Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Preston, Rebecca

  Delilah marched down the corridors of the castle, heedless of the strange looks she was getting from servants as she passed. She could feel herself veering just a little, remembered belatedly about the wine and the fact that she was pretty solidly drunk.

  Well, too late now. In fact, she was glad she was drunk. Drunk was good. It would give her courage, stop her second-guessing herself all the time. One young woman made the mistake of making eye contact, and she grabbed her by the wrist, emboldened by the look of blatant fear in the servant’s eyes. It seemed Morag had been a figure to be feared. Well, if she was going to reap the negative consequences of being associated with the witch, she was also going to do what she could to use those associations to her advantage.

  “Where are Gavin MacClaran’s quarters?” she asked, resisting the urge to add a witchy cackle to her voice. No need to overplay it.

  “J-just down the hall there, ma’am,” the servant stammered.

  Delilah nodded in what she considered to be a thoughtful, witchy way as she released her arm. The girl sketched a nervous little curtsy then scurried away down the hall. No doubt going to tell all her friends and coworkers about her interaction with the resurrected witch, Delilah thought sourly. Ah, well. They were going to think what they were going to think. Let them.

  She rapped on the door imperiously, then felt her courage unexpectedly flag. This was rather a bold move — knocking on a near-stranger’s door in the middle of the night to give him hell about not explaining things to her. She tried to summon the anger she’d felt previously, but when a bleary-eyed Gavin MacClaran answered the door, looking unexpectedly human without any of his guard armor (just a cotton shirt and a loose-fitting pair of trousers that were clearly his pajamas) she couldn’t help but soften toward him.

  Then that look came into his eye — that half-angry, suspicious and closed-off expression she was getting so irritatingly familiar with — and her anger was back, spurred on by the wine that was still buzzing in her mind.

  “You’re a damn fool, Gavin MacClaran,” she opened with, then swept past him into his quarters.

  He stepped out of her way as she went, and she saw him frowning in confusion as he closed the door behind her. She spun around, giving the room a quick glance. Sure enough, his bedding was disturbed — she’d woken him up from his sleep. Well, good. She couldn’t sleep for all the worrying she was doing about the curse, it seemed only fair that he get a little taste of that particular brand of medicine as well. She hoped he fell asleep on the top of the wall and toppled off. (Too mean? She felt like that might have been too mean. Good thing she hadn’t said it aloud.)

  “What exactly is your problem with me now?”

  “Laird Donal had to force you to give me the barest scraps of information about my — my ancestor, my past incarnation, whoever she was! Almost at sword point! What’s wrong with you? You didn’t think that information might be useful to me, that my ancestor was responsible for the curse that probably brought me back here?”

  “Why does it matter?” he snapped, running his hand through his messy hair. It was dull and gloomy in his room, the only light cast by the fire burning low in the grate — the torches mounted on the wall had been put out.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, already full of vexation — but still aware, irritatingly, of the fact that they were alone, and it was very dark and atmospheric, and she could see much more of his rather impressive physique than she had previously…

  “Why does it matter! Because there’s a goddamn curse on the castle and I’m probably one of the few people who can help lift it, you idiot!”

  He stared at her, looking utterly shocked.

  She gestured angrily with her arms. “Yeah!”

  “You want to — help?”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t I? Do you think I’m a sociopath or something? There’s a curse that’s killing women decades before their rightful time to go — a curse placed by my ancestor, of all things! — And you think I’m just going to go ‘oh, okay!’ and leave it alone? What the hell else am I going to do? My whole family — my whole life — is just gone, and all I’ve got left is a bunch of women who have also been orphaned in time by this stupid curse, and my great-great-great-great-whatever grandmother, who it turns out was a literal witch, thanks for telling me, by the way!” She sat down heavily on his rumpled bed, glaring up at him. “Of course I want to fix it! What did you think I wanted?”

  There was a long silence. Gavin seemed to be fighting with himself — his closed-off expression was flickering with the raging of his thoughts. She realized, a little belatedly, that she’d been rather harsh with him. Had that been the plan, to just yell at him? Hard to tell, with the wine and everything. Well, she’d definitely wanted to be honest. Mission accomplished, she supposed. And then the urge to apologize rose up in her chest like a sea monster.

  “Gavin —”

  “No, you’re right,” he said abruptly, striding to the bed and sitting beside her in a gesture of intimacy that surprised her. “You’re entirely right. I haven’t treated you fairly at all, Delilah. Morag — she — this curse has ruined my life. It’s hard to explain the — the guilt of it all, the powerlessness. She placed that curse because of me — because she wanted us to be wed, to be together — and then she died, because I couldn’t protect her. Every death since — every single one, every woman we lost — I’ve had to choose between blaming myself, and blaming the woman I loved. God, I loved her so much. It’s been hell, but you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

  She put her hand on his knee in a wordless gesture of comfort — it was all she could think of to do, and he looked down at it with surprise warring with the grief on his face. “I never — I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she admitted.

  But of course he’d blamed himself, and Morag — watching death after death of young women, watching the men of his family be gutted over and over again by tragedy and loss, knowing that it was either his fault or Morag’s, or both…

  “I’ve had to — I’ve had to pretend you’re someone else, a stranger. But it’s so difficult. Every time I look at you, Delilah, I see her — I see the woman who turned our love into something so monstrous I can hardly bear to think about it.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” she said gently, not moving her hand from his knee. “I — I know it’s hard, and very complicated. But … well, I am a different person to Morag. I’m not a witch, I’ve never cursed anyone! The worst thing I’ve ever done is ding someone’s car in a parking lot and not left a note.” He looked blankly at her, and she made a mental note to stop using such contemporary metaphors around the Scottish folk. “It doesn’t matter. But — Gavin, she was my ancestor. She was family, I guess, in a weird way. That makes her legacy mine, and that makes it my responsibility to try to fix what she did.”

  “There’s no fixing it,” Gavin said heavily. “Even if there was a way, we’d have found it by now … do you have any idea how many sleepless nights I’ve spent trying to think of what I could do, how I could mend the problem?”

  “Have you talked to Marianne about the curse?”

  “No, why would I have?”

  She rolled her eyes hard enough to send a stab of pain through her head. “Because she’s a witch too, you moron! If anyone has any insights into how to lift the curse, it’s Marianne. And I’m — well, I’m not Morag, but I have some connection to her. All the stories about curses and witchcraft stress how important blood is. Her blood runs in my veins. If anyone has the power to do anything about the curse, it’s probably me. So help me! Don’t shut me out like that!”

  “You —” He hesitated, and to her surprise something like a smile passed over his face, wracked as it was by pain. “I mean this in the best way, but — you remind me of her. Not just in appearance. She would’ve done the very same thing. At least… the woman I knew would have. But the woman I know wouldn’t have cursed our family, either, so…”

  “I’m going to find a way to lift i
t,” Delilah promised, full of determination. “I’m going to talk to Marianne, I’m going to figure out what happened, and why. If this curse can be lifted, I’m going to lift it. If I can, I’m going to put Morag’s spirit to rest. But I need your help. I need you to tell me everything you know. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed, the smile on his face getting stronger. “You’re — you’re an interesting woman, Delilah.”

  She felt a burst of warmth in her chest at the compliment (was it even a compliment?) and resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own stupid feelings. Put that away, Delilah, she warned herself. She had a quest now — no sense complicating the whole situation with feelings. First, she’d lift the curse, she decided, saying a slightly sheepish goodnight to Gavin and leaving his quarters to make the trek back to her room. She was still swaying a little, drunk on wine and her own ebullience at having cleared the air with Gavin. Who knew what would happen with the curse lifted? Perhaps she’d even find a way home to the future.

  But why did the idea of going home suddenly start to make her feel… sad?

  Chapter 14

  She dropped her weary body into her bed and snuggled down into the blankets, trying to quiet her racing mind enough to sleep. Half-drunk on wine as she may have been, that had been a very valuable conversation she’d had with Gavin. It felt good to be on the same page as him, finally — to have brought down a few of the walls between them. After all, it seemed like he was the man who’d known Morag the best. His information would be valuable in figuring out how to lift this curse. As would Marianne’s. Marianne was a practicing witch — she understood the way magic power worked, for all that she complained about her own powers being deeply unreliable. First thing in the morning, she’d get hold of Marianne and interrogate her about what she knew about the lifting of curses.

  Before she forgot, she sat up in bed and grabbed her notebook, filling it in with the observations she’d gleaned from Gavin. God, that poor man. How heartbreaking, to see so much death and tragedy, to know that you may have had the power to do something about it. Did he feel guilty for falling in love with Morag? It was true that without their love story, there would have been no reason for laying the curse. No wonder he was so strange — he was completely wracked with guilt all the time. Still, she tried to keep her observations in the notebook as professional as possible. It wouldn’t do to get sentimental when she was trying to do objective research, as tempting as it was to write a kind of giddy diary-entry style confessional about how much better she was getting on with her crush. No, Delilah. You’re not a fourteen-year-old girl, you’re an adult woman and a professional and an academic and you’re going to write down just the facts, you hear? God, her supervisor would never let her hear the end of if she could see what was happening. Developing feelings for research subjects was strictly forbidden. What would her supervisor say if she could see her marching into strange men’s rooms in the middle of the night?

  Well, she’d probably be thrilled, she was always telling her she needed more of a social life… but once she found out that the man in question was a research subject, oh man. She’d probably give her one of those chilling looks of hers. Delilah smiled to herself, finding herself missing the woman. When would they realize she was missing? A few days after her arrival in Scotland? A few weeks? What would happen to her office, she wondered? It would probably be given to some postdoc candidate. Well, she hoped they enjoyed her Kitten of the Day calendar, whoever they were.

  Sleep claimed her soon enough. She woke up as dawn was creeping over the windowsill, and her stomach lurched uncomfortably as she sat up — the wine, it seemed, had definitely been a little stronger than she’d thought, and the hangover that was creeping around the edges of her consciousness was stronger again. She should’ve gone down to the kitchens after the confrontation with Gavin and had something to eat and some water, she thought, irritated. She wanted to be at her physical best to start this investigation, but that didn’t seem to be an option for her today.

  Ah, well. She’d done difficult things hungover before. She rose slowly and dressed, careful not to jar her sore head too much, and made her slow and careful way down to the kitchens. Marianne’s clothes continued to fit her well — she made a quiet note to thank the woman when she next saw her. It seemed the project of sewing herself some clothes would need to be put off until Operation Curse Break had been done and dusted. First mend a decades-old tragedy and prevent further death and misery… then sew some nice pants. A good plan, as far as she was concerned. Not bad for a woman with a hangover.

  She felt a pang of guilt when she ran into a familiar young servant in the kitchens. Who gave her a terrified look then fled — she made a mental note to apologize to the young woman when she saw her next. I’m not doing a great job of making friends in the castle, it seems, she thought with some amusement. Maybe if she managed to lift the curse they’d start seeing her as a good witch, rather than the evil one.

  Was Morag truly evil? It was uncomfortable to think about — especially now that she was beginning to identify more and more with the woman who looked so much like her. An evil, vengeful witch — and sure, it was unkind of the MacClarans to refuse to allow her to be with her love, but was cursing the castle to a series of tragic and unnecessary deaths really the best option? There must have been something more to it.

  Delilah helped herself to a heaping pile of the greasiest food she could find — potatoes fried in grease, and some bacon that was steaming gently in the cool morning air. The sight of the plate made her stomach turn, but she knew from long experience that after the first couple of bites, she was going to feel as good as new. But she had another mission this morning, a mission beyond just stuffing her face with greasy food — she scanned the long tables in search of Marianne. She spotted several of the other women — Cora and Audrina, deep in conversation, Fiona, lecturing her husband about something or other — and there, finally, she spotted Marianne, pouring herself a cup of tea. The place next to her was vacant, too. Perfect. (A little buzz of warmth in her chest — had Marianne saved her a spot? What a nice little gesture.)

  “Are you planning on hibernating for the winter?” Marianne enquired, staring down at Delilah’s heaped plate with a raised eyebrow as she slid in to sit beside her. “That is a huge amount of food.”

  “Yeah. Mary and I had a few glasses of wine last night,” she admitted with a rueful grin. She’d seen Mary across the dining hall earlier — the woman hadn’t seemed hungover at all, but she’d given her a slight nod and a twinkly little smile that suggested that maybe appearances weren’t everything.

  “Ah, yes. A time-honored cure. I retract all my criticisms.” She poured her a steaming mug of tea from one of the huge ornate pots that sat on the table, evenly spaced along its length. “Tannins help, too.”

  “Thanks.” Delilah sipped at it gratefully — her stomach was still very uneasy about everything she was confronting it with, but she knew she’d be feeling better soon if she could just push through the worst of the discomfort. Grad school was very good for teaching a soul all kinds of things — but especially how to get through a hangover. It was a different process for everyone, and Delilah had tried quite a few before she’d settled on her greasy-food regimen. “Hey, I have some witch questions to ask you.”

  “Oh yeah? Still researching your ancestor?” Marianne turned to her, clearly excited for an opportunity to discuss her craft.

  She’d already offered to do a Tarot reading for Delilah twice — she was afraid to admit that she was a little apprehensive about what the cards might foretell, so she’d been avoiding the subject. One day, maybe. When she was feeling less threatened and alone. A bit of supernatural insight about her love life couldn’t hurt…

  “Yeah. What do you know about curses?”

  Marianne’s face went still. “Ah. Yes. Interesting. Fiona was telling me that Donal made Gavin come clean about the curse. I’m sorry, love — I honestly thought you knew Morag was behind the cu
rse on the MacClarans. I’m surprised Gavin didn’t tell you.”

  “Me too, but we’ve talked about it. Had a nice long talk, in fact. Cleared the air. It felt good.”

  “Oh?” Marianne’s eyes gleamed at that — Delilah sighed a little, internally, knowing she was about to get the third degree from the woman. “Just talked?”

  “Look, I know you all think we’re going to get married and have babies, but just — it’s very complicated at the minute, okay?”

  “Oh, I know. Eamon and I were on a grand quest that had to do with my ancestor when we fell for each other,” Marianne said, her eyes sparkling. “But fall for each other we did. Several times. In this nice little room we shared in the town where the guy we were hunting was hiding out… but that’s a story for another time.”

  “I do have some feelings for him,” Delilah admitted through a mouthful of bacon, giving up on the pretense that she had no interest in Gavin. The harder she fought it, the more convinced Marianne seemed that she was into him, so what was the point of pretending? “But — he’s got a lot of pretty serious feelings and trauma about everything Morag did, you know? And I’m her spitting image, so it’s not exactly a simple relationship, you know? I don’t want him looking at me and thinking of her. I don’t deserve that. And if he thinks on any level that I’m her… well, any relationship with me is going to be a terrible idea, and probably mess him up worse than he is already.”