Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3

by Ashley Jennifer

  “You have Gemma for that now. She is much more efficient than I will ever be. You don’t need me.”

  “I do need ye, Mary. I need ye to stay here and look after Dougal.”

  “Who is grown up enough to take care of himself. Do not try to patronize me.” Jaw set, Mary ran up the stairs and around the other side of the gallery, not looking at Zarabeth.

  As her bedchamber door slammed, Egan glanced up and met Zarabeth’s gaze. They held the glance for a few moments, then Egan shook his head and walked down the stairs to the ground floor.

  “She is lonely, that one.”

  Zarabeth jumped. Baron Valentin had come out of nowhere and now stood at her elbow, the part-logosh man able to move like a ghost.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “Goodness,” she said, then caught her breath. “I agree with you. Mary is lonely—she and Egan both are.”

  “It is sad,” Valentin said, his gaze lingering on Mary’s closed door. His eyes were quiet, his strong hand resting on the gallery railing.

  He didn’t speak again, and after they’d stood in silence a few moments, Valentin descended the stairs, his step heavy.

  * * *

  October wound into November, and November to December without much changing at Castle MacDonald except the weather. The temperature dropped week by week until snow fell in the first half of December, and Mrs. Williams began laying in supplies for New Year’s or, as the Highlanders called it, Hogmanay.

  No further attempts were made to kidnap or kill Zarabeth, which Zarabeth found disturbing rather than relieving. She was not naïve enough to think her husband would stop trying to find her and punish her. He was that kind of man—he never let go of vengeance.

  Egan’s men and her footmen continued to accompany her whenever she left the castle, and Egan stuck with Zarabeth wherever she went, including bedding down for the night outside her room. Though she didn’t admit it to him, it was a comfort to know Egan was guarding her when she woke in the night.

  The comfort and safety of Egan’s castle made her realize that she’d lived a half life throughout her marriage, brittle and polished on the outside, raging on the inside. Not until she’d arrived in the Highlands had she come alive again. Egan’s teasing, Jamie’s antics, and Angus and Gemma’s good-natured shouting matches warmed her heart and filled her with hope that her life could begin again.

  She threw herself into the Hogmanay preparations with enthusiasm, learning all she could about the customs of this country.

  “We should ask Baron Valentin to be the first-footer,” Jamie said one cold morning in the Great Hall as Zarabeth helped him and Dougal make garlands of evergreen branches tied with tartan ribbons.

  “The first-footer?” Zarabeth asked in curiosity.

  Dougal answered. “First man into the house after midnight on New Year’s Eve. Supposed to be a stranger, but everyone around here’s known each other forever. This year we’ll have a real foreigner. And the baron is dark-haired, so it’s better luck.”

  “Why is that?” Zarabeth tied a ribbon of MacDonald plaid around a green, liking as always to touch Egan’s colors.

  Jamie answered. “The worry about blond men goes back to when the Highlands were overrun with Norsemen. A dark man was all right—he was a Pict or a Celt, your neighbor. A blond or red-haired man was a raiding Norseman, and ye didn’t want him in your house, because he’d steal your cattle and kill ye.”

  “A good worry,” Zarabeth said, her eyes widening. “But that must have been hundreds of years ago. I haven’t noticed many Norsemen traipsing about the heather.”

  “Aye, but Scots have long memories.” Dougal nodded. “A dark-haired man is best. The baron will have to bring the right gifts, mind.”

  “I’ll ask Valentin if he’ll do it,” Zarabeth offered. The taciturn, keep-to-himself Valentin would be nonplussed, but she’d do her best to persuade him. “It could not be me, could it? It sounds rather fun.”

  “Not a woman,” Dougal said, sounding horrified. “That’s the worst luck of all.”

  Zarabeth raised her brows. “Rather insulting.”

  “’Tis tradition, is all,” Jamie said. “Nae meant to offend.”

  “Well, I would not want anyone to fall over in apoplexy if the first-footer is a woman,” Zarabeth said with good humor. “I withdraw my question.”

  “Good.” Jamie grinned at her. “Somethin’ else I’ve been meanin’ t’ ask ye.”

  “Oh?”

  Zarabeth had grown fond of Jamie, who always seemed to be incurring his uncle’s wrath. He would get into scrapes, mostly because of his own exuberance and youthful assumption that he was invulnerable. Zarabeth had wondered why he wasn’t away at school until Egan explained in exasperation that Jamie had been sent down from Eton for some disgrace. He was to attend Harrow when the Hilary term began.

  Jamie took a length of paper from his sporran and spread it across the table. “Since Uncle Egan won’t let me or Aunt Mary bring over any other ladies to get engaged to, I wondered if ye’d do it.”

  “Find eligible misses for Egan?” Zarabeth asked, pretending to be offhand, though the thought made her heart burn in her chest. “I could write to some families I know, if you like.”

  Jamie looked at her in surprise. “Nay, I didnae mean bring others here. I meant marry him yourself.”

  She started, dropping a ribbon. Dougal lost track of the bow he was tying and stared.

  Zarabeth cleared her suddenly dry throat. “But I’m still married.”

  Jamie waved that away. “That’s nae a bother. Uncle Egan says your divorce will be done soon, and in the eyes of your people ye won’t be ruined. Not that Uncle Egan would mind it even if ye were.”

  Zarabeth’s face heated. “Your neighbors might mind.”

  “Nay. You’re foreign,” Jamie said, as though that would excuse everything. “Ye’ll be unmarried soon and of a good age to wed Uncle Egan.”

  “And I am not Scots,” Zarabeth pointed out in a shaky voice. “Don’t your criteria for breaking the curse say the lady must be a Scotswoman?”

  Jamie shrugged. “We can get around that. But ye fit the rest. Good breeding—well, you were born a princess, weren’t ye? You’re young, pretty, of tolerable personality, and you’re rich, Egan says. Very plump in pocket.”

  “Indeed.” Zarabeth felt herself sinking.

  “And ye can do magic spells.”

  “A few.” She frowned. “What about Misses Barton and Templeton? They weren’t magical, surely?”

  “Mr. Templeton and Mrs. Barton each claimed they had a witch in their family, way back when folk around here were hanging witches,” Jamie said with confidence. “They did. Dougal and I looked in the records.”

  Zarabeth had no doubt Jamie had researched the backgrounds of the ladies with more care than he did his studies for school. “And this will not only save you from being laird but undo the curse?” she asked. “The one Egan wastes much breath insisting does not exist?”

  Dougal chuckled. “He doesn’t believe in ghosts either. He’s too practical.”

  “Tell me how the curse started.” Zarabeth gave a quick glance out the open door, though she knew Egan had gone down to the stables with Hamish and Angus. “Before your uncle comes back and shouts that there’s no such thing.”

  Dougal snorted, but Jamie shoved eagerly shoved aside his garlands.

  “’Tis a sad story about our great-great-great-great … I forgot how many greats … grandfather. His name was Ian MacDonald, and a beautiful but lowborn witch named Morag fell in love with him. She cast many spells for his safety and happiness, and he promised to marry her despite the scandal it would create. He was ensnared by her beauty.”

  “’Course he was,” Dougal said, nodding sagely. “She enchanted him.”

  “But Ian went away to Inverness and stayed there for two years. When he returned to Castle MacDonald, he brought a lovely lady with him. He’d married her, and wasn’t Morag crazy with rage?

 
; “While Ian had been gone, Morag had borne him a son, but Ian now denied he was the babe’s father, afraid his new wife would flee and tell her rich family her displeasure.” Jamie nodded at the sword hanging next to the fireplace. “Ian had left yon claymore with Morag to guard, and when he returned with the other lady, Morag cursed it and gave it back to him. He hung it up, none the wiser.

  “And so the curse fell upon the castle.” Jamie lowered his voice to dramatic tones. “Ill luck was to fall on Ian MacDonald and his descendants down through the years. The curse cannae be lifted until a laird of Clan MacDonald isn’t ashamed to marry a magical woman for love. Then the lady will help him break the sword and end the curse.”

  “And that’s the story,” Dougal finished.

  “’Tis nae the end,” Jamie insisted. “Didn’t Ian MacDonald drop down dead at Morag’s feet? The son his Inverness wife bore was sickly and died as well. Ian’s brother had to become laird and was stalked by ghosts all his life.”

  “None of that is true,” Dougal scoffed. “Ian MacDonald died in his bed of a fever five years later. His oldest son died of sickness ’tis true, but the younger son lived to become laird. It’s all in the records.”

  “All right, mebbe it was Ian’s son who became laird, but he was haunted by ghosts, I know that much. Gibbering headless corpses on the top gallery.”

  “Has no other laird and lady tried to break the sword?” Zarabeth interrupted. She’d learned that Jamie could go on with enthusiasm about ghosts if not stopped. “You said it’s been three hundred years since the curse began.”

  “Oh, aye,” Jamie said. “My great-grandfather and great-grandmother tried it, but it didn’t work. My grandfather was as skeptical about it as Uncle Egan, so my da told me.”

  An irritated growl rumbled through the room, and Jamie jumped, looking guilty.

  “Are ye fillin’ Zarabeth’s head with the curse nonsense?” Egan stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his broad chest, looking delectable in plaids and linen shirt. “’Tis naught but an old story, lad. Our luck has been good and bad, like anyone else’s, and not because of a bloody curse.”

  Jamie looked stubborn. “Zarabeth asked me to tell her because she knew you never would.”

  Zarabeth rose to meet the fury that was Egan. “Leave him be, Egan. I did insist.”

  “Ye should nae have. He’s usin’ it to try to get me married off so he can gallivant around Scotland and England without a care. He’s got t’ learn responsibility.”

  “He is only fifteen,” Zarabeth said, planting her hands on her hips. “There’s plenty of time for him to grow up.”

  “He’ll go to Oxford at seventeen,” Egan rumbled. “Not much time left to finish at his school, which he keeps being sent down from.”

  “Nae my fault,” Jamie said, leaping to his feet. “I only meant to set a little fire in the headmaster’s room. He had so many papers around that it spread before I knew what was happening.”

  Dougal put his hands over his face.

  “Ye need a thrashing,” Egan growled.

  “He needs someone to talk to,” Zarabeth said, lifting her chin.

  “I grew up in a houseful of Highlanders, lass,” Egan said. “A thrashing is best.”

  “I see.” Zarabeth sent him a frosty look. “Because it has made you so kind and compassionate.”

  Dougal made a choking noise. Jamie stared, open-mouthed, as Zarabeth turned and walked past Egan out the door.

  “Oh, no ye don’t, lass.”

  Egan was right behind her, his boots nearly scraping her heels. He caught her by the arm and spun her around before she could reach the stairs.

  “Did ye mean t’ come here and turn my house upside down?”

  His hand on her arm was hot and strong, the look in his eyes not quite matching his words. He was watchful, if anything, as though waiting to see what she’d say to him.

  “I did not mean to come here at all,” Zarabeth reminded him. “’Twas the assassins creeping through the palace in Nvengaria that decided my fate. Damien sent me, if you remember.”

  “Why did ye agree to come?” Egan scowled at her. “Ye might have asked to go elsewhere. I hear Virginia is quite civilized.”

  “I had little choice. Damien woke me in the middle of the night, put me on a horse, and bade me follow Baron Valentin as quick as I could. I didn’t even know where I was going.”

  “Aye, well.”

  Zarabeth expected him to continue the argument and was gearing up to do battle, but Egan suddenly ceased, his anger evaporating. If he’d even truly been angry. She wished so much that she could read past the deliberately blank expression on his face.

  “Shall we go for a walk, lass?” Egan asked, his voice quiet.

  “Isn’t it rather cold?” she countered, still caught in the unfinished argument.

  “Crisp and clear. We’ll wrap up warm.”

  “Why on earth do you want to go for a walk now?” Aggravating man. He’d done his best to avoid her every day while seeming to know exactly where she was and what she was doing.

  “I have something to show you.”

  He would not tell her what, of course. Zarabeth peered at Egan a moment longer, then sighed. “Very well,” she said, and went to get her wraps.

  A quarter of an hour later, she tramped with Egan down the hill from the castle and followed what had become one of Zarabeth’s favorite walks—winding down to the stream where they’d fished and along it to a glorious field of heather. The heather was buried under a thin layer of snow now, the stream running swiftly, black between its banks.

  They walked in silence, Egan guiding Zarabeth with a strong hand where the paths grew slippery. But instead of taking the way across the field of heather, he turned and climbed a steep hill in a direction she’d not gone before.

  “I think you enjoy not telling me where you’re taking me,” Zarabeth said as she panted behind him.

  “Save your breath for th’ climb. You’ll understand soon enough.”

  Zarabeth bit back her reply and concentrated on the bend and flex of Egan’s muscular legs, the sway of his kilt across his backside. She hadn’t had another chance to peek at him in his bath—he kept the door firmly closed now—but one night she’d risen to study him in his sleep.

  She’d softly opened her bedroom door to find him on his cot in the gallery. He’d lain on his side, head pillowed on his arm, the sagging blankets revealing his hard torso. He’d slept in a linen shirt open to the waist, and Zarabeth had stood for a long time, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest.

  She’d been sorely tempted to slide the blanket lower, to see what, if anything, he wore beneath. But Egan had shifted in his sleep, and Zarabeth had known with certainty that he’d wake if she so much as touched the blankets.

  She’d gone back to bed, her dreams frustrating.

  Egan crested the hill and waited for Zarabeth to catch up to him, then he stretched out his gloved hand and boosted her up the last few rocks.

  The top of the hill was flat and treeless. It sloped down to a bowl-shaped valley, and in the midst of this was a circle of tall, narrow stones.

  Zarabeth drew a sharp breath as the tingle of the stones touched her. They’d been erected at regular intervals, monoliths standing tall in their stately dance through the ages. The ground inside the circle, and the stones themselves, were untouched by snow.

  “The Ring of Dunmarran,” Egan said. “Come on then.”

  He led the way onward, heading straight for the circle.

  Chapter 12

  The Ring of Dunmarran

  Zarabeth caught up to Egan halfway down the hill and they walked the rest of the way side by side. The tingling Zarabeth had felt from the stones grew as they approached the circle, until she vibrated with warmth.

  “This is a magical place,” she said softly.

  “Dunmarran?” Egan shrugged. “I suppose. It’s stood for a couple thousand years—at least people think so. Roman records speak of it
as already old. No one knows what it was for, any more than they understand the other circles in Britain.”

  It was an ancient place, with the magic of eons soaked into it. Zarabeth felt the weight of centuries past as she stepped inside the snow-less circle. Whatever forgotten gods the stones had been erected to honor, she didn’t know, but she sensed that this site had been holy.

  Zarabeth looked around in wonder. “That is why there is no snow here when there should be. The circle has a presence all its own.”

  “Mayhap,” Egan said behind her, not sounding convinced. “I think there’s a hot spring below us, deep underground, that melts the snow on the surface. That’s likely why the stones are here, to mark the old spring.”

  The tingle Zarabeth sensed came from something far stronger than boiling mineral springs. “Don’t you believe in anything, Egan?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

  “Aye, I do.”

  He spoke so quietly that Zarabeth swung around. Egan stood a step behind her, his tall body blocking the wind.

  “I have something t’ tell ye, lass.”

  His expression was grim, his eyes dark. Zarabeth felt a prick of dread. “What is it?”

  The breeze tugged Egan’s kilt. His brown hair had escaped its queue, and was now wild and curling around his face. If she’d come upon him here, not knowing him, she’d take him for an ancient Scot come to work magic in his stone circle.

  “I had a message from Damien,” Egan said. “Ye know Damien has a mage who has crafted a way to send messages by magic.”

  Zarabeth did know—Damien had explained about the spell that let him write a letter on a sheet of paper, and that writing would then appear on paper on a desk in Egan’s castle.

  “That’s why I came to find ye,” Egan said, his voice subdued. “I had a letter this afternoon from Damien. He says your divorce is final. Ye are a free woman.”

  Free.

  Zarabeth felt herself falling, but when she looked at the ground, she was still standing upright. She blinked in a daze, waiting for the world to right itself, but it continued to tilt.