The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Ten


Laren, Anice and Dara did not accompany Heath and Lady Margaret to Innis Craggah, the island with the ruins of Macnachtan Keep.

Anice informed him that venturing out on Loch Awe in winter was not their idea of an adventure. “And we doubt if she will find anything, Heath,” she confessed. “The island is deserted. There is nothing but rock left of the keep from that time.”

He agreed, but another part of him was curious. There was a mystery surrounding Lady Margaret and he found himself anxious to solve it.

Instead of the women, Rowlly and two of the stable lads rode with them. Cook had prepared a basket of bread and smoked fish, and they were in good spirits when they set out.

Frost covered the ground, but the sky was clear and blue—a rare day, indeed, and Heath took it as a good omen.

Because of the cold, he wore several layers of clothes beneath his coat. Lady Margaret wore a red cape trimmed in fur over her riding habit. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He’d had trouble sleeping because of her. She’d wandered in and out of his dreams. No woman had done that before.

Last night, after she’d given that brief peck—he wouldn’t dignify it by calling it a kiss—he’d stood outside her bedroom door, a part of him wanting to knock. He imagined drawing her out, talking to her about nothing, or everything. He was keen to push the tenuous connection between them. He wanted more.

But he’d held back. He’d not knocked on her door. She was accustomed to being chased. Men threw themselves at her feet.

He, and his pride, needed to be a bit more rational. After all, why would a Venus ever value a Scottish lout like him? He could think of no reason.

She was very quiet as they traveled.

He attributed her silence to concern over where they were going. Innis Craggah was the place where it had all begun.

They rode along Loch Awe’s shoreline. A fine mist covered the water, and the wind was cold.

At last, they came close to their destination. Heath reined Admiral around to ride beside Margaret. “Do you see the island closest to us in the loch? You can make out its shape in the mist. That is Innis Craggah, Island of Rock. It is about a mile long and a half a mile wide.”

As he spoke, the mist decided to lift and revealed an island covered with winter brown undergrowth mingled with the deep green of firs and the gray barks of trees.

“Where is the tower?” she asked.

“You can’t see what is left of it from here. When we go ashore, there is a path that leads right to where the keep once was.”

“How will we reach the island?” she asked.

“We have friends,” Heath answered, and kicked his horse forward. To his pleasure, she did the same.

They rode along the road at a fast clip, their mounts breathing heavy in the chilled air, until they came upon John Gibson’s cottage. The fisherman was bundled against the cold while he went about his tasks among his boats lined up and turned over on the shore.

“Laird Macnachtan,” he hailed Heath as they rode up, “imagine seeing one such as yourself out here today. And you look hale and well. My clansman Augie swore his knuckles had sent you to a bed for a week.”

“Och, man, are you believing Augie?” Heath said, letting his brogue deepen as he jumped down from his horse and approached the fisherman. He held out his hand.

“Not for a moment,” Gibson answered, a smile splitting his face. He was a burly man with a mass of red hair on his head and chin and smelled of fresh air and dead fish. “You look a sight better than Augie does. Of course, as long as you keep popping him in the head, no harm will be done.” He laughed at his own joke and then greeted Rowlly, mentioning something about his role in the fight at the Goldeneye. His eyes strayed to Lady Margaret.

Of course, as would any man, he had been aware of her since the moment they had ridden up.

He bowed, recognizing Quality when he met one.

“John, this is Lady Margaret Chattan,” Heath said.

The man’s reaction was almost humorous. “Chattan?” For a second, Heath feared the man would spit. Instead, he swallowed and said, “There is one of them here? With you?” He added in almost a whisper, “A female one?”

“Aye, and she is with me. We want to pay a visit to the ruins of the keep. Will you take us across?”

For a second, John eyed Heath as if he had just suggested he wanted to cut out his tongue.

“Will you or won’t you?” Heath prodded.

“I will,” John answered, as if still uncertain Heath jested. However, he recovered enough to negotiate the cost of rowing them over.

That done, the stable lads and Rowlly helped John right two of his skiffs into the water. The boats had sails but John said the water was calm and the distance not far. “We could row in less time than it takes to mount the masts.”

Heath helped Lady Margaret dismount. One of the lads would stay with the horses.

Mrs. Gibson, John’s wife, came out of the house, her arms crossed. “You are going out, John?” she asked.

“Yes, Mary. Send out Donald. We need young arms to help row.” She went inside and a moment later John’s oldest son, a scruffy lad of about twelve, came out. He’d bundled himself warmly. Gibson placed a step by the boat for Lady Margaret and the rest of them to use to climb aboard.

In short order, they were on the water. The current was with them.

If his sisters had been here, they would have been huddled in the boat against the weather. In contrast, Lady Margaret sat at the prow of the boat. She’d thrown the hood of her cloak back and appeared as if she relished being on the water. The wind caught her hair, loosening a few strands from the pins.

Heath manned the oars closest to her. John was also in their boat, while Rowlly, the stable lad and Donald were in the other.

One end of Innis Craggah was a rocky beach. The other end had a blunt shape formed by a rock cliff as if a portion of the island had been parsed away by the hand of God. Lady Margaret pointed at it and said, “Could that be the cliff that Fenella jumped from when she threw herself on her daughter’s funeral pyre?”

“I don’t know,” he told her. “They say there once was more shoreline beneath that cliff. The water there is very shallow. My brother and I would row out here when we were lads. I have swum the perimeter of this island at least a dozen times. The water below the cliff is not as deep as my knees.”

Lady Margaret nodded. The small worry line had reappeared between her brows. Heath hated seeing it, especially since he believed she would be disappointed in what she would find on the island. There was very little left of the old keep.

They were approaching the shore. John used his oar to guide the boat as close to land as possible. Heath jumped ashore and pulled the prow of the boat in. He reached for Lady Margaret, who was already standing. She offered her hand but he knew she could not jump the distance and would find her shoes wet for the effort. He placed his hands on her waist, swinging her up into the air to settle her on the rocky shore. Her weight felt good in his arms.

He tried not to think of it. Instead, he focused on helping John secure the boat.

Rowlly’s boat reached the shore. Heath helped drag it up on land. “We want to look at the ruins,” Heath informed the others. “It should not take us long.”

“There isn’t much to see,” John agreed. “We’ll be here.”

“What do you want us to do while we wait, Laird?” Rowlly asked. He’d thought to bring Cook’s basket with them.

“Whatever you wish. We should be ready to leave within the hour,” he answered.

He turned to Lady Margaret but she had already discovered the path overgrown with spiny brown heather and hawthorn’s sharp-needled branches and was pushing her way through it.

He hurried to catch up with her.

Margaret had expected to feel something upon setting foot on the island.

If there had been clouds with thunderbolts around it, she would have felt better than seeing it as an ordinary piece of land like so many other small islands in Loch Awe’s waters.

When her feet had touched shore, she’d not felt a tingle, not even a twinge.

Noticing the faint trace of a path from the shore into what was a surprisingly dense, overgrown forest, Margaret knew she should wait for Laird Macnachtan and yet now she was here, she wasn’t just impatient, she felt compelled to go forward. So many had sacrificed so much for her to reach this place. She didn’t want to delay in beginning her search.

She heard Laird Macnachtan as he came up behind her. He leaned around her and pushed branches blocking her path away. It was a gallant gesture for which she was grateful, just as she’d appreciated his helping her from the boat. It was good to not be alone in this venture and she valued his many strengths.

“How far are the ruins?” she asked. The air was not so cold in the forest.

“We are almost upon them. At least half of this island was once Macnachtan Keep. They built it here to protect themselves from raiders. The Campbells had a bigger fortress up the loch. There are also ruins on a few of the other islands. This forest wasn’t here back in the day. It’s grown up over the years since we’ve been gone.”

“Why did your family abandon the keep?”

“Our family’s interests were on the shore. We no longer needed to protect ourselves from raiders. I find it interesting that they didn’t even build on the shore across from the Innis Craggah. My father said that was because of our alliance with the Campbells. With that clan, you’d best secure your borders and watch everything you own or it will be gone in a blink.”

“Even now?” she asked.

“No, generations ago. They buy property now. Owen Campbell has made a bid for mine.” He now walked ahead of her, clearing the way.

She gathered her cape around her. The thing was cumbersome in the woods. “Would you sell?”

He ducked under a low-hanging limb. “I’ll not lie, I’ve thought about it. We need the money and there have been times when I’d rather do anything other than chasing pigs and worrying about petty squabbles and empty bellies.”

“I imagine after the scene with Swepston yesterday, there will be much less arguing,” she said.

He shrugged. They had been hiking uphill. He wasn’t winded but she was feeling the exertion of the climb. She unfastened her cloak and took it off, folding it over her arm. She could use a walking stick.

As if reading her mind, he held out his hand. “Here.”

For a second, she debated refusing. He already claimed too much of her mind.

Then again, they both wore gloves . . . and she appreciated his assistance so she accepted his offer, and just in time. They had to climb a small ledge of rock. In her heavy, long riding skirt, she would have been clumsy and undignified without his help.

This point of the island was higher and steeper than she had anticipated, and provided a good vantage point for surveying all activity on shore and up and down the loch.

They took a moment to catch their breath.

“Would you go back to the sea if you sold Marybone?” she asked.

“I miss the sea,” he admitted. “However, this is my birthright. My home. Then again, I think about my sisters. Dara has pointed out they should be finding husbands and they would if everyone didn’t know the Macnachtans were so bloody poor.”

“Your sisters are lovely girls. Is a dowry that important? Even here?”

“It is not important to old men with motherless children, or the equally poor,” he answered. “Granted, we’ve just emerged from mourning. Perhaps Laren and Anice would each find someone worthy of them. Dara has her doubts, and it is true our debts weigh against my sisters. They should have marriages that add to their prestige, not detract from it.”

She could not argue. He was right.

“Where do you believe your fortunes would be if Charles Chattan had not left Rose?” she asked.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said it yesterday. When you confronted Swepston, you claimed that the Macnachtans were the ones who were truly cursed. That Fenella’s actions weighed upon you as well.”

“It’s true when one considers the matter. The Chattan have fared far better than we have.”

“The curse has caused us death,” she pointed out.

“And you believe there is nothing worse than death?”

Startled, she said, “Is there?”

He held up a placating hand. “I’m not belittling the costs to your family. I do not mean to mock those deaths you say the curse has claimed—”

“I don’t ‘say.’ It has,” she said, bristling under his continued doubt.

“Yes, as it is,” he returned in concession, but continued, “However, superstition has kept us isolated. When I was growing up, we lived and farmed the way my father’s father did and his before him. Even the stones of Marybone came from the keep although they say it was a time-consuming, ridiculous endeavor to ferry them across. Even building Marybone was one of the foolishnesses that broke us. We didn’t have the money then. And one of our problems now is that the young and the able leave and those left behind listen to the likes of Swepston or those who expect me to answer all of their problems. Me. The one who can’t solve his own brother’s death.”

“Perhaps there was no reason for his murder,” she suggested with sympathy. “A random act such as robbery.”

“His money was still in his pocket, although he didn’t have that much.”

“Was there a vendetta?”

“I thought of Swepston, but you saw him yesterday. I believe he was genuinely shocked when I accused him of the murder.”

“Could he be a good actor?”

The laird considered her words a moment and then shook his head. “No. He has strong opinions and eccentric habits, but at heart the man is simple. I can’t see him in the role of murderer.”

“Whom do you see then?” she asked.

He looked up to the cloudless sky that was the deep blue that was only seen in winter. “I believe his attacker was someone he trusted. Someone who could lead him to that place. But I don’t know how it was done and there has been no sign or clue of why.” He shook his head, his manner changing. “Enough of that. This day is about you and your welcome to Macnachtan Keep.” He bowed as he said the last, a mocking gesture, and indicated with a wave of his hand the top of the knoll where she now stood.

Startled to think she had reached this place without realizing it, she turned and faced nettles and brown grasses that hid a low rock foundation of what had once been a good-sized structure generations ago.

Margaret could not hide her disappointment.

“I warned you it wasn’t much,” he said. “Right here would have been the location of the tower. You can see a corner of it there. And the front gate was to the left.”

He walked over to show her where the entrance had been, but she didn’t follow.

Instead, she stepped forward so that she stood in what might have been the center of the tower.

According to the legend, in this place Rose Macnachtan had contemplated jumping to her death. Several feet away would have been the inner yard. The ground was still hard there, as if it had been pounded down to a shelf of rock. Dry grass, nettles and thistles had forced their way even here, but among them she saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof.

“They had livestock here?” she asked.

“Of course. I assume we ferried animals and people back and forth to the mainland.” He’d not moved with her into the courtyard, but stood beside the tower foundation.

“I am disappointed the tower isn’t here,” she murmured. “That there isn’t more.” Margaret held out her arms and turned in a circle.

“What are you doing? Chanting?”

“I’m trying to imagine how Rose was feeling. She would have been looking in this direction, toward the road leading to the far shore.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Because they say she died on Charles Chattan’s wedding day. She was waiting for him. She believed he wouldn’t marry the Englishwoman. She thought he would return to her.”

The far shore could not be seen over the brown brush and trees that blocked the view, but from the height of the tower, Rose would have been able to watch the road from the south.

Margaret moved to the outside perimeter of the tower. “Did she fall here? Or would she have jumped to the inside?”

“The inside would have been stone pavers. They are now the walkways at Marybone and the stable yard.”

“So I’ve been walking on the stones where Rose may have fallen?”

“If she jumped to the inside of the keep.”

“That is what I would have chosen to do,” Margaret said. “If I was in such despair I could only cure it by taking my own life, I would want to be certain I did not survive.”

She drew in a deep breath, holding it in, recognizing the disappointment. She released it. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“There isn’t anything here,” she admitted. “I believed I would sense or feel something. But it’s normal. All is as it should be.” She unfolded the cloak she held over her arm and put it around her shoulders. “A cold winter day.” Indeed, it felt colder here than on the shore and should have been windier—

Margaret paused, struck by a realization. “Except that it is quiet here. Too quiet. The wind doesn’t even rustle the grass.”

“I take great comfort in that,” the laird answered. “If there are ghosts here, I wouldn’t want a lot of noise to rouse them.”

“There must be something,” she said more to herself than to him. “The coach accident was to stop me from coming here.” She pointed to the ground. “But why?”

“Why couldn’t the accident be just what it was? A mishap on the road?”

She frowned at him, giving him her back. He believed in what he could see and what he could touch.

But she knew differently.

She began walking the line of the foundation. In some places the wall was taller than in others. In one far corner, the wall was almost ten feet high and in better shape than anywhere else. She walked toward it, realizing that the reason the wall still stood was that it had been a fireplace, a huge one. There were ashes in the pit, and a stack of wood and brush had been collected for future fires.

The laird joined her. “This is where the kitchen for the keep was.” He kicked at the ashes. They were cold. “When Brodie and I had a chance, we’d spend the day swimming and then build a fire and sleep overnight. The wall radiates heat.”

“Whom do you imagine built this fire?” Margaret asked.

“Anyone. There are people on and off these islands all the time.”

Margaret frowned. She wasn’t finding the answers she sought. “Let us go to the cliff. Is there a way to reach it from here?”

“This way.” He began walking into the forest. Margaret hurried after him.

The path he followed was worse than the last. He seemed to know where he was going even though she could find no logic for the direction he took. Sweat trickled down her back although her cheeks and hands were cold.

Just as she was preparing to remove her heavy cloak again, he stepped back. “Here is your cliff.”

The brush and trees went almost to the edge of the cliff’s rocks. She moved forward, and there was the breadth of Loch Awe before her.

“I imagine in Fenella’s time that the forest wasn’t this close to the edge,” he said.

“The view is magnificent,” she murmured. Something stirred in her soul at the sight of the lake’s bluish gray waters nestled in the protection of Highland mountains and a sky marred now by only a few large clouds. “This place has power. It is where I would cast a spell.”

She looked down. The water was so clear, she could see the bottom even from this height. She edged forward.

His hand grabbed her arm. “Careful,” he warned. “I don’t trust the rocks here.”

Margaret ignored his warning, or perhaps she trusted his strength to protect her. It didn’t matter which. She was caught up in the moment. “Fenella would have built the funeral pyre to the left.”

“How do imagine that?” he asked.

“The left hand is connected to the heart,” Margaret said. “I read that in her book. Several of the recipes, or spells, were very precise on which hand should be used before incantations.” She frowned, picturing the size of the fire that would have been built, imagining Rose’s body burning.

She could see it in her mind. Fenella would have stood exactly at this point so that when she leaped, she would not miss landing on the fire.

Margaret had to take another step forward. Her weight freed several rocks to bounce down the cliff’s side into the water.

“It is higher than I pictured in my mind,” she said. “Anyone jumping from here would not expect to survive unharmed.”

“Which is a good reason to step back from the edge,” the laird pointed out, pulling on her arm.

She obeyed his tug and moved back.

There must be something here that she was meant to discover. She began searching, pushing back shrubs, bushes and bracken that could hide clues.

“Do you even know what you are looking for?” he asked.

“No.”

He made an impatient sound. “My lady, there isn’t anything more to be discovered. Do you understand? You have seen it all. It’s rubble and forest, little else. We’d best be on our way so we can return to Marybone before dark.”

“Just a minute more.” She walked in a circle, relooked where she had looked before.

“You have seen all there is, my lady. There’s naught much else.”

Margaret moved once again to the cliff. Her frustration knew no bounds. She stared out onto the loch. Why would she have been brought so far for nothing?

“Come,” he said, his voice sympathetic. “We shall return to Marybone and regroup.”

“How can ‘we’ regroup if you don’t believe the story?” she asked, bitterness in her words. “I came here not expecting to fail. Perhaps my confidence came from Harry. He’d been right about Glenfinnan and finding Fenella’s book. He believed I could be the key to end the curse.”

“If that is true, then another way will be made known to you,” he answered. “Perhaps the magic is in the rocks we used to line our garden,” he suggested. “You can spend tomorrow going around sensing them.”

She didn’t like the gentle disbelief in his voice. “If I had a rock in my hand, I would throw it at you right now.”

“Ah, but that would be the one you needed, my lady, so I’d advise you not to waste it.” There was humor in his voice, but his gaze held concern for her. He held out his hand. “Come, we need to return to the boats.”

He was right. The hour was growing late. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. He led her down a new path, this one easier to follow since it trailed the shoreline.

“Is Innis Craggah always this silent? It’s eerie,” she said. “There hasn’t even been a bird flying over our heads.”

“It’s not quiet,” he answered, not breaking stride. “I hear plenty of sound.”

“Such as?”

“The sound of our steps on the path.” He kicked a loose stone ahead of him for emphasis. “Or the wind through the trees.”

“I don’t hear the wind through the trees,” she countered—and she didn’t.

“You aren’t listening, my lady,” he said. “There is sound. I can hear the water against the shore, the rocks beneath our feet, your breathing, mine—”

At that moment, the men waiting at the boats hailed out to them.

“Do you hear them?” he asked.

“Of course, I do,” Margaret answered, feeling surly.

Laird Macnachtan stopped. “My lady, don’t make any more of this curse than what it is.”

“And what is it? You have never believed there is a curse.”

He drew a breath as if praying for patience. “I’ve been helping you, my lady. If that isn’t putting faith into something, I don’t know what is.” He started to take a step away but then returned to say, “And instead of blaming a curse for the course of events, perhaps you should consider other factors that could be causing the deaths in your family. Your kin may have weak hearts or another malady. Blaming death on ghosties and ghoulies serves no purpose.”

He didn’t wait for her answer but began walking toward his men.

And Margaret felt like the most churlish of women. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose his support, and she discovered she did not want to do that. She needed his help . . . she wanted it. She liked counting on his strength and intelligence. She’d begun expecting it. She, the woman who prided herself on not expecting anything from anyone, actually enjoyed being with this Scottish chieftain with his generous nature and adventurous spirit. She relied on him, and Margaret wasn’t certain that was wise.

He didn’t understand, and if she truly cared for him, she’d keep a distance. His doubts aside, she knew her line was tainted.

She walked toward the boats, head bowed. Laird Macnachtan said something to her but she ignored him. He’d believe her in sour spirits over his directness. She wasn’t. She was just beginning to realize she had more to fear from her feelings toward him than she did from the curse.

Was this what had happened to her brothers?

Had they been like her, determined to not fall in love, and then found themselves being drawn to one person?

One very special person? The sort that didn’t hesitate to speak his mind or treat her as an equal?

She’d never met a man like Heath Macnachtan before. She doubted if she ever would again.

And the realization created a hollowness in her belly and a tightness in her heart.

He was not safe.

She would have climbed into the boat by herself if possible. It was not. So she had to endure the thrill of Laird Macnachtan picking her up in his arms. For a second, the presence of him enveloped her.

And was it her imagination, or did he act as if he felt something for her as well?

She could usually detect when a man was attracted to her, but she wasn’t certain this time . . . perhaps because she would not be averse to him?

Within minutes she was settled in the rear of the boat. Beneath the warmth of her cloak, she crossed her arms. The boat rocked in the shallow water as the laird and Gibson climbed aboard.

From their boat, Rowlly, Gibson’s son, and the stable lad waved. “A race to the other side with a bit of a wager?” Rowlly asked.

“Name it,” the laird said.

“Two pints apiece at the Goldeneye,” Rowlly answered. “Who knows? We may see Augie again.”

All the men laughed, including the stable lad. Gibson made a comment that he wouldn’t mind being present for another meeting of the laird and Augie.

Margaret didn’t understand what they were talking about. She kept her eyes on the shoreline.

There was a splash as oars hit water. The men would waste no time reaching the other shore—

A flash of white at the edge of the trees close to the path leading to the keep caught Margaret’s eye. It was a cat. A small one.

It was Owl. There was no mistaking the odd shape of her head.

Margaret turned toward the laird. “There’s my cat. I see Owl.” They were now ten feet from the shore. “You must take me back,” she ordered.

Gibson, sitting in front of her, frowned in the direction she pointed. “Where is there a cat?” he said. “I don’t see one.”

“Right there on the shore,” Margaret insisted. How could he not see Owl, who had padded down to the waterline and meowed as if begging her to return? The cat placed a paw on the water as if to come after her and then quickly backed away. “Please, take me back. I must catch my cat.”

Laird Macnachtan was mid-stroke when he lifted his oar. He frowned. “My lady, I see no cat.”

“She’s right there,” Margaret said, frustration making her angry. Why couldn’t anyone see Owl save her? What madness was at work?

Owl meowed one more time. Margaret could hear her plainly. Owl turned and began trotting toward the woods. She would disappear into the underbrush in a minute.

“Take me back,” Margaret begged. She knew she couldn’t leave Owl.

The men had not moved. They stared at her in concern. Rowlly’s boat kept going, racing away and unaware of the discussion.

Margaret had asked for a sign, and Owl was what she’d been searching for. She realized that now.

The cat sat on her haunches at the edge of the forest as if waiting for Margaret to return.

“You don’t see the cat,” she stated, wanting them to confirm one more time they were blind to what she saw.

“There is no cat,” the laird said, even as Gibson demanded, “Will you row? We will be paying for pints if we don’t put our backs in it.”

Margaret stood up in the boat. The wind had picked up. They were now close to twenty feet from shore.

She knew how to swim. She also gambled that the water would still be shallow here. She threw off her cape and jumped into the water.

“What the devil—?” Gibson shouted.

Her habit weighed her down but her determination was strong. The bitter coldness of the water went straight to her bones. But her determination was stronger than fear.

Thankfully, her booted feet touched bottom.

Owl disappeared into the trees as if knowing Margaret would follow.

Behind her, Laird Macnachtan was shouting.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The waves around her had suddenly become stronger and were trying to push her away from the shore.

She stumbled, caught herself, and surged forward, refusing to give up. The effort to reach the shore required everything of her, but she succeeded.

On the shore, she took a moment to catch her breath. She struggled to her feet and looked to the boat. The men were trying to row back to her and yet the current now carried them farther away. And the sky had changed. It now roiled with heavy, dark, thunderous clouds that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

But the danger of a storm didn’t matter. Margaret was where she knew she must be.

She threw the hem of her water-heavy skirts over one arm and rushed to the point in the forest where she’d seen Owl disappear.