Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (23 page)

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Authors: The Devils Heart

O
f course,
no one challenged the union of Margaret Catherine Chattan and Heath Graham Davis
Macnachtan, and so after the banns had been duly read and noted, they were
married on the twenty-second of February, 1815, under a bough of mistletoe.

It was good winter day with fine sunshine and a
wind that the pines surrounding the small church could hold at bay.

Everyone from the glen was there, with the
exception of Owen Campbell—and it was just as well that he wasn’t in attendance
since he would not have wished them well. Even Swepston, who had miraculously
survived his injuries, was present to bless the union in the old ways.

Margaret could not love Heath more than in the
moment when she said her wedding vows. The formal words of the church sounded
stilted compared to the promises they’d spoken in love that night in the library
when they’d handfasted themselves. Still, it was a proud moment for her when
they were introduced as man and wife to all present in the kirk.

Her joy was even more complete because both of her
brothers, strong and healthy, stood beside her.

Her brother Neal, Lord Lyon had the most amazing
transformation. The last time Margaret had seen him, he’d been too weak to even
turn himself over in bed. They’d known he was dying and their prayer had been
that he would live to see the birth of his son. Now he walked on his own and
moved with grace and purpose. He’d even brought his two young stepsons with him.
Margaret loved Jonathan and Christopher as nephews.

His wife, Thea, was confined to home due to the
baby they expected at any moment.

“You should have stayed with her,” Margaret
said.

“I would not have missed your wedding,” Neal vowed,
adding, “As head of the family, I wish to witness your happiness. You deserve
this, Margaret, and so much more. Thea wishes she was here as well.”

Neal took her hand. “You gave me back my life. I
knew the moment the curse was broken. I sat up with a strength I’d not had in
months. It was necessary for me to be here, Margaret. I wanted to welcome the
man you loved fully into the family.”

Harry and his wife, Portia, were also in
attendance. Portia told Margaret of how afraid she had been that she was going
to lose her husband. “He was paralyzed,” she confided. “It was frightening.”

Margaret understood exactly what she meant.

Now Harry kept up with Jonathan and Christopher and
a host of lads from the glen. Over the days preceding the wedding, they had all
ridden, hunted and competed in games of sport on Marybone’s front lawn, actions
that bonded the Chattans and the Macnachtans.

Margaret also liked the quiet pride that Heath was
developing. Her brothers had been complimentary of the Macnachtan horseflesh.
Both Neal and Harry were avid horsemen, and Heath had shared with them his plans
for the new stables. They were keen to be a part of the enterprise. If Heath had
felt any intimidation over having her well-known brothers, with their
reputations for being the best at everything they attempted, under his roof,
those fears vanished in the good-humored camaraderie they offered him. He was
their brother-in-marriage and they honored him with their acceptance.

After the wedding ceremony, there was a dance that
included everyone far and wide. The Scots did not stint when it came to
celebrating. Heath announced that he had buried a small keg of whisky to ensure
the success of the day. It was an old custom, one designed to appease kelpies
and sprites. However, by mid-afternoon, Heath was leading the party of men armed
with shovels to dig that keg up. After all, what good was whisky in the
ground?

And who knew if kelpies and sprites would even
appreciate it? Better to drink a dram or two or three in honor of the happy
couple.

The celebrating went long into the night and
continued after the Macnachtan had chased the bridal couple to their bed with
good-humored suggestions. Heath barred the door, not wanting any of that rowdy
bunch to think about coming and joining them.

“They would,” he predicted. “Anything to see you
happy. They love you as much as I do.”

“And I return that love,” Margaret said. She took
her husband’s hand. They now shared the room that had been his alone. A wood
fire burned in the hearth and she saw that Cook and Cora had prepared a table of
food and drink to last them through the night and for days to come if they had a
mind to never leave this haven.

She continued soberly, “I’m surprised at how many
different facets there are to love. I thought I could only care about my family,
but my heart has expanded to include so many others.”

“And it shall keep expanding,” he promised. “There
will be no shortage of love between us or around us.”

They made love then. Happy, joyous love.

The act of joining was no longer just a rite of
nature. It was the communication of two souls who longed to be together.

And in that night, she knew his seed had taken
hold. They would truly become one.

Later, as she lazed in his arms, she said, “My only
regret is to lose Owl. We never saw her again after that night on Innis
Craggah.”

“If you are right and she was the spirit of Rose,
then she’d accomplished what she wanted. Her intent, I believe, was to ensure
that when the time was ripe, I would know to return to the site of those
graves.”

His arms around Margaret tightened. “She’ll come
back to us someday,” he said. “When she is ready.”

T
he
wedding feasting didn’t end after a single week. Margaret found herself feted
wherever she went.

Neal returned to London just in time to be present
for the birth of his daughter. Grace Elizabeth Chattan was certain that the
curse was truly broken. Their father had hoped that Margaret’s birth had been a
signal, but she now realized that she had just a part of the events that needed
to be in place to destroy Fenella’s power.

The first of May, when the hint of spring was in
the air and the rebuilding of the stables well under way, Margaret announced her
pregnancy. Heath had already known, or so he said. The entire clan was happy for
her, and Margaret felt pleasure at being truly part of them.

Later that same day, she and Laren went for a walk.
They chose a path that led down by the loch, and that was where they caught
Irwin hunched over talking to himself by a group of bushes.

Or at least Margaret
thought
he was talking to himself. A moment’s listening brought
about the sound of meowing.

“Irwin, what are you doing?” Margaret asked.

The man practically jumped out of his skin.
“Nothing, my lady,” he said, using his big body to block her view of the
kitten.

“You are doing something,” she insisted. “You have
a kitten? Why are you hiding her?”

His gaze dropped to the ground. Irwin could look so
guilty.

“What is it?” she pressed.

“My ma didn’t want the kitten. She said she’s
sickly.”

“Sickly? How?” Margaret asked.

“She’s not born right,” Irwin answered, picking up
the small white cat and showing her to them. The cat had wide blue eyes
. . . and folded-over ears. Just like Owl’s.

“She was fine in the beginning,” Irwin said, “but
after a few weeks her ears bent over. Ma said that’s a sign the cat’s not
strong. She told me to bring her out here and let her go to fend for herself,
but I like the wee creature. I don’t want to leave her.”

“Let me see,” Laren said, taking the kitten from
the big man. She held the kitten up for Margaret to see. “Her ears
are
funny.”

“Her ears are a blessing,” Margaret said as she
reached to pet the kitten, who licked her gloved finger with a tiny rough
tongue. She wasn’t a copy of Owl. Her eyes were the blue of the sky and she had
a patch of black under her chin and on one paw. “You see her, right?” she asked
them.

“I see her,” Irwin replied with his easy
simplicity.

“I’m
holding
her,”
Laren said. “She has the most unusual eyes, even for a cat. They seem to swallow
her little face.”

“Yes, they do,” Margaret agreed, feeling a mixture
of happiness and sadness. They all saw the kitten. But this cat was not Owl
. . . still Margaret understood that here was a sign from Rose. A gift
on this day when she’d made such a happy announcement. And, perhaps, the
confirmation Margaret had wanted that Rose now rested peacefully.

“I’d like the kitten,” Margaret said to Irwin.
“That is, if you will let me have her.”

“You don’t think she is sick?” he asked.

“I believe she is very healthy, and I like her
ears.”

“I do as well,” Laren said. “We have been needing a
cat in the house.”

Irwin smiled his pleasure. “Then you can have her,
my lady. I was having trouble keeping her safe. You know I always take care of
the pigs, but she keeps finding trouble. Just now I found her caught in the wild
rose bushes here. I scratched my hand rescuing her.”

“You are very kind,” Margaret said to Irwin,
meaning the words. “And you have done a good job protecting her.”

The big man blushed at her praise.

“And we shall call kitty Rosie after the rose
bushes Irwin rescued her from,” Laren said, taking complete command of the cat.
“That is the perfect name.”

“Yes, it is,” Margaret agreed. “The perfect name
indeed.”

Heath was happy to see the cat as well, and as
Rosie grew, her folded-over ears remained.

She proved herself to be a good and astute mouser,
earning the approval of Cook. And there was no one in the house who wouldn’t
happily play with her or let her curl up in his lap.

However, once James Robert Macnachtan was born on a
brisk morning in November, Rosie forgot about the rest of them. She purred her
approval of this new member to their household and from that moment on became
Jaime’s self-appointed bodyguard, or as Heath said, Jaime’s body
cat
.

And as time passed, Marybone became known as much
for the barn cats with the folded-over ears, wide, comprehending eyes, and
almost human intelligence, as they were for the horses the Macnachtans bred.

As for the laird and his lady, theirs was a mighty
love story, the stuff of which legends are created.

Margaret took to keeping a journal, the sort
chatelaines pass down from one to the other. On the first page, she wrote these
words to her children: “Love well, love fully, love completely. Because in life,
love is all that truly matters.”

Coming Winter 2014

The Bride Says No

the first in a brand new series

from Cathy Maxwell

and Avon Books

About the Author

CATHY MAXWELL spends hours in front of her
computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for
her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful
Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats.

Fans can contact Cathy at
www.cathymaxwell.com or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.

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By Cathy Maxwell

The Chattan Curse

The Devil’s Heart

The Scottish Witch

Lyon’s Bride

The Seduction of Scandal

His Christmas Pleasure

The Marriage Ring

The Earl Claims His Wife

A Seduction at Christmas