The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Nineteen


Cora stood on the steps with the cook as if they anxiously waited for Heath’s arrival.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“In the front hall,” Cook said. “Miss Laren is with her.”

He found them where Cook had directed him. Margaret was sprawled on the floor, her legs at a strange angle as if she were a rag doll. Her arms were bent, her fingers curled.

“Heath,” Laren said with relief at the sight of him, “I found her this way.”

He knelt beside Margaret. Her eyes were wide with pain. “What is it?”

“She can’t speak,” Laren said.

“You don’t need to,” Heath quietly assured Margaret. “Just be easy—”

A spasm of pain ripped through her. Her arms curled more as she groaned with the force of it.

“I shall fetch help,” Heath promised. “But first let me take you to your bed.” He picked her up in his arms. Anice had joined them and she looked as anxious and frightened as Laren. “Grab one of the lads and send him for Mr. Hawson in Dalmally,” he ordered his youngest sister.

Anice ran from the hall as if happy to have something constructive to do.

Heath rose to his feet. It was difficult to hold Margaret when she was so stiff. Even as he watched, her fingers curled tighter. It had to be painful and she could not have control over it.

He carried her up to her room, Laren hovering around them. Sitting on the bed beside her, Heath said, “Be brave, my darling. The doctor will come and we shall find out what this is—”

Those expressive eyes of hers said louder than words that the doctor would fail.

She knew he understood. She forced her lips into a smile that lacked her natural grace and ease. It was more of a grimace and she looked away . . . a dismissal.

“I fear we don’t have much time,” Laren said. “This malady has gripped her and it is taking her over.”

Yes, it was taking Margaret over. He could see the muscles tightening. And the arm that was bent so tight her hand rested on her shoulder was her left arm.

“You’ve been feeling this,” he accused.

Her gaze turned wary, an admission.

“Why did you not tell me?” he demanded, and then realized she had been telling him. From the very beginning, she’d warned of the curse.

“How much time, Margaret?” he asked, a coldness stealing through him.

The blue in her eyes lightened with the bleakness of her situation.

He took her hand and tried to pry open her fingers. They would not give.

Heath pressed his lips to her fingertips, his brain frantically trying to reason this out. There must be a way to stop it. There had to be a way.

“Why now?” he asked. “Why is she attacking you so virulently but didn’t do so yesterday or the day before? Does she have more power? Is there a reason?”

“Does who have more power?” Laren asked as if she feared the answer.

But Heath didn’t have time for explanations. “Stay with her,” he ordered, before racing from the room. He took the steps upstairs three at a time and didn’t bother to knock on Rowan’s door.

“Fenella has her,” he said to the valet. “She’s trying to claim her. This is not how it was with her brothers, is it? Why now? Why?”

“I do not know, Laird.”

“Someone must know,” Heath said, desperate for answers.

“You must find someone who thinks like a witch.”

“And where will I find one?” Heath threw out at him, annoyed with such a paltry suggestion.

“I don’t know. Do you know a magician?”

“Not one who has true power, or believes he does—” Heath started and then stopped. “Swepston.”

“I beg your pardon, Laird.”

“Swepston claims he has knowledge or power. He had Margaret’s book, the one she claimed was from Fenella. He destroyed it.”

“But did he read it?” Rowan asked.

“I shall find out,” Heath vowed, hope welling up in him. “Thank God, I ignored the fact that the bastard hadn’t left.”

He charged down the stairs and out of the house. He didn’t stop until he reached the stables, where a number of his clansmen were cleaning. He grabbed the first man he saw, Irwin. “Where is Swepston?”

Irwin’s eyes grew large, a sign as always that he was afraid he was about to do something wrong.

“I know I banished him, Irwin, but I also know he is still here. I was angry with him and for good cause. However, now he has the opportunity to earn his place in my trust. I won’t hurt him, but I must speak to him.”

One of the stable lads, Madoc, said, “Go ahead and tell him, Irwin. I think he already knows.”

“I do know he is here,” Heath said. “I saw him helping the other day. Tell me, Irwin.”

Irwin looked to the others. Some appeared cautious, unlike Madoc.

“Where is he?” Heath repeated, his temper growing.

And then Irwin’s gaze went past Heath’s shoulder. Heath released his hold and turned. Swepston stood ten feet from him.

The man had cut his beard and wore decent clothes instead of his robe. “You want me, Laird.”

Right there was an improvement. Swepston had not recognized Heath’s authority before. And Heath could meet him halfway. “I need you,” he said. “Come with me.”

Together the men walked up the path. Heath could feel the approval of the lads behind him. They liked Swepston.

Close to the house, Heath stopped. “We are kinsmen. Cousins.”

“Clansmen,” Swepston agreed. “Distant relations.”

Heath drew a deep breath and released it before saying, “I don’t come to you as the chieftain. I searched you out as a man who loves a woman who is dying.”

“The Chattan.”

“Aye. You may have your wish—”

“I wished her no harm.”

Heath didn’t know if he believed him, but now was not the time to argue. “Is the curse real?”

“Aye, Laird, and placed on the Chattan by your great-great-great-grandmother.”

“Did you read her book?”

“I looked through it.”

“Was there anything in there about the first and the last?”

Swepston frowned. “Not that I read. Most of it was about soap and cheese making.”

“But a few spells?”

“If one believes in that sort of thing.”

“You don’t?” Heath didn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“I’m no fool. There were love spells and other woman nonsense. I don’t believe in that.”

“Was there anything about coming back to life?” Heath asked. There was a time when he’d have felt foolish to ask such a question. No longer.

“What is this about?” Swepston asked.

“She’s dying,” Heath said. “Lady Margaret is losing her life to the curse. I must stop it. Do you understand? I meant what I said that day you and I had our confrontation when I spoke of how the curse has hurt us more than the Chattans. It has been a weight on our clan.”

“And what would you do?”

“Whatever I must. You and I have had our differences. I don’t expect those to vanish. At the same time, you know more about the history of our people than anyone else. I need your help now. I need to understand this curse.”

Swepston took a step back. “I don’t know if I can help.”

Heath wasn’t certain he heard him correctly. “What about this Druid and pagan nonsense? Isn’t there something there?”

“I know stories my seanamhair told me, but that’s all.” He referred to his grandmother, a woman Heath faintly remembered as being someone everyone turned to for healing or advice.

“So you’ve been rousing the crofters and inciting them against me using something you don’t know about?”

Swepston had the good sense to look sheepish. “I know a bit about it.”

“Then tell me what you know,” Heath demanded, “before I wrap my hands around your neck and choke it out of you.”

“What of the man who said he needed me?” Swepston countered.

“He’s about to be beaten. Talk. Give me anything you know.”

Swepston’s expression turned nervous, as it should have. Then he said, “I know the way of herbs. They hold remedies.”

“Good,” Heath said, trying to sound encouraging, even though his fists were clenched. “Perhaps they could help. She can’t move or speak.”

“I know of no herb for that.”

Heath swore under his breath. He tried to be reasonable. “Margaret has had an attack. It’s strong. Overpowering. Her brother in London is ill from the curse but his seems to be a long time coming. The Chattans suspect that the curse is stronger because they are here. Her other brother is also ill but I sense what Margaret has is different.”

“That could be—”

“But you don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” Swepston said. “I do know that the moon is important. The full moon is powerful.”

“Do we have a full moon now?” Heath didn’t believe he had noticed the moon.

“Yes, but after tonight it will wane.”

“How can I use that power? And don’t tell me that you don’t know.”

“But I don’t, Heath. My seanamhair used to keep mistletoe in water. She’d sprinkle it around to ward off spirits.”

“Spirits! That is what I’m looking for—something to ward off dead spirits. Do you have this water?”

“It is easy enough to make. You take some mistletoe and place it in water—”

“Do you have mistletoe?” Heath said with impatience.

“Of course not,” Swepston informed him. “But,” he added, catching the militant gleam in Heath’s eye, “I know where mistletoe is.”

“And where is that?”

“It covers one side of the tree where Brodie was murdered,” Swepston answered.

Heath’s mind reeled. Was there a connection between his brother’s death and the Chattan curse?

“Even if we do collect the mistletoe,” Swepston continued, “where would we take it to be used against Fenella?”

A puzzle that had pestered him since that morning on Innis Craggah suddenly made sense. The cat, Owl, had taken him to the graves. She had led Margaret to the graves. That was where the power was. The grave was the source of what was left of Fenella.

He took Swepston by the arm. “Come with me, man.”

“Where are we going?” Swepston asked.

“First, to the stables where we shall hitch up a cart. Then we shall collect mistletoe. And then we are going to battle a witch.”

“Why do we need the cart?” Swepston asked.

“Because I’m not leaving Margaret behind.”

Swepston wouldn’t let Heath just chop down the mistletoe. It had to be “cut.” Swepston chanted words from his grandmother under his breath as he did it.

They put the mistletoe leaves in the bottle filled with water brought for that purpose. Heath corked the bottle. He wore his naval cutlass and pistol from his belt. A dirk was tucked into his boot.

Margaret was buried in the cart beneath a stack of blankets. She seemed to grow smaller as the effects of the curse took hold of her body, curling her into a fetal position.

Swepston looked to Heath and said, “I did not wish this on her. I’d wish it on no one.”

“It makes a difference when we are faced with results of what we wish on others, doesn’t it?” he answered.

“Aye,” Swepston agreed soberly. “You are right, Laird. This has been a curse on us as well.”

“Then let us end it here. Tonight.”

Before leaving the great oak, Swepston sprinkled water with the mistletoe around Margaret. Heath did not see that any of Swepston’s ministrations had an impact on her. He prayed that if this was the solution, he was not too late.

He could feel her watching him, sense the trust she placed in him.

Before he left the oak, Heath placed his hand upon his brother’s bloodstains. After a moment’s prayer that Brodie’s spirit would help guide him, he returned to the horses and they were on their way.

The hour was growing late when they reached the part of Loch Awe’s shore that was across from Innis Craggah. The full moon was rising and soon all would be bathed in a silvery light.

Once again, a bit of coin convinced Gibson to row them to the island. The fisherman was not pleased to be out on such a cold night. Fortunately, the loch was calm, but Heath knew that could be deceiving.

He held Margaret in his arms as Swepston and Gibson rowed. He didn’t know what to anticipate. Considering the storm they’d experienced before, he feared what Fenella’s power could do. But they had no trouble reaching the shore.

Once they’d landed the boat, Swepston asked, “What now?”

“Grab a torch, bring the water, and follow me,” Heath answered, holding Margaret in his arms. “Gibson, we will return.”

“Aye, Laird,” the fisherman answered. He stood in the boat’s remaining torchlight. “I’ll be here, but don’t tarry. My wife likes me in the bed.”

Heath had no trouble picking up the path that led to the graves. It was darker here. Heath thought it was because of the forest and overhanging branches, even winter bare. But when he looked up, he realized clouds were gathering in the sky.

Clouds. A storm. Fenella.

Had she just started to realize what they were about? For whatever reason, they had made it this far without her detecting them. He needed to be faster. He picked up the pace, trusting his instinct.

Margaret weighed next to nothing in his arms. It was as if she was disappearing. The muscles of her body were cramped and had to be painfully tight. “Please, hold on, Maggie,” he whispered.

“That’s odd that a storm seems to be brewing so quickly,” Swepston observed. He was a good pace behind them now with the torch.

“All the more reason to move faster,” Heath ordered.

At last, he came to the clearing where the graves were. He placed Margaret on the ground between them, right where he’d last seen Owl. “Be brave, my love.” Her eyes were closed. There was hope but not time to spare.

He turned to look for Swepston. Thankfully the man was approaching with the torch and the water.

Heath walked to meet him at the forest’s edge, anxious to start. “Hurry, man.”

Swepston thrust the torch at Heath. “Hold this.” He reached into the depths of his cloak to pull out the bottle, which he offered to Heath.

At that moment, there was a cracking sound overhead. Heath grabbed the bottle from Swepston and jumped back as one of the pines, the thickness of a man’s body came crashing down upon them.

Heath escaped injury. Swepston was not so lucky. There was the sound of breaking bones.

Swepston groaned, dazed by what had happened, but he was alive.

Stunned by the suddenness of the tree falling, Heath started to set aside the water and the torch to help his clansman, but he heard another sound of splintering wood. Another tree came down, right where he had been standing a second ago. And then there were more sounds of wood splitting.

Heath ran for the clearing. He fell to the ground once he reached the graves as if they were touchstones that offered safety.

Margaret was awake, watching.

Her gaze in the torchlight was one of complete faith. He felt she should be more cautious. It had been Swepston who’d had some idea of what to do with the mistletoe water once they reached the graves. Heath didn’t have an inkling, so he improvised. He started wetting his fingers and sprinkling the water around the perimeter of the clearing, staying away from the pines.

He assumed that there was some sort of chant or incantation that should be repeated. He didn’t know of any so he relied on what he knew. “Dear God in heaven, help me.” He repeated it over and over, but what played in his mind were Rowan’s words about “the first and the last.” He continued until he’d emptied the bottle of its contents. He returned to Margaret, placing his hand upon her, waiting to see if this old remedy would free them of Fenella. Maggie was still curled tightly.

The moon came out from behind the clouds.

All was quiet. Not even Swepston made a sound, and Heath prayed the man was all right.

The minutes ticked by, marked by the racing beat of his heart.

Nothing moved. Nothing changed.

And he felt frustration because what was he supposed to expect? How would he know if he’d helped Margaret?

“Fenella? Are you there?” His voice echoed in the night. “Are you done torturing us? Are you ready to return to your bloody grave?”

Silence.

The taunts helped him, though. They made him feel as if he was doing something . . . as if there was something he could do.

And what if there wasn’t?

What if the illness that gripped Margaret was nothing more than some strange malady? Or a sickness that the physician at Dalmally could have cured if Heath had left her at Marybone? What if this was all just some elaborate trick of the mind as he’d suggested to Margaret many a time?

Then again, trees didn’t fall without a reason. Cats didn’t disappear. Storms on the loch didn’t purposefully steer boats away from shores.

And that is when the hairs at the nape of Heath’s neck started to tingle. He stood, holding his torch.

She was here.

He pushed the torch into the ground beside Margaret and pulled his cutlass from its scabbard.

The trees around the clearing began to waver as if his eyes were out of focus. The moonlight grew brighter. The torch flared, surprising Heath. He turned to it, sword in hand.

No one was there save Margaret. They were here, together. He took courage from her presence and faced the woods.

“Face me, you bloody witch. Come meet me,” he roared, done with waiting.

And his challenge was heard.

A shadow moved among the trees, its form human.

Heath waited as it took shape. This was no crone . . . but a man. A man Heath could fight. Confidence surged through him. He would defeat this curse.

The man moved from the shadows and stepped into the moonlit clearing—and Heath found himself facing his brother, Brodie.