The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Walter gave a slow nod. “Aye. I plan to marry her.”

  Mist hung low, defying the morning sun fighting to pierce the thick clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, mimicking the drum of horses’ hooves on the road. Laurence cursed the fog rolling about the tree trunks, twisting light into shadows.

  “Whole damned country is against us. I cannot see a bloody thing. The entire forest could be swarming with Scots and we’d be the last to know.”

  Bernard clapped Laurence’s shoulder. “We will hold the keep until Walter arrives with reinforcements. Our conroi has trained together for years. Though few in number, we know each other well and fight as one.”

  Laurence sighed. “You speak truth. Forgive me. I am overly tired and wary of being surrounded by Scots.”

  “I understand. Ye’ve had no rest. The sun—such as it is—has risen. Even Scots know how to use the cover of night. I daresay they will wait until ye’ve had a bit of sleep.”

  “A storm is brewing. It would cover an attack.”

  “We have sentries on the wall. Please. Rest.”

  The freshening breeze dried the beads of perspiration on his face. The low murmur of men’s voices rose from the yard below. With a sigh, Laurence acquiesced.

  “I will attempt to get a bit of sleep. Let me know if anything untoward happens. And wake me in four hours if I am not back by then.”

  “Aye. Four hours.”

  Laurence stepped through the low parapet door then returned to Bernard’s side. “With as much secrecy as ye can, send two men at arms to Middleburn Keep. Alert Sir Walter to our predicament. I do not like sitting and waiting. I will not leave our fate in the hands of our enemies.”

  Walter’s bold assurance of marrying Rosaline faded as he retraced his steps into the keep.

  What if Chief Johnstone already searches for another alliance? Walter’s orders were to get the chief’s pledge of alliance and move his and the chief’s men to Eaglesmuir as soon as could be managed. Laurence would be expecting his help.

  Prudence warred with the desire to not let Rosaline slip through his grasp.

  I do not truly know her. But I do know how I feel when I’m around her. Or thinking about her. Which does not interfere with the job I’ve set to do. Or, not much, anyway.

  A sensation akin to the excitement before battle blazed in his chest. He, as a ranking knight in Lord de Wylde’s household, had the right to ask for a woman in marriage. And he’d been assured of housing and care for his wife at Belwyck Castle—should he take such an enormous step. Dread of confronting Rosaline’s father threatened to counter the rising elation.

  He found himself outside the door to Chief Johnstone’s solar. He blinked. Did he truly intend to ask for Rosaline’s hand?

  Two guards eyed him warily.

  He rapped his knuckles on the heavy door. It swung open, exposing the smooth-shaven countenance of a man whose plain home-spun cloak and tonsured head marked him as a priest. The man inclined his head and opened the door wider.

  “Sir,” he said, stepping aside to permit Walter’s entrance.

  He nodded to the priest, his gaze sliding to Chief Johnstone.

  “Might I have a private word?”

  “Father Gilleabart, Sir Walter de Ellerton.”

  Introductions made and acknowledged, the priest bowed his head and left the room.

  Walter sweated.

  “Is there a problem?” Thomas Johnstone’s smooth question did not hide his sharp gaze.

  “I do not believe so,” Walter replied, recovering his composure. “I wish to speak to ye of your daughter.”

  Thomas canted his head, a half-smile lifting one corner of his lips. “Which one?”

  “Rosaline.”

  Chief Johnstone lost his amused look. “Indeed?”

  “I wish to marry her.”

  Thomas remained silent for a moment. “She is a chief’s daughter—my eldest. I have little desire for her to marry an English knight.”

  She deserves better. The unspoken words hung in the air.

  “I agree her status is important, but your other daughters will bring alliances as well.”

  “Mayhap ye would prefer a younger daughter—one who is not as embroiled in clan politics?”

  Walter took the bargaining in stride, hiding his impatience. “Fair as they are, I do not wish to take one of your younger daughters to wife. I wish to marry Rosaline.”

  Chief Johnstone pushed back from his desk, the legs of his chair scraping noisily along the stones. He drew himself up, though his inches failed to measure Walter’s. With a predator’s stride, he paced the floor.

  “Why would ye believe I would send a daughter of mine to wed an Englishman?” His stride carried him to the window and back. Walter waited for the man to face him again.

  “I would care for your daughter, sir. I believe she cares for me, though we’ve had naught more than a respectful acquaintance.”

  Thomas slammed his fist onto the top of his desk. “My daughter is honorable.”

  “As am I,” Walter replied, ignoring the ominous rumble in Chief Johnstone’s voice. Walter had no experience to fall back on, but he’d not thought his marriage proposal would go this badly.

  Chief Johnstone crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye would ask a sweet lass to leave her family and join an English household?”

  “It has been done.”

  “To little avail. Takes more than a good tupping to create a home. The English in yer house would pay her no respect.”

  “My household would hold her in the highest esteem—or find employment elsewhere.”

  Thomas jabbed a forefinger at Walter’s chest. “Then tell me, lad, in whose family would her children be welcome? To which side of the border would her children belong?”

  Walter fell silent, his self-assurance taking another hit. Would it be as Chief Johnstone suggested? Would Rosaline not be welcome at Middleburn Keep if she married him?

  “I cannot believe ye would abandon your daughter for following where her heart lies. Ye are a strong leader, a man who demands the best for his people. Marriage to me is in Rosaline’s best interest.”

  The chief’s visage remained stony, dark eyes narrowed, glinting beneath bushy brows. Walter waited to see which of his bits of flattery would take root. A crafty look flitted across the Scotsman’s face, almost instantly replaced by an air of fatherly concern. “Lad, I understand the heart—and the loins, eh?” He sighed heavily. “The lass, St. Andrew bless her, recently lost her betrothed.”

  “I am aware of her loss.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Walter tried a different approach. “My request has no bearing on the alliance between you and my liege. I will stand firmly behind it, though I cannot imagine life without Rosaline at my side.”

  Something flickered in Thomas’ eyes, but was gone in an instant. His teeth flashed in a feral grin. “I’d be honored to seal our alliance in such a way. I only ask, in view of her recent loss, we dinnae hold the wedding for a few weeks at the minimum.”

  “I agree.” Elation quickened Walter’s heart.

  Chief Johnstone clapped Walter heavily on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, lad. Ye should let her know as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Ouch!” Elliott jammed his thumb into his mouth, accusation in his eyes as Rosaline shrugged.

  “Dinnae blame me. Ye cannae defend yerself if ye dinnae try. Hold yer dagger as I showed ye.” She tilted her head as he adjusted his grip. “Aye. Like that. Keep yer thumb off the blade. ’Tis a stronger grip, I agree, but ye run the risk of cutting yerself—as ye’ve discovered.”

  “It keeps tilting up.” Elliott frowned in complaint. “’Tis as if I’m holding a torch, not a dagger.”

  “Then place yer thumb along the spine,” she suggested, “just behind the quillion. That will tilt the tip forward. Be careful, howbeit, as there is now a gap between yer thumb and forefinger, and therefor easier to lose yer grip.
But with practice, ’twill serve ye well.”

  “How do ye hold your dagger, Rosaline?”

  Rosaline jerked to attention at the low rumbling voice, her startled gaze landing on the tall, lean form of Sir Walter as he leaned inside the open doocot door. Elliott dropped his dagger, the whisper of a curse hissing faintly as he retrieved the blade. Trig scrambled to her feet with a yip of surprise and bolted across the floor to sniff Sir Walter’s boots. Fachan shrieked from her perch, fanning the air with her wings.

  Something rippled in Rosaline’s belly. Warmth, almost a longing, blossomed upward, and her jaw slackened. A smile tilted one corner of Walter’s mouth, and Rosaline shook herself from her suspended actions.

  “I hold it thus, as one would a sword, with my thumb against the quillion.” To her surprise, her hand shook slightly as she demonstrated. At his silent request, Rosaline placed her knife in Sir Walter’s outstretched palm.

  He turned the blade over in his hand. “A very nice dagger. The butt well rounded, not squared. Fits smoothly in your palm.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Master Elliott, might I have a private word with your sister?”

  Rosaline’s cheeks heated at Elliott’s nod and grin, uncertain of the way Sir Walter’s presence affected her. Elliott patted his thigh, calling Trig to his side, and strolled through the door of the doocot, leaving it open to spill watery sunlight across the dusty floor.

  “My lady . . . .” Walter checked as Rosaline spoke.

  “Sir Walter . . . .” Rosaline glanced away, picking nervously at the skirt of her gown.

  “Mayhap we should take a walk outside?”

  Rosaline nodded her agreement and focused on breathing as she passed Sir Walter’s tall form.

  My heart shouldnae flutter so. He is English and I am cursed. The surety she would never marry had at first been a disappointment, then a relief. Why then did this man set a longing for a husband in her heart?

  She trampled the unexplained desire bubbling inside and gripped her skirt tight to keep from touching him as he matched her stride down the path.

  “This way,” she murmured, nodding to the garden behind the keep. Flowers hung their heads away from the late autumn sun as if they’d lost the will to live. Fallen petals littered the ground, their once-bright colors fading into monotone, edges nipped by an earlier frost.

  “’Twill do ye little good to be seen with me,” she said as they halted next to a sprawling rose bush in desperate need of trimming. “Da has determined I am more of a hindrance than help, and I can only assist Elliott when Da isnae watching.”

  “I am quite impressed with the way ye champion your brother.”

  “We are misfits, he and I. ’Tis almost as if we dinnae belong to this family. Tom is Da’s pride and joy, everything he’d want in an heir.” She shrugged. “Even the Empty Annies are pretty and accomplished. Elliott and I have always helped each other.” Rosaline lifted her chin, trying valiantly to hold a rush of tears at bay. Elliott was not ready for his new position, and she doubted she would be allowed to remain with him. How long would he last among men who held their ambition above the well-being of a lad of Elliott’s tender years? Could she count on Sir Walter’s help?

  “The Empty Annies? Is that how ye refer to your sisters?” Humor laced Sir Walter’s voice, bringing a slow smile to Rosaline’s face.

  “Aye. Elliott made it up. Their ma gave them all names starting with an A. Alison is the eldest, and the twins are Arabel and Ainslie.”

  “Hmm. Pretty names.”

  Rosaline’s breath left her in a rush, amazed at the flash of jealous fire speeding through her veins.

  Walter tilted his head as if considering. “I like Rosaline better.”

  Relief weakened Rosaline’s knees. The English knight could never be hers, but ’twas a comfort to know he liked her—at least her name—and not her pretty, delicate, shallow sisters. She tweaked a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

  “Do ye remember your mother?”

  Another hit to Rosaline’s heart. No one spoke to her about Chief Johnstone’s first wife, and in the face of her stepmother’s coldness, she struggled to keep her ma’s memory alive.

  “Her name was Lileas. Like the flower. I remember her hair so pale it was like spring sunlight. She smiled a lot. And laughed. There was no one to kiss my skinned knees or comb the tangles from my hair after she died. She hadn’t employed a nurse, and Da was too shocked to notice.”

  “Ye are fortunate to have such fond memories of her. My mother was much like your stepmother. As her third son and with two daughters to see wed, she had little time for me.”

  Rosaline took a deep breath and slowly released it.

  “Why do ye ask about my ma?”

  “I wish to know more about ye.”

  “I’m of no help to ye. I told ye Da willnae thank me to interfere with his plans for Elliott, and once Elliott is gone . . . .”

  The thought sobered her. She’d left him three times to do her duty and wed the man her father had chosen, only to find him all but abandoned by the family when she returned, left to his assortment of convalescing animals, more at home in the doocot than the main hall of the keep.

  Sir Walter disrupted her thoughts once again. “I noticed ye at Sir Simon’s hall last spring.”

  Rosaline blinked. She’d noticed Sir Walter’s presence at North Hall, also. Not loud and boisterous like many of the knights, he’d captured her attention with his solemn presence and the gentle words of thanks he’d murmured for her help. Of all the English she’d met, Elliott couldn’t be in better hands. Sir Walter didn’t appear put off by Elliott’s different colored eyes, and he even seemed to admire Elliott’s thoughtfulness.

  “I remember ye, as well.” Warmth flashed through her at the admission. Why did she admire the man so? It was only admiration . . . aye?

  Sir Walter nodded. “’Tis well, then.”

  “What is well?” Rosaline narrowed her eyes, confused.

  “I believe we will suit. I have asked your father permission to wed ye. He has given his blessing.”

  Rosaline burst into her father’s solar, her lowered brow and set jaw halting the objections of the guard at the door. “Are ye daft?”

  Two Scots, heads bent with Thomas Johnstone’s over his desk, glanced up. They each took a step back, clearly startled at the disruption. Chief Johnstone rose and motioned toward the door with a flick of his fingers.

  “Give us a moment.”

  Rosaline’s breath slid quickly in and out, tense with concern over her father’s latest ploy. The room emptied. She frowned as her da poured a golden liquid into a mug and deliberately set the flagon on the surface of his desk before giving her his attention. Rosaline held to her anger with a choke hold.

  “What did ye wish to speak to me about, daughter?”

  His calm, dismissive manner almost broke her forced restraint.

  “Ye have told Sir Walter I’d marry him.”

  Her da shrugged as if the idea was of little importance. “He asked. I agreed.”

  “Ye cannae be serious. Ye hate the English. Why would ye give yer permission for me to wed him?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Ye seem to spend enough time with him. I assumed the arrangement would be to yer liking.”

  Rosaline drew back, startled he’d noticed. But when had anything escaped her da’s attention?

  “If ye think to punish me for speaking with Sir Walter . . . .”

  “’Tis not ye I wish to punish.” His voice softened, again taking Rosaline off guard.

  “What do ye mean?”

  Her da rounded the corner of his desk and perched a thigh upon the edge. Folding his hands in his lap, he gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Ye are aware that none of the lads ye’ve been betrothed to has lived long enough to marry ye.”

  A cold draft stirred the hairs on the back of Rosaline’s neck. “I am aware of the curse.”

  “Of course. The faeries’ curse.” He gave a dismis
sive wave. “I have no more desire to see ye wed to an Englishman than ye. Others have tried marriage to create ties across the border, yet few are successful.”

  “He will die!” she blurted, voicing the horror that had sent her hurrying to her da’s solar, heedless of interrupting whatever meeting in which he’d been engaged.

  His answering lift of one brow confirmed her worst fears.

  “Sacrificing Elliott isnae enough for ye?” Bitterness sharpened her voice.

  “Elliott is another scheme entirely, Rosaline. And shame on ye for not paying better attention. If ye are incapable of being wed, why not give the curse to the English?”

  “What do ye mean? What are ye up to?”

  “If every man who becomes betrothed to ye dies, why risk another Scottish lad’s life? ’Tis a delicate time, maneuvering Elliott into the keep held by the English, maintaining peace, forming an alliance. ’Twould be a shame to pass up an opportunity to rid the land of a damned Englishman when all it takes is betrothal to my sweet lass.” His lips stretched to either side in a rictus of a smile. “And if ye dinnae make a fuss, I’ll see to it ye go along with Elliott to Eaglesmuir.”

  Rosaline stared at him, jaw set, Sir Walter’s fate warring with Elliott’s. How could she abandon her brother to save an English knight?

  “I willnae do it.”

  His smile broadened. “Och, but ye will. Ye are but a pawn in men’s games, lass. If I choose to use ye to deliver defeat to the English, so be it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Laurence peered blearily out the narrow window. Rain fell like sheets of armor between himself and whatever awaited beyond the keep. The occasional flash of lightning and low rumble of thunder mesmerized him, dulling his weary senses a short nap had not been able to refresh.

  Damned Scots. I’m becoming too old for this. He turned from the window with a grunt.

  “I should be eager to send the bastards packing. Happy to show them who wields the better steel.”