Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (12 page)

Startled to think she had reached this place without realizing it, she turned and faced nettles and brown grasses that hid a low rock foundation of what had once been a good-sized structure generations ago.

Margaret could not hide her disappointment.

“I warned you it wasn’t much,” he said. “Right here would have been the location of the tower. You can see a corner of it there. And the front gate was to the left.”

He walked over to show her where the entrance had been, but she didn’t follow.

Instead, she stepped forward so that she stood in what might have been the center of the tower.

According to the legend, in this place Rose Macnachtan had contemplated jumping to her death. Several feet away would have been the inner yard. The ground was still hard there, as if it had been pounded down to a shelf of rock. Dry grass, nettles and thistles had forced their way even here, but among them she saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof.

“They had livestock here?” she asked.

“Of course. I assume we ferried animals and people back and forth to the mainland.” He’d not moved with her into the courtyard, but stood beside the tower foundation.

“I am disappointed the tower isn’t here,” she murmured. “That there isn’t more.” Margaret held out her arms and turned in a circle.

“What are you doing? Chanting?”

“I’m trying to imagine how Rose was feeling. She would have been looking in this direction, toward the road leading to the far shore.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Because they say she died on Charles Chattan’s wedding day. She was waiting for him. She believed he wouldn’t marry the Englishwoman. She thought he would return to her.”

The far shore could not be seen over the brown brush and trees that blocked the view, but from the height of the tower, Rose would have been able to watch the road from the south.

Margaret moved to the outside perimeter of the tower. “Did she fall here? Or would she have jumped to the inside?”

“The inside would have been stone pavers. They are now the walkways at Marybone and the stable yard.”

“So I’ve been walking on the stones where Rose may have fallen?”

“If she jumped to the inside of the keep.”

“That is what I would have chosen to do,” Margaret said. “If I was in such despair I could only cure it by taking my own life, I would want to be certain I did not survive.”

She drew in a deep breath, holding it in, recognizing the disappointment. She released it. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“There isn’t anything here,” she admitted. “I believed I would sense or feel something. But it’s normal. All is as it should be.” She unfolded the cloak she held over her arm and put it around her shoulders. “A cold winter day.” Indeed, it felt colder here than on the shore and should have been windier—

Margaret paused, struck by a realization. “Except that it is quiet here.
Too
quiet. The wind doesn’t even rustle the grass.”

“I take great comfort in that,” the laird answered. “If there are ghosts here, I wouldn’t want a lot of noise to rouse them.”

“There
must
be something,” she said more to herself than to him. “The coach accident was to
stop
me from coming
here
.” She pointed to the ground. “But
why
?”

“Why couldn’t the accident be just what it was? A mishap on the road?”

She frowned at him, giving him her back. He believed in what he could see and what he could touch.

But she
knew
differently.

She began walking the line of the foundation. In some places the wall was taller than in others. In one far corner, the wall was almost ten feet high and in better shape than anywhere else. She walked toward it, realizing that the reason the wall still stood was that it had been a fireplace, a huge one. There were ashes in the pit, and a stack of wood and brush had been collected for future fires.

The laird joined her. “This is where the kitchen for the keep was.” He kicked at the ashes. They were cold. “When Brodie and I had a chance, we’d spend the day swimming and then build a fire and sleep overnight. The wall radiates heat.”

“Whom do you imagine built this fire?” Margaret asked.

“Anyone. There are people on and off these islands all the time.”

Margaret frowned. She wasn’t finding the answers she sought. “Let us go to the cliff. Is there a way to reach it from here?”

“This way.” He began walking into the forest. Margaret hurried after him.

The path he followed was worse than the last. He seemed to know where he was going even though she could find no logic for the direction he took. Sweat trickled down her back although her cheeks and hands were cold.

Just as she was preparing to remove her heavy cloak again, he stepped back. “Here is your cliff.”

The brush and trees went almost to the edge of the cliff’s rocks. She moved forward, and there was the breadth of Loch Awe before her.

“I imagine in Fenella’s time that the forest wasn’t this close to the edge,” he said.

“The view is magnificent,” she murmured. Something stirred in her soul at the sight of the lake’s bluish gray waters nestled in the protection of Highland mountains and a sky marred now by only a few large clouds. “This place has power. It is where I would cast a spell.”

She looked down. The water was so clear, she could see the bottom even from this height. She edged forward.

His hand grabbed her arm. “Careful,” he warned. “I don’t trust the rocks here.”

Margaret ignored his warning, or perhaps she trusted his strength to protect her. It didn’t matter which. She was caught up in the moment. “Fenella would have built the funeral pyre to the left.”

“How do imagine that?” he asked.

“The left hand is connected to the heart,” Margaret said. “I read that in her book. Several of the recipes, or spells, were very precise on which hand should be used before incantations.” She frowned, picturing the size of the fire that would have been built, imagining Rose’s body burning.

She could see it in her mind. Fenella would have stood exactly at this point so that when she leaped, she would not miss landing on the fire.

Margaret had to take another step forward. Her weight freed several rocks to bounce down the cliff’s side into the water.

“It is higher than I pictured in my mind,” she said. “Anyone jumping from here would not expect to survive unharmed.”

“Which is a good reason to step back from the edge,” the laird pointed out, pulling on her arm.

She obeyed his tug and moved back.

There
must
be something here that she was meant to discover. She began searching, pushing back shrubs, bushes and bracken that could hide clues.

“Do you even know what you are looking for?” he asked.

“No.”

He made an impatient sound. “My lady, there isn’t anything more to be discovered. Do you understand? You have seen it all. It’s rubble and forest, little else. We’d best be on our way so we can return to Marybone before dark.”

“Just a minute more.” She walked in a circle, relooked where she had looked before.

“You have seen all there is, my lady. There’s naught much else.”

Margaret moved once again to the cliff. Her frustration knew no bounds. She stared out onto the loch.
Why would she have been brought so far for nothing?

“Come,” he said, his voice sympathetic. “We shall return to Marybone and regroup.”

“How can ‘we’ regroup if you don’t believe the story?” she asked, bitterness in her words. “I came here not expecting to fail. Perhaps my confidence came from Harry. He’d been right about Glenfinnan and finding Fenella’s book. He believed
I
could be the key to end the curse.”

“If that is true, then another way will be made known to you,” he answered. “Perhaps the magic is in the rocks we used to line our garden,” he suggested. “You can spend tomorrow going around sensing them.”

She didn’t like the gentle disbelief in his voice. “If I had a rock in my hand, I would throw it at you right now.”

“Ah, but that would be the one you needed, my lady, so I’d advise you not to waste it.” There was humor in his voice, but his gaze held concern for her. He held out his hand. “Come, we need to return to the boats.”

He was right. The hour was growing late. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. He led her down a new path, this one easier to follow since it trailed the shoreline.

“Is Innis Craggah always this silent? It’s eerie,” she said. “There hasn’t even been a bird flying over our heads.”

“It’s not quiet,” he answered, not breaking stride. “I hear plenty of sound.”

“Such as?”

“The sound of our steps on the path.” He kicked a loose stone ahead of him for emphasis. “Or the wind through the trees.”

“I
don’t hear the wind through the trees,” she countered—and she didn’t.

“You aren’t listening, my lady,” he said. “There is sound. I can hear the water against the shore, the rocks beneath our feet, your breathing, mine—”

At that moment, the men waiting at the boats hailed out to them.

“Do you hear them?” he asked.

“Of course, I do,” Margaret answered, feeling surly.

Laird Macnachtan stopped. “My lady, don’t make any more of this curse than what it is.”

“And what is it? You have never believed there is a curse.”

He drew a breath as if praying for patience. “I’ve been helping you, my lady. If that isn’t putting faith into something, I don’t know what is.” He started to take a step away but then returned to say, “And instead of blaming a curse for the course of events, perhaps you should consider other factors that could be causing the deaths in your family. Your kin may have weak hearts or another malady. Blaming death on ghosties and ghoulies serves no purpose.”

He didn’t wait for her answer but began walking toward his men.

And Margaret felt like the most churlish of women. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose his support, and she discovered she did not want to do that. She needed his help . . . she wanted it. She liked counting on his strength and intelligence. She’d begun expecting it.
She
, the woman who prided herself on not expecting anything from anyone, actually enjoyed being with this Scottish chieftain with his generous nature and adventurous spirit. She relied on him, and Margaret wasn’t certain that was wise.

He didn’t understand, and if she truly cared for him, she’d keep a distance. His doubts aside, she knew her line was tainted.

She walked toward the boats, head bowed. Laird Macnachtan said something to her but she ignored him. He’d believe her in sour spirits over his directness. She wasn’t. She was just beginning to realize she had more to fear from her feelings toward him than she did from the curse.

Was this what had happened to her brothers?

Had they been like her, determined to not fall in love, and then found themselves being drawn to
one
person?

One very special person? The sort that didn’t hesitate to speak his mind or treat her as an equal?

She’d never met a man like Heath Macnachtan before. She doubted if she ever would again.

And the realization created a hollowness in her belly and a tightness in her heart.

He
was not safe.

She would have climbed into the boat by herself if possible. It was not. So she had to endure the thrill of Laird Macnachtan picking her up in his arms. For a second, the presence of him enveloped her.

And was it her imagination, or did he act as if he felt something for her as well?

She could usually detect when a man was attracted to her, but she wasn’t certain this time . . . perhaps because she would not be averse to him?

Within minutes she was settled in the rear of the boat. Beneath the warmth of her cloak, she crossed her arms. The boat rocked in the shallow water as the laird and Gibson climbed aboard.

From their boat, Rowlly, Gibson’s son, and the stable lad waved. “A race to the other side with a bit of a wager?” Rowlly asked.

“Name it,” the laird said.

“Two pints apiece at the Goldeneye,” Rowlly answered. “Who knows? We may see Augie again.”

All the men laughed, including the stable lad. Gibson made a comment that he wouldn’t mind being present for another meeting of the laird and Augie.

Margaret didn’t understand what they were talking about. She kept her eyes on the shoreline.

There was a splash as oars hit water. The men would waste no time reaching the other shore—

A flash of white at the edge of the trees close to the path leading to the keep caught Margaret’s eye. It was a cat. A small one.

It was Owl
. There was no mistaking the odd shape of her head.

Margaret turned toward the laird. “There’s my cat. I see Owl.” They were now ten feet from the shore. “You must take me back,” she ordered.

Gibson, sitting in front of her, frowned in the direction she pointed. “Where is there a cat?” he said. “I don’t see one.”

“Right there on the shore,” Margaret insisted. How could he not see Owl, who had padded down to the waterline and meowed as if begging her to return? The cat placed a paw on the water as if to come after her and then quickly backed away. “Please, take me back. I must catch my cat.”

Laird Macnachtan was mid-stroke when he lifted his oar. He frowned. “My lady, I see no cat.”

“She’s right
there
,” Margaret said, frustration making her angry. Why couldn’t anyone see Owl save her? What madness was at work?

Owl meowed one more time. Margaret could hear her plainly. Owl turned and began trotting toward the woods. She would disappear into the underbrush in a minute.

“Take me back
,” Margaret begged. She knew she couldn’t leave Owl.

The men had not moved. They stared at her in concern. Rowlly’s boat kept going, racing away and unaware of the discussion.

Margaret had asked for a sign, and Owl was what she’d been searching for. She realized that now.

The cat sat on her haunches at the edge of the forest as if waiting for Margaret to return.