The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  “Count ’em as ye will, lass, Ronnie would have given us an alliance with Carlisle. He’s naught but a daughter left, and yer brother Tom is my heir and will marry elsewhere.” Her da ran a hand through his hair. “Carlisle willnae consider yer wee brother, Elliott.”

  “Elliott is a good lad.” Rosaline protested loyally.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “He’s fey.”

  “Och, he has one green eye and one blue, ’tis all. There’s naught wrong with the lad.”

  “And he’s a sight too good with animals—always has them eating out of his hand. Yer ma believes he’s fey.”

  “Stepmither,” Rosaline murmured. “And Elliott isnae fey nae more than I am.”

  Her da’s brows arched. “Ye’ve lost four potential husbands.”

  “Three.”

  “What happened to this one, lass?”

  Remorse streaked through her. She hadn’t wished to marry James. And she hadn’t exactly wished him to die. Though she was certain he would—as previous experience had led her to believe—so she didn’t object nearly so much to the betrothal as she would have otherwise. She hadn’t liked James. Did this make her responsible for his death?

  Nae. ’Twas the curse.

  “Scottish reivers attacked Friar’s Hill and he was killed in the kerfuffle. His ma and da dinnae want me after he died.” She twisted a forefinger in the cloth of her skirt. “I wanted to come home.”

  “Yer ma willnae be pleased.”

  “Stepmither,” she repeated stubbornly.

  “Aye, yer stepmither, though she’s treated ye like a daughter these past fifteen years.”

  Rosaline glanced away. Ava had treated her like a daughter for exactly three months. One month before she wed Chief Johnstone of Millburn, and until the day, two months after the wedding, when she announced she was breeding. Rosaline had been little more than an unwelcome intrusion since.

  “Tell her not to worry.” Rosaline sighed. “I willnae stand in the way of my sisters’ marriages, though Alison is scarcely old enough to wed, and the twins are two years younger.”

  “They’re old enough to consider when making alliances, as ye well know.”

  Rosaline laughed. “They’re pretty enough. Unless Ava thinks to hold out for a crown, they will each marry well.”

  Her da’s eyes softened and the hard lines at the corners of his mouth disappeared. “Dinnae sound discouraged, lass. Ye are the prettiest of the lot, though I’ll thank ye not to repeat it to the flock of twittering lasses I sired. Ye have the look of yer ma.”

  Memories of her sweet ma flashed through Rosaline’s head. “She was beautiful. I look naught like her.”

  “Ye have her bright gold hair, eyes the color of violets with that far-away look. And her lilty manner. Always such a cheerful lass.”

  “Ye loved her.”

  Her da’s scowl returned. “’Twas a good match.” His gruff tone could not hide the regret in his voice. Rosaline knew better than to push him. Her ma had died with her stillborn child when Rosaline was three, and her da had mourned her for a solid year before giving into pressure to remarry. She would not reopen his wounds further. She stepped closer and gently kissed his weathered cheek.

  His gaze dropped to a parchment laying on his desk and he fluttered his fingers. “Awa’ with ye. Ye are welcome here, though I daresay we’ll have tae look far for a lad who doesnae believe ye cursed. James was our last likely prospect and now he’s gone same as t’others.” He shook his head, his sigh of resignation failing to dampen Rosaline’s spirits overmuch.

  Relieved her da had not been as cross as she’d feared, Rosaline tucked a bread crumb beneath the cushion to appease the house faerie, then strode jauntily from the room. No one would offer for her now, she was certain. No matter she was Chief Johnstone’s eldest daughter and the man she married would gain a strong alliance. ’Twas known none betrothed to her had lived to join her at the altar. She was cursed.

  Ava’s shrill cry slowed Rosaline’s step. Trepidation replaced the elation of the interview with her father. Ava bore down on her like a falcon sighting its prey. Rosaline bit her lip to keep from fleeing to the opposite end of the keep.

  “There you are,” Ava said with a sniff, as though affronted. She glided to a stop before Rosaline and folded her hands against her skirt. “I’m certain yer father has told ye how inconvenient yer arrival is.”

  Rosaline’s teeth clicked shut against dismay. She swallowed and drew a calming breath.

  “Nae. He is glad to see me.” She congratulated herself for not stressing the fact her da was much happier to see her than Ava clearly was.

  Ava’s lips thinned. “Ye no longer have a room here. ’Twas ridiculous to leave a chamber empty, and Arabel and Ainslie now occupy the room.” Her chin drifted up. “They needed the space.”

  Shock staggered her. Yet, how could she argue? Ava was in charge of the entire keep, the three girls had shared a room for years—and Rosaline should have married and not returned. She squared her shoulders.

  “Where do ye suggest I sleep?”

  Her stepmother’s blue eyes flashed. “If ’twere my choice, ye would remain here only long enough to acquire another suitor.” She gave a short nod. “Ye may sleep in a corner of the twins’ room. I’m certain ye remember how to use a needle? I’ll have Tessa find ye a length of wool and ye can make a mattress. Stuff it with whatever ye will. The rushes are drying and would make a suitable choice.”

  Rosaline’s heart sank at the memory of the down-filled mattress she’d enjoyed as a child. Apparently, the twins slept on it now.

  “Aye. I willnae take up much space.”

  “Nor will ye hinder yer sisters. If they have need of assistance, ye will provide it.”

  A maid? For the empty-headed twits? Not in this lifetime. Rage burned inside Rosaline, though she was careful to force a smile.

  “Of course. I will be more than happy to help whenever I’m about.”

  Ava’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak, the door to the laird’s solar opened and her da stepped into the hallway. Ava patted her hair and flashed the chief a brilliant smile.

  “Just seeing to dear Rosaline’s comfort,” she trilled. Thomas’ gaze slid from Ava to Rosaline. Ava grabbed Rosaline’s arm and tucked it against her side, pulling Rosaline close.

  “Come along. We’ll get yer things settled. I’m certain ye need yer rest. I cannae imagine what a journey ye’ve had!”

  Rosaline rolled her eyes and allowed herself to be towed along in her stepmother’s wake. Private rooms were scarce in the keep, and sharing space with the twins was better than sleeping in the hall. Barely.

  Two weeks later, 1235

  South of the Scottish Border

  Frost rimed the dry leaves hanging from the branches and crackled underfoot as Walter and his men mounted their horses for the second half of their journey. The trip had been pleasant enough. Their horses enjoyed the brisk day, blowing great wafts of steamed air as they pranced along the road. He’d been tempted to spend the night north of Carlisle, but the tenor of the Scottish Border was strung tight as a fiddle in King Henry’s court, and hurrying toward their objective seemed the wiser plan.

  A man with shocking red hair settled his horse next to Walter’s. “Ye never told me why the Saint sent ye to head this commission. I’d have thought he would keep ye close as ye are the captain of his guard.”

  “Belwyck Castle is in good hands,” Walter demurred. He wasn’t inclined to tell Eadric the entire truth, even if he was the closest to a friend he had since Sir Simon de Bretteby had been given lordship of North Hall. Simon’s advancement had secured Walter’s rise in the ranks at Belwyck Castle, though Walter often wondered if he was the best knight for the job.

  “Of course it is. The Saint doesn’t surround himself with fools. However, this was a volunteer assignment. For what reason would ye freely cross into the Debatable Lands?”

  “Peace along the border.” There. That sounded good, per
haps even morally upright, as befitted a knight who’d spent his years under the Saint’s tutelage.

  Eadric didn’t reply. His head bobbed up and down, but Walter suspected it was more a response to his straight-shouldered nag’s choppy gait than in agreement with Walter’s reply.

  The horses’ hooves shredded the crisp leaves into aromatic tatters on the hard-packed ground. Autumn had arrived. Walter rolled his shoulders, settling his surcoat about his frame against the breeze that ruffled the banners at the head of the column. Sunlight glinted on the armor, weapons, and metal bits of harness on the horses. The blatant show of strength should keep at least the fainter-hearted Scots from considering an attack on his men, but getting to Chief Johnstone’s keep without tempting more experienced reivers was Walter’s intent.

  His gaze scanned the rolling landscape dotted with trees and boulders, perfect places for concealment. The knights were silent, no doubt as watchful as he. A bird whistled a short distance ahead, answered by another, faint on the breeze.

  At least he hoped it was a bird. Just as likely a damned Scot signaling to his comrades. What idiot would consider attacking heavily armed knights? There were perhaps a few lack-wits on either side of the border, and it would pay to remain cautious.

  “Chief Johnstone is a powerful man.”

  Eadric’s voice drifted upward, not truly a question but more a hopeful ploy to entice Walter to reveal more. Walter mulled this over. It was a serious step to cross into Scotland on behalf of the Saint. Known as the Scourge of the Western Marches, he was feared by the lawless, both English and Scots. Walter had ridden with the Saint—who now bore the title Lord de Wylde—and helped maintain an uneasy peace in years past, but now his liege lord wanted an ally. A powerful one. And it was Walter’s sworn charge to give it to him.

  “Laird Johnstone doesn’t steal from neighboring clans. But he takes pleasure in fighting the English when the opportunity arises,” Eadric added.

  Walter mulled this over as well. So far, Eadric was completely accurate in his information.

  “Aye.”

  Eadric turned in his saddle, a hand propped on his thigh. “Ye are a man of few words, Walter de Ellerton. I don’t know why the Saint chose ye to head this commission.”

  Walter shrugged. “I have ye if flowery words are needed.”

  Eadric laughed. “Aye. ’Tis true. My silver tongue is always available to get us out of trouble.”

  Walter ventured a very small smile. “I’ve heard it said your tongue is as likely to create trouble as solve it.”

  A red flush crept up Eadric’s neck, vivid against his fair skin. “Listening to women’s natterings?” He shrugged, his grin returning. “’Tis likely they are true, for I’ve a fair reputation among the sweeter sex.”

  Walter fell silent, dismissing Eadric’s affable boasts, caught up once again in his musings as his horse picked its way over the road into Springfield and across the Scottish Border.

  His decision to volunteer to lead the Saint’s men and cement a bond between Chief Johnstone and Lord de Wylde had its roots in the greater good. And in the knowledge the lass who’d been a servant in Simon de Bretteby’s hall was Laird Johnstone’s eldest daughter.

  Rosaline. Yes, there was also the matter of the girl. Her memory lingered, stirring his desire to take a wife. It was regrettable the young man she’d been betrothed to had died. How long would she remain in mourning? When would her father pledge her to another?

  What would it take to convince Chief Johnstone to consider marrying his daughter to an English knight?

  Chapter Two

  “Are ye truly cursed?” Elliott’s dark red hair stuck out in clumps about his head, a bit of hay bobbing over his ear as he gently settled the injured bird in his hand into one of the nests in the old doocot behind the keep. A merlin falcon watched his moves with interest, her ruffled wing and two-toed foot marking her as a permanent guest in the makeshift shed.

  Rosaline stroked the merlin’s head. Downy feathers protruded at jaunty angles over the raptor’s bent wing. They would never lay flat again, but Rosaline saw true beauty in the bird’s undaunted spirit. She did not know what grievous injury had befallen the merlin, but it had taken weeks of dedicated care to bring her back from the brink of death. It had pained her to leave the bird behind when she’d departed for Friar’s Hill, but she’d trusted Elliott to care for the bird, and his attention was obvious in the healthy sheen to the feathers and the new confidence in the creature’s movements.

  Elliott may have had the care of the merlin these past months, but the bird had not forgotten Rosaline. She leaned into the caress of Rosaline’s fingers and adjusted her grip on her perch.

  “Some may believe so.” Rosaline sighed. “James was the third to die after signing the betrothal contract.”

  Fourth. She heard her father’s correction in her head. Third. She did not want to take responsibility for her childhood friend Ronnie’s death.

  “Did ye nae leave out bread and cream?” Elliott asked. “Though some faeries prefer cake. Or honey. A house brownie could have protected ye from being cursed. Again.”

  “Dinnae spout faerie lore to me when ’twas I who taught it to ye, wee lad,” Rosaline scolded lightly. “Of course I made certain there was cream and bread available every night.” She frowned. “But James’ parents were dour and stingy. I dinnae think all the cake in Scotland would have enticed the brownies into their home.”

  And I was cursed long before I met James. But she kept her words to herself.

  “Tell me why ye changed my bird’s name to Fachan,” she demanded instead.

  Elliott cocked his head and studied the merlin. “She’s odd-lookin’, her feathers all skweegie like they are, and her poor foot. Ye know the fachan faerie appears whimsical but has a nasty disposition. Yer lass nearly took my finger, she was that distrait after ye left.”

  He sent Rosaline a cheeky grin. “’Twas either Fachan or wee bitch.”

  Rosaline’s eyebrows shot upward. “Ye are too young to be spoutin’ such language, Elliott. Ava would skelp ye for certain.”

  “Wait ’til ye see Fachan hunt.” The lad’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  Rosaline grinned. “Ye’re an uncommon lad, for certain. When I left ye last fall, I would have sworn the merlin wouldnae fly again.”

  “I’m glad ye’re home.” Elliott’s eyes, one blue, the other green, sparkled. Tears? Rosaline hugged his shoulders. Still wiry and thin, he’d shot upward in height whilst she’d been gone. He wouldn’t be her little brother much longer.

  “I’m glad, too. I’ve missed ye, ye wee skunner.”

  Fachan gave a shrill, chattering call. Her eyes glittered and she stretched her wings, spreading the feathers as if to ready them for a downstroke of air. Rosaline was happy to note the bird’s left wing, broken and ill-aligned before Rosaline had found her, appeared sturdy enough for flight.

  “Toss her a treat,” Rosaline suggested, hiding a shudder when Elliott casually drew a small dead mouse from a pouch at his belt and flipped it to the merlin. With the ease of long practice, the furry morsel flew slightly in front of Fachan and she snatched it triumphantly out of the air. Anchoring it to her perch with the two claws of her left foot, she devoured it in two quick bites.

  A scullery lad appeared in the doorway.

  Rosaline glanced up. “Aye?”

  “Yer da wishes to speak with ye.”

  Fachan flapped her wings and shrieked. The lad disappeared as if by magic.

  Rosaline patted Elliott’s shoulder. “I’ll see ye at supper.” She aimed a pointed look at her brother. “Wash yer hands and comb yer hair before ye come to the table.”

  Elliott nodded. “Rose? I dinnae believe ye’re cursed. Ye’ll find a husband. And he’ll be a lucky man to have ye.”

  A lump caught in Rosaline’s throat. “Dinnae forget to leave bread and milk on the doocot steps tonight. To protect the birds.” She sent him the best grin she could manage, then hurried out the do
or. His loyal words twisted her heart. Her da was right. They’d have to look far to find someone who hadn’t heard of her curse.

  She found her da in his solar, studying a single sheet of parchment, its top and bottom edges curled as if it had recently been tightly rolled.

  “Tell me what ye learned of the Englishmen at North Hall.” Her da leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze on Rosaline. Not caring to reminisce on her time in Friar’s Hill as it brought up the reminder she was once again without a prospective husband, she paced the floor, a one-shouldered shrug her only answer. Reaching the far wall, she pivoted and strode the opposite direction. Her da waved toward the long wooden chest beneath the window.

  “Settle, lass. I’ll get a great gaupin in me neck watchin’ ye stride back and forth. Ye’ll wear a rut in me floor if ye keep it up.”

  With a sigh, Rosaline dropped gracelessly onto the thick cushion atop the chest. The padded seat had always been one of her favorite spots, a place away from her sisters and brothers, chores, and other burdens of childhood. Solid rock pillars rose floor to ceiling on either side of the window, creating a small nook where she’d taught herself to read and dreamed up endless stories of faeries and other enchanted beings to entertain Elliott. Though her da had known of her hiding spot, she couldn’t remember a time he’d ever given her away.

  He shifted in his seat. “There’s a gey wheen of knights headed this way, and I need tae know about them. This Lord de Wylde seems a sight cannier than his two older brothers, God rot their souls.”

  He flicked a forefinger across the parchment on his desk and it rolled gently back and forth. “Lord de Wylde wants an alliance.”

  Rosaline studied her sire. His brooding silence told her naught as he had little more than contempt for his English neighbors to the south.

  “What does de Wylde ask?”

  “He currently holds the Maxwell bastard’s keep, Eaglesmuir. ’Tis well north of the border, and he’s smart enough tae realize maintaining it will be a problem for him.”

  His eyes glittered. “A wee English lord surrounded by Scots. He wishes to exchange the keep—with his blessing—for a promise of alliance. What I wish tae know, Daughter, is, what kind of man am I dealing with? Ye spent the better part of six months on his doorstep. What is to keep me from simply taking Eaglesmuir for myself—and alliance with the English be damned?”