The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Since he’d received the plea for help from Laurence, he’d been overwhelmed by guilt. He’d dallied over-long at Middleburn Castle and left the men at Eaglesmuir under-defended.

  And now his guilt doubled.

  I should not have spoken to her as I did.

  Would she accept his apology?

  Pleasure lit her eyes. Her lips, however, tilted slightly downward, giving her a suspicious, speculative look. Walter was certain he wasn’t going to like what he had to do. He settled his helm upon the bare planks of the table and shifted his chain mail with a shrug of his shoulders. He would do what had to be done.

  Rosaline rose to her feet, brushing her fingertips against her skirt. He took her hand and lifted her fingers for a brief kiss. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. Walter’s heart pounded. Borrowing a gesture Simon de Bretteby perfected long ago to attract the ladies—and had presumably ceased practicing now he was married—Walter arched a brow, a corner of his mouth twitching upward, and inclined his head toward the enormous hearth where they could have some measure of privacy.

  Rosaline acquiesced with a nod and they strolled across the room as if they were in total accord. Walter halted and tucked Rosaline’s hand against his chest, enclosing it gently in his fist to avoid bruising it against the links of steel. She placed her other hand atop his. Warmth flowed through him.

  “Are ye well?”

  “Aye. I’ve taken no harm from sitting amongst the English here.”

  “I meant, are we . . . are ye . . . .”

  “Am I angry with ye?” Her face broke into a wide grin. “Aye. But ’tis obvious it matters to ye, and that helps.”

  Walter stared at her in some confusion. It was difficult to combine her sweet smile with the admission she was angry with him. She laughed softly and Walter felt as if he’d missed something important.

  Rosaline sighed. “Tell me, how fares Eaglesmuir? Is it secure, now ye have arrived?”

  Relief swept through him. It was so much easier discussing battle tactics than his betrothed’s hurt feelings.

  “Sir Laurence has done his best to protect the keep against a band of raiding Scots, though the gap in the wall has been a problem. He had a cheval-de-frise erected to fill the space, though that is only a temporary measure.”

  “What is a cheval-de-frise?”

  “In this instance, a long center pole with wooden spikes attached to it and placed across the gap.”

  “Och, quite a deterrent, then.” Rosaline nodded.

  “A partial deterrent, yes. The trench dug a few feet away and filled with a mixture that will burn regardless of the weather, is added protection.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Walter tilted his head, surprised. “Glad? That we fight the Scots?”

  Rosaline’s lips thinned. “The Scots, likely Maxwells, attempted to take Elliott’s home. Once he is established here, ’twill be easier. I thank ye for yer help.”

  Walter was at a loss to answer. You’re welcome sounded a bit pompous as he’d done nothing as yet to earn her thanks except arrive at Eaglesmuir and chide her for following. What he wanted to do was kiss her until she smiled again. The two thoughts confused him.

  “I am pledged to make this alliance a reality.” The words bumbled stiffly from his lips.

  She smiled—and kissed his cheek. His heart thudded in his chest.

  “Ye are an honorable man, Sir Walter. But this can be discussed anywhere. Why did ye bring me here away from the others?”

  She kissed me. For a moment Walter lost focus, then he realized she’d asked a question.

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For thinking me a useless child?” Her eyebrows rose in a chiding manner.

  “Ye are not a child. And I do not think ye are useless. However, I feel I must protect ye, and a woman doesn’t belong in battle.”

  Mirth rippled from Rosaline before she hid it behind a hand.

  “’Twas my stone that took down the Scot bent on killin’ ye, but we’ll put that aside for now. Ye will quickly learn there isnae a lass on this side of the border who isn’t skilled in protecting herself.” She sobered. “’Tis the way of life here.”

  Walter frowned. He’d expected her to be miffed at his abrupt words, but mollified—mayhap grateful—to discover he would protect her life with his. But his memory prodded like a blister beneath his boot. A reminder he’d failed to accomplish something simple yet important.

  I did not save her life. She saved mine.

  The logs in the hearth collapsed with a crunch, showers of sparks shooting up the chimney. Rosaline jumped. Her gaze cut to the fireplace then back to him.

  “Dearest Walter, ’tis I who have a curse settled upon me, and I who must protect ye.”

  Walter paused, uncertain what to say. “Do ye truly believe in faeries, Rosaline?” he asked softly.

  Rosaline’s eyes flew open wide and she glanced to either side as if she expected the walls to cave in—or worse.

  She chewed her lower lip. “I am aware of things of which I have no understanding.”

  “I do not pretend to know everything,” Walter said. “Yet I do not attribute things I do not understand to the whims of faeries.”

  She waved a hand impatiently. “Och, ye are English.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning ye take the words of yer priests to heart without question and dinnae listen to the earth itself.”

  “That is paganism, Rosaline. It cannot coexist with Christianity.”

  “It has for hundreds of years,” Rosaline pointed out. “Why would ye believe faeries dinnae exist?”

  A pain began between Walter’s eyes. Was this a rift between them that would prove irreparable?

  “I’ve never seen one.” The excuse sounded stubborn and flimsy, but it was all he had. Did faeries exist?

  “Have ye ever seen an angel?”

  Other than the angry one before me? Walter shook his head.

  Rosaline propped her fist on one hip. “I’m not saying faeries are angels, or that ye should believe in the wee folk. All I know is, there are things I dinnae understand, and the last time I asked, God was big enough to have created all of them.”

  Walter pondered her words. She did not confess to practicing witchcraft or any of the pagan religions. She simply asked he open his mind and consider things outside his realm of knowledge. It was difficult, but he would do as she asked.

  A breath of relief slipped from his chest. Had his strict judgment been that difficult? Was it easier to value her opinion when it differed from his if he simply released his stubbornness?

  His lips curved upward and Rosaline met his expression with a hopeful smile. Walter placed a hand on her arm, and the rigid force of her stance melted away.

  He drew her close, but a loud cough interrupted the kiss he wanted to give her.

  Rosaline took a step back, clearing a space for Sir Laurence. Recalling propriety, Walter moved to Rosaline’s side and faced his old friend.

  “May I present Rosaline Johnstone? She has consented to be my wife.”

  Sir Laurence’s startled look took some moments to smooth into one of acceptance. He inclined his head. “My lady. ’Tis a pleasure to welcome ye to Eaglesmuir.”

  Elliott peered at the men gathered in the room. The aroma of cooked meat slipped seductively through his nose and over the back of his tongue. His mouth watered. Trig whined softly but remained at his side.

  Stupid men. Paying attention to their next meal instead of watching the side gate. I’ll soon put a stop to that.

  His firm pledge made him feel better. It sounded like something his da would say, and he was a great chief.

  Sneaking past the guard with Trig had been somewhat tricky, and Fachan had rejoined him once they were inside. But the kitchen sluice had provided the perfect entrance for a wee lad and his stubby-legged terrier, and the walls no deterrent for his hunting falcon.

  Elliott took a deep breath, building his confidence to con
front the English knights. He turned his attention to Rosaline and Walter. The men at their table must be those in charge of Eaglesmuir, though there was no dais or other indication of rank. Voices rose over the clank of wooden mugs and platters, and the scrape of boots and benches on the bare stone floor.

  “I’ll not serve up another of my knights to find the damned Scots,” a thin, older man seated across from Walter growled. His shock of steel gray hair reminded Elliott of his da. “And I’ll burn the entire swath of forest around the keep before I put up with their thieving ways any longer.”

  “Until we repair the hole in the wall, ’twill be a constant battle,” a younger, stockier man agreed, helping himself to more roasted fowl. “I’d not be opposed to burning the bastards out.”

  Elliott’s jaw firmed and he stepped from the shadows.

  “We willnae burn the trees.”

  Two men at the table closest to him sent him startled looks, knives halfway to their mouths. In a ripple effect, as if Elliott had set a spell in motion, men paused at their meal, their gazes following him to Walter’s table.

  Rosaline scrambled to her feet then slowly sank back to the bench. Elliott spared her a grateful glance for not rushing to hug him, though a swift pang rippled through him to deny the contact.

  Trig scrambled across the floor and dove beneath the table, her tail wagging furiously in anticipation of scraps. Elliot swept his arm to the side. Fachan chittered in annoyance as she struggled to maintain her balance. His step stuttered as every gaze in the room settled on him and his pets.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, partly to Fachan, partly to himself for the breach in his courage.

  Walter stood and stepped from his bench. He extended a hand in a welcoming manner.

  “I’m glad ye were not lost.” Walter faced the men at his table. “Sir Laurence, this is Elliott Johnstone, the new lord of Eaglesmuir.”

  Silence filled the hall. Someone coughed. The gray-haired man flashed a sharp look at Walter then rose to his feet and circled the table. He halted before Elliott and inclined his head.

  “Welcome to Eaglesmuir, m’lord.”

  The title startled Elliott, as did the respect. He warred with the conflict in his head. The blithe anonymity of his past was forever gone. At the advanced age of nine—nearly ten—summers, he was a chief. He squared his shoulders.

  “Thank ye.” He scrambled for something chief-like to say. “I’d be happy to discuss the, um, damned Scots and how to rid Eaglesmuir of them. But, we arenae burning the forest, aye?”

  His sister rose to her feet. “Ye must eat first. Of course we arenae burning the forest.” She fired a fierce look at the men. “I’ll take care of Fachan, and ye will sit and eat.”

  He allowed her to move the falcon from his arm to the back of a chair dragged close at Rosaline’s request. Elliott admired the way she gave orders. Soft words with an edge of steel that harbored no indication she’d be denied. She hadn’t always been so poised. Elliott looked up to her and she’d always championed him. But standing up to her da—or even to Ava—had come at a cost.

  What had changed her? Age? He had a handful of years to reach twenty summers, and no time to waste.

  Rosaline returned to her seat, placing a hand on Walter’s shoulder as he helped her settle onto the bench.

  Had Walter caused the change? Elliott would ponder that later.

  A murmur like the buzz of angry bees reached Elliott’s ears. He fought the urge to flee the room. The younger knight who’d spoken earlier moved beside Sir Laurence. The whispers fell.

  “M’lord, I am Sir Bernard, in command of Sir Laurence’s men. Welcome to Eaglesmuir. Please have a seat and fill your plate. Afterward, we would be grateful to hear any suggestions ye may have as to our plight.”

  Sir Laurence’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Aye. We await your thoughts on how we should proceed. The Scots disappear into the damned trees . . . .” He wheeled abruptly and returned to his seat.

  Elliott registered the man’s disbelief and sarcasm, but didn’t care. He was tired and hungry.

  “Thank ye. If ye would send two men to the bend in the burn just beyond the large rock marking a small copse of trees and retrieve two ponies, please. I dinnae wish them to fall into the wrong hands.”

  He sat in the space Sir Bernard’s absence provided and eyed the selection of food Rosaline silently pushed to him on a wooden trencher. He felt Trig’s nudge on his leg beneath the table and slipped her a chunk of roasted fowl.

  “And dinnae fash. I have a plan.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Liam Maxwell hunkered by the fire, warming his hands against the evening chill. As soon as the sun dropped below the trees, he would order the fire doused, and they would be in for a long, cold night. The flicker of flames would draw the English to his camp faster than a fly to a fresh carcass, and he feared the arrival of additional knights at Eaglesmuir meant the end of his campaign of revenge.

  Lord Maxwell strode across the small glen. He kicked a stone from his path with a ferocity that alerted Liam to his temper. Liam rose to his feet.

  “Chief.” He pitched his voice low and calm, but the clever ploy did not work. Lord Maxwell was clearly in a tearing rage and in no mood to be appeased.

  “I thought ye said ye’d deliver the keep!”

  Shaggy heads turned in their direction. Liam stood firm, hands dangling lightly at his side, giving no challenge. Lord Maxwell barged close, a finger jabbing Liam’s chest. Liam gritted his teeth.

  “Ye said ye would give me revenge! Retribution for James’ death. Ye had a plan to settle the score between us and the English.”

  Liam’s eyebrows inched higher at Lord Maxwell’s blithe disregard for the facts of his son’s death, choosing instead to blame an easier target. James had led a raid to reive sheep from a village just south of the border and died in the attempt. That an English knight laid claim to the village was all the impetus Lord Maxwell apparently needed to direct his anger. Liam quickly pulled his eyebrows back into place and awaited a chance to speak.

  “There are a score or more knights now. We barely tweaked the nose of the ones already here.” His scowl grew fierce. “I warn ye, Liam. I willnae return home without blood on my hands.”

  Lord Maxwell’s fury clearly told Liam the man didn’t particularly care whose blood was on his hands, and Liam suddenly had a concern for his life. He hadn’t meant to deny his lord the revenge he craved, but adding knights to Eaglesmuir had changed things quite a bit.

  “M’lord, we have accomplished much against . . . .”

  “Not enough!”

  Liam ducked his head, acknowledging Lord Maxwell’s rage.

  “We have recourse, if ye would care to hear my thoughts?”

  Lord Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest, his scowl deepening. Liam took this for an invitation to proceed.

  “We have two sources of ransom,” he reminded the chief. “A fine destrier and one of their knights.” Though the horse is in better shape than the man. But Liam did not voice the words aloud.

  Lord Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “I can sell the horse elsewhere. Howbeit, the man may have little worth to the English.”

  Liam had to agree. Lord Maxwell’s skill with a knife had left the knight weak with blood loss, and if negotiations dragged on, he could not say if the man would live to see the demands met. Would Lord Maxwell bother?

  “’Tis truth. Consider young Jamie. I doubt he left more than a chicken or twa to feed those at the keep. And the English have doubled in number by all counts.”

  “I dinnae care about chickens! I want Eaglesmuir and I want the English in hell!”

  “That would leave us one last option,” Liam replied.

  Lord Maxwell shot him a questioning look.

  “Burn them out.”

  The solar was cold even with the fire on the hearth. The rushes on the floor had crumbled away to almost nothing, and the frayed tapestry on the wall billowed gently in the breeze fr
om the arrow slit window. A young man a few years older than Elliott hurried about the room lighting candles that sputtered and stank with the reek of tallow.

  Rosaline casually draped a cloak over the back of the chief’s chair. Elliott crossed the room and took his place at the large table, scooting back in the seat until his shoulders burrowed against the fur-lining of the cloak. He hoped the room would warm soon.

  Men lined the edge of the chamber, staring at him with expressions of expectation, impatience, and even disgust. Elliott met each one, fighting against the panic rising within.

  I’ve nae training for this. And not enough summers.

  His da would seek to disarm with hospitality. Elliott swept a gesture over the chairs about the table. “Please.”

  The men glanced at each other and four settled in short order. Rosaline took a seat on a bench by the hearth. Sir Laurence leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, lips thin with displeasure. Sir Walter stood in the doorway, feet braced, weight forward. Did he expect trouble?

  Elliott decided to ignore Sir Laurence’s posture and leave Sir Walter to guard the room. He was used to being the observer, ignored for his size and age. Today he was under the scrutiny of men who’d won their spurs in battle. And who did not appear to like taking orders from a skinny lad.

  At least he could trust Sir Walter.

  “Thank ye for joining me,” Elliott said.

  Rosaline’s almost imperceptible nod reassured him he’d taken the right tone. His da made it look easy, effortless. Subtle changes of voice and eyes. Elliott took a deep breath.

  “Sir Laurence tells me ye have been beleaguered by the Maxwells for the past sennight or so.”

  The knight eyed him from his place against the wall. “Closer to a fortnight, but, aye, the Scots have caused a bit of difficulty.”

  So, he held to his argument ’twas Scots causing a bit of difficulty and refused to acknowledge the difference between Maxwells and Johnstones? Elliott had heard the man’s harsh words earlier. He wasn’t ready to challenge Sir Laurence, however, so he ignored the mild censure.