Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03]

by The Devils Heart

  Once again, he had shown her that what she’d thought she’d known of what happened between a man and a woman was only a meager portion of the whole.

  She experienced it all now. She could feel the force of his very being melding with her. She would never let him go. She held him as long as she could . . . and then slowly, she released her hold and fell down upon him.

  His strong arms came around her.

  He held her tightly. “You are a jewel,” he praised her, bring the heavy skirt of her riding habit around them. “A gift from the gods.”

  Margaret knew differently. However, she did not correct him. Instead, she fell asleep, her cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart in her ears.

  She knew these moments would not last.

  They could not.

  Heath had never slept so well in his life. He wasn’t certain what woke him, but it was morning when he opened his eyes. He stretched his body as he came awake, and then remembered he was not alone.

  Margaret, his Maggie, was curled up beside him, her back to his chest. She appeared completely at peace, without any of her former anxiousness. He liked seeing her this way.

  Her hair was a tangled mess. He stroked it lightly and felt himself harden. It was only an hour after dawn. They had been up most of the night. If he was kind, he would let her sleep.

  Then again, her passion was as demanding as his own. He was certain she would want him to wake her—

  A movement of white at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Something sat on the edge of the low wall not far from the fire. He frowned and came up on one arm, the better to see what the white was . . . and found himself staring into the large, wise eyes of a small cat. Her ears were folded over, giving her face the unusual impression of—

  “Owl?”

  The cat’s response was a low-throated purr before she jumped off the other side of the wall, disappearing from his view.

  Here was Margaret’s cat, the one she had been willing to drown for.

  The one he had not been able to see.

  Heath climbed out from beneath the skirt that served as a blanket and came to his feet.

  Now he felt the aches of sleeping on hard ground. He walked over to the wall, uncertain if he truly saw the cat or if his mind was playing tricks. Perhaps he wasn’t awake. Perhaps he was dreaming.

  The cold air of a winter morning assured him he wasn’t. And when he walked to the wall and looked over it, the cat was still there, sitting on her haunches close to the woods.

  For a long moment, they held each other’s attention, and then Owl came to her feet and with a swish of her tail went into the forest.

  Heath reached for his breeches and began dressing. His clothes were dry. He thought little of that considering the heat from the fire he’d built. Even now the embers still burned.

  Seeing that Margaret was snuggled under the covers, he added more wood to keep the fire going until he returned. He was going to catch that cat. He had a plan to bring her to Margaret and show her that the animal was not some ghostie that could disappear, but real and very earthly.

  Then, perhaps, she would accept that her family was not caught in the grips of some witch, but that there had to be, must be, very real, concrete reasons for the deaths of the males in her family.

  If there was anything of the magical happening around here, it was the way they made love. That had been astounding, and he firmly planned to see that they did it again. Often.

  But first, he was determined to banish the shadows in her life.

  He had nothing for his feet but that did not bother him. He’d been colder and in worse circumstances on board a ship a time or two. The secret was to keep moving.

  Climbing over the wall, he headed in the direction where Owl had disappeared. Standing on the edge of the woods, he listened. As if teasing him, he heard a faint meow and caught a glimpse of white.

  The chase was on. Owl teased him by always staying ahead of him. He followed her into the densest part of the forest. A time or two, Owl almost let him catch her. His fingers just brushed the long, fine fur of her coat before she would leap out of his reach and playfully run in a new direction.

  Heath was growing winded. The cat was leading him across small streams and over fallen trees. He knew they traveled in circles.

  Slowly, his opinion changed. This was no ordinary cat. She understood what she was doing . . . and he realized she was leading him somewhere.

  The moment he stepped into the small clearing surrounded by firs, he recognized the place. This was where he’d found Margaret the day before.

  Owl waited for him. She sat between the two headstones, her expression sphinxlike.

  Heath stopped. “Clever cat,” he said. “We could have arrived here sooner.”

  Her response was an expression he could only interpret as a smile.

  He didn’t move closer but knelt, wanting to see what the cat would do.

  The intelligence behind her large eyes, the knowing gave him a chill. She understood he challenged her and, in the manner of all women he’d known in his life, resented him for it.

  They eyed each other, combatants at patience, and then Heath stood. “All right, I concede.” His purpose wasn’t to have a staring match with this cat but to capture it.

  He started walking toward Owl. She waited with the air of a queen.

  A step away from her, Heath decided to make his move; he lunged for the cat, his arms going around her . . . his arms going right through her.

  And he parted them to look at her in surprise, except she was gone. She’d vanished.

  Everything he believed he knew was suddenly suspect.

  Heath studied the space of ground where his own eyes had told him the cat had been. Now there was only brown grass and damp leaves and pine needles.

  He searched the forest around him. There was no flash of white.

  Or perhaps the cat was here and he couldn’t see her, just as Margaret had claimed.

  “What game do you play?” he asked the clearing.

  As is too often the case when a man asks a question of the universe, the response was silence . . . the same eerie silence devoid of birds or the rustling of leaves that Margaret had commented on the day before and he’d so easily fobbed off.

  And then he heard a sound. A man was calling his name. It was Rowlly. “Laird Macnachtan? Heath? Can you hear me? Tell me you made it safe, man. We’ve been worrying all night.” He didn’t sound as if he was that far away.

  Heath’s immediate thought was of Margaret. He had to return to her, to protect her from Rowlly and whoever was with him before they discovered her in less discreet circumstances.

  Heath took off as if the hounds of hell were giving chase. He stumbled over rocks and continued on, ignoring the pain in his feet. He pushed aside branches and thorns that reached to hold him back.

  Within minutes, he reached the ruins and was relieved to see that Rowlly and his party were not there, only then did he take a moment to catch his breath before charging down the edge of the knoll to the fireplace where he’d left Margaret sleeping—and came to an abrupt halt.

  The fire still burned in the old hearth but there was no sign of Margaret Chattan.

  At that moment, he heard Rowlly behind him, “Here you are. Could you not hear me hollering my lungs out?”

  Heath was suddenly uncertain, the disappearing cat making him wonder about everything, including Margaret and what had happened between them. He turned to find Rowlly standing on the knoll with John Gibson. “I thought I’d meet you here,” he murmured.

  “And I thought you’d be freezing cold and anxious to leave this place,” Rowlly answered. “I’d forgotten about the old hearth. Smart of you to use it. A pity Lady Margaret didn’t find you.”

  “Aye,” Gibson echoed, “she’s lucky to be alive. So are you. I didn’t believe you could swim that current.”

  “You found Lady Margaret?” Heath asked.

  “She found us,” Rowll
y answered. “She came running down to the shore, looking just as disheveled. I can’t believe the two of you were on the same island and couldn’t find each other.”

  Had Margaret told them that?

  “Yes, well, the storm forced each of us to seek shelter where we could,” Heath answered. Something hard was building inside of him. He told himself that, of course, Margaret would want to make it seem as if they had spent the night apart instead of rogering each other for everything they were worth. “Did she say where she was?”

  “She said she found a clearing surrounded by firs that kept the storm at bay.” Rowlly shook his head. “She tried to describe where it was, but I don’t remember such a place. Do you?”

  Heath shook his head. “Is she at the boat now?”

  “Aye, waiting for us,” Rowlly said. “Ah, yes, and your sisters are here. We made them wait at Gibson’s house. Worried ill they are. Even Dara came.”

  “Then let’s go. My feet are cold,” Heath said, speaking the truth, but his words made Rowlly and Gibson laugh. Rowlly clapped an arm around Heath’s shoulder and told him about how they had tried to return to the island last night, but the storm kept blowing them back.

  “I’ve never seen the loch like that before,” Gibson said.

  “Would you call it highly unusual?” Heath asked, wanting to know if the fisherman thought otherwise.

  “Och, well, who is to say? Mother Nature and God always hold surprises.”

  “I hope not to experience that surprise again,” Heath answered, and they again laughed. He pretended to laugh as well but his mind was on Margaret.

  “Did she say what caused her to jump out of the boat?” Heath asked, curious as to what information Margaret might have shared.

  “Didn’t ask,” Rowlly answered. “All I know is she thought she saw a cat and then dived in. Who understands the gentry? Especially the English ones. They say they are all half mad.”

  They came out of the woods to where Gibson’s boat was docked on the shore. “We came over in the large one in case another storm brewed sudden-like,” the fisherman explained.

  Heath only half attended. His attention was on Margaret. She sat at the aft of the boat, her red cloak around her. She appeared to be huddled against the cold, but he knew better. She was ignoring him and didn’t even bother to look up as he approached.

  She wasn’t alone. Rowlly had brought a few of the stable lads, and he hailed them now.

  Margaret didn’t look up. There was no smile for him, no acknowledgment of what had transpired between them.

  Heath wanted to believe that perhaps she was being wise, that it was prudent to not offer anyone a clue to what they’d spent the night doing.

  But he knew differently.

  She had shut him out, and he wanted to know why.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Margaret focused on keeping herself warm and on examining the way the boards of the boat were fitted together. She’d not considered boat construction before. With Heath Macnachtan climbing into the boat and pretending not to glare at her, now was a good time to focus absolutely on anything but him.

  Once again, her passionate nature had brought her trouble.

  She’d believed that after Mark’s betrayal she would have had a better head on her shoulders. And she had. For years she had.

  Then last night, she’d tossed all common sense aside. She’d compromised herself, her own vows that she’d made, her own determined will. He had only to touch her for her to tumble into his arms like a randy milkmaid.

  And she’d liked it. Dear sweet Lord, she had liked it very much.

  With Mark, there had been an excitement about having a secret love . . . but at the time, she’d been desperate to have someone, anyone love her.

  The first time he’d kissed her, she’d been shocked, but she’d wanted more. In truth, when he had taken her virginity, it had surprised her. It was all over almost before it had begun, and all she’d remembered was that it had been messy and rather silly. She’d never felt with him what she did in Heath Macnachtan’s arms.

  She’d given herself completely to Heath and he had used her well.

  Perhaps the difference was one of age? Mark had been only a few years older than her fifteen-year-old self.

  Or perhaps the difference was that her feelings for the laird of the Macnachtan were stronger and far more compelling. She seemed aware of his every movement, his every gesture. She had a sense of being able to understand what he thought and felt.

  Margaret also admired him. She’d not met another man, other than her brother Neal, who commanded her respect. Heath also had a bit of Harry’s daring in him, and certainly that intrigued her.

  She knew Heath was confused by her leaving the ruins without him. She could almost hear the questions in his mind, questions that she would not answer.

  What had happened last night must not be repeated. She was certain of that. It had been too overwhelming. All-consuming. Even now she wanted to climb the distance of the boat and wrap her arms around him. She must exercise more control.

  It also didn’t help matters that the men in the boat might pay lip service to the idea that she and Heath had spent the night apart, but they didn’t believe it. She could tell in the sidelong looks sent her direction and the smug smiles they attempted to hide. They were men, and men always jumped to conclusions.

  Now the boat had no trouble gliding across the calm, gray lake. It hit the shore with a bump. The lads jumped out and pulled the boat onto dry land where Laren, Anice and Lady Macnachtan waited.

  Heath stood with his back to Margaret, but she knew he was planning to help her out of the boat. He nodded for Rowlly and Gibson to go ahead of him. His sisters were already asking him questions.

  Margaret barely heard what they were saying. Instead, she braced herself, not yet ready to be close to him.

  He held out a hand. “My lady.” There was a distance in his voice. He was angry with her silence. Good. She wanted him angry.

  She stood. She could ignore the hand he offered, but then that would raise more questions and she wanted matters between them as simple as possible. They’d already complicated them enough last night. She could let him help her. All she had to do was detach her thoughts from her actions. Margaret had a lifetime of practice at that.

  She placed her bare hand in his. His fingers, long, competent, callused, closed over hers, and she wanted to melt into his arms. She wanted to tear off his clothes and press herself against his warm skin.

  But she didn’t show it. She knew how to set her expression just the right way so that she appeared pleasant and disinterested.

  “We are so relieved you are safe,” Laren’s voice said in greeting, words echoed by the others. They had thought to pack warm clothes. Mrs. Gibson let Margaret and then Heath use the cottage to change.

  And then they were on their way back to Marybone.

  Laren and Anice seemed determined to maintain a good-natured chatter but Margaret knew they sensed the tension between her and Heath.

  They had other questions as well. While she was changing, she’d overheard someone mention her claim of seeing a cat before she’d jumped into the water. She was certain everyone doubted her sanity.

  She noticed that Heath didn’t have much to say. Nor did he speak of finding the graves. She kept the information to herself as well. In fact, she didn’t know what she could do with the knowledge of the two gravestones. She didn’t understand why Owl had led her to them.

  Lady Macnachtan brought her horse up beside Margaret’s. “Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice full of concern.

  “I’m fine,” Margaret answered, trying to put some emotion in her tone to sound convincing.

  “That was quite an ordeal.”

  “Yes, it was,” Margaret could agree.

  “What I fear is that you were taken advantage of?” She made her suggestion sound like a question.

  Heat rushed to Margaret’s cheeks. She dared not speak,
afraid of what she would reveal to this kind woman.

  “You needn’t worry about gossip or rumors. We protect our own and our friends,” Lady Macnachtan assured her.

  “Thank you,” Margaret said with meaning. It was good to have an ally.

  Lady Macnachtan lowered her voice even more. “In truth, I’m embarrassed. I fear you have been manipulated into this position.”

  Margaret frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Lady Macnachtan looked to the others. Anice and Rowlly were arguing with Laren as their referee. Heath rode ahead of everyone, his back ramrod straight.

  She leaned toward Margaret. “Of course, you know their purpose is for you to marry Heath. That’s all the girls can talk about. The family is in deep debt. They saw your arrival here as a sign of Providence. Now that you have been alone overnight with Heath, Anice and Laren have been planning your wedding.”

  Margaret hadn’t noticed such scheming from the Macnachtan sisters. Instead, her instincts warned her that if there was any scheming happening, it was from Heath’s sister-in-marriage, and she didn’t understand why. She could imagine no motive other than jealousy. “Laird Macnachtan did not arrange to have me alone on the island overnight with him. It was a complete accident of fate. I can assure you of that.”

  “Then it was very lucky happenstance,” Lady Macnachtan said. “And, please, you must call me Dara if we are to be sisters by marriage. No formalities around family.”

  “No one has spoken of marriage,” Margaret returned.

  “Not yet. They will. Although,” Dara continued, her tone changing thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t hold you to blame if you resisted these mercenary plans of theirs. It must be uncomfortable to have everyone consider marrying you only for your money. It would make me feel like a piece of property to be bought and sold in such a manner.”

  This woman owed everything she was to the Macnachtans. Perhaps she wanted Heath and considered Margaret a threat?

  “It’s my lot in life,” Margaret commented. “I’m accustomed to marriage schemes.”

  “Ah, yes, as an heiress.” Dara considered the matter a moment and then said, “But know I can be your ally. Turn to me if you find yourself in trouble with their plans, I shall help you.”