The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Three


Margaret feared she would not wake up. She struggled to bring herself out of the darkness, but her eyes refused to open.

It was the smell of baking bread that finally alerted her senses.

She had slept hard and well. The bed was comfortable, the sheets fresh. But the time had come to leave this place.

The time had come to wake.

She struggled for consciousness . . .

Margaret opened her eyes.

The light was blinding and she quickly closed them again. Her lungs hurt. She had to pull deep to gain a decent breath and her arms and legs felt as if they were weighed down with lead.

Someone gasped, the sound close at hand, followed by footsteps. A door opened.

“She’s awake,” a girl’s voice exclaimed with the lilt of a Scots accent. She sounded very young. “Miss Anice, Miss Laren, my lady, she’s awake.”

Panic forced Margaret to lie very still. She did not recognize the names.

Where was she?

And then the memories came.

Her mind was remarkably clear. Only moments ago, she and Smith had been tossed around the coach like dice being shaken in a cup. She had been thrown into the air and landed on rock—

Margaret remembered the pain. She recalled lying in the mud and snow, her body broken.

And Smith was dead.

What of the others?

“When did she wake?” a woman’s voice came from the hall.

“Just this moment,” the girl reported. “I sat there, as you told me to, and her eyes opened.”

More Scottish voices, their accents musical—and Margaret became aware of why she was in Scotland.

In her mind, the accident had happened only moments ago. She could still smell the blood, the fear, the scents of wet wool and rotting winter leaves. She could see the bodies, the death.

But she was far away from that right now.

She wasn’t even wearing the same clothes.

They entered the room and she sensed their presences as they approached the bed. She could open her eyes, and she would, once she knew she was safe.

“She’s not awake,” a woman’s disappointed voice said.

The girl spoke. “I saw her open her eyes. Just this moment.”

A woman’s voice from the other side of the bed said, “I’m certain you did, Cora. Remember what Mr. Hawson said, Anice. Patients in a coma can give the appearance of rousing. Perhaps she isn’t ready.”

The one called Anice said, “Why do you suppose Lady Margaret Chattan is here, Laren? It’s so far from London, from anything that would interest her.”

They knew who she was. But who were they?

“Father said that the Chattans would come up here from time to time,” Laren answered. “You know, always wanting us to right their curse.”

There was a beat of silence and then Anice asked, “Do you believe in it?”

“The curse?” Laren laughed. “Of course not.”

“What is the curse?” Cora asked. She must be very young, Margaret concluded, because of the honesty of her question.

“They claim an ancestor of ours placed a curse upon them that the males all die when they fall in love,” Anice answered.

“And it is nonsense,” Laren said. “A wives’ tale.”

“What is a wives’ tale?” the child questioned.

“Just what Laren said,” Anice said. “A bit of nonsense. Run along now and fetch Dara. She needs to know our guest is awaking.”

Listening to them, Margaret’s heart had gone cold with realization. They were the Macnachtan.

“It’s terrible about the accident,” Anice said. “I’m glad she isn’t awake yet. Dara was saying she didn’t know how we would let Lady Margaret know that almost all of her party was dead. Everyone but that Indian gentleman, and we still don’t know if he will live.”

Rowan was alive. She wasn’t alone. Thanks be to God.

And she wasn’t here without a purpose.

Bravely, Margaret opened her eyes.

This time, the light didn’t bother her as much and she could see she was in a rather plain bedroom with cream-colored walls and green draperies. The bed she lay in was a simple four-poster one. The coverlet over her was a quilt.

The weak winter light of an overcast day filled the room. Margaret estimated it must be sometime after mid-morning.

But what interested her were the two women.

They were both lovely and around the age of twenty. They didn’t appear to show the anger one reserved for an enemy. Instead, they viewed her with compassion in their eyes.

And still she did not dare trust them.

The one to Margaret’s right, the one called Anice, had curly brown hair that she wore styled on top of her head. Laren had straight hair more blonde than brown. They shared inquisitive blue eyes, pert noses, and full lips.

Anice was obviously more meticulous about her appearance. She’d tied a green ribbon through her curls and wore a ribbon of the same color around her neck. Her dress was of the same homespun brown as her sister’s except that she had added rosettes fashioned out of ribbon around the bodice. If she’d made those herself, she was clever with a needle.

Laren appeared more reserved. She wore her hair in a long braid and her hands showed that she was no stranger to work.

“You are awake,” Anice said, sounding genuinely pleased. “And look at you. You don’t appear the worse for wear.” She leaned forward with a smile.

Margaret started to speak, to warn them to stay away from her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her tongue felt thick, her throat dry.

“You must be starved and thirsty,” Laren said, reaching for a pot of tea that sat on a bedside table. There was also a mound of cloths that appeared to have been used for her care, a basin and pitcher, and a candlestick with the candle burned down to the stub.

“The tea is not hot,” Laren warned, pouring a cup and offering it to her, “but perhaps that is best. We need to put something nourishing in you.”

She was right, but Margaret feared moving her arms. She remembered the terrible pain of them breaking and of her hips and her legs . . .

“Let me plump the pillow,” Anice offered, and placed a gentle hand under Margaret’s shoulder to help her sit up.

“I can’t,” Margaret managed to say, her voice as dry as a rusty hinge.

“Yes, you can,” Anice encouraged her. “I’ll help.” Again, she placed her hand under Margaret’s shoulder.

This time, Margaret let Anice lift her—and was shocked by the absence of pain.

She frowned and looked to her left arm, the one she had used to attempt to reach for the book in that horrible moment after the crash. She was able to lift it without even a twinge of discomfort.

Margaret stared at her fingers and stretched them. They moved easily.

“My lady, are you all right?” Anice asked. Both girls watched her actions with interest.

Margaret frowned up, needing a moment for the question to make sense in her confused mind. All right? Nothing was right. She knew what had happened. It was vivid in her mind. She’d experienced the pain, felt her bones breaking—

“I must see Rowan,” Margaret croaked out. Rowan would explain all of this to her.

“Yes, my lady,” Laren answered, “but first, have a drink of this.” She placed the teacup against Margaret’s lips. The brew was strong and lukewarm. The first sip made Margaret feel as if her throat was opening.

“Don’t drink too quickly,” Laren warned, but Margaret could not stop once she started. Her body needed the liquid. She drained the cup dry.

“More,” she ordered.

Laren complied. A third cup followed the second.

Margaret fell back on the pillow. She looked to the young women. “What did you do with the others?”

Brows furrowed. Anice spoke. “They’ve received a Christian burial.”

“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, heartbroken by the deaths of Balfour and Thomas. Even of Smith. Their deaths cried for vengeance, and she swore silently she would deliver it. “How long have I been in this bed?” she asked.

“We found you three days ago,” Laren answered. “Actually, our brother found you. His name is Heath Macnachtan—”

“He’s the laird,” Anice interjected. “He’s very important.”

“And he saved you,” Laren reiterated.

But Margaret barely heard their praise of their brother. Instead, she was stunned to realize three days had passed? Three days for the witch Fenella to gather her power.

“Rowan,” Margaret said. “Please take me to him.”

“Yes, my lady,” Anice replied. “But do you believe you should move?”

“Take me to him,” Margaret repeated, her tone allowing no room for refusal. She sat up, relieved that her body did not protest. She pulled her nightdress down over her legs, needing a moment to steady herself.

There was a simple oak linen press on the opposite wall, and beside it were several bags that she recognized as her own from the coach. There was also the coachman’s whip, leaning against the press.

Seeing the direction she was looking, Anice explained, “The linen press holds most of your clothing. Your things were spread all through the woods, but we think we have most of it. Heath had a party comb the forest thoroughly.”

“Heath?”

“Our brother,” Anice said. “Laird Macnachtan. We just told you about him. He is the one who found you. We believe your accident happened just after you crossed the border to our lands.”

Fenella had wanted to stop her from reaching Loch Awe?

Or was it that Fenella wanted her in Macnachtan hands?

Margaret pushed up from the bed, not certain what to think. She was surrounded by her enemies, and yet Laren and Anice reached out as if ready to catch her in case she fell. She was relieved that her legs held her weight, albeit unsteadily at first. “A robe?” she said.

Laren crossed to the linen press and pulled out Margaret’s blue robe. She helped Margaret into the soft fabric and started to tie it at her waist but Margaret caught her hands. “I’ll do it.” She chose her actions because these girls should not be waiting upon her, but also she didn’t want to appear weak to them.

“Where’s Rowan?” Margaret’s voice was still hoarse.

“This way, my lady,” Laren answered, and moved toward the door. Anice hovered behind Margaret as if anxious that she would fall.

Laren was about to reach for the handle when the door opened and a tall, regal woman entered the room. Seeing them about to go out, she stopped, blocking their path.

This woman was obviously not related to the sisters. Her hair was the color of a shining copper kettle and her almond-shaped eyes reminded Margaret of Oriental jade.

While the Macnachtan sisters were trim, solid women, much like herself, the air of grace about his newcomer was tangible in her shoulders and high cheekbones. She could have been a Slavic princess or cast in the role of a fairy queen upon the stage.

“Our guest is up,” she said, her melodic accent coupled with a warmth of tone that made her voice distinctive. “Lady Margaret, welcome to Marybone, the Macnachtan family home. I am Dara, the dowager Lady Macnachtan.”

A widow. A very young one.

Margaret tried to smile. They all seemed anxious to please her, and she was just as anxious to be on guard. “Thank you,” she murmured. This whole experience after the violent accident was too strange.

“Lady Margaret wished to see the Indian gentleman,” Anice explained. There was a hint of distance in her voice . . . as if she did not completely like her sister-in-marriage.

“Oh, well, this way then, my lady,” Lady Macnachtan said, taking charge.

As she went out the door, Laren stepped aside to let her pass and even Anice seemed to move back a step.

The hallway was as plain as the bedroom had been. Margaret noticed the unevenness of the paint as if there had once been pictures gracing the walls that were now gone. There were no furnishings or carpet, and the cold wood floor was scuffed and marked with age. Back in London, she would never go barefoot, but there was no maid to see to her needs here. Smith was dead, and Margaret was humbled by that fact.

Doors to three other bedrooms lined the hall. Stairs led down to the ground floor and up to the second floor. Lady Macnachtan began climbing the stairs. They were very steep.

Margaret gripped the handrail. Climbing was a bit of a challenge for her but she persevered, conscious that Laren and Anice were watching her every move.

The second floor hall was narrow and as shabby as the downstairs hallway. This would be where the nursery or servants’ rooms were located.

Lady Macnachtan opened the door closest to the stairs. She went inside and stepped aside in a silent invitation for Margaret to enter.

For a second, Margaret was tempted to hang back, uncertain what to expect. She gathered her courage and went in. The bed was only a few steps from the door, and the sight of the stoic Rowan made her bring her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out.

He was only a shadow of himself. If they had pulled the covers up over his head, no one would have known he was there.

His dusky skin was a pallid gray. Bruises misshaped his face. His broken arms had been set with boards wrapped with linens. His fingers were swollen from breaks in them as well.

This was what she should have looked like.

And yet she was whole and well.

Margaret fell to her knees beside the bed. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She reached for Rowan’s hand.

“The doctor has encouraged us not to touch him,” Lady Macnachtan warned. “He believes the less the patient is moved, the better he will heal.”

Pulling back her hand, Margaret felt the terrible, dark coldness of fear.

These women might appear normal, but there was something terribly wrong. Dangerously wrong.

And she was unnerved.

She needed to be alone. She needed to think. She needed to find Fenella’s book. That thought was crystal clear. The book would be her protection. It would have answers. Harry was certain this was true, and right now, she had nothing else.

“You found everything from the accident?” she asked.

It was Anice who answered. “Yes, my lady. It is all either in the wardrobe or in the bags beside it. Everything is in your room.”

The book would be there. If they had found her body, then they would have seen the book. She’d looked at the book as she’d been dying.

And yet, here she was.

Owl had been with her. Owl had saved her.

The impossibilities threatened Margaret’s sanity. She had to focus on what was real and concrete. She feared she could not trust her own mind . . . and she knew no one would believe her story if she told it. No one save this man. Rowan was a witness, and he might die for it.

“I will return,” she whispered to him. “I will save us.”

There was no reaction.

But she had one. A trembling started inside her.

She left the room before she betrayed herself, the Macnachtan following her.

“His name is Rowan,” she said as she went down the stairs. “He’s very dear to me. Please, whatever expense it costs to care for him, I shall cover it.”

“Yes, my lady,” one of them said. Margaret didn’t know which, and she didn’t care. She had the grotesque feeling that she was caught in a world she didn’t understand. A world that might not be what it appeared—just as in her nightmare she’d experienced in the coach before the accident.

Margaret practically ran to the haven of her bedroom.

The Macnachtan women thought her actions peculiar. She could see questions in the lift of their brows. She didn’t care.

“I am exhausted,” Margaret heard herself say. “I need to rest.”

“Of course, you do,” Lady Macnachtan said. “Have you eaten anything?” She didn’t expect Margaret to answer but looked to Laren and Anice.

“She’s only had some cool tea,” Laren reported.

“I’m not hungry,” Margaret said. And that was true. She was too wary to think about food now. She must place her hands on Fenella’s book.

“You need to eat,” Lady Macnachtan insisted. “Anice and Laren, does Heath know our guest is awake?”

“Not unless you sent Cora after him,” Anice answered.

“I sent her to the kitchen to help her mother,” Lady Macnachtan said. “So Heath doesn’t know yet.”

“We shall go tell him,” Laren said. There was a hint of frustration in her voice . . . an annoyance. “Come, Anice.”

Anice turned to Margaret before she left the room. “We are happy that you are well. Please, rest.”

Margaret nodded, but crossed her arms.

“Yes, rest would be good,” Lady Macnachtan echoed. “In the meantime, I know Cook has made a broth that will be nourishing and help your spirits. I’ll see that a tray is brought up to you.”

“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, and they all blessedly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Margaret almost collapsed. It had taken all she possessed to appear calm and at ease when she felt anything but those two emotions.

There was something wrong, from her robust health to the Macnachtans’ willingness to comfort her. Laren and Anice seemed open and pleasant, but there was something about Lady Macnachtan that she could not trust. Margaret was very good at guarding her own thoughts and actions and she recognized the trait in others.

She crossed over to the window. Her room overlooked the back of the house. There was a small garden marked off with a border of trees.

A door below her window opened and she overheard Laren’s and Anice’s voices although she could not make out what they were saying to each other. She stepped back from the window lest they catch sight of her, but they were too interested in where they were going.

She watched them follow a path off to the side of the house that led through the trees toward stables built of stone, wood and plaster. There were other outbuildings, but the stables were clearly the family’s pride.

A goodly number of people congregated in the stable yard, milling around as if waiting for something to take place. She wondered what was going on.

And then she noticed the figure of a tall, hatless man. Everyone at the stables seemed to be listening to or milling around him. He had dark hair and wore his coat open.

Margaret could not make out his features but she had the unsettling feeling of recognition.

Even from this distance, there was an air of command about him. She could tell by the way he sliced his hand in the air that he was not happy. His people stepped back and some hung their heads.

This must be the Macnachtan. The laird.

The link between her ancestors and Fenella.

His sisters had said he had discovered the coach accident. Heath Macnachtan.

As she watched, Laren and Anice set out to warn their brother Margaret was awake. Soon they would return to check on her and she’d lose this precious opportunity to find Fenella’s book.

Margaret set to work, frantically searching her baggage for the book.

Someone had organized her possessions. Hair ornaments were in one place, jewelry in another. Some of the items were Smith’s, and Margaret regretted she hadn’t been kinder to the older woman.

Stockings and petticoats had been freshly laundered and folded. It took time to accomplish these tasks. Margaret frowned at the layers of cleaned clothes, a bit unsettled that someone had gone through her belongings.

The first important item she found was the pistol her brother Harry had given her before she’d left him in Glenfinnan. He had taught Margaret how to shoot, so he’d trusted her to use the weapon if necessary.

Margaret found the gun in her portmanteau, which had been with her inside the coach. She held the weapon in her hand, feeling its weight, and then pulled out the ammunition bag.

The leather was water stained, an obvious sign of the storm she and Rowan had experienced, but the powder inside was not caked. Certainly, moisture would impact the powder, but to what degree? Harry had told stories of his men using powder that had been damp. The powder in the bag seemed dry now.

The gun gave her a sense of confidence. She was no longer entirely at the Macnachtans’ mercy.

Margaret returned to her search. She tried to be orderly, but the longer she looked, the more she panicked. She could not find the book. Everything that she’d had with her on the trip was here except for the book.

Her suspicions of the Macnachtan motives had been correct. They had taken Fenella’s book. They were keeping it for themselves.

Anger exploded in her mind. Her brothers’ lives depended upon her. Without the book, she was powerless.

She had come here on a mission to save her family, and so she would.

Margaret dressed quickly. She didn’t bother with her hair but reached for her fur-trimmed cape and threw it over her shoulders. She then loaded the gun, tucking the ammunition bag into a pocket inside her cloak.

There was a knock at the door.

“What is it?” Margaret asked.

“I have a tray for you, my lady,” the young girl who had been watching for her to wake said. “It’s a bowl of broth and a bit of good bread.”

“I’m not hungry,” Margaret said. And it was true. She didn’t need food. She was sustained by generations of righteous anger. “Return the tray to the kitchen,” she ordered.

“Yes, my lady.”

Margaret waited a moment and then walked to the door. The hallway was empty.

The gun in her hand, she left the room. The time had come to confront Laird Macnachtan, and he would give her back the book.

The gun would help her see that he did.