Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (20 page)

She wanted to shout out,
Yes, of course
.

But she deserved her say as well. She squared her shoulders and said to him, “Heath Macnachtan, will you cherish me every day of your life, even when I do speak my piece—as you’ve asked me to do so right here and now?”

A grin split his face and she knew his answer was yes. But then she softened her voice and continued, “Will you teach me to not be afraid of my mistakes? To keep my heart open? To trust even when I’m afraid?”

“I will never let you fall, Margaret,” he said.

“And I will never run from you,” she answered.

“I will never betray your trust.”

“And I give you my complete faith.”

He leaned toward her. She met him halfway and they sealed their pledges with a kiss.

It wasn’t as heated a kiss as many they’d shared. This one spoke of commitment. This one was in the knowledge that not only did they love, but they were loved in return.

And was it her imagination? Or did the very air around them sing with the joy she felt in her heart? The moment shimmered with it.

Heath broke the kiss first. They still held each other’s hands.

“Do you know what we’ve just done?” he asked.

“Declared ourselves?”

“More than that. This is Scotland, Maggie. We’ve handfasted ourselves. In the old days, it was as good as married. I shall ask your brother for your hand, but the way we’ve been at each other”—that wicked smile of his came out on those words—“we’d best do it soon because there will be bairns on the way.”

“May we marry on the morrow?”

Heath shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’ll not dishonor you that way. We’ll post the banns and I shall marry you in front of all the kirk with your brothers in attendance.”

Her brothers.

She’d failed them.

There would be no defeating Fenella . . . but in this moment of such happiness, Margaret didn’t care. She was in love. And she knew they would be happy for her.

Heath didn’t understand. One who hadn’t felt the impact of the curse couldn’t. She grasped that now as well.

He took her hand and led her upstairs to his bed. After hours of making love with an energy that surprised both of them, she drifted off to sleep, contented, sated . . . and with the reflection that this was what Rose Macnachtan had known when she’d handfasted herself to Charles Chattan. She
had
considered herself married. Margaret knew because that is how she felt with Heath.

When she woke up the next morning, she felt a tingling in her left arm. Both Lyon and Harry had experienced the same sensation. The tingling was a precursor to the curse’s wasting death. And at last, she knew that she, too, was a victim of the curse . . . and she discovered she didn’t care.

Yes, love was worth her life, and she didn’t want to lose it.

And so she kept her pain in her left arm a secret.

Chapter Eighteen

R
owlly and Dara were buried in two days’ time. The service was held for them together.

Of course, it was not lost on many that Dara and Rowlly had been in the barn together in the middle of the night. Perhaps Janet had confided in a few of the women. Perhaps not. Either way, Heath had the sense from his clansmen that they understood more than they would speak aloud. Rowlly’s sons would be protected from his sins, just as Heath had wished them to be. And Janet would be comforted. That, too, was good.

As for him and Maggie, love brought a host of surprises.

The frustration and low level of anger Heath had experienced since the day they’d told him his brother had died and he was now chieftain and laird of his motley collection of clansmen had evaporated. The best part of being in love was having a partner. He enjoyed discussing his plans with Maggie. He could not have made it through the funeral without her by his side. They alone knew the truth of Brodie’s death and it made the bond between them stronger.

Laren and Anice were happy for them. Each sister approached him at a different time and told him that she approved of Margaret.

“I think she is good for you,” Anice said with her usual candor. “The moment I met her, I thought, finally, here is a woman as stubborn as my brother. And she’s wealthy as well. Brodie is taking care of us, isn’t he?”

Heath had not thought of matters that way. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose he is.”

Laren was more practical. “I pray you will be a good husband to her.”

“Why would you believe I wouldn’t?” he answered, mildly offended.

“Because you are male.”

Her comment intrigued him. They were walking side by side after the burial. The other mourners were lost in their own thoughts of mortality and the meaning of life. Anice and Margaret accompanied Janet and her sons. Janet had placed a hand on Margaret’s arm as if valuing her presence at this moment.

“In what way are men not good to their wives?” he asked. In his mind, Dara had not been a good wife to his brother.

“Sometimes in little ways that they don’t even notice,” Laren answered. “I believe Brodie cared deeply for Dara but he didn’t understand her.”

Now she really had his attention. “Why do you say that?”

“He expected her to work hard. He expected all of us to work hard.
He
was working hard . . . but Dara wasn’t happy and he never noticed. That is important, isn’t it? Noticing those close to us and caring how they feel?”

“Do I notice you enough, Laren?”

His sister walked a moment in thought and then said, “I believe the time has come when I want my own household.”

Dara had told him that, hadn’t she?

“Do you have the man chosen?” he asked.

“Not yet. But I believe that I might have a liking for Reverend Allen, the new minister in Dalmally.”

“The one who came to dinner last month?”

“The same. We’ve been meeting from time to time, depending on where our separate duties take us. Of course we will wait a respectful mourning period for Dara.”

Heath would not mourn for Dara. Considering the robust way he and Maggie went after each other, the sooner he married her, the better. There would be bairns on the way.

“And Anice? Has she set her cap on anyone?” Heath had to ask, a bit stunned to realize that while he thought he was in control of everything, he knew nothing.

“No, but,” Laren said, a smile coming to her lips, “she might prefer a visit to London. Since you are going to do us all a favor and marry well.” She put her arm around his. “And I mean that, Heath. I like Margaret very much. I will be proud to call her sister . . . and it doesn’t hurt that we shall have some room to breathe where money is concerned. Papa and Brodie both felt that Marybone could be a grand estate. They lacked the wealth to see their vision fulfilled. That has all changed now and it is good.”

It is good
.

His sister’s blessing was all that he could wish.

During the supper following the burial, he spoke to the minister in the kirk about a marriage. The clergyman understood Heath’s suggestions that he wanted to marry as soon as their mourning had passed, which would be in six weeks. He agreed that the banns would be announced at the next morning’s service, a service both Heath and Margaret attended.

A week ago, there would have been many who would have resisted the idea of a marriage between a Chattan and a Macnachtan. But as Heath stood when called in front of the members of the kirk, he saw nothing but approval on the faces of his clansmen and neighbors.

The only person who had any cause to object would be Owen Campbell, and he never attended church.

That afternoon, when they returned from services, the messenger Heath had sent to London had finally returned.

“Lord Lyon is very ill,” he reported, as he handed Margaret a letter from her brother, although it had not been written by him. “I did not have the chance for an audience with him, but he sent word that he prays his sister is well and . . .” The messenger paused as if wishing to repeat the words as he’d been instructed. “ . . . And he assures Lady Margaret that he has no doubts that his was the right course. Those were his exact words he bade me give you.”

Heath was intensely curious to know what Lord Lyon had to say. From his vantage point a few steps away, he could spy the dark, slashing handwriting. The note was no more than a few lines. Margaret read them, nodded as if confirming something to herself, and folded over the note.

She did not speak of it to Heath.

And he couldn’t stand his curiosity.

He pulled the messenger over. “Douglas, I know it was a long trip and you wish to spend time with your wife but I need a message sent, this one to Glenfinnan.”

“It was not that long a trip, Laird,” Douglas answered. He was a redheaded man whose cheeks were always the same color as his hair, making it appear as if he put great energy into everything he did. He lowered his voice to confide, “In truth, I just reached London four days ago. On the way down, any disaster that could befall me did. My horse went lame, I ran into a storm that washed out a bridge, and I was chased by robbers who turned out not to be anything.”

“What do you mean?”

Douglas shrugged as if thinking himself a fool. “I could have sworn I was under attack. I reached an inn and told my story. A group of lads having a drink came out with me and I felt the fool when we searched and searched and there was no sign of anyone. But I could swear I saw three men in dark capes chasing me on horses.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“I didn’t. I was too busy running. After that, the rest of the trip was easy. And I’m happy to go to Glenfinnan if you give me a bit of a rest.”

“I can do that,” Heath answered, his mind busy on the implications of what Douglas had said. As his kinsman started to walk off, he stopped him by asking, “Tell me, you didn’t see a small white cat, did you? It is a strange, deformed animal. Her little ears are folded over. She has the air of an owl.”

Douglas frowned as if he thought Heath asking after a cat an odd matter. “I saw plenty of cats. I didn’t pay much attention to any of them. I don’t like the creatures.”

“You would remember this one,” Heath assured him.

“I doubt that,” Douglas promised, and bowed, a request for dismissal.

Heath waved him on, although the interview unsettled him. Travel was never easy. There were always hazards on the road, but Douglas’s report was beyond the ordinary. Heath said as much to Margaret a bit later as they walked around the charred ruins of the stable.

“She was trying to stop him,” Margaret said, nodding with understanding, and then she changed the subject to the stables. “I think you should build the new building twice as large as the old,” she said.

“Who is
she
?” Heath pressed.

Margaret looked at him. She was so lovely, especially with her hair loosely gathered at her neck. “Fenella. I believe she wanted time.”

“Time for what?” he said, letting his impatience be known. He was tired of this talk. He didn’t like it.

“Time for us to fall in love. It makes for perfect justice, don’t you think? My fortune helps restore yours. Maybe she’ll let me live. Perhaps our child will be safe.”

“Stop this,” he ordered. “Don’t give this—” He almost said “curse,” a word he’d come to hate. “Don’t give this nonsense power. Think on it, Maggie. You and your brothers believe, and because you believe, it has meaning. Stop it. Let it all go.”

“I wish I could, Heath. And yet, this is not so terrible. Lyon’s wife Thea wrote the letter for him. Her lying-in time will soon arrive and she is feeling strong.”

“Even with her husband ill?”

“He’s not just ill, Heath. He is dying,” Margaret said gently.

“Then all the more reason for her to be alarmed,” Heath snapped.

“You don’t understand—” Margaret started with that complacent tone to her voice, and Heath interrupted her.

“I
don’t
understand. You act as if it is acceptable for your brother to be dying. And if I ask what is the cause, you refer to some legend.” He took her by her shoulders, suddenly so filled with fear for her, it was hard for him to breathe. “Margaret, don’t give in to this.
Don’t accept it
.”

Her response was to lean in and rest her head on his chest. “I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

She refused to speak more on the matter. She refused to listen to him.

He felt as he did when he was at sea and saw a thunderhead forming. He could see it coming and knew it was unavoidable. Its presence gave him an edgy feeling.

But he could prepare for a storm.

How could he prepare for his wife’s mistaken beliefs?

His wife
. She’d been completely his from the moment they had handfasted. The church service would be a mere formality. His spirit was already wed to hers.

And he would go mad if he didn’t change her thinking, but he didn’t know how.

For that reason, he sought out the counsel of the strange Indian servant Rowan. The bones in his body were healing nicely but keeping him confined to his bed.

While his sisters and Margaret enjoyed a game of chess after dinner, Heath sought out the servant in his quarters. The valet was able to sit up, although he still could not move without help.

“It is good to see you, my laird,” Rowan said in his accented English.

“Laird,” Heath corrected. “You don’t have to say ‘my laird.’ ”

“Yes, Laird,” Rowan answered. “What may I do for you?” His golden brown eyes had an expectant look as if he already knew Heath’s questions.

Heath sat in the chair by his bedside. He didn’t dither with conversation but said outright, “Do you believe in this curse? I assume Colonel Chattan believed.”

“He did, Laird. He believed very much.”

“And yourself?”

“I believe.” Rowan held out his arms wrapped in boards to brace the bones for healing. “I have proof.”

Heath wanted to deny the man’s words, and yet there was something in his quiet certainty that unnerved Heath more than Margaret’s insistence.

“I can’t lose her,” Heath said at last.

“You love her very much,” Rowan answered as if confirming the truth in his own mind.

“I was meant to love her,” Heath confessed. “Does that sound daft?”

“Perhaps it is as it should be,” Rowan suggested. “Perhaps the two of you were supposed to meet.”

“And then what?”

“Only you can say, Laird.”

Heath frowned and came to his feet. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “There is nothing at work here. All of it is imagined in our minds.”

“All of life is imagined in our minds,” Rowan said.

Heath picked up the wooden chair. “Are you saying this is in my mind and not solid and real?”

“I am saying there are matters that are beyond man’s small brain. In my country, we listen to what we do not see and cannot touch as well as that which is solid.”

“That is backward,” Heath announced.

“Is it?” Rowan challenged him. “Is it more forward to only believe in what you can touch? What of your beliefs in God? Is that backward?”

“It isn’t the same.”

“Is it not? You pray, and if your prayer is answered, do you not accept that as proof?”

Heath shook his head. “A prayer does not give credence to a heathen-being like a witch. The Chattans claim that one of my ancestors had unworldly powers. I cannot believe it. We are flesh and blood and mortal.”

“Have you never thought there might more to the world than your eye beholds?”

Like a small white cat that disappeared when he touched it
.

Heath was quiet a moment and then he asked, “Then how can I defeat this curse? How can I defeat what I can only sense?” Heath asked.

“There will be a way,” Rowan said. “When you decide to fight, there will be a way.”

“I want to fight now,” Heath declared.

“Then you will find a way,” Rowan answered in his calm, annoying manner.

“That would be easy if I knew my opponent.”

“Then you must think like your opponent,” Rowan said.

“Think like an imaginary witch who has cursed people for generations?” Heath snorted his thoughts.

“Nothing is forever,” Rowan said, his eyes intense. “All is written in sand. There is always a way to change what is. But first, you must change your thinking.”

Heath set down the chair. Change his thinking . . . change Margaret’s thinking. “That would mean accepting there is an enemy who could be defeated.”

“What would you do if there was?” Rowan asked.

“My first question would be what is she afraid of? And if I were she—?” He thought a moment. “She cursed the Chattan because Charles did not honor her daughter, her family. She didn’t want just Charles to suffer, she wanted all of them to pay.” He gave his head a shake. “Now I’m beginning to sound like the rest of you.”

“And I believe Colonel Chattan was right. His sister does hold the answer. She is the first female born of the line. Is there something there?”