that one spot at the base of her neck that she liked so well—and any thought of waiting for his wedding day fled Heath’s mind.
He was the one who opened the door to her room and they practically fell through it. He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed to throw her onto the mattress and then jumped on top of her. They rolled in the covers a moment, laughing like children, before their intent grew serious.
Taking her face in his hands, Heath said, “I love you, Maggie Chattan.”
Her smile was everything he could wish for. No one had a smile like his Maggie. She kissed the palm of his hand. “You are everything to me,” she said. “Every day I find another reason to respect you and love you.”
A man could ask for no more.
Heath made love to her. There was comfort in her arms, understanding, a sense of being and of having purpose.
“We are going to have brave and intelligent sons,” he told her in the aftermath as they lay entwined beneath the warmth of the covers.
“Bold ones like their father,” she said.
“And sensible but daring ones like their mother,” he added.
She rested her head on his shoulder and held up her hand. He laced his fingers with hers. She pressed a kiss upon the back of his hand. “And as our son grows,” she said, “always remind him of how much his mother loved him, even before he was born.”
Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 22
