Then again, trees didn’t fall without a reason. Cats didn’t disappear. Storms on the loch didn’t purposefully steer boats away from shores.
And that is when the hairs at the nape of Heath’s neck started to tingle. He stood, holding his torch.
She was here.
He pushed the torch into the ground beside Margaret and pulled his cutlass from its scabbard.
The trees around the clearing began to waver as if his eyes were out of focus. The moonlight grew brighter. The torch flared, surprising Heath. He turned to it, sword in hand.
No one was there save Margaret. They were here, together. He took courage from her presence and faced the woods.
“Face me, you bloody witch. Come meet me,” he roared, done with waiting.
And his challenge was heard.
A shadow moved among the trees, its form human.
Heath waited as it took shape. This was no crone . . . but a man. A man Heath could fight. Confidence surged through him. He would defeat this curse.
The man moved from the shadows and stepped into the moonlit clearing—and Heath found himself facing his brother, Brodie.
Chapter Twenty
Brodie did not look like he came from the grave but exactly as Heath had seen him last almost three years ago. His hair was lighter than Heath’s and his beard a bit heavier. He also had bluer eyes, more like their sisters’.
Heath’s chest tightened. Tears threatened. He’d so longed to see his brother one last time, and here he was.
Brodie spoke. “Hello, brother. I imagine you are surprised.”
Dear God, this sounded like Brodie. His brogue was heavier than Heath’s. Richer.
A wind swept through the clearing. It ruffled Brodie’s hair, a sign that he was no ghostly apparition but solid and whole.
Heath dropped his sword arm. He yearned to move toward his brother but caution held him back.
Still, he had to speak to him. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know you have.” Brodie shook his head sadly. “That was bad business with Dara.”
“Aye, it was. And with Rowlly as well.”
Brodie shrugged. “He was always a man led by his peter. You know Janet told him when he could stand up and when he could sit.”
Heath remembered this conversation. Brodie had said these exact words to him one night before Heath had taken his leave to return to his ship and his career. “I never meant to come back here,” he heard himself confess to his brother.
“I know you didn’t. I didn’t mean for Dara to murder me. Bad doings with the Macnachtans. I should have been wary.”
“I miss you, Brodie,” Heath said. “We all do. I’m not the man you were. Not the leader.”
“You are a good laird,” Brodie answered. “You are learning patience. I see that.”
“Do you, Brodie? Where you are, do you see everything?”
Brodie’s answer was a smile, and Heath felt blessed to be in his brother’s presence once more. Fear left him. He began walking toward Brodie, outstretching his arms, wanting to welcome him with a hug.
And then Brodie said, “You are going to have to give up the Chattan, Heath. You can’t have her.”
Heath stopped in his tracks. “She’s mine. My wife. I’ve handfasted to her, Brodie. I will not let her go without a fight.”
“She’s already gone, brother. Fenella’s taken her. She’s left you.”
Heath turned in alarm.
Margaret lay where he’d placed her, her eyes closed, her skin deathly pale.
“No.” The denial was pulled from the very bowels of his being. He started toward her. She could not have passed, not without him being aware.
And then he knew. That was not his brother but Fenella having her way. She knew his weakness.
If he was to save Margaret, he could not let the witch distract him.
He wheeled round, raised his sword and charged the apparition.
Brodie raised his arm as if to ward off the blow. Instead, a powerful force struck Heath in the chest, throwing him backward. He hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
“Don’t fight this,” Brodie said. “You can’t. Fenella vowed the destruction of the Chattan and so it shall be for eternity.”
Heath forced himself to breathe. He came to his feet, lifted his sword—and felt it fly from his hands. Brodie had orchestrated that with a wave of his hand through the air.
“You won’t come close to me,” Brodie explained. “You can try, but you will not defeat me.”
“I don’t want to defeat you,” Heath answered. “I want Fenella gone. I want her out of our lives. She is not of me and my clansmen. She doesn’t represent you.”
“But I’m here,” Brodie said, opening his arms like a magician to show he hid no tricks.
“This isn’t you,” Heath said. “You can’t be here. You are gone, Brodie. You are not with us on this earth.”
“Do you really believe that?” his brother asked. “Can you not believe your own eyes?”
There it was again, the challenge of belief.
“I can’t,” Heath said, his heart heavy. “I won’t.”
“You would deny me, your brother, for a woman?”
“A woman I love,” Heath said. He lunged for his brother. Again, Brodie easily deflected him. They did not touch and yet it was as if hands grasped Heath and threw him to the ground.
And he knew he was defeated. He could not fight this force that was Brodie. He couldn’t even come close to the specter.
“There will be other women to love,” Brodie said. “Look at me. I loved Dara. Love did not suit me well. Leave this place, Heath. Leave the Chattan to me.”
Brodie’s voice was that of the devil, of temptation, of evil.
There had to be a way to defeat him. There must be.
The first and the last. The phrase echoed in Heath’s mind.
Margaret was the first female born of Charles Chattan’s line.
Heath was the last male of Fenella’s—and he knew then how to end the curse forever. He understood what kept Fenella alive. His blood was her blood, passed down through the ages.
He pulled his dirk from his boot. The blade was so sharp it could cut silk.
Brodie laughed. “Your weapons are useless against me,” he said as if pitying Heath. “There is nothing you can do, especially on this spot where my power is so strong.” Brodie lifted his face to the sky. “There is power in nature. These trees, this earth, they know our stories. They outlive all of us. They are our silent witnesses.”
“Aye,” Heath agreed. “But your time has come, Fenella. I cannot let you continue to destroy. It’s done.”
“It will never be done,” Brodie said. His smile was slow and confident, a goading expression the good man his brother had been would have never used. It made what Heath was about to do easier.
Heath lifted the dirk into the air.
Brodie’s eyes lit up in anticipation of another chance to prove his power.
But Heath was not going to waste the dirk upon an apparition. Instead, he plunged it into his own heart.
The pain was not immediate. It took several beats before his body recognized the attack. Heath felt his heart falter, miss its rhythm, tighten and then explode.
Brodie cried out, “What have you done?”
Heath smiled, a coldness starting to gather in him. “I’ve defeated you, Fenella. I’m the last. You are a parasite no more.”
Before his eyes, Brodie wavered, the air around him shimmering slightly, and then he disappeared. He evaporated.
His beloved brother was gone.
And Heath was done.
He sank to the ground. The knife was still in his heart. It gave him time, time to gaze lovingly at Margaret. His beautiful, generous Maggie.
Then, to his amazement, she stretched out an arm, spreading the fingers of her hand as if testing them. Her body unfolded and she had the sudden strength to sit up.
In that moment, he knew complete
love.
He’d sacrificed all for her and he was well pleased. He’d protected her and he had saved generations into the future of not only the Chattans but the Macnachtans as well—and in that moment, he was surrounded by knowledge, by understanding.
He understood why Fenella had attacked Margaret so virulently. It had nothing to do with the full moon but with her own survival. She couldn’t let him breed with Margaret. The curse would then destroy her line.
But now he’d resolved all, and a sense of peace and wonder filled him. Love had destroyed the curse. Love was the only force more powerful than revenge.
Margaret cried out his name and crawled to his side. She leaned over him.
“Heath, you shouldn’t have done this. I’m not worth your life.”
He smiled. She was wrong.
“Rose gave her life for her love,” he managed to say. His legs were very cold. Her warmth felt good. “It’s complete now.”
“It isn’t,” Margaret said. Her tears fell upon his cheek. “This is not right.”
“Pull the dirk out,” he said, raising his hand to touch one more time the softness of her hair. “It will help me go quick.”
“I don’t want to—”
He shushed her softly. “I love you, Maggie. And if there is an eternity, I shall love you for all of it. Now be brave.”
“I love you,” Margaret whispered. She leaned to rest her cheek against his. “I was always meant to love you.” She pulled the knife from his chest.
It would be seconds now. What was left of his heart’s strength would pump the blood free and he would die in his Maggie’s arms. There was no better place on earth to be.
He closed his eyes, wanting to drink in with his last breaths the feel and the touch of her. His mind grew dizzy, his thinking confused.
As if from a great distance, he heard the sound of a cat purring.
He could almost feel the animal here beside him, feel her fur against his neck. Her purring calmed him and he drifted off to death’s deep sleep—
“The bleeding has stopped, Heath. It’s done. Can you hear me? You are safe. We are safe.”
There was excitement in Margaret’s voice. Her hands shook him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The clearing was exactly as it had been moments before, cold and silvery in the moonlight. The torch still burned.
But the pain in his chest was gone.
Margaret leaned over him. Her hair was down the way he liked it and she was smiling. “You are whole,” she whispered. “It’s a miracle.”
He reached up to touch her hair. “I heard purring,” he confessed. “Just as you claimed you heard after the coach accident.”
“You defeated Fenella,” Margaret said, wonder in her voice. “You battled her and you won.”
Heath dared to sit up then. He felt no twinge of pain. He was weak and bruised, but whole. There wasn’t even blood around the slit material of his shirt.
“Did you see any of what happened?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I could not. I heard you speaking but I was not able to make out the words.”
“Brodie was—” he started and then stopped. The vision that had been here had not been his brother, and Heath would not desecrate his memory by linking him to Fenella.
Margaret wrapped her arms around him. Her body felt warm against his. “I did see you plunge your knife into your own chest. I was so afraid.”
“But then the paralysis ended.”
She nodded. “How did you know to do that?”
“It was something Rowan said that made me believe it might work. He is an odd character.”
“Yes, he is. He’s devoted to Harry.”
“And to you. He urged me to think of all angles and mentioned you were the first female born of your line since Charles Chattan. I’m the last male to Fenella’s direct line, and I started wondering what if we were keeping her alive. We, with our superstitions and fears.”
“Fears you don’t have,” she said, nodding.
No, he didn’t. Not any longer.
Heath rose to his feet. He offered Margaret his hand and helped her up. Her legs were strong and the color had returned to her cheeks. She was completely as she should be.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
Epilogue
Of course, no one challenged the union of Margaret Catherine Chattan and Heath Graham Davis Macnachtan, and so after the banns had been duly read and noted, they were married on the twenty-second of February, 1815, under a bough of mistletoe.
It was good winter day with fine sunshine and a wind that the pines surrounding the small church could hold at bay.
Everyone from the glen was there, with the exception of Owen Campbell—and it was just as well that he wasn’t in attendance since he would not have wished them well. Even Swepston, who had miraculously survived his injuries, was present to bless the union in the old ways.
Margaret could not love Heath more than in the moment when she said her wedding vows. The formal words of the church sounded stilted compared to the promises they’d spoken in love that night in the library when they’d handfasted themselves. Still, it was a proud moment for her when they were introduced as man and wife to all present in the kirk.
Her joy was even more complete because both of her brothers, strong and healthy, stood beside her.
Her brother Neal, Lord Lyon had the most amazing transformation. The last time Margaret had seen him, he’d been too weak to even turn himself over in bed. They’d known he was dying and their prayer had been that he would live to see the birth of his son. Now he walked on his own and moved with grace and purpose. He’d even brought his two young stepsons with him. Margaret loved Jonathan and Christopher as nephews.
His wife, Thea, was confined to home due to the baby they expected at any moment.
“You should have stayed with her,” Margaret said.
“I would not have missed your wedding,” Neal vowed, adding, “As head of the family, I wish to witness your happiness. You deserve this, Margaret, and so much more. Thea wishes she was here as well.”
Neal took her hand. “You gave me back my life. I knew the moment the curse was broken. I sat up with a strength I’d not had in months. It was necessary for me to be here, Margaret. I wanted to welcome the man you loved fully into the family.”
Harry and his wife, Portia, were also in attendance. Portia told Margaret of how afraid she had been that she was going to lose her husband. “He was paralyzed,” she confided. “It was frightening.”
Margaret understood exactly what she meant.
Now Harry kept up with Jonathan and Christopher and a host of lads from the glen. Over the days preceding the wedding, they had all ridden, hunted and competed in games of sport on Marybone’s front lawn, actions that bonded the Chattans and the Macnachtans.
Margaret also liked the quiet pride that Heath was developing. Her brothers had been complimentary of the Macnachtan horseflesh. Both Neal and Harry were avid horsemen, and Heath had shared with them his plans for the new stables. They were keen to be a part of the enterprise. If Heath had felt any intimidation over having her well-known brothers, with their reputations for being the best at everything they attempted, under his roof, those fears vanished in the good-humored camaraderie they offered him. He was their brother-in-marriage and they honored him with their acceptance.
After the wedding ceremony, there was a dance that included everyone far and wide. The Scots did not stint when it came to celebrating. Heath announced that he had buried a small keg of whisky to ensure the success of the day. It was an old custom, one designed to appease kelpies and sprites. However, by mid-afternoon, Heath was leading the party of men armed with shovels to dig that keg up. After all, what good was whisky in the ground?
And who knew if kelpies and sprites would even appreciate it? Better to drink a dram or two or three in honor of the happy couple.
The celebrating went long into the night and con
tinued after the Macnachtan had chased the bridal couple to their bed with good-humored suggestions. Heath barred the door, not wanting any of that rowdy bunch to think about coming and joining them.
“They would,” he predicted. “Anything to see you happy. They love you as much as I do.”
“And I return that love,” Margaret said. She took her husband’s hand. They now shared the room that had been his alone. A wood fire burned in the hearth and she saw that Cook and Cora had prepared a table of food and drink to last them through the night and for days to come if they had a mind to never leave this haven.
She continued soberly, “I’m surprised at how many different facets there are to love. I thought I could only care about my family, but my heart has expanded to include so many others.”
“And it shall keep expanding,” he promised. “There will be no shortage of love between us or around us.”
They made love then. Happy, joyous love.
The act of joining was no longer just a rite of nature. It was the communication of two souls who longed to be together.
And in that night, she knew his seed had taken hold. They would truly become one.
Later, as she lazed in his arms, she said, “My only regret is to lose Owl. We never saw her again after that night on Innis Craggah.”
“If you are right and she was the spirit of Rose, then she’d accomplished what she wanted. Her intent, I believe, was to ensure that when the time was ripe, I would know to return to the site of those graves.”
His arms around Margaret tightened. “She’ll come back to us someday,” he said. “When she is ready.”
The wedding feasting didn’t end after a single week. Margaret found herself feted wherever she went.
Neal returned to London just in time to be present for the birth of his daughter. Grace Elizabeth Chattan was certain that the curse was truly broken. Their father had hoped that Margaret’s birth had been a signal, but she now realized that she had just a part of the events that needed to be in place to destroy Fenella’s power.
The first of May, when the hint of spring was in the air and the rebuilding of the stables well under way, Margaret announced her pregnancy. Heath had already known, or so he said. The entire clan was happy for her, and Margaret felt pleasure at being truly part of them.
Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 24
