The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Eleven


Heath couldn’t believe Margaret had jumped out of the boat. He swore furiously. The water was freezing. She would not survive. He shouted for her, but she ignored him, of course.

Why should she behave any differently when her life was in jeopardy than she had from the moment they’d met?

“Bring the boat around,” he shouted to Gibson.

“I’m trying, Laird. The current is too heavy. I’ve never seen the like.”

Indeed, white-capped waves now pressed against the boat. In less time than it took to say one’s name, thick clouds had begun churning over their heads and the wind had picked up speed.

“It’s as if the world has gone mad,” Gibson declared.

And he was right.

Heath saw Margaret reach shore. She was soaked to the skin, but at least she’d made it. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders and she was shivering.

She started to her feet but tripped over wet skirts. Again, she tried.

“Margaret, stay right there.”

Either the rising wind whisked his words away from her hearing or she chose to ignore him, because she lurched to her feet, gathered her skirts and, with a hobbling gait, ran into the forest.

“Row,” he ordered Gibson, digging deep into the water with his oars. “Take me back there.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Gibson answered. “I’ve never seen the loch like this.” He was pulling back against the water as he spoke and there was the sound of a crack. His oar broke. The wood snapped as if it had been a twig. The boat was adrift and began spinning.

Highland storms could be sudden and cruel, but Heath had never seen one such as this before.

He didn’t understand what has happening, but a fear for Margaret gripped him. They were being carried farther away from Innis Craggah. The boat was thirty feet from shore and moving rapidly. He could not waste time. He pulled off his boots.

“What are you doing—” Gibson shouted just as Heath climbed on the bench and dived into the water.

The cold bite of it robbed him of breath. For a second he floundered. Great waves rolled over his head. He fought panic.

He’d heard sailors tell of being in the Northern Sea, of how quickly the water could freeze a man to death. He knew to keep blowing bubbles. The sailors had said that would stop his lungs from freezing.

Heath had been swimming in these waters all his life, but he’d never felt such a strong, threatening current. It was as if there was something trying to pull him under and away from the shore all at once.

And yet, he had to reach Margaret.

His feet touched bottom. Hope surged within him. At some point, he’d lost a stocking but it didn’t matter. He had no feeling in his feet as it was. He charged forward, pushing his way through the current until he fell facedown upon the rocky shore. Nothing had ever felt so good to him.

For a long moment, he couldn’t move.

And then the hail started.

Hail the size of man’s fist rained down from the heavens. He covered his head with his arms. It seemed to come down harder.

Struggling to his feet required herculean strength. Heath didn’t try calling for Margaret. The storm was stronger than his voice.

Instead, he stumbled toward the haven of the trees, and just as he reached shelter, the hail stopped.

This was not normal weather, not even for the Highlands.

He leaned against a tree trunk, bending over to catch his breath, his gaze wandering back toward the water—and he was shocked by what he saw.

Loch Awe was a mass of white-capped tossing waves beneath a foggy mist. Any view of land or the boats was blocked. He prayed Rowlly and the others had reached shore and then pushed away from the tree and began his search for Margaret.

He was freezing in his clothes. He removed his remaining stocking and continued barefoot. His feet seemed to have turned into blocks of ice.

If he was this cold, she had to be as well.

It was snowing now, large flakes, and he was reminded of what she’d said about the coach accident, about weather they’d experienced that had not touched Marybone only miles away.

He’d assumed she would go to the ruins. However, when he reached the knoll, she was not there. His next thought was the cliff. He noted the kitchen’s hearth was protected from the storm and the kindling was dry. He would bring her here as soon as found her and start a fire.

He called her name now.

There was no answer.

Heath was halfway to the cliff when he sensed he was not alone.

He stopped in the path. He saw no one, and yet his gut warned him to caution—and then he heard her voice.

“Lady Margaret?”

The voice stopped. She’d sounded as if she’d been speaking to someone.

“Lady Margaret,” he tried again.

“I am here,” she said, her voice closer than he had anticipated. He followed the sound and within minutes found himself in a sheltered clearing. Tall, stately firs kept the wind at bay. Here was a place of peace, away from the madness of the weather.

And in the center of the clearing, Margaret was on her knees, her back to him. Her dress was soaked. She trembled with the cold but she was leaning over, brushing wet leaves to the side.

“What are you doing?” he asked, coming up beside her.

She raised wide eyes to him. “Look.”

Heath didn’t want to look. He was bloody frozen to death and she was as well. “Come, we need to find shelter.”

She resisted. “Look at what I’ve found.”

He glanced down with undisguised impatience and realized there were two weatherworn, rectangular stones on the ground in front of her.

“They are graves,” she said. “Unmarked ones without the benefit of holy ground. Do you know who this must be?” she asked. “Owl brought me here.”

“Owl?” he said.

“The cat.”

The damn cat—and he was reminded of why he was here, why his teeth were chattering in his head. “Jumping out of that boat was beyond foolishness. You could have drowned.”

“But I didn’t,” she said. Her lips were blue and he knew his were as well. “I saw the cat,” she said, “even if you could not see her. She was on the shore and I knew she wanted me to return. I couldn’t ignore her.”

He knelt to her level. “You could have just asked for us to turn the boat around. Then you would have saved us both a swim.”

She looked at him as if only then realizing he was as wet as she. She took his face in her hands. “I did ask you to return. You refused. But why didn’t you stay in the boat and row it back?”

Heath could feel his scowl deepen and there was nothing to do but admit, “There is something odd going on. This storm, it shouldn’t be here. And the water became wild. It was as if it didn’t want us to return for you.”

“So you jumped in as well?” Her smile warmed him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That was the most gallant thing anyone has ever done for me.”

When she looked at him like that, even though he was cold to his core, a part of him became very heated.

He reached for her arm. “We need to return to the ruins. I can start a fire there.”

“Wait,” she said. “These must be the graves of Rose and Fenella. They could not be buried in hallowed ground, could they?”

The stones were rough and aged by the weather. Lines appeared to have been engraved on one of them, lines that had been worn away by time.

“Did you know they were here?” she asked.

“I’ve not seen them before.” And he didn’t care about them now. “Come, they will be here once this storm is passed.” This time when he pulled on her arm, she didn’t resist but rose to her feet along with him.

He took her hand and retraced his steps to the path. They were both shaking violently in their wet clothes. Heath reached over and pulled her next to him. They needed to share what little body heat they had between them.

She fit neatly under his arm. Together, the snow falling around them, they hurried as quickly as possible back to the ruins and the haven of the kitchen hearth.

While Margaret huddled in a corner, Heath found two hard, sharp rocks that had been left by someone who had been here before. He began working to strike a spark over a bit of kindling. It was not easy with the wind.

He felt Margaret beside him, her body convulsing with cold. “Let me help,” she managed to chatter out. “Together we make a good wall to block the wind.” She leaned against him.

“You might want to take off some of your clothes,” he advised. “Any petticoats or anything that is wet against your skin.”

“It is all wet against my skin,” she assured him.

He knew how she felt.

“Please start the fire. Please,” she whispered.

It was almost dark. Heath tried over and over to strike a spark. His hands didn’t want to cooperate with him. He had a strong desire to lie down and close his eyes and knew that was the cold winning over his spirit.

“Please, God,” he whispered, only to fail again, but his temper flared.

He drew a deep breath, hit the rocks hard, and a spark from them landed in the dry kindling. Heath leaned over and coaxed it to life with his breath.

The wood that was dry was old and caught fire quickly. In short order it was burning warmly in the protected confines of the fireplace.

“Come closer. Lie in front of the fire,” Heath ordered. He added fuel to the fire and then threw his arms around her, spooning his body against hers. His back was to the elements; however, she was neatly tucked in between him and the fire.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Heath could only grunt. They would make it. There had been a moment that he hadn’t been certain but now with shelter and the fire going, they had a fighting chance.

“She couldn’t stop us,” Margaret said. They were both still shaking. The ground was bloody hard. “She tried, but she failed.”

“She?” he asked. He wished he could rid himself of his clothes. They were wet and uncomfortable. Hers had to be the same.

“Fenella. She started this storm.”

Heath was too tired to be annoyed with her reasoning. He closed his eyes.

Margaret turned to him, the movement waking him. Her hair was startling to dry and there wisps of curls at her cheek. He might be tired but she appeared invigorated.

“Do you truly believe that storm was an act of nature?” she whispered. “It wasn’t. That was the same storm that came upon us before the accident.”

“It’s the Highlands—” he started, until she cut him off by placing her fingers over his lips. Her fingertips were cold, or perhaps his lips were.

She snuggled closer to him. “For one moment, let yourself believe. Believe that I do see a cat that led me to those graves. Owl came with me on the road from Glenfinnan. Owl has been trying to bring me here.”

“And the graves?”

“I’m certain those belong to Rose and Fenella. Mother and daughter, both buried beyond the embrace of the church.”

As she spoke, the wind seemed to pick up its pace, howling even through the rocks of the wall, but the fire burned steady.

“You don’t know that,” Heath said. “They were small stones. They could be the graves of babes, born without baptism and denied holy ground. Or they might have been some beloved pets.”

“I do know,” she answered, her voice low and no longer shivering with her body. “I know.”

And then, to his surprise, she placed her hand on the side of his face, her palms warm, and kissed him.

Her lips were soft and warm. They melded against his—and Heath forgot the cold.

She didn’t pull away, either, but took her time with the kiss as if exploring and discovering how it felt to taste him.

He placed his hand on the indentation of her waist and she scooted to fit her body against his.

No kiss, no woman had ever tasted this good. Or had the power to draw him in this deeply.

She broke the kiss and pushed herself up so that she looked down into his face, bracing her weight with one hand on the ground beside him, her arm on his chest. Her bent leg rested between his. Her aggressiveness surprised him, but a new, more demanding need was building inside him.

He started to lift himself up, knowing if he didn’t stop matters now, he wouldn’t want to stop later. “Why don’t we sit—?” he started to suggest.

She cut him off with another kiss, a hungry, demanding one.

From the moment he’d seen her on that London street, he’d wanted her.

When he’d first laid eyes on her on that bed of pine needles after the accident, he’d wanted her.

And now here she was, offering herself to him, and her kisses were more potent than he could imagine.

He was warm now. Hot even, and he no longer heard the sound of the storm. It had been replaced by the demanding drum of desire pounding in his own veins.

They needed to stop this while he still could, but not just yet.

Heath allowed himself to kiss her back.

He teased her with his tongue.

She stiffened and he held still, not wanting to chase her away. Oh no, he did not want to do that at all.

And then she traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and he was lost.

God help him. Margaret Chattan was more than just a beautiful woman. They say a man falls in love with his eyes, but Heath was feeling something more. He liked the way she smelled and the weight of her in his arms. Those times when he’d helped her from the horse or the boat, he couldn’t help but notice how soft and perfectly formed she was.

He opened his lips, breathing her in. She responded with a soft, shuddering sigh, as if this was what she wanted, what she needed. Her breasts flattened against his chest. Her nipples were taut and firm. He could feel them even through layers of her clothes, and Heath was undone.

Margaret Chattan was made for loving. She had the sort of body most men could only dream of and she was here in his arms—warm, willing, desirable.

How long had it been since he had enjoyed a woman?

He couldn’t remember. He didn’t care. She was all he wanted.

She gripped his shirt with one hand as if to hold him in place. She kissed him like a woman possessed. He was surprised at her passion, but eminently grateful as well.

“Trust me,” she whispered. “Please trust me.”

“I do,” Heath murmured as she kissed the line of his jaw. Her hand strayed down his chest to the waist of his breeches. She began twisting the buttons, first one, then another. His erection against the stiff material begged her for freedom.

Still, he was a gentleman—

Heath brought his hand down over hers. “Wait, Margaret, you may want to think on this.”

Her response was to trace his ear with her tongue.

“I was mistaken,” he murmured. “Don’t think on it.” He helped her finish the unbuttoning.

She wanted what she wanted and whom was he to argue? She rubbed his thigh with the inside of her knee. He had not expected her to be so aggressive, wanton even. Her skirt was almost up to her waist and she reminded him of a dockside whore, coaxing a man to dick her—

This was not Margaret Chattan.

The thought startled Heath. He grabbed her wrists and sat up, holding her away from him.

She lunged at him as if wanting to wrap her arms around him, to claim him. The fire beside them seemed to have come alive with a will of its own. The flames rose higher, burning brighter, their light spreading until he could see her face was no longer her own.

The evil of a thousand devils lit her eyes.

And her tongue had turned to that of a serpent. It reached out to lick at him, even as her fingers curled into claws intent on attacking him.

“Come here,” she ordered, her voice soft, coaxing. “Come to me.”

Margaret had dozed off. She was cold in spite of the fire but bone weary and comforted by the laird’s presence.

And then she felt herself being shaken awake.

She opened her eyes to find Heath over her. He held her by the wrists and the expression on his face was one of horror, except he wasn’t really seeing her. He was dreaming—and he was afraid of her.

“Laird Macnachtan, wake up. Wake up. Heath.”

For a second, she feared he would not hear her. His hold on her wrists tightened. He twisted her around, pressing her into the ground.

Panic gripped her, until she reminded herself this man was good. He was the best she’d ever met. He’d always been everything that a gentleman should be and more. He would not harm her.

His face came down to hers, his teeth clenched as if in a battle and Margaret knew she had to do something to wake him. Something drastic.

So she kissed him.

Her lips were numb from the cold. The contact warmed them.

He frowned, started to pull back. She reached up and kissed him again, pressing her lips to his, and she felt him relax.

His grip on her wrists loosened.

She pulled her hands from his hold and threw them around his shoulders, holding him, feeling the racing beat of his heart against her chest. His growth of beard was scratchy on her skin. She kissed him all the harder.

His manner changed. He brought his hand to her waist, pulling her to him. His kiss became more intent, more purposeful.

Margaret believed she’d known what a kiss was.

She now realized she hadn’t.

Heath Macnachtan’s kiss robbed her of all reason.

His lips opened and instinctively she followed his lead, finding she liked the taste and feel of him. She liked it very much.

There had been a time when she’d stolen kisses. A time when she had indulged in passion. She’d paid a terrible price for her foolishness and had vowed she would be chaste, and had been. She’d become to believe herself immune to the luxuries of the flesh.

But now she couldn’t keep from kissing him. It felt good to be this close to him. It felt safe.

He broke the kiss with a huge, gasping cry as if just coming to his senses. His breathing was shallow, his face flushed.

His hands had returned to her wrists but he didn’t take hold.

Instead, he stared glassy-eyed. “Margaret?” he whispered. He seemed uncertain, and she realized he’d been dreaming.

“Yes, it is me,” she said. “It is me.”

“I was dreaming.”

She nodded. “You were.”

“It seemed real.”

“They can be that way.”

His brows came together, and then his response was to kiss her again.