The Cursed Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  He chuckled. It hurt. “Yes, ma'am.”

  She shot him a look. “And don't get cheeky, either. I'm your physician – self-appointed, but resolved. And I require your utter cooperation in matters of healing.”

  “I accede to your every whim.”

  She smiled at him. Her eyes were soft, red lips damp and parted. “Oh, Dougal,” she said.

  “What?”

  “This is a mess, isn't it?”

  He sighed. He knew what she meant. Them. The way they loved. The fact that they knew the deepest longings of each other’s souls and yet were kept so apart.

  “You know,” he said softly, his hand covering hers. “I have a piece of land in my own name. My father signed it to me when I came of age. It's near his estate. Perhaps we could go there, and...and just stay. No one would even know.” They would find them, eventually, that was clear. However, Dougal did not want to think of that.

  “Oh, Dougal.”

  Dougal sighed. He knew what she meant. Knew why she frowned so at him, why she did not reply and why she looked so sad. He knew it was impossible. Yet, part of him longed to believe it. Part of him ached to do as he suggested. Just go. Take her with him and run. Away from all of this. It was too dark, too involved for him to fathom. He could not resolve this. Perhaps no one could.

  Yet, he knew he had to try.

  “The man they caught,” Dougal said slowly. She looked up.

  “Stop it,” she said firmly. “I told you to stop thinking about anything but being well. Don't you listen?”

  He laughed. It tore at the edges of his wound and he grimaced painfully.

  “We have to solve this,” Dougal said softly. “If we do, then...then maybe we really can just go. Walk away. Leave the place to my father to oversee. Or Alexander. I want no part of it.”

  Joanna frowned. “We should solve this,” she agreed. “I heard the men. They said...they were saying it was the ghost.”

  He laughed. “Pretty solid ghost, that.”

  “Not that,” she said, flipping a hand at him. “They said it appeared. Sanctioned this.”

  “Oh.” Douglas felt his heart sink. All he needed was them saying his demise was elected by the dead earl. The whole castle would hate him.

  “Well, stop thinking on this,” Joanna said firmly. “Here. This is supposed to dull the pain. Drink it. Sleep. I will ask some questions of my own, try and find some clues.”

  He let out a ragged breath. He should not impose on her, should not let her do this. She had no reason to wear herself out on this problem. It was his problem, after all, his to solve.

  “Joanna...”

  “Drink. And trust me.”

  Dougal sighed. He would drink. He did trust her. And he would sleep.

  “Joanna...?”

  She turned. She had stood, lifting her hair and turning it over one shoulder. “What?”

  “If I sleep...”

  “I've asked the guards to stand by your door all night,” Joanna said firmly. “And I'm staying here.”

  “What?” He stared at her. For her to be in here alone was shocking enough, taboo in all cases. However, for her to stay the night...

  She gave him an exasperated stare. “I'll sleep in the chair. You're wounded and I think all would agree probably too worn out for anything untoward, so drink.”

  Dougal felt a sting of surprise. His manhood being questioned hurt his pride. Yes, he might be lying here with three stab wounds in him. Nevertheless, if she was here, a little closer, in his arms, he was sure he could seize the moment. So to speak. He frowned.

  She watched him over the rim of the cup, eyes solemn.

  “Drink.”

  He drank. The concoction was bitter, vile. Hot. He choked and spluttered. “What is this?”

  “It's a tea of Valerian. Yes, it tastes horrible. There's clove, for the pain, and spikenard. Drink all of it.”

  Dougal winced. There was still some dark liquid in the cup. He lifted it and drained it, coughing on the bitterness. He lay back on the pillows.

  Before he thought about it, his vision was starting to blur. He blinked at her. He felt as if he was riding through trees, the wind whistling past his ears, trees rushing past him. He tried to focus but his vision swam.

  “Joanna,” he said. Her chair was beside his bed now, the cup in her long fingers as she replaced it on the table by his bed. He gripped her hand.

  “Sleep, dearest. I'm here, watching over you.”

  He felt a sudden wellspring of love growing in his chest. It was a beautiful feeling, as if a light had been let into his chest. He smiled up at her.

  “...love you,” he murmured.

  He lost focus then, his lids dropping over his gaze. He moved down on the under sheet, dropping into sleep. The last thing he heard was a whisper, which could have been his words, said back to him, and the gentle hushing sound of someone crying.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEATH IN THE SHADOWS

  DEATH IN THE SHADOWS

  The fire crackled, a counterpoint to the sound of Dougal's breathing. Joanna felt her own eyelids droop. She wiped a hand down her face, feeling her tear-stained cheeks and knowing her eyes would be swollen the next day. She couldn't help it.

  He loved her. She loved him. They had as deep a bond as any she had witnessed before, and no chance of expressing that.

  “I love him.”

  She said it aloud, here in a room of sleep and silence. Here, it was safe to say what she had always known.

  She loved him. She wanted him. How, though, could she follow the inclination of her heart in this?

  Mother. Alina. Amice and Brodgar and Conn. Alf and Leona. Auntie Chrissie. Father.

  Her mind filled with their names, a silent chorus. She could not leave them all behind. Their faces swam before her in the silence and she knew she could not simply disappear. Could not leave them with no word. They would mourn her and she them and the wound would never heal within her.

  She turned to look at Dougal. Asleep, even with the frown of pain still tense on his brow, he was handsome. She reached up a hand, wishing she could touch him. His skin was so soft, his face relaxed in sleep. His mouth, full and tender, ached for kisses.

  I have never seen such a handsome man in all my life.

  Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. Seeing him here, asleep, was a delicious thing. So vulnerable, his keen eyes shut in rest. She wanted to stroke his soft hair. To lie beside him. To never leave.

  She felt her hand move to stroke his face, and then forced it to rest in her lap. Looked at the palm. The long, tapered fingers. She thought of how he kissed them, her heart thudding in her chest. It felt so wonderful, his touch on her hand, his lips on her fingers...

  “Stop it,” she whispered aloud. She felt angry with herself. She could not let her mind do this, play tricks on her like this. She was here with a job to do. To find a way through this darkness and set the place to rights.

  As it happened, her family was probably worrying about her. They had sent her here as an envoy for the wake. Not to stay on and solve the mystery. Her aunt Alina would probably guess there were some problems that needed her presence. Alina had heard her dream from all those years before, and had probably guessed the castle was Lochlann, the man Brien's heir.

  I wish she could talk to me now.

  Of all the people who could help her see through this mire of darkness, her aunt could help her.

  Joanna sighed, leaned back. Looked at the ceiling. Beams crossed there, the oak wood dark, stained and cracked with heat, cold, and weathering. She thought about the alternatives. The length of the trip home to Dunkeld. Alone.

  “I should go,” she whispered. It made a kind of sense. If she went back, she could speak to Alina. Tell her mother something of their plight. Let her father know his ally needed assistance. With troops here, loyal to Dougal and her father, perhaps this mistrust would somehow disappear.

  It seemed a wan hope, she knew. If Dougal was so hated �
� and with two attempts on his life in as many days, it was clear that he was so – the presence of her father's loyal men would probably make things worse. Brodgar, her little brother, was somewhere in line to the succession, and seeing men of Dunkeld here, loyal to her name, would remind folk about him.

  I don't want that. Dougal should have it.

  It was strange what a strong conviction she felt. It was his – he was the grandson of the earl, closer to the succession than Brodgar, whose claim came less directly. However, it was not that alone that colored her thoughts. It was Dougal himself. She felt he matched the place.

  Lochlann was strong, craggy, unbowed. It was sometimes a frightening place, a little stark and sparse, unwelcoming. Nevertheless, it endured.

  Dougal is like that.

  He, too, was harsh, pared down, curt. He did not speak soft words lightly, did not care much for lighthearted things. However, he was deep. Sincere. Strong as the rocks that held the fortress high above the valley. He would endure.

  He would be good for the place.

  If Joanna had picked the lord of Lochlann herself, out of a selection of all the local gentry, she was sure she would have chosen him. She felt the castle would approve, too.

  This ghost is no ghost. I know it.

  She shivered, thinking about it. The way Bet had described it had been terrifying. The men's descriptions of it from its most recent appearance were less detailed, though Joanna was left with the impression of the same tall, pale man with the cold stare. She decided to visit the great hall the next morning. Breakfast with the men there. Talk to them and ask them what they thought. What the ghost looked like and what it meant to them.

  They would trust her. She had been part of the life of the castle since being a small child. They knew her.

  Joanna felt her eyelids grow heavy. She was tired. Exhausted in body and in mind, both from the work and from the worrying. The weight of all the longing she fought, daily, while she was here didn't help either.

  I should go away for a few days. Go home awhile. Tell Alina what has happened here now.

  She closed her eyes, her sight swimming. She didn't want to sleep, at least not heavily. She pinched her leg, trying to fight to keep her eyes open. She didn't want to rest...

  Her last thought before she lost herself in the dark hallways of her dreaming was that she had to stay awake.

  Footsteps.

  Joanna stirred. Her dreams had been dark, of ghosts in halls. She had been walking through cobwebs, following a spectral form. Hearing footsteps.

  She shook herself. There was the sound again. It was not in her dream, she was awake. Her mind flowed back to the present, bringing with it memory. She was here in Dougal's chamber, keeping vigilant.

  There were footsteps coming down the hall.

  Joanna froze. Her first thought was to shout. Alert the guards, who might well have dozed as she had. Scream. Run.

  She tensed. She had to be quiet. Had to stay here.

  Sinking back into the chair, she felt fear shudder through her. She closed her eyes, and then opened them.

  Something was moving the door handle.

  It rattled, and then went still.

  Joanna's blood stopped. She felt like she had turned to ice. She couldn't move. Stiff with terror, pressed back against the plaid draped chair back, she watched.

  The door slipped open. An arm curved round it.

  Moving like greased satin, a shadow slid into the room.

  Joanna did scream. She couldn't hold it back.

  Several things happened at once.

  The shadow launched itself towards her, making for the bed. She screamed again and lashed out. There was a clatter in the hallway and someone shouted. The guards, she thought distantly. Her focus was all on the form before her. The shout had come from behind her.

  The form cursed and kicked at her, striking for her shins. She felt herself fall back and caught herself on the wall. She could not afford to slip. Could not be at a lower height as he raised the knife. As it moved in a steady, glittering arc towards her chest.

  “No!”

  A roar shattered the scuffling sounds in the room. Something launched upright from the bed.

  “Dougal,” Joanna said, quite clearly.

  She was looking into the face of her attacker, paused for a moment as the shout grabbed his attention, turning round.

  “Francois?” she called, horrified.

  Then the figure on the bed hauled him back and her vision blurred.

  She felt her knees give way below her, head falling back against the wall. She fell.

  Then there was only silence. Silence and complete and utter darkness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RECOVERY

  RECOVERY

  Joanna. No. Not her. No!

  Dougal fought up through the lethargy, hearing a frightened shout. His eyes opened, and he found himself looking at a dark shape. He was in the scene of a nightmare.

  He heard Joanna cry out, heard the guards. However, the man had a blade in his hand and he saw it rise, and then begin its quick descent.

  “No!” he roared.

  He did not think of his injuries. Did not stop to wonder what he could actually do, with an arm bandaged and two wounds in his chest, liable to bleed if he moved. He had to move.

  “Joanna!”

  He launched himself at the figure, saw it pause. Grabbed around the man's chest and hauled him back with all his strength. They fell back onto the bed, Dougal hissing as the impact tore through his wounds, the one beneath his arm wet and sticky again.

  He grappled with the man. He was twisting, raising the knife in his hand again. Dougal roared again, struggling up, grabbing at the flowing tunic he wore, pulling on it, seeking to throw him off balance, to make him pause, to set his aim off course.

  I cannot survive another strike.

  He watched it coming, sat, transfixed with horror, as the knife moved with a fluid slowness borne of his own shock. Watched as it aimed for his midriff, stabbing down. He knew that was a killing blow and he tried to roll away, but his body was numb and his legs were stiff and his mind could not command his body.

  His last thought was Joanna.

  Shouts. Cries, cursing, and exclaiming. Movement. The room was full of chaos, suddenly, the flash of silver erupting from four places at once.

  His assailant snarled, tried to turn, to strike backwards. He was caught and held.

  Dougal, still dazed with the horror that had just happened, watched as the man was hauled off and stood between five guards. They looked, if anything, strangely self-satisfied.

  “Take him downstairs,” Dougal commanded, for the third time in four days. He sighed. All the strength drained from him. He noted one of the guards, the one who had first grabbed at his attacker, was the man he had sparred with that afternoon – the one he had almost killed, and then complimented.

  “And well done,” he said, his voice empty of the warmth he wanted to add to the words. “That was an excellent maneuver.”

  They all glowed. They smiled. His newfound friend bit his cheeks, trying not to grin as freely as the rest.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said stiffly.

  “Aye,” another man called.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dougal lay on the bed, listening as the men marched downstairs. His eyes moved instantly to the chair.

  “Joanna?”

  He shouted it and, suddenly moved with fresh energy, he rolled and tried to stand. She was there, on the floor.

  “Help!” he shouted.

  Two of the guards came back. One of them was his friend. He nodded to Joanna.

  “Help me lift her? On the bed. Gently, mind you!”

  The men bent down, brisk and efficient, and lifted her. Her head lolled. Douglas was suddenly aware of a knife grip of fear in his heart.

  “Is she well? Is she hurt?” He sat down heavily beside her body, feeling over her arms, her chest, her belly. She seemed to be dry, no
blood flowing down the dark wool of her gown. He nodded to the men.

  “Call Mrs. Kine from the kitchen, please,” he said. “I need help with this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dougal sat beside Joanna, heart pounding with renewed fear. If she was not bleeding, had she hit her head? Broken something, in her fall? Fractures of the skull were funny things, he knew. A person could stay like this, alive but unmoving, and then drift away to death without a sign.

  “Joanna,” he said firmly. “You will not leave. You will not die. I forbid it. Come back? Please...”

  He found himself lifting her, cradling her to his chest. He knew he was weeping, then, and did not care. All he cared about, all he had ever wanted, ever admired, lay here. He would not let her die!

  She could not.

  She made a sound, then, a deep sigh. She moved her face, eyebrows first, then eyelids, fluttering gently.

  “Joanna!”

  “Uh...” she moaned, twisting, her face suddenly creased to a frown of pain.

  “Joanna!” He shouted it, panicked. She rolled over onto her side, convulsing.

  “My lord?”

  He looked toward the door, suddenly feeling a flood of relief course in his veins.

  “Mrs. Kine!” he smiled at the older woman, whose first name he heard Joanna use but had forgotten somehow. “I need your help. Joanna is...”

  “Aye, she fainted, poor thing,” Mrs. Kine said tenderly. She stood back, watching as Joanna convulsed again. A thin stream of mucous appeared on her lips and she retched again, dryly, staggering to her knees. She gasped.

  “Poor mite, she's been working too hard. Overtired herself.” Mrs. Kine gave him a hard look, clearly holding him responsible. Douglas, feeling himself suddenly redundant, sat heavily in the chair Joanna had used.

  “There, there,” Mrs. Kine was saying. She rubbed Joanna's back as she gasped, retched, and moaned. “Keep on at it. It'll hurt. But best get it all out now.” She glanced at Dougal, an apology, as Joanna coughed mucous onto the coverlet and whimpered in sudden pain.