Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (4 page)

A solemn stillness seemed to circle this one place.

Heath approached the tree. Every time he came here, his gut tightened and he knew he would have no peace until the man, or men, who had done this to Brodie was brought to justice.

His brother’s blood still stained the tree. It was as if it would not leave. Heath placed his hand over the largest of those stains. The arrow entry holes had grown over, but the stains remained.

Rowlly stood beside Admiral, watching.

“Why would someone do this?” Heath asked. “We Macnachtan are a poor lot. We are fisherman, crofters, woodsmen . . . not murderers.” He looked to Rowlly. “Would Swepston have done this?”

“No. He may buck your authority but he had complete respect for Brodie. They saw things alike. Brodie wouldn’t have modernized the way you have. He honored the old ways.” Rowlly took a step forward. “None of us would have killed him. He was our laird. It had to have been someone else. Someone from the outside.”

“A thief?” Heath frowned at the stain. “What did Brodie have to steal?” He turned to his cousin. “There was a time when I began to suspect a Campbell. After all, everyone knows Owen has coveted our land for a good three years. But Owen was away in London at the time of the murder. I could learn of no one else who might gain from Brodie’s death. Can you think of anyone?”

“As I’ve told you before, Laird, I cannot.”

“Could
it be one of us?” Heath had to ask one more time. The question haunted him.

Rowlly straightened. “Are you accusing me?”

Heath paused a moment, and then said, “I don’t know.” He hesitated, realized what he was implying and said, “No, I don’t suspect you. Of course, there are times I am suspicious of everyone.”

“And that
is
madness. Do you also distrust your sisters? Or Dara?” He referred to Brodie’s wife. Dara and Brodie had always been a couple, ever since the first moment they’d met in her father’s church.

Heath took a step away from the tree. Ignoring Rowlly, he murmured, “I don’t understand why Brodie was here, in this place. It is so out of the way.”

“I don’t know why he was here, either,” Rowlly said. “Especially at nine in the evening. This part of the forest would have been darker than Hades.”

“The better to ambush him.” Heath tried to picture himself in his brother’s mind. Why had Brodie left his warm hearth and willing wife to traipse around in the night?

“He had to have been meeting someone,” Heath insisted. “It couldn’t have been random.”

And the fact that his killer still roamed free chewed at Heath’s soul. If he accomplished nothing else in this world, he would discover the murderer—

Heath heard a sound behind him.

He turned, readying his fists, thinking Augie and his ilk had tracked them here—but then lowered his hands at the sight of a magnificent stag not more than twenty feet away from them. The regal animal had to be close to seven feet tall. He held his antlers proudly as if wearing a crown.

“Have you seen the likes?” Rowlly said, his voice the barest whisper.

For a long moment, men and beast eyed each other. Heath wished he had a gun. They needed meat for the table.

Then again, this animal was too bold and courageous to be taken down. There was pride in him, just as there was pride in Heath.

At that moment, a piece of flimsy material drifted down from the sky, floating into the clearing. Startled, the stag went bounding off.

Heath swore and moved forward to catch the material. He was surprised to discover it was a woman’s petticoat, one made of the finest stuff.

“What is it?” Rowlly asked.

“Smallclothes,” Heath answered, holding up the petticoat with its expensive trim of lace and ribbons. “For the ladies.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Rowlly declared, a dull red coming to his cheeks. “But I’ve heard of them.”

Heath walked in the direction he thought the clothing had come from and noticed more clothes snagged on the trees and winter brush. “There is more clothing here,” he said. “All women’s clothes. If it hadn’t been for the stag, I wouldn’t have noticed them.”

He started collecting the clothing but as he moved away, Admiral snorted and stamped his mighty hooves as if warning him. Heath frowned. He glanced in the direction of the trail of clothing and then back to his horse.

A sense of disquiet settled over Heath. He pushed it away.

“Tie him up,” he ordered Rowlly. “I want to explore this.”

“I’m coming with you,” Rowlly said, and hurried to secure Admiral.

The horse didn’t put up any more fuss, instead following them with grave eyes.

Heath recognized London tailoring when he saw it. These clothes were expensive, too expensive for wandering around the Highlands. Too soon, clothing gave way to broken pieces of a coach that led to the lifeless bodies of men and horses.

Rowlly swore under his breath.

The accident was a grisly sight.

Heath was no stranger to death. He’d seen men blown to pieces by cannon fire, but he’d not witnessed anything like this. The bodies were broken as if they had been thrown to the ground and seemed more damaged than just a coaching accident would warrant.

Scanning the forest, Heath saw the direction the coach had fallen. They must have been coming from the north, traveling on the mountain road.

“Was there a storm yesterday?” Heath asked.

“A bit of one. Nothing bad,” Rowlly managed to answer. “A fair amount of wind.”

“Wind shouldn’t have been a problem for a coach this large,” Heath answered. “We’ll need a crew of men to clean this up. Could the road have washed out?”

“I’ll check on it,” Rowlly said. He hung back as if overwhelmed by so much carnage. “We will need to see to decent burials for all those who have lost their lives.”

“Aye, it will be grim business.” Heath began counting the bodies. Several wore a nobleman’s livery. One of the men was an Indian in English clothes.

Heath noticed he was breathing. He knelt beside the man. “Here is one who is alive.” He felt for a pulse. “Just barely though. Fetch Admiral and we’ll carry him to Marybone.”

While Rowlly went for the horse, Heath used leather reins he found on the ground to lash together a makeshift sled, using the roof of the coach for the base. He and Rowlly lifted the Indian onto the sled. Admiral was not pleased at his new duty, but he’d do as Heath wished.

“Let’s leave,” Rowlly asked. He was growing more green around the gills.

“Not yet. Where are the women?” Heath still held the petticoat. He expanded his search of the area and found a woman of middling years dead in the brush. She was not the sort to wear such a fine petticoat.

Heath kept searching.

And then he found
her
.

She lay in a copse of stately pines. The late afternoon sun didn’t penetrate this place, giving it the feeling of being in another world. The forest floor was cushioned with their needles and the air carried their scent. She was on her back, her hands folded at her waist, her eyes closed, her face so serene, she could have been sleeping . . . and she was very beautiful.

Black hair curled around her shoulders. Her lips were red, her complexion flawless.

Heath recognized her immediately.

He heard Rowlly draw in his breath. “What is something like
her
doing here?”

“That is a good question. Lady Margaret Chattan rarely strays from London.”

“Chattan?
” Rowlly immediately recognized the name, and he spit on the ground as any good Macnachtan would. “I thought they had only males.”

“They did, until
she
was born.” Heath stepped forward.

In London, they called her the Unattainable and she was rumored to be worth three times her weight in gold.

He’d seen her once in the city. She’d been followed by a flock of male admirers who trailed in her wake like lap dogs. The crowds on the street craned their necks for a better look as if she were the queen herself.

Heath had been struck by the blueness of her eyes and the perfection of her figure. Hers was a face no man could ever forget. They fought over her, they begged for her favors, they worshipped her—and yet they said her heart had never been claimed.

That day, almost five years ago, Heath had gazed upon her and told his fellow officers he had the feeling that one day their paths would cross again. They had assured him he was deluding himself. A beauty of that caliber would not waste herself upon a Scot, especially a Highlander. They’d enjoyed much sport over his infatuation.

But Heath’s belief had not been so outlandish. She was a Chattan; he a Macnachtan. Their histories were entwined by legend.

And now she was dead and here in his wood.

So young, so lovely . . . and without a mark on her.

The other bodies were battered almost beyond recognition. Her skin was clear and pink—and then he realized the truth.

She was alive. She had survived.

Chapter Three

M
argaret feared she would not wake up. She struggled to bring herself out of the darkness, but her eyes refused to open.

It was the smell of baking bread that finally alerted her senses.

She had slept hard and well. The bed was comfortable, the sheets fresh.
But the time had come to leave this
place.

The time had come to wake.

She struggled for consciousness . . .

M
argaret opened her eyes.

The light was blinding and she quickly closed them again. Her lungs hurt. She had to pull deep to gain a decent breath and her arms and legs felt as if they were weighed down with lead.

Someone gasped, the sound close at hand, followed by footsteps. A door opened.

“She’s awake
,” a girl’s voice exclaimed with the lilt of a Scots accent. She sounded very young. “Miss Anice, Miss Laren, my lady, she’s awake.”

Panic forced Margaret to lie very still. She did not recognize the names.

Where was she?

And then the memories came.

Her mind was remarkably clear. Only moments ago, she and Smith had been tossed around the coach like dice being shaken in a cup. She had been thrown into the air and landed on rock—

Margaret remembered the pain. She recalled lying in the mud and snow, her body broken.

And Smith was dead.

What of the others?

“When did she wake?” a woman’s voice came from the hall.

“Just this moment,” the girl reported. “I sat there, as you told me to, and her eyes opened.”

More Scottish voices, their accents musical—and Margaret became aware of
why
she was in Scotland.

In her mind, the accident had happened only moments ago. She could still smell the blood, the fear, the scents of wet wool and rotting winter leaves. She could see the bodies, the death.

But she was far away from that right now.

She wasn’t even wearing the same clothes.

They
entered the room and she sensed their presences as they approached the bed. She could open her eyes, and she would, once she knew she was safe.

“She’s not awake,” a woman’s disappointed voice said.

The girl spoke. “I saw her open her eyes. Just this moment.”

A woman’s voice from the other side of the bed said, “I’m certain you did, Cora. Remember what Mr. Hawson said, Anice. Patients in a coma can give the appearance of rousing. Perhaps she isn’t ready.”

The one called Anice said, “Why do you suppose Lady Margaret Chattan is here, Laren? It’s so far from London, from anything that would interest her.”

They knew who she was. But who were they?

“Father said that the Chattans would come up here from time to time,” Laren answered. “You know, always wanting us to right their curse.”

There was a beat of silence and then Anice asked, “Do you believe in it?”

“The curse?” Laren laughed. “Of course not.”

“What is the curse?” Cora asked. She must be very young, Margaret concluded, because of the honesty of her question.

“They claim an ancestor of ours placed a curse upon them that the males all die when they fall in love,” Anice answered.

“And it is nonsense,” Laren said. “A wives’ tale.”

“What is a wives’ tale?” the child questioned.

“Just what Laren said,” Anice said. “A bit of nonsense. Run along now and fetch Dara. She needs to know our guest is awaking.”

Listening to them, Margaret’s heart had gone cold with realization. They were the Macnachtan.

“It’s terrible about the accident,” Anice said. “I’m glad she isn’t awake yet. Dara was saying she didn’t know how we would let Lady Margaret know that almost all of her party was dead. Everyone but that Indian gentleman, and we still don’t know if he will live.”

Rowan was alive
. She
wasn’t
alone.
Thanks be to God.

And she wasn’t here without a purpose.

Bravely, Margaret opened her eyes.

This time, the light didn’t bother her as much and she could see she was in a rather plain bedroom with cream-colored walls and green draperies. The bed she lay in was a simple four-poster one. The coverlet over her was a quilt.

The weak winter light of an overcast day filled the room. Margaret estimated it must be sometime after mid-morning.

But what interested her were the two women.

They were both lovely and around the age of twenty. They didn’t appear to show the anger one reserved for an enemy. Instead, they viewed her with compassion in their eyes.

And still she did not dare trust them.

The one to Margaret’s right, the one called Anice, had curly brown hair that she wore styled on top of her head. Laren had straight hair more blonde than brown. They shared inquisitive blue eyes, pert noses, and full lips.

Anice was obviously more meticulous about her appearance. She’d tied a green ribbon through her curls and wore a ribbon of the same color around her neck. Her dress was of the same homespun brown as her sister’s except that she had added rosettes fashioned out of ribbon around the bodice. If she’d made those herself, she was clever with a needle.

Laren appeared more reserved. She wore her hair in a long braid and her hands showed that she was no stranger to work.

“You
are
awake,” Anice said, sounding genuinely pleased. “And look at you. You don’t appear the worse for wear.” She leaned forward with a smile.

Margaret started to speak, to warn them to stay away from her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her tongue felt thick, her throat dry.

“You must be starved and thirsty,” Laren said, reaching for a pot of tea that sat on a bedside table. There was also a mound of cloths that appeared to have been used for her care, a basin and pitcher, and a candlestick with the candle burned down to the stub.

“The tea is not hot,” Laren warned, pouring a cup and offering it to her, “but perhaps that is best. We need to put something nourishing in you.”

She was right, but Margaret feared moving her arms. She remembered the terrible pain of them breaking and of her hips and her legs . . .

“Let me plump the pillow,” Anice offered, and placed a gentle hand under Margaret’s shoulder to help her sit up.

“I can’t,” Margaret managed to say, her voice as dry as a rusty hinge.

“Yes, you can,” Anice encouraged her. “I’ll help.” Again, she placed her hand under Margaret’s shoulder.

This time, Margaret let Anice lift her—and was shocked by the absence of pain.

She frowned and looked to her left arm, the one she had used to attempt to reach for the book in that horrible moment after the crash. She was able to lift it without even a twinge of discomfort.

Margaret stared at her fingers and stretched them. They moved easily.

“My lady, are you all right?” Anice asked. Both girls watched her actions with interest.

Margaret frowned up, needing a moment for the question to make sense in her confused mind.
All right? Nothing was right.
She
knew
what had happened. It was vivid in her mind. She’d experienced the pain, felt her bones breaking—

“I must see Rowan,” Margaret croaked out. Rowan would explain all of this to her.

“Yes, my lady,” Laren answered, “but first, have a drink of this.” She placed the teacup against Margaret’s lips. The brew was strong and lukewarm. The first sip made Margaret feel as if her throat was opening.

“Don’t drink too quickly,” Laren warned, but Margaret could not stop once she started. Her body needed the liquid. She drained the cup dry.

“More,” she ordered.

Laren complied. A third cup followed the second.

Margaret fell back on the pillow. She looked to the young women. “What did you do with the others?”

Brows furrowed. Anice spoke. “They’ve received a Christian burial.”

“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, heartbroken by the deaths of Balfour and Thomas. Even of Smith. Their deaths cried for vengeance, and she swore silently she would deliver it. “How long have I been in this bed?” she asked.

“We found you three days ago,” Laren answered. “Actually, our brother found you. His name is Heath Macnachtan—”

“He’s the laird,” Anice interjected. “He’s very important.”

“And he
saved
you,” Laren reiterated.

But Margaret barely heard their praise of their brother. Instead, she was stunned to realize
three days had passed
? Three days for the witch Fenella to gather her power.

“Rowan,” Margaret said. “Please take me to him.”

“Yes, my lady,” Anice replied. “But do you believe you should move?”

“Take me to him,” Margaret repeated, her tone allowing no room for refusal. She sat up, relieved that her body did not protest. She pulled her nightdress down over her legs, needing a moment to steady herself.

There was a simple oak linen press on the opposite wall, and beside it were several bags that she recognized as her own from the coach. There was also the coachman’s whip, leaning against the press.

Seeing the direction she was looking, Anice explained, “The linen press holds most of your clothing. Your things were spread all through the woods, but we think we have most of it. Heath had a party comb the forest thoroughly.”

“Heath?”

“Our brother,” Anice said. “Laird Macnachtan. We just told you about him. He is the one who found you. We believe your accident happened just after you crossed the border to our lands.”

Fenella had wanted to stop her from reaching Loch Awe?

Or was it that Fenella wanted her in Macnachtan hands?

Margaret pushed up from the bed, not certain what to think. She was surrounded by her enemies, and yet Laren and Anice reached out as if ready to catch her in case she fell. She was relieved that her legs held her weight, albeit unsteadily at first. “A robe?” she said.

Laren crossed to the linen press and pulled out Margaret’s blue robe. She helped Margaret into the soft fabric and started to tie it at her waist but Margaret caught her hands. “I’ll do it.” She chose her actions because these girls should not be waiting upon her, but also she didn’t want to appear weak to them.

“Where’s Rowan?” Margaret’s voice was still hoarse.

“This way, my lady,” Laren answered, and moved toward the door. Anice hovered behind Margaret as if anxious that she would fall.

Laren was about to reach for the handle when the door opened and a tall, regal woman entered the room. Seeing them about to go out, she stopped, blocking their path.

This woman was obviously not related to the sisters. Her hair was the color of a shining copper kettle and her almond-shaped eyes reminded Margaret of Oriental jade.

While the Macnachtan sisters were trim, solid women, much like herself, the air of grace about his newcomer was tangible in her shoulders and high cheekbones. She could have been a Slavic princess or cast in the role of a fairy queen upon the stage.

“Our guest is up,” she said, her melodic accent coupled with a warmth of tone that made her voice distinctive. “Lady Margaret, welcome to Marybone, the Macnachtan family home. I am Dara, the dowager Lady Macnachtan.”

A widow. A very young one.

Margaret tried to smile. They all seemed anxious to please her, and she was just as anxious to be on guard. “Thank you,” she murmured. This whole experience after the violent accident was too strange.

“Lady Margaret wished to see the Indian gentleman,” Anice explained. There was a hint of distance in her voice . . . as if she did not completely like her sister-in-marriage.

“Oh, well, this way then, my lady,” Lady Macnachtan said, taking charge.

As she went out the door, Laren stepped aside to let her pass and even Anice seemed to move back a step.

The hallway was as plain as the bedroom had been. Margaret noticed the unevenness of the paint as if there had once been pictures gracing the walls that were now gone. There were no furnishings or carpet, and the cold wood floor was scuffed and marked with age. Back in London, she would never go barefoot, but there was no maid to see to her needs here. Smith was dead, and Margaret was humbled by that fact.

Doors to three other bedrooms lined the hall. Stairs led down to the ground floor and up to the second floor. Lady Macnachtan began climbing the stairs. They were very steep.

Margaret gripped the handrail. Climbing was a bit of a challenge for her but she persevered, conscious that Laren and Anice were watching her every move.

The second floor hall was narrow and as shabby as the downstairs hallway. This would be where the nursery or servants’ rooms were located.

Lady Macnachtan opened the door closest to the stairs. She went inside and stepped aside in a silent invitation for Margaret to enter.

For a second, Margaret was tempted to hang back, uncertain what to expect. She gathered her courage and went in. The bed was only a few steps from the door, and the sight of the stoic Rowan made her bring her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out.

He was only a shadow of himself. If they had pulled the covers up over his head, no one would have known he was there.

His dusky skin was a pallid gray. Bruises misshaped his face. His broken arms had been set with boards wrapped with linens. His fingers were swollen from breaks in them as well.

This was what she should have looked like.

And yet she was whole and well.

Margaret fell to her knees beside the bed. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She reached for Rowan’s hand.

“The doctor has encouraged us
not
to touch him,” Lady Macnachtan warned. “He believes the less the patient is moved, the better he will heal.”

Pulling back her hand, Margaret felt the terrible, dark coldness of fear.

These women might appear normal, but there was something terribly wrong.
Dangerously
wrong.

And she was unnerved.

She needed to be alone. She needed to think.
She needed to find Fenella’s book.
That thought was crystal clear. The book would be her protection. It would have answers. Harry was certain this was true, and right now, she had nothing else.