Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03]

by The Devils Heart

  “Do you hear them?” he asked.

  “Of course, I do,” Margaret answered, feeling surly.

  Laird Macnachtan stopped. “My lady, don’t make any more of this curse than what it is.”

  “And what is it? You have never believed there is a curse.”

  He drew a breath as if praying for patience. “I’ve been helping you, my lady. If that isn’t putting faith into something, I don’t know what is.” He started to take a step away but then returned to say, “And instead of blaming a curse for the course of events, perhaps you should consider other factors that could be causing the deaths in your family. Your kin may have weak hearts or another malady. Blaming death on ghosties and ghoulies serves no purpose.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer but began walking toward his men.

  And Margaret felt like the most churlish of women. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose his support, and she discovered she did not want to do that. She needed his help . . . she wanted it. She liked counting on his strength and intelligence. She’d begun expecting it. She, the woman who prided herself on not expecting anything from anyone, actually enjoyed being with this Scottish chieftain with his generous nature and adventurous spirit. She relied on him, and Margaret wasn’t certain that was wise.

  He didn’t understand, and if she truly cared for him, she’d keep a distance. His doubts aside, she knew her line was tainted.

  She walked toward the boats, head bowed. Laird Macnachtan said something to her but she ignored him. He’d believe her in sour spirits over his directness. She wasn’t. She was just beginning to realize she had more to fear from her feelings toward him than she did from the curse.

  Was this what had happened to her brothers?

  Had they been like her, determined to not fall in love, and then found themselves being drawn to one person?

  One very special person? The sort that didn’t hesitate to speak his mind or treat her as an equal?

  She’d never met a man like Heath Macnachtan before. She doubted if she ever would again.

  And the realization created a hollowness in her belly and a tightness in her heart.

  He was not safe.

  She would have climbed into the boat by herself if possible. It was not. So she had to endure the thrill of Laird Macnachtan picking her up in his arms. For a second, the presence of him enveloped her.

  And was it her imagination, or did he act as if he felt something for her as well?

  She could usually detect when a man was attracted to her, but she wasn’t certain this time . . . perhaps because she would not be averse to him?

  Within minutes she was settled in the rear of the boat. Beneath the warmth of her cloak, she crossed her arms. The boat rocked in the shallow water as the laird and Gibson climbed aboard.

  From their boat, Rowlly, Gibson’s son, and the stable lad waved. “A race to the other side with a bit of a wager?” Rowlly asked.

  “Name it,” the laird said.

  “Two pints apiece at the Goldeneye,” Rowlly answered. “Who knows? We may see Augie again.”

  All the men laughed, including the stable lad. Gibson made a comment that he wouldn’t mind being present for another meeting of the laird and Augie.

  Margaret didn’t understand what they were talking about. She kept her eyes on the shoreline.

  There was a splash as oars hit water. The men would waste no time reaching the other shore—

  A flash of white at the edge of the trees close to the path leading to the keep caught Margaret’s eye. It was a cat. A small one.

  It was Owl. There was no mistaking the odd shape of her head.

  Margaret turned toward the laird. “There’s my cat. I see Owl.” They were now ten feet from the shore. “You must take me back,” she ordered.

  Gibson, sitting in front of her, frowned in the direction she pointed. “Where is there a cat?” he said. “I don’t see one.”

  “Right there on the shore,” Margaret insisted. How could he not see Owl, who had padded down to the waterline and meowed as if begging her to return? The cat placed a paw on the water as if to come after her and then quickly backed away. “Please, take me back. I must catch my cat.”

  Laird Macnachtan was mid-stroke when he lifted his oar. He frowned. “My lady, I see no cat.”

  “She’s right there,” Margaret said, frustration making her angry. Why couldn’t anyone see Owl save her? What madness was at work?

  Owl meowed one more time. Margaret could hear her plainly. Owl turned and began trotting toward the woods. She would disappear into the underbrush in a minute.

  “Take me back,” Margaret begged. She knew she couldn’t leave Owl.

  The men had not moved. They stared at her in concern. Rowlly’s boat kept going, racing away and unaware of the discussion.

  Margaret had asked for a sign, and Owl was what she’d been searching for. She realized that now.

  The cat sat on her haunches at the edge of the forest as if waiting for Margaret to return.

  “You don’t see the cat,” she stated, wanting them to confirm one more time they were blind to what she saw.

  “There is no cat,” the laird said, even as Gibson demanded, “Will you row? We will be paying for pints if we don’t put our backs in it.”

  Margaret stood up in the boat. The wind had picked up. They were now close to twenty feet from shore.

  She knew how to swim. She also gambled that the water would still be shallow here. She threw off her cape and jumped into the water.

  “What the devil—?” Gibson shouted.

  Her habit weighed her down but her determination was strong. The bitter coldness of the water went straight to her bones. But her determination was stronger than fear.

  Thankfully, her booted feet touched bottom.

  Owl disappeared into the trees as if knowing Margaret would follow.

  Behind her, Laird Macnachtan was shouting.

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The waves around her had suddenly become stronger and were trying to push her away from the shore.

  She stumbled, caught herself, and surged forward, refusing to give up. The effort to reach the shore required everything of her, but she succeeded.

  On the shore, she took a moment to catch her breath. She struggled to her feet and looked to the boat. The men were trying to row back to her and yet the current now carried them farther away. And the sky had changed. It now roiled with heavy, dark, thunderous clouds that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  But the danger of a storm didn’t matter. Margaret was where she knew she must be.

  She threw the hem of her water-heavy skirts over one arm and rushed to the point in the forest where she’d seen Owl disappear.

  Chapter Eleven

  Heath couldn’t believe Margaret had jumped out of the boat. He swore furiously. The water was freezing. She would not survive. He shouted for her, but she ignored him, of course.

  Why should she behave any differently when her life was in jeopardy than she had from the moment they’d met?

  “Bring the boat around,” he shouted to Gibson.

  “I’m trying, Laird. The current is too heavy. I’ve never seen the like.”

  Indeed, white-capped waves now pressed against the boat. In less time than it took to say one’s name, thick clouds had begun churning over their heads and the wind had picked up speed.

  “It’s as if the world has gone mad,” Gibson declared.

  And he was right.

  Heath saw Margaret reach shore. She was soaked to the skin, but at least she’d made it. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders and she was shivering.

  She started to her feet but tripped over wet skirts. Again, she tried.

  “Margaret, stay right there.”

  Either the rising wind whisked his words away from her hearing or she chose to ignore him, because she lurched to her feet, gathered her skirts and, with a hobbling gait, ran into the forest.

  “Row,” he ordered Gibso
n, digging deep into the water with his oars. “Take me back there.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere,” Gibson answered. “I’ve never seen the loch like this.” He was pulling back against the water as he spoke and there was the sound of a crack. His oar broke. The wood snapped as if it had been a twig. The boat was adrift and began spinning.

  Highland storms could be sudden and cruel, but Heath had never seen one such as this before.

  He didn’t understand what has happening, but a fear for Margaret gripped him. They were being carried farther away from Innis Craggah. The boat was thirty feet from shore and moving rapidly. He could not waste time. He pulled off his boots.

  “What are you doing—” Gibson shouted just as Heath climbed on the bench and dived into the water.

  The cold bite of it robbed him of breath. For a second he floundered. Great waves rolled over his head. He fought panic.

  He’d heard sailors tell of being in the Northern Sea, of how quickly the water could freeze a man to death. He knew to keep blowing bubbles. The sailors had said that would stop his lungs from freezing.

  Heath had been swimming in these waters all his life, but he’d never felt such a strong, threatening current. It was as if there was something trying to pull him under and away from the shore all at once.

  And yet, he had to reach Margaret.

  His feet touched bottom. Hope surged within him. At some point, he’d lost a stocking but it didn’t matter. He had no feeling in his feet as it was. He charged forward, pushing his way through the current until he fell facedown upon the rocky shore. Nothing had ever felt so good to him.

  For a long moment, he couldn’t move.

  And then the hail started.

  Hail the size of man’s fist rained down from the heavens. He covered his head with his arms. It seemed to come down harder.

  Struggling to his feet required herculean strength. Heath didn’t try calling for Margaret. The storm was stronger than his voice.

  Instead, he stumbled toward the haven of the trees, and just as he reached shelter, the hail stopped.

  This was not normal weather, not even for the Highlands.

  He leaned against a tree trunk, bending over to catch his breath, his gaze wandering back toward the water—and he was shocked by what he saw.

  Loch Awe was a mass of white-capped tossing waves beneath a foggy mist. Any view of land or the boats was blocked. He prayed Rowlly and the others had reached shore and then pushed away from the tree and began his search for Margaret.

  He was freezing in his clothes. He removed his remaining stocking and continued barefoot. His feet seemed to have turned into blocks of ice.

  If he was this cold, she had to be as well.

  It was snowing now, large flakes, and he was reminded of what she’d said about the coach accident, about weather they’d experienced that had not touched Marybone only miles away.

  He’d assumed she would go to the ruins. However, when he reached the knoll, she was not there. His next thought was the cliff. He noted the kitchen’s hearth was protected from the storm and the kindling was dry. He would bring her here as soon as found her and start a fire.

  He called her name now.

  There was no answer.

  Heath was halfway to the cliff when he sensed he was not alone.

  He stopped in the path. He saw no one, and yet his gut warned him to caution—and then he heard her voice.

  “Lady Margaret?”

  The voice stopped. She’d sounded as if she’d been speaking to someone.

  “Lady Margaret,” he tried again.

  “I am here,” she said, her voice closer than he had anticipated. He followed the sound and within minutes found himself in a sheltered clearing. Tall, stately firs kept the wind at bay. Here was a place of peace, away from the madness of the weather.

  And in the center of the clearing, Margaret was on her knees, her back to him. Her dress was soaked. She trembled with the cold but she was leaning over, brushing wet leaves to the side.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, coming up beside her.

  She raised wide eyes to him. “Look.”

  Heath didn’t want to look. He was bloody frozen to death and she was as well. “Come, we need to find shelter.”

  She resisted. “Look at what I’ve found.”

  He glanced down with undisguised impatience and realized there were two weatherworn, rectangular stones on the ground in front of her.

  “They are graves,” she said. “Unmarked ones without the benefit of holy ground. Do you know who this must be?” she asked. “Owl brought me here.”

  “Owl?” he said.

  “The cat.”

  The damn cat—and he was reminded of why he was here, why his teeth were chattering in his head. “Jumping out of that boat was beyond foolishness. You could have drowned.”

  “But I didn’t,” she said. Her lips were blue and he knew his were as well. “I saw the cat,” she said, “even if you could not see her. She was on the shore and I knew she wanted me to return. I couldn’t ignore her.”

  He knelt to her level. “You could have just asked for us to turn the boat around. Then you would have saved us both a swim.”

  She looked at him as if only then realizing he was as wet as she. She took his face in her hands. “I did ask you to return. You refused. But why didn’t you stay in the boat and row it back?”

  Heath could feel his scowl deepen and there was nothing to do but admit, “There is something odd going on. This storm, it shouldn’t be here. And the water became wild. It was as if it didn’t want us to return for you.”

  “So you jumped in as well?” Her smile warmed him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That was the most gallant thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  When she looked at him like that, even though he was cold to his core, a part of him became very heated.

  He reached for her arm. “We need to return to the ruins. I can start a fire there.”

  “Wait,” she said. “These must be the graves of Rose and Fenella. They could not be buried in hallowed ground, could they?”

  The stones were rough and aged by the weather. Lines appeared to have been engraved on one of them, lines that had been worn away by time.

  “Did you know they were here?” she asked.

  “I’ve not seen them before.” And he didn’t care about them now. “Come, they will be here once this storm is passed.” This time when he pulled on her arm, she didn’t resist but rose to her feet along with him.

  He took her hand and retraced his steps to the path. They were both shaking violently in their wet clothes. Heath reached over and pulled her next to him. They needed to share what little body heat they had between them.

  She fit neatly under his arm. Together, the snow falling around them, they hurried as quickly as possible back to the ruins and the haven of the kitchen hearth.

  While Margaret huddled in a corner, Heath found two hard, sharp rocks that had been left by someone who had been here before. He began working to strike a spark over a bit of kindling. It was not easy with the wind.

  He felt Margaret beside him, her body convulsing with cold. “Let me help,” she managed to chatter out. “Together we make a good wall to block the wind.” She leaned against him.

  “You might want to take off some of your clothes,” he advised. “Any petticoats or anything that is wet against your skin.”

  “It is all wet against my skin,” she assured him.

  He knew how she felt.

  “Please start the fire. Please,” she whispered.

  It was almost dark. Heath tried over and over to strike a spark. His hands didn’t want to cooperate with him. He had a strong desire to lie down and close his eyes and knew that was the cold winning over his spirit.

  “Please, God,” he whispered, only to fail again, but his temper flared.

  He drew a deep breath, hit the rocks hard, and a spark from them landed in the dry kindling. Heath leaned over and coa
xed it to life with his breath.

  The wood that was dry was old and caught fire quickly. In short order it was burning warmly in the protected confines of the fireplace.

  “Come closer. Lie in front of the fire,” Heath ordered. He added fuel to the fire and then threw his arms around her, spooning his body against hers. His back was to the elements; however, she was neatly tucked in between him and the fire.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Heath could only grunt. They would make it. There had been a moment that he hadn’t been certain but now with shelter and the fire going, they had a fighting chance.

  “She couldn’t stop us,” Margaret said. They were both still shaking. The ground was bloody hard. “She tried, but she failed.”

  “She?” he asked. He wished he could rid himself of his clothes. They were wet and uncomfortable. Hers had to be the same.

  “Fenella. She started this storm.”

  Heath was too tired to be annoyed with her reasoning. He closed his eyes.

  Margaret turned to him, the movement waking him. Her hair was startling to dry and there wisps of curls at her cheek. He might be tired but she appeared invigorated.

  “Do you truly believe that storm was an act of nature?” she whispered. “It wasn’t. That was the same storm that came upon us before the accident.”

  “It’s the Highlands—” he started, until she cut him off by placing her fingers over his lips. Her fingertips were cold, or perhaps his lips were.

  She snuggled closer to him. “For one moment, let yourself believe. Believe that I do see a cat that led me to those graves. Owl came with me on the road from Glenfinnan. Owl has been trying to bring me here.”

  “And the graves?”

  “I’m certain those belong to Rose and Fenella. Mother and daughter, both buried beyond the embrace of the church.”

  As she spoke, the wind seemed to pick up its pace, howling even through the rocks of the wall, but the fire burned steady.

  “You don’t know that,” Heath said. “They were small stones. They could be the graves of babes, born without baptism and denied holy ground. Or they might have been some beloved pets.”

  “I do know,” she answered, her voice low and no longer shivering with her body. “I know.”