Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03]

by The Devils Heart

  “I have no place,” she replied, the set of her mouth stiff. “My fate is yours.” And then as if rethinking the way her words might sound, she said, “All right. Yes, do what you must to force the Chattan heiress to marry you. I shall tell no one.”

  The comment was ridiculous. Heath started to protest—when he heard a sound in the hallway. Lady Margaret stood in the doorway.

  Heath stood, wondering if she’d overheard them and then deciding she couldn’t have if she’d just come down the stairs.

  She appeared, in a word, lovely. Her hair was styled simply and she’d changed to a green dress that seemed to bring out the color in her eyes and the cream in her cheeks even better than her blue riding habit had.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you?” she asked. There was always that air of distance about her as if she feared letting anyone too close to her. He was beginning to understand. Her aloofness didn’t rise from a sense of superiority but out of uncertainty.

  “Of course not,” Heath said, coming forward. “We were just going in for dinner. How is your servant?”

  “Still not well. Perhaps we should send for the doctor again?” she suggested. “I shall see to the expenses.”

  Perhaps she had overheard what Dara had been saying.

  “That is not a problem,” Heath started, but Dara had her own thoughts.

  “Thank you, my lady,” she said, coming to her feet. “That is generous of you.” She took charge. “Shall we go in to dinner?” She moved so that she came between Heath and Lady Margaret.

  “I’m famished,” Lady Margaret confessed, allowing Dara to draw her toward the dining room.

  “As we all are,” Dara said.

  Heath let his sisters go ahead of him. As she passed him, Laren said, “Anice and I do not want you to worry about our marriages. Make the right decision, Heath. We can live with what happens.”

  But he didn’t know if he could.

  Heath had never thought of himself as particularly noble when it came to women other than his sisters. He was surprised to discover over the fish and potatoes that was their meal this evening that he had come to include Lady Margaret in the circle of women he would protect.

  As he watched her sip her soup and nibble on Cook’s fresh bread, he no longer saw her as the Unattainable. She had become very human to him.

  He felt very human around her.

  And Dara, Anice and Laren watched every move they made.

  At the end of the meal, Lady Margaret did not linger but excused herself, rising from the table. “I fear I must search for my bed. This has been a hard day and I don’t know what to expect tomorrow.”

  “Let me see you to the stairs,” Heath said, already to his feet, suddenly wanting a private moment with her.

  Lady Margaret hesitated. She looked to the other women. Anice and Laren seemed to encourage her. Dara’s frown deepened.

  Heath decided not to wait. He moved around the table to her, and together they went out the door.

  “You didn’t need to accompany me,” Lady Margaret said. She had not met his eye. He did not like that.

  “You heard us discussing you earlier,” he suggested.

  She shook that off. “I’m not offended. Gossip is rampant in London. I could not survive there if I listened to it all.”

  She was lying. He knew that.

  They’d already reached the stairs. She started to go up them, tossing a quick “good night” over her shoulder.

  Heath caught her hand, stopping her.

  For a second, he didn’t know who was more surprised by his action, Lady Margaret or him.

  She looked at his hand holding hers.

  He thought of apologizing for the gossip, of telling her that marrying an heiress was not an idea that he had contemplated—except what reasonable person would believe him?

  “I’m not what you think of me,” she said slowly. “I’m not what you want.”

  “How do you know what I want?” he asked.

  She was silent a beat and then she amended, “I am not what you deserve.”

  Their voices were quiet, for their ears alone—and in that moment, he’d never wanted a woman more.

  She stood two steps above him so that they were almost equals. Her smile grew sad. “You are not what I anticipated, Laird Macnachtan. You are a good man.”

  “You are not what I anticipated. You are a good wo—” he started to echo, but she stopped him, pressing her lips to his.

  It was a quick kiss, a chaste one, and yet it sent a jolt of awareness through his being. Just that momentary contact, and he wanted more. He would have leaned in but she turned away. “I can’t. I—” she started, and then broke off.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It is nothing,” she whispered, her eyes cold, bleak. “Nothing at all.” She pulled her hand from his and all but ran to her room.

  Heath stood on the step until he heard her door shut.

  He’d been listening so intently, he’d not heard Dara come up behind him. “She is beautiful, Heath, but I hope you are thinking with your large head and not your ‘little’ one.”

  Her comment jarred him. “A bit crude, isn’t that, Dara?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been married. I know men.”

  There was a hint of a boast in her words.

  And he realized that, in truth, he didn’t know her well. He’d left for the midshipman’s apprenticeship with his mother’s uncle when he was twelve. Dara had been a distant presence in his life then, a lovely girl that his brother eyed. He had not been surprised when he’d received word that they had married.

  One aspect he had enjoyed since returning to Loch Awe and taking Brodie’s place was rebuilding friendships with his sisters as adults. He had also grown to appreciate Dara. By all accounts she had made his brother a happy man.

  But there was also something distant about her as well. Secretive, even.

  Laren speculated Dara’s aloofness came from growing up in the church. A churchman’s family was never free to be themselves.

  His older sister might be right, but there were times, as now, when he had an unsettling feeling about Dara. He didn’t quite trust her, although that could be because there was no blood link between them.

  “You needn’t worry about me,” he said.

  Dara hummed her disbelief and went up the stairs.

  Margaret shut the bedroom door and leaned against it.

  Slowly, she sank down, her arms on her bent knees. She rested her head upon them, wishing she could curl herself into a ball . . . and perhaps disappear?

  How many times had she wished that in her life? That she could just evaporate? Vanish? Be no more?

  She was an illusion, a bit of fantasy, a shell that others seemed to value. Inside, she was empty. A purposeful nothingness.

  She had kept herself that way, only allowing herself to care deeply for her brothers. The rest of the world did not matter. She refused to let it do so.

  Or so she had thought.

  Heath Macnachtan had found his way into the abyss she nurtured inside herself.

  She wasn’t certain when it had happened. Was it today when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and held her fast against her worst fears? Or when she’d held a gun in her hand and he had fearlessly confronted her while protecting those he loved?

  Loved.

  She hated the word “love.” It meant nothing, and yet all the world thought it should.

  There had been a time when she’d opened her heart enough to love. God, she would have tossed everything aside, her family, her pride, and her heritage for love.

  For love she’d humbled herself to a groomsman. Mark had been nothing more than a stable hand.

  Yes, she’d been young, no more than fifteen, but the intensity of her feelings for him had been very real. She’d given him the one thing that had been truly only hers to give.

  Margaret had not even known her father was aware of her shame until she’d learned that the groom was no
longer in the country, let alone in their employ. She’d thought it was her secret . . . and that was when she’d learned of how completely Mark had betrayed her feelings. That he’d bragged about his conquest so loudly that her father had discovered what they’d done. Mark had not loved her. He hadn’t even cared for her.

  From that moment on, she hadn’t trusted men.

  They liked her looks, the surface, the shell, but she realized they weren’t concerned about her. They wanted her money, her family connections, and the boost to their pride at having a lovely wife.

  Luckily, time had passed and her past remained unknown to members of London’s ton. There had been a time when she’d thought she could go through with what was expected of her—the debutante years, the courting and wooing—until she’d realized that she had no desire to be nothing more than an actress in her life. Men called her beautiful, but did not want to know her soul or value her intelligence.

  Because she had wanted something more, they had labeled her the Unattainable, a mocking term that appealed to their competitive natures. She was a challenge, a game, a mountain to be climbed. And then, from what Margaret could observe of other women’s marriages, she would be tucked into a stall like a prize mare to be trotted out or ignored depending on her husband’s whims.

  Her most courageous act had been to sit Harry and Neal down after their father’s funeral and explain to them that they must all let the curse end now, with them. They should not fall in love or ever marry where children could be created.

  What she’d really been doing was giving herself the rationale to never marry. Her decision had removed her from the marriage game.

  Now, leaning against the door, Margaret realized a secret truth: She still believed in love.

  She wanted to believe. She also knew that she was spoiled goods for any worthy man, the sort of man she could love. He would not want a wife who had foolishly tumbled with a stable lad. He would not trust her.

  Margaret pushed the weight of her hair back from her face. Her life was so confusing. She could not rely on anyone other than herself . . . with, perhaps, the exception of Heath Macnachtan.

  Had he betrayed her by not telling her about the island?

  She thought not. He’d been protecting his family and her story was outlandish.

  But she’d also witnessed how this man would step forward for what he believed.

  And she was starting to notice other things about him as well. The small things, the details women cherished.

  She liked the way his eyes laughed and had noticed how well shaped his hands were. He had calluses on them. He was not afraid of work, but his hands moved with the grace of ability.

  Then there was the broadness of his shoulders and the leanness of his jaw. The haphazard way he tied his neck cloth. The interest and respect he showed for his sisters.

  And there was the way she was beginning to feel when she was around him. She caught herself watching him, depending on his judgment.

  Trusting him.

  There lay danger. This man was the sworn enemy of her family and yet he had treated her with nothing but deference.

  And she no longer knew herself.

  She had not meant to kiss him. It had just happened.

  Margaret pressed her index finger to her lips, savoring that brief contact—and knowing she must not let the passion in her nature betray her again.

  For a second, she could swear she sensed him on the other side of the door. She sat still.

  The rapid beat of her heart measured off the minutes.

  And then she felt him withdraw.

  A moment later, she heard a bedroom door shut. He had been there.

  She brought her hands down around her legs, uncertain, reminding herself that a witch waited. Like an actress in a play, Fenella was in the wings, biding her time.

  Margaret could imagine the air in the room breathing, pulsing with the presence of that which they did not understand.

  Fenella was here . . . but so was the laird. A certainty fell upon her. She was meant to be here, in this moment.

  The witch had tried to destroy her once and had failed. Who was to say she would not fail again?

  And Margaret thought of little Owl, the cat who had saved her and then disappeared.

  Exhaustion fell over her. It had been a day of tumultuous emotions. She needed sleep.

  Margaret rose from the floor and undressed, letting her clothes drop where she took them off, too overwhelmed to pick them up. She climbed into bed and was soon dreaming. She dreamed of pine forest and a fire, but it wasn’t Fenella’s book that was burning.

  It was she.

  Chapter Ten

  Laren, Anice and Dara did not accompany Heath and Lady Margaret to Innis Craggah, the island with the ruins of Macnachtan Keep.

  Anice informed him that venturing out on Loch Awe in winter was not their idea of an adventure. “And we doubt if she will find anything, Heath,” she confessed. “The island is deserted. There is nothing but rock left of the keep from that time.”

  He agreed, but another part of him was curious. There was a mystery surrounding Lady Margaret and he found himself anxious to solve it.

  Instead of the women, Rowlly and two of the stable lads rode with them. Cook had prepared a basket of bread and smoked fish, and they were in good spirits when they set out.

  Frost covered the ground, but the sky was clear and blue—a rare day, indeed, and Heath took it as a good omen.

  Because of the cold, he wore several layers of clothes beneath his coat. Lady Margaret wore a red cape trimmed in fur over her riding habit. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  He’d had trouble sleeping because of her. She’d wandered in and out of his dreams. No woman had done that before.

  Last night, after she’d given that brief peck—he wouldn’t dignify it by calling it a kiss—he’d stood outside her bedroom door, a part of him wanting to knock. He imagined drawing her out, talking to her about nothing, or everything. He was keen to push the tenuous connection between them. He wanted more.

  But he’d held back. He’d not knocked on her door. She was accustomed to being chased. Men threw themselves at her feet.

  He, and his pride, needed to be a bit more rational. After all, why would a Venus ever value a Scottish lout like him? He could think of no reason.

  She was very quiet as they traveled.

  He attributed her silence to concern over where they were going. Innis Craggah was the place where it had all begun.

  They rode along Loch Awe’s shoreline. A fine mist covered the water, and the wind was cold.

  At last, they came close to their destination. Heath reined Admiral around to ride beside Margaret. “Do you see the island closest to us in the loch? You can make out its shape in the mist. That is Innis Craggah, Island of Rock. It is about a mile long and a half a mile wide.”

  As he spoke, the mist decided to lift and revealed an island covered with winter brown undergrowth mingled with the deep green of firs and the gray barks of trees.

  “Where is the tower?” she asked.

  “You can’t see what is left of it from here. When we go ashore, there is a path that leads right to where the keep once was.”

  “How will we reach the island?” she asked.

  “We have friends,” Heath answered, and kicked his horse forward. To his pleasure, she did the same.

  They rode along the road at a fast clip, their mounts breathing heavy in the chilled air, until they came upon John Gibson’s cottage. The fisherman was bundled against the cold while he went about his tasks among his boats lined up and turned over on the shore.

  “Laird Macnachtan,” he hailed Heath as they rode up, “imagine seeing one such as yourself out here today. And you look hale and well. My clansman Augie swore his knuckles had sent you to a bed for a week.”

  “Och, man, are you believing Augie?” Heath said, letting his brogue deepen as he jumped down from his horse and approached the fisherman. He held out
his hand.

  “Not for a moment,” Gibson answered, a smile splitting his face. He was a burly man with a mass of red hair on his head and chin and smelled of fresh air and dead fish. “You look a sight better than Augie does. Of course, as long as you keep popping him in the head, no harm will be done.” He laughed at his own joke and then greeted Rowlly, mentioning something about his role in the fight at the Goldeneye. His eyes strayed to Lady Margaret.

  Of course, as would any man, he had been aware of her since the moment they had ridden up.

  He bowed, recognizing Quality when he met one.

  “John, this is Lady Margaret Chattan,” Heath said.

  The man’s reaction was almost humorous. “Chattan?” For a second, Heath feared the man would spit. Instead, he swallowed and said, “There is one of them here? With you?” He added in almost a whisper, “A female one?”

  “Aye, and she is with me. We want to pay a visit to the ruins of the keep. Will you take us across?”

  For a second, John eyed Heath as if he had just suggested he wanted to cut out his tongue.

  “Will you or won’t you?” Heath prodded.

  “I will,” John answered, as if still uncertain Heath jested. However, he recovered enough to negotiate the cost of rowing them over.

  That done, the stable lads and Rowlly helped John right two of his skiffs into the water. The boats had sails but John said the water was calm and the distance not far. “We could row in less time than it takes to mount the masts.”

  Heath helped Lady Margaret dismount. One of the lads would stay with the horses.

  Mrs. Gibson, John’s wife, came out of the house, her arms crossed. “You are going out, John?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mary. Send out Donald. We need young arms to help row.” She went inside and a moment later John’s oldest son, a scruffy lad of about twelve, came out. He’d bundled himself warmly. Gibson placed a step by the boat for Lady Margaret and the rest of them to use to climb aboard.

  In short order, they were on the water. The current was with them.

  If his sisters had been here, they would have been huddled in the boat against the weather. In contrast, Lady Margaret sat at the prow of the boat. She’d thrown the hood of her cloak back and appeared as if she relished being on the water. The wind caught her hair, loosening a few strands from the pins.