The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  She supposed it was more than he offered when he’d rid himself of her presence the first time, so she nodded her agreement, relieved that, for the moment, her secret still retained its value. But her self-congratulation didn’t last long. Her notion of Euan the lover melted away. The granite-hard McArthur chieftain sat in his place the instant he said, “I’m sure that among all the men in Cragenlaw, I can find you a husband. Perhaps, an older man, a widower who already has enough mouths to feed and won’t mind having a barren wife.”

  His words stung, made her skin flush as if he had raised a hand to slap her across the face. Her teeth clamped down on the protest behind them.

  She ought to thank Euan for insulting her, for wakening her to the truth.

  Her brother Doughall had turned offensiveness into an art. Euan’s remark served as a reminder of her place in a world where most men regarded women as possessions: first they obeyed their fathers, then their husbands. Morag’s father was dead, and she had never married—never would now. She owed loyalty to no one but Rob. The lad had been her life for every day of his.

  Aye, there was a lesson to be learned, she would take what Euan offered, aye and, as a man would, the loving along with it.

  When the propitious moment came, she would use the secret to keep them safe from her brother and that black-hearted Moor who had Doughall twisted round his fingers—both of them blacker than than they pretended.

  Calm once more, she looked at Euan. “Was that why you called me down to the Great Hall, to tell me you would find me a husband when you were done with me? You are very generous, but if I want a husband, I can find one for myself. I’m sure they’ll be queuing up to lie with a lassie who has been the McArthur’s leman. My reputation will surely be greatly enhanced by such a favour, along with my value.”

  She couldn’t avoid experiencing a small surge of pleasure at his grim stare. “No, that wasn’t the reason I wanted to speak with you. Mhairi’s already spoken to you of Ruthven’s daughter. That’s Iseabal, my second wife’s sister. She was a fetching wee thing the last time I saw her. I’d like to be sure the apartments for our visitors look welcoming, but for all Mhairi acts as if she knows everything, you’re nearer to the lass in age, and I’d appreciate you helping to entertain her. Make her feel at home.”

  Did he remember that she, Morag, had only lived at Cragenlaw for a month herself? “What would Iseabal’s father think? My position in your household is hardly a recommendation as a fit companion to his daughter.”

  She watched his nostrils flair as he sucked air in through his nose, his mouth a cold hard line. “I am the McArthur. This is my castle and they will be my guests. No one will question my right to seat you by my side at the high table, or take you to my bed each night. That would be to insult my hospitality.”

  As he finished speaking, she decided that she had been a mite daft ever thinking she knew all there was to know about Euan. It had been over a decade since the day she found him in the aftermath of battle. She, too, had changed, grown in more ways than height. It had been foolish to deny Euan the same consideration.

  She had a lot to think about and, by the look of things, not much time to do it in.

  Chapter 14

  Yesterday had been all about pleasantries, caps doffed and bows made. Aye, the eagle feathers in their caps had flown once more. He had given Ruthven his welcome at a point halfway down the spit where the waves noisily smacked at the rocks. The breeze leapt the wall and swooped down on them, making everything flutter, including Diabhal’s mane that young Rob had combed until it shone as sleek as a raven’s wing.

  Since Fiona’s death, Euan had seen little of Ruthven, apart from his last visit to court, bending the knee to King Malcolm Canmore. Unlike Comlyn, Euan actually liked the man, trusted him. As for the thought of offering Ruthven the insult that had raised Comlyn’s hackles, asking him to disarm the men Ruthven led into Cragenlaw never entered his mind.

  Now, with Morag keeping Iseabal Ruthven entertained in the solar with some sewing, he and Ruthven climbed to the very top of the Keep. After a quick scan of the horizon, Ruthven spoke his mind. “As you ken of auld, McArthur, I’m not a man to keep his words behind his teeth, and I must say I was most surprised to see young Alexander Comlyn tending you at table.”

  “Ease your mind, Ruthven,” he said, “I’m not holding the lad hostage, merely helping him mind his manners, and teaching him to wield a sword without endangering everyone around him.” Euan sucked a noisy breath in through his teeth and gave a wee shake of his head. “It was either that or wed Kathryn. Comlyn wanted to keep me tied to the tail of his plaid.”

  Euan laughed out loud as Ruthven’s eyebrows shot toward his diminishing hairline and said, “Well, you may laugh, McArthur, but the Bear is no’ a man to be trifled with.”

  “As I’ve learned to my cost,” Euan agreed. “You will never persuade me that yon cateran—damn ruffians—belonged to anyone else but Comlyn. Men of that ilk with naught to lose will fight for anyone with a few pennies to pay them.” Euan lifted a brow with a hint of sarcasm shaping it and continued, “However, he was black affronted when his nephew tried to put an end to my existence, which gave me a bit of leeway. By now, he’s had time to reconsider. He’s seldom swayed into trusting a soul. It’s my belief he wants Alexander back, but is too proud to ask.”

  Euan paused for a moment to look into the bailey. The lad they were discussing strode across the cobbles. Even the way he moved reminded Euan of Comlyn. Aye, he needed to give more thought to setting someone to keep a close eye on the lad.

  Ruthven stepped closer to the edge of the battlements, curious. “Is that him?”

  “Aye.” Euan watched the lad toss a cheeky quip accompanied by a derogatory hand-signal to Nhaimeth. “He’s feisty, no doubt about that, and he tends not to listen to advice. Yet something tells me that, away from his sire’s influence, he could be moulded into a fine laird. He is Comlyn’s only heir.”

  “He could not have a better example, but as for his only heir, I wonder.” Ruthven shook his head in two minds whether to carry on. “There was a tale of another lad years ago, after his first wife died in childbirth. Mildred was a cousin of his, a few years younger, and folk said the pair billed and cooed from the moment Mildred came out the womb. Some folks said he blamed the lad for her death and wouldn’t look at him.” Ruthven lifted a wry eyebrow. “And others believe the baby died, but yon stories aye get exaggerated.”

  The story was new to Euan. He considered it while he looked out over his clan lands in much the same way his father had, coming up here on a summer’s night to watch the sun go down. He’d been a proud man, conscious of what he had achieved and what he expected of Euan.

  What would be Euan’s legacy? What would he leave behind? He shuddered to think, and swung around to face the older man. “I’ll tell you now, Ruthven, there’s not a skerrick of tall tales when it comes to my situation. Three wives I’ve lost to the curse, and there won’t be another till I’ve rid myself of the bluidy nuisance.”

  His main emotion was disgust. He felt sure it was writ upon his face, at the corners of his mouth that turned down, and the tip of his nose as it curled up. Most of his repugnance he felt for himself, firstly for being too soft, secondly for treating the whole experience as a jest while it played out.

  “I hear tell of inquisitors burning witches in Spain. I can’t help but wish that instead of bringing the crone in front of me, my men had turned her to ashes along with the willow cabin she was raging over.”

  Ruthven showed the whites of his eyes, shocked.

  “Does that sound harsh, hearing the McArthur talk of making war on auld women?” Euan demanded. “I don’t, and neither should you. It was your daughter she killed for the price of a few sticks.”

  “No doubt you have the right of it, McArthur. Your anger is justified. I only lost a daughter, childbirth is a chancy occasion when all’s said and done, but had I lost three I’d be seeking vengeance.”

&n
bsp; “It’s not vengeance per se that I’m after, merely the removal of the curse. Soon enough, I’ll be travelling to Dun Edin. The king is there, and I need his permission to hire mercenaries. You’ll have heard tell I’m building a new Keep?” he inquired of Ruthven, certain that was a big part of the Ruthven chieftain’s incentive for his visit to Cragenlaw.

  “Aye, I had at that, and hoped you didn’t think you need protection from me.”

  “Nae, you’ve never given me any reason to fear the Ruthvens. However, there’s a point where my borders with my neighbours to the north and west meet, and there is a passage through the Grampians that will pay for watching. That’s where I’ll build the Keep, and it will be Graeme’s. He’ll become McArthur, Thane of Kinlochery, and man of substance.” Euan quirked an eyebrow at Ruthven, his expression miles away from the one that revealed his ire. “He’ll also need a wife to go with his fine new Keep.”

  Ruthven just smiled. For now, it was enough for Euan to recognise that both he and Ruthven were of like minds.

  Discovering that Iseabal was a shy, quiet young lass, made Morag feel guilty. To think, that she had felt jealous over her arrival at Cragenlaw. Sweet. That’s how Morag found her, and from their conversations as they worked on Morag’s new pale blue kirtle, she perceived Fiona had been another such a one.

  For some reason, Morag couldn’t explain, she felt a deep vale of sadness open inside her that Fiona had died. She sounded exactly the sort of wife Euan had needed, unlike Iseabal. The lass was far too young, bonnie, but too unworldly. Well aware of the demands the McArthur would likely put on the lass as a wife, Morag worried about her, for she had developed a liking for Iseabal.

  “There now,” Iseabal shook out the garment she had been working on. Her glance sparkled, shifting from the kirtle to Morag. “Will you wear it this evening? The colour will look right bonnie with your hair and eyes.”

  Morag couldn’t help but smile, Iseabal’s enthusiasm made her feel old. She wasn’t used to the company of other females. Her father had never remarried, and Gavyn had considered himself too young for the marriage bed. Though from what Morag had heard, he had not been as reluctant to slip into another man’s bed when the wife was lonely. Her father had rid himself of her nurse’s complaints long before he should have, so most of her childhood Morag had run wild.

  How else could a young girl with barely fourteen years have found herself on a battlefield? Contact with anyone, particularly women, on her travels with Rob had been something to be avoided. To tell the truth, even since arriving at Cragenlaw, she hadn’t enjoyed the company of many women. Volunteering to prepare Astrid for burial had put paid to any friendliness she might have enjoyed.

  The linen she had bought from the pedlar was an unusual blue, and the most costly of all the linens he’d carried in the back of his wagon. She hadn’t been able to resist, thinking of how she would look to the McArthur’s eyes when at last he returned from the site of the new Keep. Prideful, she had paid for her sin, having only her auld kirtles to dress in, until this moment.

  She leaned forward, lifting the hem of the new kirtle Iseabal had worked on. The stitches were tiny, far neater than hers, which highlighted the difference in their upbringing; Morag hadn’t spent many of her days learning to turn a fine stitch.

  If there was anything Morag envied about the other woman, it was the pale smoothness of her hands. They didn’t snag the linen as her dry skin did, because even a month at Cragenlaw couldn’t make up for six months of travelling in all weathers.

  Aye, the lass would make someone a braw wife, but not Euan. He didn’t mind if the hands she caressed him with were slightly rough. He was a big man, not looking for gentle petting.

  Morag stood and lifted the kirtle from Iseabal’s knee, smiling. “I’ll go into the bedchamber and try the kirtle on. It’s probably the nicest one I’ve ever owned. Thank you.”

  “You don’t speak as if you’re from a poor family.”

  Morag’s smile faded as she walked toward the entrance to the bedchamber but, certain no insult was intended, she said merely, “I’m not, but families do tend to squabble with each other. Some members can be eaten away with envy. That’s how the family falls apart.”

  In the bedchamber, meaning to undress, Morag twisted her hair into a knot atop her head so it would not be trapped as she pulled off her old kirtle. Turning, she realised Iseabal had followed her to sit on the big bed she shared with Euan without a glimmer of apology on her face. Morag supposed this was what it was like to have sisters. Until Fiona died, Iseabal had been one of four. The other two still lived at home with their mother. Until now, the only person to watch her undress had been Euan. She gritted her teeth against the loss of privacy and began pulling the kirtle over her head.

  As she slipped the old garment down her arms, Morag watched the younger woman ruffle the wolf fur with her fingers. Iseabal looked up at her, eyes filled with curiosity. “Is this where you and the McArthur sleep?”

  Morag understood that to mean ‘is this where you make love’ and decided to give up trying to protect Iseabal’s innocence. “That’s what being a leman means. I’m not his wife, just a woman to keep him happy, and it’s no secret that there’s little likelihood of it becoming permanent.” She lifted her eyes and stared into Iseabal’s, saying, “It helps when you’re not in love.”

  “It must be hard, though.”

  Hadn’t Iseabal’s mother taught her anything? Morag fought against being cruel, and then decided it would be in Iseabal’s interest to speak the truth. “It’s no harder than wedding a man you don’t love, and that is the lot of most women. At least I can walk away,” she lied.

  More like run, when the time came. For hadn’t it dawned on her last night that watching Euan with a wife would be the most difficult thing she’d ever have to do? She couldn’t fool herself any longer.

  Morag felt as if she had stuck a knife in the lass after she saw Iseabal’s lip tremble. “But your father seems a fair man. I’m sure he wouldn’t make an arrangement you couldn’t like. When you are barren, as I am, it removes all choice, for no man will ever marry me.”

  Hardly were the words out her mouth when Iseabal rushed to her side and slipped an arm round her shoulder in a sisterly embrace. “Och, Morag, I’m sorry to tease you so. I beg pardon.”

  “No need,” Morag assured her, returning the embrace. “I’m not so easily offended; I will be content to have you call me friend, if your father won’t mind.”

  “I would like that, and Ruthven wouldn’t dare mind.” Her lips curved and her grey eyes sparkled with mischief. She held up the wee finger of her right hand and giggled. “He wouldn’t like anyone to ken, but I’ve a way of twisting him round this.”

  Morag felt certain that if cornered, Ruthven would vigorously deny his daughter’s assertion. “My lips are sealed,” she told Iseabal, “and gladly accept your offer of friendship.”

  “I feel that between you and me is a friendship that will endure,” she replied, which didn’t sound to Morag like a lass who had any ambition to marry the McArthur.

  Then Iseabal’s attention returned to the matter at hand. “Now, let me help you to dress.”

  By the time they finished, the noise of men whooping and hollering below drew them to a window. Standing on the tips of their toes, they could barely see the heads of a few men and heard the clash of swords.

  “Come,” said Morag, giggling and taking Iseabal’s hand, “Let’s go to the top of the Keep. We’ll see better from there.”

  And so they did, running like a pair of babies round the winding stone steps, their breath leaving their lips in gasps. For a change Morag, felt young and free from care. She’d never had anyone, any other lass, to share a jest with, or peek at the lads without them knowing. When had she last felt so light-hearted?

  Peeping through a crenel, they both leaned over the top of the keep. The drop down to the bailey seemed dizzying, as was the view of Euan and Graeme dressed in naught but kilted plaid
s, silver buckles shining at their waists.

  Within a few moments, they turned to face each other as they realised that the McArthur cousins were giving a display of swordsmanship to Alexander Comlyn and Iseabal’s young brother, Jamie.

  They exchanged smiles, one friend to another. Seldom were women allowed to view the performance being played out below.

  The sun glanced silver off the slashing blades. Euan and Graeme moved with such grace they could have been dancing, and though, from the tallest place in the keep, it didn’t look as if they were witnessing the vicious bloodletting of real hand-to-hand combat, sweat could be seen glistening on their chests and backs.

  Morag’s heart picked up its rhythm as she remembered Euan’s scent the night he returned after doing battle with the cateran he was sure Comlyn commanded. They weren’t like the mercenaries Euan had decided to hire. Cateran were about intimidation instead of the protection Euan wanted.

  “The other man, the one fighting with the McArthur, what’s his name?” Iseabal’s expression was bright yet expectant.

  Instantly attracted?

  Morag wished she could say it had been that way when she met Euan, but it had been as different as can be. Euan had been hurt, in pain, reaching out for the only living person around; and she … well, she had been terrified at first, as if he had risen from the dead like a ghoul and put his cold hand on her. Then he had said, “Help me,” and she had thought of Gavyn. What if he lay somewhere on the field—seen only by one of the scavengers flitting around, gathering detritus of the battle—and was denied help.

  It was the best and worst decision she had ever made. Not even dragging Rob away from everything he knew and loved could compare. It had been momentous, and had changed her life.

  “That’s Graeme McArthur,” she told Iseabal. “He’s from the same line as Euan, I think they share a great-grandfather.”