“He’s alive?” Mared asked shakily.
“Of course! He’s moving…his coat seems to be torn, and there is a bit of mud on his trousers, but he’s speaking to those around him.”
“Lucky he is,” one woman said loudly, “to have survived the curse.”
Mared’s blood ran cold—she recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. Dahlstrom. Beside her, her mother stiffened and tightened her hold around Mared’s shoulders.
“It looks to me as if he’s survived a bit of rotted wood and crumbling stone is all,” Ellie said haughtily.
But Mrs. Dahlstrom was not put off and glared at Ellie. “Ye be English, Mrs. Lockhart. Ye donna understand the secrets of the Highlands.” With that, she cast a cold glare at Mared.
But Ellie was not so easily dismissed and stepped in front of Mared. “That is true, madam. But I understand superstition and ignorance when I hear it, and really, the laird is quite all right,” she said. She turned her back on the woman and faced Mared. “Come, darling, why don’t we find a place to sit until the commotion is over? Perhaps have a tot of the barley-bree?”
Yes, barley-bree. A keg of it, Mared thought, and dumbly followed her sister-in-law away from the scene of the accident, her mother protectively at her side.
Six
P ayton had known of the weakness in that particular section of the balustrade, but no one had been more surprised than he that it had given way so soon. Years of harsh, wet winters had weakened the cement that held the railing to the terrace, and Payton was thankful he’d been standing precisely where he had, for he’d fallen into shrubbery only a few feet below. Ten feet in either direction, and he might have fallen much farther and onto flagstones.
He might have broken his fool neck.
As it was, he was unharmed. Just a wee bit bruised.
He called Sarah to him, instructed her to have the musicians begin playing as soon as possible and to have more of the barley-bree sent around to the guests by the footmen after they had moved potted trees to keep guests from that section of the railing.
With Beckwith at his side, he hastily retreated to his master suite of rooms to change his clothing. When he reemerged a short time later, he could feel the shift in what had been a festive atmosphere—a palpable and disquieting current now ran through his house.
The terrace had been closed off to guests; the dancing had resumed, at least for a few hearty souls, but most stood back, speaking to one another in small groups. In the dining room, talking low amongst themselves, couples feasted on a repast of collops of beef, a meat pastry known as forfar bridies, and poached salmon. Everything seemed to have returned to normal since the accident, yet it all felt much different, as if a dark cloud had descended upon Eilean Ros.
Payton made the rounds, assuring everyone he was quite all right, that it had been nothing but an accident. It was Sarah who told him what had given his ceilidh such a morose pall, as if he needed to be told. There were enough who knew of his bartered betrothal to Mared that he was certain theories of goblins and curses had sprung to life and were spreading like fire.
Sarah confirmed it for him. “I think they’ll no’ dance until they can be assured she’s departed,” she whispered to him in the ballroom as they calmly observed the few brave souls who were dancing. “They are frightened of her and the curse. I daresay they half expect ye to fall dead at their feet any moment now, and fret they will join ye by virtue of having come into yer house.”
“They are ignorant,” he said sharply. “Where is she?”
Sarah shrugged lightly. “I canna say. Lady Lockhart spirited her away.”
“Keep them dancing, then,” he said curtly, and left Sarah to find Mared. It was, to his way of thinking, absurd to be fearful of an ancient, make-believe curse that was no more real than gnomes and fairies. Yet he knew that Highlanders, even educated ones, could hold fast to their bloody superstitions. He’d end their ridiculous fears tonight, he thought angrily. He’d formally announce his intention to marry Mared Lockhart, then let them see that he lived to do just that.
He had only to convince Mared to join him in the announcement, and this time, he’d brook no argument from her.
He found the Lockharts in the foyer—save Mared—donning their wraps. “Are ye leaving, then?” he demanded.
“Aye,” Liam said angrily as he helped his wife into a cloak. “We’re no’ welcome here any longer.”
“Of course ye are!”
“We’re no’ welcome, Douglas, no’ after yer fall—ye need only look at the faces here!” Liam snapped. “They whisper Mared’s name and look at her as if she were a’ diabhal himself. The lass has endured a lifetime of censure, and we’ll no’ put her through a moment more of it. And neither should ye, man.”