The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

Chapter Seven


Heath hesitated on the last step of the staircase. He’d hoped his sisters had forgotten their threat to ride with him today, and well they knew it.

Laren had the audacity to look smug. “It’s such a lovely day for an adventure, Anice and I couldn’t be convinced to stay behind.”

The day was not that lovely. The weather was overcast and cold.

And while Laren had an excellent seat, it was well-known that Anice was a skittish rider and would prefer being anywhere save the back of a horse.

Heath looked from one sister to the other and wondered if they knew how foolish they were being.

But he’d not tell them that.

“Fine. We shall have an outing of it,” he said, turning his attention to Lady Margaret.

She truly looked stunning. Her riding habit was made of a blue material so fine and a cut so excellent it fitted her figure perfectly. The collar was black velvet and the buttons silver. She carried a whip topped with a silver and white ribbon tassel and wore a hat with a wide brim and low crown. Both items had some damage from the coach accident. The hat had lost some of its stylish shape and there was dirt on the ribbon tassel that would never be removed.

Still, in contrast, his sisters’ riding clothes appeared shabby and ill made. The material was stiff and the style obviously dated.

“Well, let us break our fast then,” Laren was saying, and led the way to the dining room. As she walked, she held the extra length of her skirt up in one hand in a gesture that was not common for Laren. He remembered their mother chastising her to stop dragging her hem on the floor. Just last week, when she’d gone riding, Heath had noticed that she still let her hem drag—but not today.

He disliked the fact he noticed.

Her Ladyship herself was very quiet. Tension seemed to radiate from her.

“You cut your hair,” Anice whispered, and brushed her fingers against the back of his collar. Heath was wearing a brown hunting jacket and black breeches. Not only were his heels worn, his boots also needed a good polish. He’d meant to do the task last night but had been called away over a dispute involving two of his crofters, both of them highly inebriated, the bloody fools.

“What did you say, Anice?” Laren asked in her lady-of-the-manor voice. “Please sit here, Lady Margaret, next to me at the table.”

“Heath cut his hair,” Anice repeated.

Laren snapped her head around to look. It was as if she had not truly noticed him when he first came down. Now she frowned in disapproval. He glared back at her.

Yes, he’d cut his hair a bit. It was still too long. There was no barber, save his sisters, and he hadn’t asked their help because he knew they would read too much into the action. They would believe he’d done it for Lady Margaret, and he had.

Yesterday afternoon, they had been encouraging him to snatch her up for a wife.

Now they behaved as if she was a leper.

They needn’t worry. Lady Margaret would have to be blind or a fool to take a fancy to someone like him. He had far more problems than solutions.

But he was male, and she was beautiful, and if his sisters wanted to scowl with disapproval, so be it—

He stopped his musings and frowned at the dining room table.

It was different.

Usually, they either went down to the kitchen or little Cora would help Cook by bringing their breakfasts to them. They kept their life simple.

However, today the table was set with the best linens and dishes. Heath couldn’t remember the last time he had seen these linens.

Now it was his turn to frown at Laren. So she mocked him for trying to impress Lady Margaret while she was doing the same?

Sisters!

He pulled out his chair at the head of the table. “What shall be next this morning, Laren?” he murmured. “Will Cora come out dressed in Macnachtan livery?”

He received his sister’s coolest stare for his effrontery as she and Anice took their chairs.

Lady Margaret noticed none of it. She’d taken her seat, still very quiet, a small frown on her forehead.

Heath shook out his napkin. “I’m surprised there isn’t a little bell for me to ring for the servants.”

“She knows we are here,” Laren said stiffly.

Cora proved her correct by coming into the room with a tray. The girl was a wee thing and the tray held several bowls of morning porridge and slices of fresh bread and butter. Heath rose from the table to help her. He couldn’t keep from whispering in Laren’s ear as he set her porridge in front of her, “I’m surprised we are not having beefsteak.”

“We thought about it,” Anice said as he served her, and Heath started to laugh. “Behave,” Anice ordered quietly. “Laren truly wants to let Lady High-and-Mighty know that we are every bit as good as she is.”

But they couldn’t. His sisters knew nothing of the world beyond Marybone, but Heath had experienced the wonders and luxuries of London, things that Lady Margaret would accept as a matter of course, as her due. He doubted she noticed their extra efforts.

“Thank you, Cora,” he said as he took his chair and lifted his spoon. Porridge. It was the best they had to offer. At night it was fish, and noonday it was usually cheese and bread. “I assure you, Lady Margaret, you have never had porridge like this before.”

Her response was to look up with a distracted air as if she hadn’t even realized she had food in front of her. She turned her attention to her bowl. “Oh, yes, thank you,” she said, and picked up her spoon, only to set it down.

“I must say something,” she said, “and I’m going to apologize before I say it because I am certain I shall do a very poor job of it.” Lady Margaret turned to Laren. “Miss Macnachtan, I owe you an apology for behaving the way I did yesterday. It was poor form. I . . .” She paused as if reconsidering her words and then bravely pushed on. “I don’t say I’m sorry very often. I usually keep a firm distance from people. I’ve found it safer. This is new to me. I don’t know if Laird Macnachtan told you but I made the wrong assumption yesterday about the book in your library.” She looked around the table to Anice and Heath. “I may have assumed the worst of all of you. And in doing so, I’ve created a bad impression of myself. Please, I’m sorry. I know to an outsider my behavior seems bizarre. I no longer see you as enemies—and I know that sounds odd since you probably never even knew I existed until you found me on your land. But I am deeply appreciative and humbled by all that you’ve done for my staff and myself.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air.

He understood the courage it took to apologize. Now he was the one humbled.

Anice was the first to recover from her surprise. “You have nothing to feel ill at ease about,” she said to this woman she’d admired only through on dits in the papers and the like, a woman who’d had no substance to her until this moment. “We are honored to help you.”

“Yes,” Laren agreed. “You have been through a terrible experience. I seem to have forgotten that. Perhaps I should apologize myself.”

“Oh, please, there is no need,” Lady Margaret said.

“Oh, but there is,” Laren returned, her earlier coldness giving way to her usual generous spirit.

Heath was bemused by the ability of women to forgive so easily. All it took was a word, a gesture for them to band together.

“The porridge smells delicious,” Lady Margaret commented, picking up her spoon.

“It’s not the sort of dish you are used to,” Anice demurred.

“I like porridge for breakfast,” Lady Margaret said graciously, and Heath didn’t know if she was lying or not, but it didn’t matter. The tension in his sisters had eased, and they wouldn’t be teasing him about cutting his hair.

He’d just finished his bowl when a footstep at the door claimed his attention. He was surprised to see Dara there, dressed for riding.

“I’m pleased you haven’t left,” she said, entering the room. She reached for a slice of fresh bread. “I’ve decided I’m going with you.”

Heath stood. “Dara, do you truly want to come? You know where the accident was?”

She squared her shoulders, pausing long enough for him to see the struggle inside her. She swallowed the mouthful of bread. “I know, and, yes, I wish to accompany you.”

He released his breath in surprise. She had never gone to the place Brodie had died. For a second, he debated arguing with her, and then decided not to. It helped him to visit that oak tree. Perhaps it would help Dara in her mourning as well.

“We’d best start out then,” he said. “I told the lads I wanted the horses ready for half past eight and you know they shall be. There are not many hours of light on a winter’s day so we’d best be on with it.”

They left the table and headed out.

“Why did your brother hesitate when Lady Macnachtan asked to accompany us?” Margaret asked Laren and Anice.

Her apology had torn down the wall between them. She now rode an even-tempered, well-bred mare with Laren on one side and Anice on the other. The sisters were truly kind and giving. They didn’t seem to harbor petty jealousies like so many women she had known. Then again, London society was very competitive.

Laird Macnachtan and Lady Macnachtan rode on the road ahead, their heads together in deep conversation. A pang of jealousy annoyed Margaret. She usually didn’t experience such an emotion, but Heath Macnachtan had captured her interest, as perhaps should be expected considering the role his family played in her life.

Except it was the man himself who attracted her.

In spite of his devil-may-care manner, as exemplified by the haphazard knot in his neck cloth this morning, and his almost raw masculine energy, there was a more complex side to him. He’d been kind to her yesterday and patient with her agitated confusion. Anyone else would have locked her up.

She’d caught enough of the conversation he was having with his sister-in-law to know he discussed their tenants. It was a perfectly reasonable discussion for them to have, although Margaret was unreasonably aware of how lovely Lady Macnachtan was. She had a fragile air and Margaret couldn’t help but wonder about her story. Dara Macnachtan was too young to be a widow for long.

When Anice and Laren exchanged glances without answering her question immediately, Margaret worried that perhaps she’d overstepped her bounds.

Then, Anice said, “Our oldest brother was murdered. He was attacked on his way home from visiting one of our crofters. Someone shot him with a crossbow. Our trip will take us right to the place where he was killed. Dara has never been there since his death. Heath is right to be concerned.”

“I’m so sorry,” Margaret whispered, stunned by this information.

“We are as well,” Laren said solemnly. “I think the loss wouldn’t be so deep if we’d found who killed him and could ask why someone would take such a good man’s life.”

“There was no justice?” Margaret said.

“None,” Anice said, “and that hurts. Brodie didn’t have any enemies—”

“He had one,” Laren pointed out.

“Well, none that we knew. He was such a good brother and kind husband. It has been well over a year since his death, but we’ll never stop missing Brodie.”

“Especially as long as his killer is free,” Laren agreed. “I can’t even imagine how Dara feels. Brodie was her protector. He’d rescued her.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.

“Her father was the minister in Dalmally. He died unexpectedly and she had no relatives to take her in. Brodie had always been sweet on her. Even though they were both very young, he asked for her hand.”

“How old were they?” Margaret wondered.

“Just barely sixteen,” Anice answered. “Brodie had to talk to convince our father to agree to the marriage. They were together a long time.”

“And no children?” Margaret asked.

“None,” Laren said sadly. “Brodie would have been a wonderful father. Then again, there was still hope they would have a bairn or two. An heir.”

“This is very sad,” Margaret said. “You do understand what it means to lose a brother and why I am anxious to save mine.”

“We know all too well,” Laren said.

“The only good that came of Brodie’s death was that Heath finally returned home,” Anice said.

“Where had he been?” Margaret asked, her every instinct alert for news of him.

“He was in the navy,” Anice answered. “He had a commission and was gone for years at a time. He seemed to thrive on sea battles and adventurous places.” She gave a shiver as if such danger was distasteful. “He had to come home after Brodie died to take the title.”

“Is it an old title?” Margaret asked.

“Aye, very old, if you are Scottish,” Laren said. “It means something here, although I doubt if the rest of the world cares. We’ve always been too poor to advance our political fortunes.”

“But at one time, we were important,” Anice insisted. “And I believe Heath will see us through this crisis.”

“Do you mean the death of your brother?” Margaret asked.

“And the settling to the estate’s accounts,” Laren said. “What we lack in money, we make up for in pride.”

Margaret didn’t know how to respond. Of course, she had noticed that the Macnachtan were not wealthy, but she didn’t think them poor. What they had, they took care of. An example would be the horses they were riding. Someone had a good eye for horseflesh.

And yes, the sister’s riding habits weren’t as fine as Margaret’s, but they either knew someone who was clever with a needle, or they were themselves, because their outfits were well constructed and showed a bit of personality.

Margaret’s fashion taste was the product of dressmakers with critical eyes. She lacked the talent for individual flair and appreciated it in others.

But she was saved from further conversation by their brother, who circled his horse around to join them. “We are at the kirk,” he said, and directed them down a well-worn path to where a small stone church sat in an inviting dell surrounded by evergreens. A graveyard was off to one side.

Margaret was riveted by the sight of freshly dug graves. Seven in a row.

She rode up to them and dismounted without waiting for help from Laird Macnachtan.

For a moment, she feared she would be overwhelmed with loss and guilt. She walked around each grave, offering a prayer. She couldn’t believe the hearty Balfour or the steady Thomas were gone.

Laird Macnachtan joined her, while the others, still mounted, kept a respectful distance.

“You even gave them markers,” she said. “How did you know their names?”

“Most had some sort of identification. Balfour also had a list in his pocket.”

“Balfour. He was always thorough,” she said, her jaw hardening.

A Chattan didn’t show emotion in public. It was not seemly. She could almost hear her mother’s voice chastising her. Then again, her mother had never demonstrated the tenderest of feeling to anyone, not even her children. These servants had been closer to Margaret than either of her parents.

“I should have written Harry,” Margaret said. “It’s all so confusing. Everything is happening so fast.”

“I did send word to London to your brother Lord Lyon,” he reminded her. “I’m sure he will tell their families.”

“Thank you.”

She sounded so civilized but in truth a rage was building inside her. How dare that witch claim them all? The servants were not a part of this. How dare she take their lives as if they were nothing?

Margaret faced the laird. “I’m going to beat her,” she vowed. “I shall not let that witch win.”

He nodded, yet there was a wariness in his eye and not of Fenella, but of her. He thought she spoke nonsense. No one believed save her, and Margaret realized she must protect them all.

She was here, where Fenella had once lived. Harry had been right. The battle would take place here and Margaret was not going to shy away from the reckoning. But she must be wary or more lives could be lost.

“Take me to the site of the accident,” she ordered, purpose filling her words. “I must find that book.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, his doubts in his voice. Well, let him think she was a lunatic. She no longer cared what anyone thought of her. Her sole purpose was to defeat the curse.

She started to let him help her mount her horse, when a new concern struck her. “You said you sent a messenger to my brother. When did you do this?”

He shrugged. “When we discovered the accident.”

“Should you not have heard something from London by now? Can a man travel to London and back in that span of time?” A heavy weight settled upon her. “Perhaps my brother is already dead.”

He shook his head. “You are leaping to conclusions, my lady. Perhaps you would be wiser to focus on facts. On what is real and true. My man has not been gone four days and I have no reason to believe he will travel faster home than he did on the way to London. Have patience.”

Margaret looked around the churchyard, suddenly feeling as if the trees could listen to their conversation. “Fenella could have stopped your messenger. She would if it suited her purpose.”

His brows came together. “Or there might be some reasonable delay such as the weather.”

“You still don’t believe,” Margaret said. “I understand. I would have my doubts as well. But you are a fool to not heed my warning—”

“Is something the matter?” Lady Macnachtan asked, riding up to them, with Laren and Anice alongside. They had all been on the other side of the clearing.

Laird Macnachtan made an impatient sound and faced them. “Nothing is wrong. Lady Margaret and I were discussing the messenger I sent to her brother.” He started walking to his horse. “Come, we need to be on our way.”

The distance to the site of the accident was a good five miles’ ride.

Laird Macnachtan turned off the road, riding through a forest of pine, their breathing coming out in puffs of cold air. The ground was wet, marshy even. The mare picked her own way and Margaret had the good sense to let her have her head.

They reached higher land. The woods changed here. Gone were the mighty pines. In their place were bare-limbed trees, dry shrubbery and layers of damp leaves padding the ground.

Margaret’s pulse picked up a beat.

She recognized this place.

She’d dreamed of it shortly before the accident. Here were the gnarled limbs of ancient trees looming over a forest path.

And there was the bend in the road, straight ahead of her.

She reined in her horse.

“Is something the matter?” Laird Macnachtan asked.

“Where are we?” she demanded.

“In the shadow of Ben Cruachan.”

“This is where you found the accident?” Alarm gave her voice a strident tone.

“Around the bend and a bit of a ways, my lady.” There was a pause. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head, not answering, but she moved her mare closer to his horse. She felt safe when she was with him.

The dream was very clear in her memory.

However, there had been a green glow hovering just around the bend in the road, and there was nothing now except for the hazy light of winter. Nor did the trees seem as threatening as in her dream.

They rode on. Margaret braced herself, uncertain of what to expect, and was rather disappointed to ride around the bend and discover only more trees, more brown brush.

But there was one tree among all the others that commanded attention. It was massive oak whose branches seemed to spread over the forest—

“It was here, wasn’t it?” Lady Macnachtan said, reining in her horse.

Margaret had been so involved with her own turbulent emotions, she had almost forgotten what significance this route held for the laird’s sister-in-law.

“Yes,” he answered. Laren and Anice flanked Lady Macnachtan with their horses. They all waited, Margaret included, for what Lady Macnachtan wished to do.

“Is that his blood on the tree?” she asked. There was a dark stain on the oak above the mistletoe. It could have been the oddity of nature, or something else more sinister.

“It is,” he confirmed. “One would think it would be worn or washed away, and yet I see it still.”

Lady Macnachtan’s frown deepened. She raised a gloved hand to her eyes. “He died alone,” she whispered. “All alone.”

Anice leaned forward with a comforting arm but Lady Macnachtan shook her off, her gaze fastened on the tree. She sat quiet for a long moment, and then said in a small, hoarse voice, “I wish to leave now.”

“If you would like to return to Marybone, I shall go with you,” Anice said.

The answer was a shake of the head. “Let us go forward.”

Laird Macnachtan sat a moment in silence as if reasoning something out in his own mind, and then said, “I was visiting this place where Brodie died, when a stag came through the forest and stopped right here almost in front of me. He was a magnificent beast and for a moment we took each other’s measure, but he was frightened away by a piece of clothing the wind blew through the air. It seemed to fall out of the sky but then I noticed more clothing and debris from the accident. I followed a trail of clothing up the slope.”

As he spoke, he kicked his horse forward. There was no path here. Margaret’s mare pushed her way past the branches of shrubs and small trees that tried to catch up on them as if to hold them back.

They were in the shadow of the mountain and Margaret saw broken trees where her coach had come tumbling down the mountain.

Shattered, splintered pieces of wood and harness tracings still littered the ground.

Margaret dismounted, her heart pounding in her ears. Fenella’s book must be here.

The laird and his sisters also dismounted.

“Where did you find me?” Margaret asked, swiping at the brush with her crop.

“This way,” he said, and led her up the slope to a small clearing protected by stately firs. Their evergreen branches shut out the light and deadened sound, giving this place a sense of being another world. “You were in here.”

Margaret frowned. “This is not what I remember. I was on hard, cold ground without any layer of pine needles.”

“Are you certain?” he asked. “Sometimes our mind plays tricks upon us.”

“Where was my maid’s body?” Margaret asked.

“Over here,” he said, and walked down the hill a bit to a level spot against a beech tree.

This was the place she remembered. “Someone moved me.” She looked to the laird. “Is that possible?”

“It might be. You were on your back, your hands folded at your waist as if someone had posed you in that manner. Everyone else looked as if they had been tossed to the ground like rag dolls, but you appeared to be merely sleeping.”

Anice had wandered away from their little group. She now stood as if listening.

Margaret tried to listen as well. There was no sound save for the wind in the trees—and then she heard it. Someone was coming toward them through the woods and there was the smell of burning tar in the air.

Laird Macnachtan heard as well. He stepped over to his horse and removed a pistol from his saddlebag. He placed himself in front of the women.

Within seconds, a party of five men came marching through the woods. They apparently had not expected anyone to be there and their steps slowed when they saw Laird Macnachtan.

Two of the men held torches. The group was led by a tall, thin man who wore a black tunic cloak that reached below his knees and no hat on his balding head. Tufts of gray hair grew around his ears, and his beard was separated and braided into two long plaits that almost reached his chest. Tucked under his arm was a book.

Fenella’s book.

Margaret started forward.

Laird Macnachtan anticipated her movement and held out an arm to block her. “Stay behind me.”

“He has Fenella’s book,” she said.

“All the more reason to stay behind me,” the laird repeated in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

“Who are these men?” Margaret asked.

Laren answered. “Swepston and his kin.” She reached for Margaret’s hand as if wishing to protect her. “Heath has had problems with this lot. They are set against his improvements.”

“Improvements?”

“With the land and the way I’ve chosen to do things. Brodie had problems with them as well.”

“He believes he should be laird,” Anice confided.

“What?” Margaret said in surprise. The man appeared more jester than noble.

“Swepston claims his ancestors were cheated out of the chieftain by ours,” Laren said. “It is a silly claim. Some believe Swepston may have been behind Brodie’s murder. We believe he has been behind some mischief against us because of it.”

“Mischief?” Margaret asked.

“Small thievery and the like. He truly disapproves of Heath. Even Brodie would listen to him, but Heath has no patience for the man and his followers.”

It appeared they were about to discover who was stronger.

Swepston stopped ten feet from Laird Macnachtan. Margaret noticed that his men weren’t the only ones with him. In the forest shadows was a silent host of others including women and children. She wondered if the laird was aware he had an audience.

Swepston’s group was a motley lot, dressed in homespun shirts and well-worn boots. Some, like their leader, sported braided beards.

“Good day, Laird,” Swepston said. He had a booming voice, one that commanded authority.

“What brings you to this remote place, Swepston?”

Swepston gave Margaret the full force of his icy gaze. His mouth had the set of the uncompromising. He obviously disliked what he saw. “Send back the Chattan, Laird. We don’t want her here.”

“Lady Margaret Chattan is my guest, and I’ll be determining if she stays or if she leaves.”

“She leaves.”

“And what makes you say so, Swepston?”

It was a match of two strong wills.

“Because that is the way it must be” was the cryptic answer. “We know you don’t believe in the old ways—”

“Not believe?” Laird Macnachtan challenged. “Have I not sweated and worked to see my clansmen safe? Are not the crofters still in their homes that they shared for generations and their bellies filled? I have honored the commitments made to my people over the ages.”

Swepston held up Fenella’s book. “You have no understanding of the old ways, Macnachtan,” he repeated.

Although his focus seemed to be completely on Swepston, the laird could see that his audience had grown, and when he spoke, his voice was louder, as if he wanted all to hear him. “Don’t challenge me, Swepston. I am of the direct line from Michael, first chieftain of this clan. The blood flowing through my veins dates all the way back to the House of Alpin.” His brogue had grown stronger as he spoke to these men, a reminder that he was one of them. “I lead by the right of my clansmen.” He had tucked the pistol in the waistband of his breeches, a sign he did not fear Swepston. “You are holding a book that does not belong to you. You stole if from this place. Return it to me.”

“It was stolen from us. Lost, only to be returned as the curse is fulfilled,” Swepston announced. He directed his remarks to Margaret. “The curse will never be lifted. Not until the House of Chattan has been destroyed. Macnachtan pride will not allow it.”

Margaret felt her knees start to shake. Laren took one hand, Anice the other.

“Are you saying I have no pride?” Laird Macnachtan asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone.

The men behind Swepston shifted their weight as if realizing they might be crossing a line unwise to contest.

Swepston did not so much as blink as he said, “I’m saying, Laird, that you have been away from Loch Awe a long time.”

“My pride in my heritage, my feelings are as strong as anyone else’s, Swepston. And I’ll battle the man who says nay.”

“This book belongs to all of us,” Swepston answered. “I am now the keeper of the curse. I am one of those whose task is to keep it alive.”

Margaret could stay silent no longer. “Is the answer to the curse in that book?” she demanded, shaking off Laren’s hold and coming to Laird Macnachtan’s side.

Swepston sneered at her, but before he could say anything, the laird interjected, his tone almost conversational, “Thank you for that, Swepston. We’ve been concerned over Lady Margaret’s sanity. It is a wild story, is it not? Curses and witches. The ridiculous garble of children’s tales or the ranting of the feeble-minded.”

“It is our history,” was the ominous reply.

“Aye,” the laird said, “but I find myself wondering who has actually been cursed? The Chattan? Lord Lyon is a rich man and enjoys the high regard of his peers. He is known for service to his country and dines with the king. Even his father and father before him have reputations for being formidable men.”

Laird Macnachtan bypassed Swepston to address his people. “Now look at the Macnachtan,” he said. “We have not prospered so well. Our corner of Scotland is small and growing smaller as change takes place. Our crops do not give us good yields. Our livestock do not replenish themselves, and we struggle to find the coin to purchase better. At one time, the name Macnachtan rang through the Highlands with pride. We were powerful and our counsel sought. Now we are alone and in danger of losing all.” He faced Swepston. “So tell me, who has carried the curse? In all these years that have passed since the woman who wrote that book shouted her curse, who has prospered and who is in danger of truly dying out? Oh, and before you make more claims, remember I am of her line, the connection between Fenella and the present, the here and now. And there is one thing I know, hate never reaps a good reward. We have cursed ourselves, and the time has come to bring it to an end.”

His was a rallying cry, and it did not land on deaf ears. Heads nodded. They understood his reasoning, and Swepston was not pleased.

Laird Macnachtan turned to him. “Hand the book to me. You stole it from this woman and I shall not tolerate thievery.”

Swepston’s response was to grab a torch out of the hand of the man nearest him, throw the book on the ground, and set it afire.