Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (22 page)

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.

Chapter Twenty

B
rodie did not look like he came from the grave but exactly as Heath had seen him last almost three years ago. His hair was lighter than Heath’s and his beard a bit heavier. He also had bluer eyes, more like their sisters’.

Heath’s chest tightened. Tears threatened. He’d so longed to see his brother one last time, and here he was.

Brodie spoke. “Hello, brother. I imagine you are surprised.”

Dear God, this sounded like Brodie. His brogue was heavier than Heath’s. Richer.

A wind swept through the clearing. It ruffled Brodie’s hair, a sign that he was no ghostly apparition but solid and whole.

Heath dropped his sword arm. He yearned to move toward his brother but caution held him back.

Still, he had to speak to him. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know you have.” Brodie shook his head sadly. “That was bad business with Dara.”

“Aye, it was. And with Rowlly as well.”

Brodie shrugged. “He was always a man led by his peter. You know Janet told him when he could stand up and when he could sit.”

Heath remembered this conversation. Brodie had said these exact words to him one night before Heath had taken his leave to return to his ship and his career. “I never meant to come back here,” he heard himself confess to his brother.

“I know you didn’t. I didn’t mean for Dara to murder me. Bad doings with the Macnachtans. I should have been wary.”

“I miss you, Brodie,” Heath said. “We all do. I’m not the man you were. Not the leader.”

“You are a good laird,” Brodie answered. “You are learning patience. I see that.”

“Do you, Brodie? Where you are, do you see everything?”

Brodie’s answer was a smile, and Heath felt blessed to be in his brother’s presence once more. Fear left him. He began walking toward Brodie, outstretching his arms, wanting to welcome him with a hug.

And then Brodie said, “You are going to have to give up the Chattan, Heath. You can’t have her.”

Heath stopped in his tracks. “She’s mine. My wife. I’ve handfasted to her, Brodie. I will not let her go without a fight.”

“She’s already gone, brother. Fenella’s taken her. She’s left you.”

Heath turned in alarm.

Margaret lay where he’d placed her, her eyes closed, her skin deathly pale.

“No
.” The denial was pulled from the very bowels of his being. He started toward her. She could not have passed, not without him being aware.

And then he knew. That was not his brother but Fenella having her way. She knew his weakness.

If he was to save Margaret, he could not let the witch distract him.

He wheeled round, raised his sword and charged the apparition.

Brodie raised his arm as if to ward off the blow. Instead, a powerful force struck Heath in the chest, throwing him backward. He hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

“Don’t fight this,” Brodie said. “You can’t. Fenella vowed the destruction of the Chattan and so it shall be for eternity.”

Heath forced himself to breathe. He came to his feet, lifted his sword—and felt it fly from his hands. Brodie had orchestrated that with a wave of his hand through the air.

“You won’t come close to me,” Brodie explained. “You can try, but you will not defeat me.”

“I don’t want to defeat you,” Heath answered. “I want Fenella gone. I want her out of our lives. She is not of me and my clansmen. She doesn’t represent you.”

“But I’m here,” Brodie said, opening his arms like a magician to show he hid no tricks.

“This isn’t you,” Heath said. “You can’t be here. You are gone, Brodie. You are not with us on this earth.”

“Do you really believe that?” his brother asked. “Can you not believe your own eyes?”

There it was again, the challenge of belief.

“I can’t,” Heath said, his heart heavy. “I won’t.”

“You would deny me, your brother, for a woman?”

“A woman
I love
,” Heath said. He lunged for his brother. Again, Brodie easily deflected him. They did not touch and yet it was as if hands grasped Heath and threw him to the ground.

And he knew he was defeated. He could not fight this force that was Brodie. He couldn’t even come close to the specter.

“There will be other women to love,” Brodie said. “Look at me. I loved Dara. Love did not suit me well. Leave this place, Heath. Leave the Chattan to me.”

Brodie’s voice was that of the devil, of temptation, of evil.

There had to be a way to defeat him. There must be.

The first and the last
. The phrase echoed in Heath’s mind.

Margaret was the first female born of Charles Chattan’s line.

Heath was the last male of Fenella’s—and he knew then how to end the curse forever. He understood what kept Fenella alive. His blood was her blood, passed down through the ages.

He pulled his dirk from his boot. The blade was so sharp it could cut silk.

Brodie laughed. “Your weapons are useless against me,” he said as if pitying Heath. “There is nothing you can do, especially on this spot where my power is so strong.” Brodie lifted his face to the sky. “There is power in nature. These trees, this earth, they know our stories. They outlive all of us. They are our silent witnesses.”

“Aye,” Heath agreed. “But your time has come, Fenella. I cannot let you continue to destroy. It’s done.”

“It will
never
be done,” Brodie said. His smile was slow and confident, a goading expression the good man his brother had been would have never used. It made what Heath was about to do easier.

Heath lifted the dirk into the air.

Brodie’s eyes lit up in anticipation of another chance to prove his power.

But Heath was not going to waste the dirk upon an apparition. Instead, he plunged it into his own heart.

The pain was not immediate. It took several beats before his body recognized the attack. Heath felt his heart falter, miss its rhythm, tighten and then explode.

Brodie cried out, “
What have you done?
”

Heath smiled, a coldness starting to gather in him. “I’ve defeated you, Fenella. I’m the last. You are a parasite no more.”

Before his eyes, Brodie wavered, the air around him shimmering slightly, and then he disappeared. He evaporated.

His beloved brother was gone.

And Heath was done.

He sank to the ground. The knife was still in his heart. It gave him time, time to gaze lovingly at Margaret. His beautiful, generous Maggie.

Then, to his amazement, she stretched out an arm, spreading the fingers of her hand as if testing them. Her body unfolded and she had the sudden strength to sit up.

In that moment, he knew complete love.

He’d sacrificed all for her and he was well pleased. He’d protected her and he had saved generations into the future of not only the Chattans but the Macnachtans as well—and in that moment, he was surrounded by knowledge, by understanding.

He understood why Fenella had attacked Margaret so virulently. It had nothing to do with the full moon but with her own survival. She couldn’t let him breed with Margaret. The curse would then destroy her line.

But now he’d resolved all, and a sense of peace and wonder filled him. Love had destroyed the curse. Love was the only force more powerful than revenge.

Margaret cried out his name and crawled to his side. She leaned over him.

“Heath, you shouldn’t have done this. I’m not worth your life.”

He smiled. She was wrong.

“Rose gave her life for her love,” he managed to say. His legs were very cold. Her warmth felt good. “It’s complete now.”

“It isn’t,” Margaret said. Her tears fell upon his cheek. “This is not right.”

“Pull the dirk out,” he said, raising his hand to touch one more time the softness of her hair. “It will help me go quick.”

“I don’t want to—”

He shushed her softly. “I love you, Maggie. And if there is an eternity, I shall love you for all of it. Now be brave.”

“I love you,” Margaret whispered. She leaned to rest her cheek against his. “I was always meant to love you.” She pulled the knife from his chest.

It would be seconds now. What was left of his heart’s strength would pump the blood free and he would die in his Maggie’s arms. There was no better place on earth to be.

He closed his eyes, wanting to drink in with his last breaths the feel and the touch of her. His mind grew dizzy, his thinking confused.

As if from a great distance, he heard the sound of a cat purring.

He could almost feel the animal here beside him, feel her fur against his neck. Her purring calmed him and he drifted off to death’s deep sleep—

“The bleeding has stopped, Heath.
It’s done
. Can you hear me? You are safe. We are safe.”

There was excitement in Margaret’s voice. Her hands shook him.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The clearing was exactly as it had been moments before, cold and silvery in the moonlight. The torch still burned.

But the pain in his chest was gone.

Margaret leaned over him. Her hair was down the way he liked it and she was smiling. “You are whole,” she whispered. “It’s a miracle.”

He reached up to touch her hair. “I heard purring,” he confessed. “Just as you claimed you heard after the coach accident.”

“You defeated Fenella,” Margaret said, wonder in her voice. “You battled her and you won.”

Heath dared to sit up then. He felt no twinge of pain. He was weak and bruised, but whole. There wasn’t even blood around the slit material of his shirt.

“Did you see any of what happened?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I could not. I heard you speaking but I was not able to make out the words.”

“Brodie was—” he started and then stopped. The vision that had been here had not been his brother, and Heath would not desecrate his memory by linking him to Fenella.

Margaret wrapped her arms around him. Her body felt warm against his. “I did see you plunge your knife into your own chest. I was so afraid.”

“But then the paralysis ended.”

She nodded. “How did you know to do that?”

“It was something Rowan said that made me believe it might work. He is an odd character.”

“Yes, he is. He’s devoted to Harry.”

“And to you. He urged me to think of all angles and mentioned you were the first female born of your line since Charles Chattan. I’m the last male to Fenella’s direct line, and I started wondering what if we were keeping her alive. We, with our superstitions and fears.”

“Fears you don’t have,” she said, nodding.

No, he didn’t. Not any longer.

Heath rose to his feet. He offered Margaret his hand and helped her up. Her legs were strong and the color had returned to her cheeks. She was completely as she should be.

“Let’s go home,” he said.