“I understand completely, love.” Marianne put her arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “And if you ever want to talk about any of it, I’m here. Eamon’s a good friend to Gavin, too, so he’ll be there on that side of things. But — honestly, it’ll be good for him to work through this stuff. From what Eamon’s said, he’s basically put his whole life on hold out of guilt. And he’s a good man. It seems a shame for him to shut himself off so completely just because of a whole bunch of … unfortunate stuff.”
“It’s a pretty serious curse, Marianne.”
“Very true. The power to kill woman after woman from beyond the grave? Very serious indeed. She was a witch of great power. Unfortunately, power doesn’t discriminate between good acts and evil ones.” Marianne’s face was solemn as she sipped at her tea.
Delilah leaned in, listening closely. This was the information she needed to combat the curse.
“What can you tell me about curses? I need to know as much as possible if I’m going to try to lift this one.”
“Well, every curse is different, the same way every witch is different. And I can’t say I have much experience with them — they’re generally considered to be black magic, and I steer as clear of that as I can. Once you start down that path it’s hard to come back, I’ve always been told, so I stay away from the path completely. Plus, my powers are more to do with insight and scrying… I can’t do very much that has an actual physical effect on the world. I might’ve broken some chains once, a long time ago, but that was a desperate situation and I’m pretty sure I had my ancestor’s help. And Eamon’s, of course. Eamon’s a force to be reckoned with in his own right.” The fond look that came into Marianne’s eyes made her look years younger and a lot softer than her usual sharp demeanor would indicate. She really did love her husband.
Delilah had never had that much interest in other people’s romances, but there was something about these mismatched time-travel couples that just tugged at her heartstrings in a way she wasn’t at all used to.
“Scrying sounds more useful than cursing anyway,” Delilah said, smiling.
Marianne squeezed her hand with a chuckle.
“Oh, yes. I’m across all the castle gossip, well and truly. But curses… I knew a curse-breaker, back in the future, it was a specialty of hers. We worked together. Psychic phone line,” she added, grinning, “nothing too glamorous. But I used to overhear her talking to clients about their curses, and the steps needed to break them. A lot of the time it has to do with wording, I know that much. The exact wording of curses is very important. It’s like legal documents, in a weird way… you have to say exactly what you mean.”
Delilah nodded, flipping her little notebook open to take notes on the matter. Exact wording — yes, that made sense in the context of the stories she’d read about witches and curses. Often, witches were bamboozled by the exploitation of a casual turn of phrase. The classic example was Macbeth, of course — ‘no man of woman born can kill Macbeth’ was the wording of his blessing, but then he was overthrown by someone who was born by Caesarean. There were more examples, too, ironic twists of fate… he’d assumed that his castle could never be overthrown because the witches had said the forest itself would have to walk up to the walls, but then his enemies had used broken branches to disguise themselves, fulfilling that unlikely prophecy. God, Macbeth was a good play. Idly, she wondered if she could write it and put it on now, almost a hundred years before Shakespeare. Something to think about later. For now, she had to figure out the exact wording of a curse.
But how was she supposed to figure out the exact wording of a curse laid by a woman she’d never met, a woman who’d died hundreds of years before she was born?
Marianne had opened her mouth to continue about curses — but before she could speak, there was a sudden shout from the high table, a deep voice requesting attention from everyone in the dining hall. Donal was standing there, a piece of paper in his hand, with several of the older men of the castle behind him. Delilah recognized Eamon and Colin, and Ian, Cora’s husband. They all looked extremely concerned, and Donal looked like he was waiting to get everyone’s attention. Marianne fell silent, a frown crossing her features. What could the Laird want?
“Morning everyone,” he boomed, his voice filling the hall effortlessly. “Advising there will be an emergency meeting here, directly after breakfast. If everyone would kindly refrain from leaving the castle until I’ve spoken. Thank you.”
Marianne looked at Delilah, and her expression wasn’t positive.
“An emergency meeting? What about?” Perhaps this was a regular thing — a kind of staff meeting? But judging by the way Marianne was frowning, that didn’t seem too likely.
“Nothing good, if it involves the whole castle, and he doesn’t want anyone leaving,” Marianne said, her brow furrowed.
“Could it be the English, attacking or something?” She wasn’t sure exactly what the political situation was regarding the colonialist advances of the English — but she’d picked up the general attitude to the English in her short time here, and it wasn’t especially good. Baldric had been English, of course, and as far as she could tell, he and his were on good terms with the Scottish… but things could change quickly in war, couldn’t they? Was it possible they were about to go to war? But Marianne shook her head, looking thoughtful.
“I’d be surprised. Lord Weatherby — the local English lord — has been pretty positive toward the MacClarans since Karin and Audrina saved his life from the plague a little while ago, and the lives of half of his staff. It’s possible he could have changed his mind, I suppose, but Donal would have been more likely to talk to his war council in that case. If he wants to speak to all of us, it’s probably something else. Something that will stop us going out of the castle, I guess. Shame, it’s a beautiful day. And it’s going to be so cold soon… I wanted to get the last of the sun.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait to find out,” Delilah said, turning back to her breakfast resolutely.
It would be best to face whatever was coming with a full stomach — and she could already feel her hangover easing up as the greasy food found its way to her stomach. Whatever Donal was about to announce, she’d be able to handle it with the help of all this bacon. But she couldn’t help the feeling that this had something to do with her presence here — and the curse that had been laid by her ancestor. She hoped that whatever was wrong, she could keep working on a solution. She knew it wasn’t her fault, but part of her felt responsible for what was going on.
Chapter 15
Delilah helped the servants clear the tables when breakfast was done, feeling a lot more alive now that her body was digesting a delicious greasy meal. They gave her strange looks, the servants, but she wanted to help — it felt strange to be staying in this castle without having done anything to earn her keep just yet. She hoped that lifting the curse would be payment enough to the MacClarans for their incredible hospitality. Especially given the sick feeling in her stomach that told her she was responsible for whatever announcement Donal was saving for after breakfast that apparently everyone in the castle needed to be aware of. The servants may not have appreciated her assistance, but she at least got a twinkling smile from Dolores, the headwoman of the kitchens. At least some of the Scottish people liked her. The servants may think she was an evil, vengeful witch like her ancestor, but Dolores and Mary knew her better than that. She hoped she would make them proud.
She rejoined Marianne once the breakfast was all put away, surprised by how many people seemed to have filled up the cavern — the guards must have been brought in from the walls as well. Did that mean the castle was unguarded? This seemed to be a very serious announcement if they’d take a risk like that — and, she thought with a slight feeling of relief, it would seem to indicate that the problem wasn’t a war with the English. If it was, why would they leave the walls unguarded? Donal’s face was solemn as he stood in front of them all, raising his arms for silence. Del
ilah glanced behind her, seeing all the servants crowded into the space, standing around the walls. She’d never fully appreciated how many people actually lived in the castle. Had all of them been damaged by the curse her ancestor had laid?
“We’ve received word from Weatherby this morning,” Donal announced, gesturing with the piece of paper he held. “It’s not good news.”
“Is it war?” yelled once of the guards. A general hubbub of laughter went up, and Delilah could see Donal resisting the urge to smile.
“Nay, no war, ye bloodthirsty rapscallions,” he replied, raising his voice again. “But it seems there’s another group of witch-hunters in the area. They’ve invited themselves to stay with Weatherby, who wasn’t in a position to turn them down for fear of bringing suspicion onto his own household and everyone in the area. This letter was sent in secret,” he added, gesturing with it one more time, and a general murmur of approval went up.
Delilah heard the man opposite her confiding in his friend that he’d always hated the young Lord Weatherby, but he seemed to be coming good. These were fascinating politics — Delilah resisted the urge to ask Marianne more about the situation, forcing herself to focus on the here and now.
“We’ve dealt with witch-hunters before,” Eamon MacClaran rumbled from beside Marianne, his own voice effortlessly filling the hall. “What makes these ones special?”
“They’re well-known as being particularly savage,” Donal replied, looking down at Eamon from the front of the hall. “There’s a torturer with them, from what Weatherby says. And what’s more, one of their number has a local accent. MacClaran local, not just Scottish. He tries to hide it, this man, but Weatherby says it’s unmistakable. And he seems to know a great deal about our castle and our Clan — information he’s sharing with the witch hunters he’s travelling with.”
That caused a stirring of voices, a combination of concern and anger. The idea of a local traitor seemed very unpopular — and fair enough, too. Delilah glanced sideways at Marianne, whose face was set and closed, betraying her worry. The idea of witch hunters had always seemed so fanciful and fantastic. But here she was, in medieval Scotland, the spitting image of a witch with actual, real power… suddenly, the idea didn’t seem so fantastical anymore. Had Donal mentioned a torturer? Fear gripped her. The worst pain she’d ever experienced was breaking her leg when she was ten-years-old. She wouldn’t be able to stand up to any kind of interrogation, that was for sure… but neither could she provide a medieval witch hunter with any kind of information that would clear her name of witchcraft. As far as they were concerned… well, she was a witch. How else would a medieval man explain time travel?
“As Eamon pointed out, we’ve dealt with witch hunters before. Obviously, best not to talk to anyone you don’t recognize — that’s always been true, especially since our women started returning to us.” Donal flicked a glance to his wife — Fiona was seated at the table behind him, and she smiled back at him.
She must have been worried, to give him such a gentle look in public, Delilah thought with a twist of amusement despite her intense worry. Fiona really was quite the character. “They’re asking a lot of questions about the castle and its women. For safety, at least until we receive word that they’ve moved on, I’m forbidding all visitation to the village or surrounding areas without my express permission. Necessary visits only.”
Delilah sighed. She’d wanted to go down to the village and talk a little more to the folk who lived there, maybe to get some more information about the curse. But not getting killed by witch hunters seemed like a pretty good reason to stay inside. She could always talk to the servants and such that lived here — whether or not they’d be willing to talk to her was another question entirely, of course, but perhaps she could encourage them somehow.
Would Mary share a bit more of that wine, get people talking a little? Drunk people just loved to talk about things — especially if you suggested that they were in some way knowledgeable about things. Why, a drunk man had once spent a solid hour at a party giving her a completely inaccurate lecture on the history of the town she’d recently finished a paper on. It had been fascinating how oblivious he had been to her cues that she wanted him to stop talking. But she could think about getting stories out of the castle staff later, once this meeting was over. She frowned to herself, trying to focus.
“In the event that these witch hunters come to the castle, you all know what to do. Straight to your chambers until the all-clear is given. We don’t need any additional information being given to these people. We know our women aren’t witches, but we also know how the Church views them. Colin and I will deal with the bastards if they dare set foot here.”
A ragged cheer went up at that — but Delilah could see the concern on the faces of the men behind him. This was no small problem, the presence of these witch hunters — Delilah could tell that this was cause for significant concern. Witch hunters. That phrase summoned a lot of threatening images — men in masks, men taking women prisoner and torturing them and burning them in the name of God. A lot of very dark parts of their history. She’d heard a little about the run-ins the MacClarans had had with the Inquisition — poor Cora had nearly been drowned alive by attempts to prove that she was or wasn’t a witch. But somehow it had all seemed very — distant. Not something that she actually needed to worry about. But now, there was an actual group on the hunt for women exactly like her. Women who were strange, who didn’t fit in — women with odd voices, unfamiliar accents. Women with powers. Women who had cursed an entire Clan of people in the search for revenge… no. That wasn’t Morag. She couldn’t believe that her ancestor had been some bloodthirsty, vengeful, evil woman. She had loved Gavin. That was why she’d done what she did — not out of malice, but out of desperation to be with the man she loved.
But would the witch hunters see it that way? It didn’t seem likely. She felt a thrill of fear at the prospect of being captured and interrogated about who she was, where she’d come from — she had a cover story, true, but it definitely wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. And they’d be able to tell from her accent that she wasn’t from around here. What could she do? Put on a local accent? All of her attempts at that had been met with uproarious laughter from the folk of the castle… what was she going to do? Hide in her quarters for weeks on end until the witch hunters moved on? She felt so trapped, so helpless. She hated feeling afraid.
Marianne seemed to sense her concern — the woman squeezed her hand, a gesture that was surprisingly comforting. Delilah realized she had been terribly selfish. Marianne was probably frightened, too — she was an actual, practicing witch, of course the presence of witch hunters would be a threat to her. She squeezed her hand back, giving her a smile that she tried to imbue with strength and reassurance. Whatever happened, she was going to do her best to keep Marianne safe from these men. She’d been through enough with that kind of thing, Delilah knew that for a fact.
“We’ll be alright,” Marianne said quietly, pitching her voice so that only Delilah would hear it over the general hubbub in the room — the folk of the castle seemed determined to discuss the issue of the witch hunters at length, and Donal was speaking to the guards alone, now, clearly giving them specific instructions for what to do if the witch hunters came calling. “The castle has protected us before and it will protect us this time, too.”
“I trust Donal,” Delilah said simply. “And the guards — they’re all excellent at their jobs. We’ll be safe.” They had to be, she thought numbly. How was she going to lift the curse if she got caught by witch-hunters before she could try?
The crowded hall was beginning to empty out — Donal had dismissed everyone, sending them back to busy themselves with work. But Delilah was at a loss for what to do. She couldn’t creep out into the woods to train with her sword that was for sure — what if the witch hunters came upon her? They’d grab her and whisk her away without anyone even knowing where she’d gone. Perhaps she should take up needlepoint or somet
hing. But the idea was grating. She wanted to do more research. She wanted to move her body, fight with a sword, and reassure herself that she could protect herself if it came to that.
Maybe Gavin would help her?
She scanned the hall and spotted the man standing by the high table, his eyes on the Laird. He didn’t look like he’d slept especially well. Delilah wondered if they were on better terms now — if he’d still look at her like he couldn’t decide whether he hated her or not? Well, only one way to find out. She got to her feet and crossed the hall to him. When she reached him, he was still staring into nowhere, so after a moment’s hesitation she put a gentle hand on his elbow to catch his attention. He looked down at her, clearly surprised to see her — and though he looked guarded, she felt a jolt of hope that the expression was a little different than it had been before. A little more open, perhaps — guarded in a different way. Not quite so much hostility, but still a lot of caution. That was fine. She could work with caution. Caution was much better than confusing hatred.
“Delilah. Good morning,” he said, a little stiffly — but the expression on his face was closer to embarrassment than distrust. Was he feeling a little self-conscious about her visit last night? She couldn’t help but blush a little. It had, on reflection, been rather bold of her to do what she had done. Blame it on the wine, she supposed. God, wine had a lot to answer for. Had Mary known what she was doing when she brought that delicious bottle of red up to Delilah’s room? She had certainly behaved very knowingly when it came to talking about Gavin… could the woman be that clever a mastermind? She wouldn’t put it past her, if she was honest. Well, she owed her a thank you. Maybe a bottle of wine, she thought with a grin.
But for now, it was time to be polite and courteous about their odd little conversation the night before. She straightened her back and hoisted her best contrite expression onto her face. “Morning, Gavin. I wanted to apologize for my — conduct, last night. It was rude of me to burst in on you like that, to say all of those things…”
Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 14