The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Four


Whisky was the devil’s curse.

And just as Heath Macnachtan stepped into the mucky pit of the pigpen, he wished he’d not indulged himself in it so much the night before. He was unshaven, having been woken from a sound sleep to chase pigs, and heartily annoyed, especially since he wasn’t the only one who had overindulged.

His second cousin Irwin started every morning with a dram or two or ten. The man didn’t understand his responsibilities. True, at four and thirty, he had the simple mind of a ten-year-old child, but how difficult was it to remember to shut the pigpen every evening?

This was the third time in the past two months he had forgotten.

Usually, Heath could be patient with Irwin, but not this morning when his own brain pounded with dissipation.

It was the English Chattan’s fault. Her presence made him feel as if a noose was tightening around his neck. The noose that had been placed there by Brodie’s death.

She symbolized the outside world, the one he had been forced to set aside.

God, he missed the sea. He missed salt air. He missed freedom. The uniform he’d worn had stood for something.

Now he had nothing. He represented nothing. His realm was made up of these mountains and these irascible, lazy, disloyal, and infuriatingly opinionated people known as Highlanders. And he could no longer escape that he was one of them.

Brodie and his father must be laughing in heaven.

Marybone, the family seat, had been built almost a hundred years ago. The family had taken the gray stone from what had once been known as Macnachtan Keep to build the house and stables. The house was a sturdy four-story home that was drafty in the winter and an oven in the summer.

In truth, the house was considered one of the region’s important landmarks, although Heath concluded that was because of the stables. That building had stalls for twenty horses and room for vehicles of all sizes, which his father had purchased even though they were rarely used. Most of those vehicles Heath had sold to pay debts.

The majority of the stalls were now empty save for the bold Admiral and the mares Heath’s sisters and sister-in-law had to ride. Admiral performed double service as both Heath’s mount and the plow horse when one was needed.

The mares were of genuinely good stock. Brodie had dreamed of breeding fine Thoroughbreds and had sunk a considerable amount of money he didn’t have into the endeavor.

Behind the stables were several outbuildings for geese, goats and a cow.

The pigpen was a new addition. Always before they’d let the pigs roam free, which was why, Heath was certain, they’d lost their herd. It was too easy for the Campbells to nab one whenever they had a taste for ham. Heath was determined to see the practice stopped, and Irwin seemed equally determined to let it continue.

Heath and several others, including Rowlly and his wife, Janet, had spent a good hour searching for the young pigs that they intended to slaughter come spring. The bloody beasts had not been easy to find, while all Irwin would do was sit and boozily cry to his mother, Nila.

“Don’t you blame this on my son,” she declared as Heath dumped the squirming pig Rowlly had passed to him into the pen to join the others.

Heath shut the gate and slid the board in place to keep it closed before addressing her. He needed that much time to tame his temper, and decided it was hopeless. He’d lost his sense of humor the moment he’d seen the open gate and empty pen. “And who should I blame, Nila?”

The others in the yard, the crofters who had aided in the search and the stable lads all stopped to listen close.

“You expect too much of him,” Nila said. “He can’t be responsible.”

“It is a gate,” Heath said. “You open it; you close it.” He demonstrated while Nila’s frown deepened, which was unfortunate. She had the looks of a troll with a wrinkled face and huge nose. She needed to smile.

God, he longed for the authority he had in the navy. There was little or no class structure in the clan. These people were kin. Clansmen, especially the women, didn’t hesitate to make their opinions known and argue with every single action he took.

“He’s only forgotten three times,” Nila answered, spreading her arms to protect her son, who was twice as tall as she was. “But it isn’t his fault.”

“And whose fault is it, Nila?” Heath demanded.

“Yours. You ask too much of him. You ask too much of all of us.”

Heath swore under his breath. “I’m asking you to help feed yourselves. We need those pigs so that we have bacon and hams for next winter. Or do you want another winter like this one where you are hungry all the time?”

“You are the laird. It is your responsibility to take care of us.” Nila spoke to Heath as if he was as simple as her son and did not understand his duties. “You talk of feeding us but then you cut the widows’ pensions. You promised we would see the rest of our money, but we haven’t yet.”

“Don’t use that tone on me, Nila. My father and my brother sold everything of value to keep this clan going but the world beyond us has changed. The old ways can’t work any longer. Each of us has to learn to carry his or her own weight. And you haven’t gone hungry yet. I’ve seen to that.”

Heath knew he wasn’t speaking just to Nila and her son. The others listened as well.

The immediate clan was made up of some thirty families numbering close to two hundred individuals tucked away here in the valley along Loch Awe. Once their numbers had been greater, but like Heath, many had been restless and had wanted to see what lay beyond Macnachtan lands. They had gone in search of opportunity, leaving behind the feeble, the lazy and the fools.

This morning, Heath felt very much as if he belonged in the last category. Was it any wonder that the estate was in the hands of his creditors? Brodie had borrowed deeply to save this lot, a debt now on Heath’s shoulders.

That meant he must preach independence, even when drink-bitten.

And of course, he was too stubborn to walk away from it all. Nila’s opinions aside, he did feel a responsibility. As had his brother and his father.

Owen Campbell’s offer to buy his land rested heavy in his mind. Money would solve all his problems.

But he couldn’t sell. He wouldn’t. This was his legacy. His ancestors had nurtured, protected and led these people for centuries. He’d not be the one to fail them, although Nila was right about his cutting the widows’ pensions. There were twelve widows on the rolls, a school and a kirk to maintain, and a host of other obligations on top of the debts.

He needed a miracle to find his way through this—and then God, in his holy humor, had sent the richest heiress in the kingdom to his door.

But she was a Chattan and he a Macnachtan.

Chattan. Stories behind that name were shared in the evenings when people wanted the entertainment of a good morality tale or to warn children of the evils in the world.

There had been a time when Heath, much younger, of course, had believed those who claimed all Macnachtan woes stemmed from Chattan deceit.

Now he understood the Chattans had nothing to do with the challenge of bringing this stubborn band of Highlanders into the modern world.

“You will receive your money, Nila, but not if I must keep spending more to buy pigs to replace the ones your son let loose.”

Hearing his tone, a wise man would have stepped back. Not Nila. She stood her ground, glaring up at him in defiance.

“Well, Laird, you have your opinion, and I have mine,” she announced, her hands on her hips. “Don’t go believing that you can do as you please. There are the old ways, the right of tanistry.”

“Tanistry?” Why was he arguing with this woman? He would rather return to his bed and perhaps have another nip of the bottle to cure the ache in his head.

“Aye, tanistry,” she said. “The title of chief is voted upon by us and rotated between those with the blood to have the honor,” she said. “There is more than just you with the right blood. We haven’t changed things yet, but we might.”

“Who told you this nonsense?” Heath demanded. “Swepston? Is the man calling up the law of the Druids now? Does he believe himself some priest prince?” Heath could almost laugh at the thought except he was so bleeding angry. He wanted to shake the silliness out of Nila.

He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “Swepston whispers mutiny against me and my family. Well, hear me well, I am descended from Robert the Bruce and one of my line has been your laird from that time onward. Have Swepston come forward and place his claim. I shall settle it for him.”

He’d knock him down with one blow.

Nila’s response was a sniff. “Come, Irwin, I have chores for you at home.” She turned and walked off with all the bearing of a queen.

Heath struggled with a strong, childish urge to run after her and give her a kick on the backside. He had just wasted his breath. She’d heard nothing.

“You knew you wouldn’t win that battle,” Rowlly muttered. His wife nodded her agreement. Janet practically lived at the stables when her husband was there. She was a robust, handsome woman a half a head taller than Rowlly and the mother of his four sons.

“I had hopes.” Heath swallowed his frustration. “Have one of the lads follow behind Irwin each night and each morning to see the gate is closed, and be certain Irwin knows that if that pen is left open again, I will take it out of his hide.”

“Aye, Laird.”

And that should have been the end of it. Heath expected them all to stop standing around slack-jawed and set to work. However, any move in that direction his clansmen would have made stopped as his sisters came running down the path from the house, their long cloaks flying behind them in their urgency. Anice said, “She’s awake, Heath. Lady Margaret is awake.”

Even Nila did an about-face and returned to the stable yard.

There were no secrets in the clan. Stories were shared with everyone. A whisper in the morning would be an outrageous tale by evening, and Heath could swear that most of the stories were about him.

He also knew he couldn’t fight it.

“The Chattan is awake?” Janet Macnachtan repeated. “She is alive, is she?” She spit on the ground to let the world know her thoughts. She wasn’t the only one who had spit. At the mention of the name Chattan, there was a robust round of spitting.

Heath frowned. “We all knew Lady Margaret was alive,” he said, using Lady Margaret’s title pointedly to Janet. “And she is a guest here. I expect her to be treated as such, and no spitting on the ground. I’ll not have superstitious nonsense—” He saw Nila raise her brows. “I won’t,” he repeated, especially for her, and she could go tell Swepston as much. “If you disrespect a guest under my roof, it is the same as disrespecting me—and I shall not be pleased.”

There was a moment of sullen silence. Glances were exchanged . . . and then they all made a pretense of returning to their chores. But it was for show. The quality of the work would not be good and would have to be redone on the morrow.

Such was the nature of subtle insubordination.

Heath turned to his sisters, who made fine targets for his foul mood. “We could show a bit of discretion here.”

“Yes, we could,” Anice replied breezily, taking his arm and pulling him off to the side. Laren followed.

“Is something the matter with Lady Margaret?” He’d sent word to her brother Lord Lyon in London explaining the accident, assuring him she was safe and appeared unharmed. Heath did not want to send another letter to such a powerful man reporting a new issue after he’d assured him all was well.

“She’s fine. The picture of health—” Anice answered.

“Surprisingly,” Laren interjected. “She was even puzzled at how she went through such an accident and escaped any injury. She wanted to see her Indian servant and seemed quite upset over his injuries. It is strange she didn’t suffer any.”

“It is odd—” Heath agreed, but Anice overrode him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Anice said. “Not now. She’s well and she is healthy and Laren and I believe you should court her.”

Heath took a step back. “I’m sorry, I must have had my toes in my ears. I believe you suggested I should court Lady Margaret Chattan, the woman whose name can’t be mentioned without a rash of spitting. Even Janet, who always wears her best to church, spit on the ground.”

Anice made a face as if he was being silly. “You should be in church more often, and, yes, spitting is disgusting, but this moment is like a Shakespearean play.”

“God help me, Anice, don’t suggest it’s Macbeth,” Heath said. “I have no desire to chase witches in the forest or stab people in their beds.”

“No, it is like Romeo and Juliet.”

Heath directed his attention to Laren. “She wants me to drink poison?”

“She wants you to wed the Chattan heiress,” Laren answered.

“It might be easier to drink poison,” Heath responded.

Anice made an exasperated sound. “Why are you deliberately not understanding what I’m saying?”

“Because you are not being clear, dear, and Heath is teasing you,” Laren said. “Heath, here is a brilliant opportunity to solve our debts. You must court the Chattan heiress. You should marry her.”

“And then the Chattans and Macnachtans will set aside our differences,” Anice announced. “Just as the Montagues and Capulets ended their feud and that is what I meant about Romeo and Juliet. I don’t want anyone bit by an asp.”

“Asp? That is a different play, Anice,” Heath pointed out.

“It’s unimportant,” Anice argued, too wrapped up in her ideas to quibble. “Asp, poison, what does it matter? Not when it is as if fate wants you to claim the Chattan heiress. And she is lovely, Heath. I considered that the bits I’ve read about her were exaggerations, but they are not. She is a beauty.”

“Although,” Laren said, dropping her voice a notch, “she behaves a bit odd.”

“And what do you mean by that, Laren?” Heath asked.

“She has suffered a terrible accident,” Anice said, defending their guest.

“Yes, but she is, well . . .” Laren’s voice drifted as if she couldn’t explain, her lips pressing together.

Anice jumped in. “Poo. She’s fine. And everyone in society admires her.”

Heath didn’t trust the worship in his sister’s voice. “She isn’t any better than the two of you.”

“Except she’s rich,” the ever-practical Laren answered. “And even if she does act a bit funny, you should consider her for a wife, Heath.”

The idea was tempting and ridiculous at the same time. What would his sisters say if he confessed that he’d secretly lusted for the woman? He’d not embarrass himself with that confession.

Instead, he shook his head. “Can you imagine the likes of her arguing with Nila? Or organizing the charity baskets and herding Janet and the other churchwomen into doing good works? Or seeing to the wash and the cleaning the way you girls must?”

“The cleaning wouldn’t be a problem,” Anice said stoutly. “If you marry her, we’d have so much money, none of us would have to do those things. Of course, we will need to clean you up if you are going to impress her. I don’t want to be rude, Heath, and you are not a bad-looking man—well, perhaps a bit arrogant—”

“And he does have a temper,” Laren agreed.

“Yes, he does,” Anice answered. “But the worst of it is that right now, Heath, you smell strongly of the pigpen.”

“And the marsh,” Laren agreed.

“And you need a barber.”

Heath held up his hands to stave them off. “Enough. I’m not courting Margaret Chattan. I’ll grant you she is lovely, but you know nothing of the world beyond Loch Awe. It’s different than it is here. Lady Margaret Chattan could not survive in these mountains. Furthermore, what your papers don’t tell you, Anice, is that she is known for being difficult and arrogant and conceited. Traits I acknowledge in myself but doubly unpleasant in a wife. And then there is the name they have for her in London. They call her the Unattainable because she is cold and distant. Is that truly what you want for me?”

Worry lines marred Anice’s forehead. She looked to Laren, and Heath understood. They knew the debt he carried. And he knew that unless he did something about it, his sisters were doomed to be spinsters.

All the marriageable lads for a hundred-mile radius knew the Macnachtans were done up. No sensible ones came to pay their respects.

At one time, he’d told himself it was because they were in mourning for Brodie . . . but the year had passed and no one knocked on Marybone’s doors.

Well, that wasn’t true. There had been an older widower looking for a mother for his eight children, and a few buffoons who thought his sisters were desperate enough to consider them. Heath had sent them all on their way.

He placed a brotherly arm around their shoulders. “Money is tight, but we will see our way through this. Do not worry—”

A woman’s sharp voice interrupted him. “Macnachtan.”

The word rang through the stable yard. Heath turned to see Lady Margaret Chattan standing on the path leading to the house. She wore a red cape and her black hair curled around her shoulders. Her face was pale, her cheeks were rosy, and her blue eyes were lit with the fires of righteous anger.

Here was not a pampered society miss, but a medieval queen ready for battle.

Heath stepped forward, suddenly too aware of the beard stubble on his jaw and the muss of his hair. He could smell the pigs on him . . . just as he caught the scent of her. She smelled of the forest, of dark greenness and night air.

God, he’d lost his mind. In a second, he’d be spouting poetry. That was how strong his reaction was to her.

“I am the Macnachtan,” he said.

She pulled her arms free from her cape. In her hands she held a pistol.

Heath recognized the weapon. He’d discovered it himself when they been collecting her things around the accident. He’d placed it in her traveling case along with a bag of black gunpowder. He hadn’t thought it was hers or that she would have the desire to use it.

She now proved him wrong by leveling the gun on him.

Her hands shook slightly.

Rowlly and several of the other lads stepped forward as if to overpower her, but Heath held up his hand, warning them back.

This woman was frightened, even though they had done nothing to harm her. He wanted to hear what she had to say.

He also suddenly, blessedly, felt very alive. She could pull the trigger and shoot him dead. This was the edge of danger, of adventure he missed from his military days, and he reveled in the moment.

“What is it that you want?” he asked, his voice calm. “If you wish to shoot me, fire away . . . but I must warn you that your gunpowder was very wet when I found it. Your weapon could misfire.”

“I want Fenella’s book. I must destroy the curse,” she said. “I want it over and done.”

The damn curse. He did not need her jabbering superstitious nonsense. Everyone would start spitting again.

He folded his hands in front of him, keeping himself relaxed. “And how may I help you?”

“Tell Fenella to stop.” Desperation edged her plea.

Heath frowned. Fenella was the name of an ancestress of his, but the woman had died centuries ago. He didn’t know of whom Lady Margaret spoke. “Who is Fenella?”

“The witch. The one who cursed us. She’s here.”

A collective gasp seemed to rise from the crowd behind him, and Heath wanted to shake his head. There would be more stories around the table tonight.

“My lady,” he said softly, “there is no curse and Fenella died long ago.” He dared to take a step forward.

She cocked the pistol. “The curse lives, and well you know it, Macnachtan. You took my book. I want it returned.”

His good humor faded. No one called him a liar. A rascal, yes, but a liar, no. “I know nothing about a book. Whatever you had that we found, we placed in your room. And, although I am surrounded by women, my lady, none are witches. Come, give me the gun.”

She shook her head. “Fenella is alive. She never died, don’t you understand.”

“I understand I am beginning to doubt your sanity.” Heath raised his voice, speaking to his clansmen rather than to her. “My ancestress Fenella is dead. Long gone. You need not fear her. Now, hand the pistol to me, Lady Margaret, and we shall discuss this in private.”

Her grip on the gun tightened. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you. Fenella murdered my companions. She caused the accident.”

“How so?” Heath asked.

“She swept us off the road.”

“The wind through there is high during a storm. The road is not good. The locals know that.”

An angry muscle worked in her jaw. “That is not what happened. The road was good. The wind swept us off it as if we were crumbs on the table. They all died because of her. I should have died. I did die.”

Heath wasn’t certain what she meant. “But you didn’t, my lady.”

“I did,” was her answer, her voice shaking slightly. “I don’t know how I am here now.”

The woman had lost all reason.

Heath began calculating his chances of taking the gun from her. He decided the direct approach was the best.

“Hand the gun to me,” he said, using the voice he used to soothe his sisters when they were unreasonable. “You are tired. You have been through a horrible ordeal. Let us return to the house so that you can rest.”

“I don’t have time to rest.” She held her gun up higher. “I must stop this curse.”

Rowlly had eased himself around her. She had not noticed yet.

“We will help you,” Heath promised, “but first you must give me the gun.” The poor girl, she was caught up in fear, a fear of the supernatural.

Rowlly’s foot kicked a rock on the path behind her. She took a step aside to include him now in her sights. “Stay back,” she warned.

“Do as she says, Rowlly,” Heath ordered. He dared another step toward her. “Lady Margaret, you have nothing to fear.”

“How do I know that?” she demanded, the frown line between her eyes deepening.

“You must trust us,” he said. He took another step.

“I can’t.”

“And yet you are amongst us,” he said in understanding.

She shook her head. “Do not come closer.”

“The gun is no good to you,” he told her. “The gunpowder was wet from the rain.”

For a moment, she appeared uncertain.

“Let us discuss this matter,” he encouraged, moving toward her. He wanted the gun from her. He didn’t believe she would fire it. He didn’t think she had the fortitude.

He was wrong.

Heath was six feet away from her when she pulled the trigger.