Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (3 page)

In her line of sight, she could see Fenella’s book. It lay within reach of her fingers. The book held the answer.
She must not lose it
.

She strained to reach for it. Her arms would not obey. They couldn’t.

Margaret did not believe in tears. They served no purpose, but she began to cry now, silent tears that felt hot against her cold cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself. No, she wept for her brothers’ wives and the sons they would bear who would be marked with the curse. She wept for Balfour, Thomas, Rowan and the outriders, even for Smith, good people who did not deserve to die.

Soon, she would join them in death, here at the base of this mountain—

A purring caught her attention.
Owl.

The sound came from her right side. She could not turn her head to look.

The cat nudged her cheek, and then gave it a lick as if to wipe away the tears. She felt Owl’s breath upon her skin. The cat nestled itself into the space between Margaret’s chin and shoulder. The purring grew louder and Margaret thanked God she would not die alone. In this moment, she didn’t care if the cat was Rose or Fenella or the devil. Margaret would accept comfort wherever she could find it.

Warmth replaced coldness. The purring vibrated through Margaret’s being, easing the tension and the fear. Almost blissfully, she slipped once again from consciousness to meet her fate . . .

Chapter Two

T
here were some days when the only thing that could make a man feel better and take the edge off life was to plow a hard fist into another man’s face.

For Heath Macnachtan, 16th chief of Macnachtan, raggedy clan that they were, today was just such a day.

He had just returned from Glasgow after a very dissatisfactory visit with his late brother’s solicitor. The news was not good. The Macnachtans were paupers in spite of everything Heath had done to clear the debts over the past year since he’d taken over as laird. He’d poured every shilling he owned and had used every ounce of ingenuity he possessed to setting his family’s books to right—and it had not been enough.

Now the family was in danger of losing the one thing that held them together as a clan—Marybone, the stone manor house that served as the seat of the Macnachtan and was the roof over his head.

He knew his sisters waited for his return, anxious for news of his discussion with the solicitor. He wasn’t eager for the interview.

Was it any wonder then that he would want to bolster his courage after a long ride with a stop at the Goldeneye, a rabbit warren of a pub beneath the shelter of some pines along Loch Awe’s shores? And perhaps between a nip of whisky and a pint or two of good ale he might realize a solution to his problems.

It was possible. Not probable . . . but the world always looked better to a man after he’d quenched his thirst.

Heath stooped as he walked through the Goldeneye’s door. As he took off his heavy woolen cloak, a remnant of his naval career, and hung it on a peg in the hall, he heard the companionable sound of male laughter coming from the taproom.

The sound made him smile until he walked into the low-ceilinged room and discovered that the laughter was directed at his cousin Rowlly Macnachtan who also served as his land factor.

Augie Campbell was making great sport of shoving Rowlly’s elbow every time he lifted his tankard up to his lips. It was apparently not the first time he’d done it. Rowlly’s shirt was covered with ale.

“I don’t understand why you can’t take a drink, Macnachtan,” Augie complained. “That’s the third pint I’ve brought for you. You should be more careful. Nate,” he said to the Goldeneye’s owner, “pour us another.”

Augie was a bully. He was twice the size of Rowlly and carried three times the weight. His eyes were red-rimmed. Apparently he was not having a good week, either, and had decided to take it out on Heath’s cousin. A good number of Campbells stood around the pub grinning like fools, obviously enjoying Rowlly being ridiculed.

Rowlly held his dripping tankard away from him, his every muscle was tense, but he had a good head on his shoulders. If he chose to battle, it would not be a fair fight. Augie would roll him up like a ball and toss him in the air.

Heath had no such disadvantage. He could look Augie in the eye, and he might not be as brawny as the Campbell but he was smarter and quicker.

Before anyone registered his presence, Heath crossed the taproom in two steps, grabbed Augie by the back of his thick neck, and brought his head down on the hard wood surface of the bar with a resounding, and satisfactory,
thwack
.

For a second, there was stunned silence.

Augie moved first.

He placed one heavy hand on the bar and then another. He pushed himself up. He faced Heath, his expression one of comic surprise. He started to growl, but then his eyes crossed and he fell to the floor with a thud.

“Good to see you, Laird,” Rowlly said with generous understatement. “Stopped by for a pint on your way back from Glasgow?”

“I am thirsty,” Heath said, matching Rowlly’s dry tone.

“I don’t believe you will be having a drink now,” Rowlly answered, and he was right.

Augie was not well liked by his clansmen, but he was one of them. Campbell pride was now on the line.

“I’ll take a pint, Nate,” Heath said to the landlord, even as he felt the Campbells surge forward. He then turned and buried his fist in the abundant gut of the first man coming at him—and it felt good. He’d needed a fight and a fight he was receiving.

Rowlly took the fresh pint Nate had poured and threw it in the face of his nearest attacker. In spite of his size, he was a good fighter when the stakes were even. He now proved his mettle.

Nate turned to pour fresh pints. “You will be paying for damages, Laird?” He filled another tankard.

Heath avoided a response by picking up Jamie Hightower, the blacksmith’s son and one of Augie’s mates, and throwing him over the bar. Jamie fell upon the keg that Nate had tapped. The barrel broke under his weight and ale went spilling everywhere.

A roar of outrage came from the pub patrons who had not entered the fray but who now had just cause.

It was a good time to leave.

Heath grabbed both the freshly poured tankard the dumbfounded Nate still held and Rowlly’s collar. Two more of Augie’s clansmen had entered from other rooms, ready to join the brawl. Augie himself was starting to rouse, no doubt brought to his senses by the fresh ale on the floor.

Gulping down his pint, Heath shoved Rowlly out into the hall and then threw the empty tankard at the Campbells following him. It hit one over the eye. He hollered. The others shoved past him.

Rowlly and Heath charged out the front door, running for Admiral, Heath’s horse tied at a post. “Hurry,” Rowlly shouted, but he needn’t have bothered. Heath was right on his heels. It had been a long time since Heath had moved so fast.

The cousins mounted Admiral just as the Campbells came pouring out of the pub. Heath put heels to horse and they were off and safe. There was no one who could outrace Admiral; the long-legged draft horse had the spirit of a Thoroughbred when given his lead.

They dashed toward the open road. The wind against Heath’s sweaty face felt good. His hands stung and he’d have a bruise beneath one eye, but in this moment he was
alive
.

Months of struggles and sadness fell away. He’d find them again; they were not lost completely. But for right now, the tension that had become his constant ally had been dispersed.

When he was certain they weren’t being followed, Heath brought Admiral to a walk. The horse was fair winded. After a few minutes, Heath turned off the road into a forest before reining the horse to a halt. Rowlly slid off Admiral’s rump and raised his fist in triumph.

“We gave them something to think about, didn’t we?” He still smelled of the ale Augie had poured over him. “They will think twice before they pull that nonsense on a Macnachtan.”

“How did you find yourself in that situation?” Heath wanted to know. He would have assumed that with him gone to Glasgow for a few days, Rowlly would be so busy he’d not have time to drink in the Goldeneye.

Instead of answering the question, Rowlly said, “It was like old times when you and Brodie and I used to regularly teach those lads their manners. In those days, no Campbell would have been disrespectful to a Macnachtan, but you showed them today that they’d best still think twice. Where did you learn to jab like that?” He punched the air with his fist, demonstrating what he meant.

“I’ve had to use my hands a time or two,” Heath said, walking Admiral.

“Not in the King’s Navy?” Rowlly said with teasing mockery. “I thought you had a bevy of sailors to command wherever you went.”

“Once they respect you,” Heath agreed. “Until then, there are hard lessons to learn.”

“Well, we tried to raise you right, Laird. And we did indeed. It will be a long day before Augie lives this one down. He doesn’t receive his comeuppance often enough. By the by, how did the meeting in Glasgow go?”

Heath frowned. “Not good. I’ve been advised to sell the land.”

“Can you?”

His cousin’s response surprised him. “Should I?” he countered. “I could. It is not entailed. Not even our grandfather thought it important, so neither did Father or Brodie. I can hear the three of them now, why entail what you will not sell?”

“And are they right?” Rowlly said as he started to pay attention to the damage the ale had done to his clothes.

Heath’s own clothes were in need of repair as well. He’d torn the seams of his sleeves in the fight. His sisters would not be pleased—

He’d forgotten his cloak
. “Damn it all,” he swore.

“What?”

“My cloak. It is either still on a peg by the Goldeneye’s door or Augie is wearing it.”

“Augie’s wearing it,” Rowlly assured him. “He won’t let that opportunity pass by but you can take it from him again.”

“He’ll probably piss on it.”

“That he will,” Rowlly agreed with a grin.

“Damn,” Heath repeated, and cursed himself as well. At eight and twenty, he was too old to be brawling. His knuckles hurt, as did his right shoulder. Age was not kind.

“Did the solicitor have any suggestions for us?” Rowlly asked.

“Other than selling? No. He even had a buyer for me.”

“Who?”

“Owen Campbell.”

Rowlly made a deprecating noise. “That is not news. How many times has he offered to buy Marybone? Now I understand why you were such a fighter in there. And here I was thinking you were protecting my honor.”

“I was. Augie deserved a lesson. However, the Macnachtan and Campbells have always been allies of sorts. I have nothing against them,” Heath said as he picked up Admiral’s reins. “Even Owen.”

Rowlly reached a hand up to rub the horse’s muzzle and asked, “Are you going to sell?”

“You’d be out of a position if I did that,” Heath answered.

“We all would . . . although you and the girls would be fine.”

Heath frowned and focused on adjusting his saddle’s girth. Rowlly was right. Selling would mean good things for his immediate family.

“I mean, now that their mourning is past, you will need to find husbands for them,” Rowlly said. “Not that you couldn’t find good men for them, but not men of their station—not without dowries.”

“What of loyalty, Rowlly? What of a chief’s responsibilities to his clansmen? If I sell to Owen, I know what he will do. The man is after money. He’s a younger son of a duke’s younger son and he is ambitious. If he buys Macnachtan lands, he’ll clear them like a good number of our ‘noble’ gentry have. They’ve turned out people who have given generations of loyalty and replaced them with sheep. Owen will send our clansmen packing without even so much as a fare-thee-well and to go where? There is no place for them.”

“Well, if Swepston is fired up over the modern changes you’ve made, including choosing new crops, he’ll be mad as the devil if that land was sold.”

“Now there is a tempting thought
in favor
of selling,” Heath replied. Swepston was Heath’s crown of thorns. The crofter resisted any inkling of change. He was a charismatic figure who lauded the old ways, the “ancient ones,” he called them, and his personality was such that he’d recruited a number of people to his opinion. Heath had stopped counting the number of his clansmen who now wore small bags of herbs and who-knew-what around their necks on Swepston’s say-so.

“I don’t care if he believes himself some Druid,” Heath said, “as long as he leaves new equipment alone and lets us work in peace.” Heath couldn’t prove it but he thought Swepston was behind the disappearance of the barley seed purchased for crop rotation.

“The land
does
belong to the laird,” Rowlly said. “You could do the same as Owen Campbell if you had a mind to instead of going bloody broke filling all of their bellies. I know a bit about sheep.”

“I’ll not do that, Rowlly. Not even to Swepston.”

Rowlly fell into a somber silence then and Heath did nothing to change his mood. The situation was not good and no amount of positive spirits would change it.

He prepared to mount, gathering up the reins until he realized exactly where he was. This stretch of the woods was familiar. Very familiar.

When he’d first returned to Loch Awe, he’d come this way every day.

He knew he needed to return home. His sisters waited, but suddenly the pull was too great to ignore.

“Stay here with Admiral,” he ordered Rowlly, and began walking deeper into the woods.

Rowlly did not obey. “Laird,
Heath
, wait. Where are you going?
Och
, not there. Not again. Why are you doing this? Why are you going there now? Leave it alone.”

Heath ignored his cousin. It had been a few months since he’d visited this place, and right now, he needed to return.

It was almost as if Brodie was calling him.

“All right,
I’ll
come with you,” Rowlly said, almost as if it was some threat. “Come along, Admiral, let’s save him from torturing himself.”

“It is not torture,” Heath answered tightly, shoving aside thorny bushes and bare branches. The forest was thick here, even in winter. There was no path. Few people came this way.

His footsteps made no sound on the floor of damp leaves. A smattering of snow was still on the ground. All was peaceful. Dark.

Heath had been first officer aboard the HMS
Boyne
when he’d received word of his brother’s death. As the heir and only male relative, Heath had been expected to return to Marybone, and it was then he’d learned Brodie had been murdered. The news had shocked him even more than the news of his brother’s death. He himself could be an arrogant son of a bitch, but Brodie had been a good and fair man. Who would want to kill him?

There wasn’t even anyone who stood to gain anything from Brodie’s death—save for himself.

And he would have never harmed Brodie. He had loved his brother. He’d respected him.

“You must let it go,” Rowlly was saying. “If we could have caught the killer, we would have done so by now. It’s been over a year—”

“I
know
how long it has been.”

There was a long pause, and then Rowlly said, “We did hunt for the man who did that to him, Heath. We left no stone unturned.”

Heath didn’t answer.

He had his doubts.

Rowlly fell silent then. A brooding silence.

Through the tangle of undergrowth and trees, Heath reached the giant oak. Mistletoe grew from its trunk. The tree’s bare limbs were as thick and strong as a man’s arms. They reached out as if stretching for every corner of the forest. A crofter had found Brodie’s lifeless body pinned to its trunk by three arrows shot from a crossbow.