Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (8 page)

Heath didn’t like cats, and he didn’t know why Lady Margaret was talking about one, until she said, “No one could see the cat, except for Harry, his wife, and myself. Rowan, Harry’s Indian servant, the one upstairs, told me he believes Owl is a reincarnation of either Fenella or her daughter Rose, the one who took her own life and caused the curse. Do you understand what a reincarnation is?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Heath admitted, hesitant. Her story had taken a decidedly odd turn.

She appeared not to notice his skepticism. “When Rowan told me he thought Owl was part of the curse, I left the cat on the side of the road. I hated doing it but my servants had all convinced me I was the only one who saw her.”

“Perhaps they were playing a joke? And they
could
see the cat?”

Lady Margaret frowned at him. “Why would they do that?”

“I’m not certain.”

She leaned forward, placing her hand on his arm. “You believe I sound strange, as if I am imagining things.”

He couldn’t deny her charge.

“I fear I am as well,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “And yet you asked me to start from the beginning.”

“I did.”

“Then understand, I am telling what I know. Or what I
think
I know. And I warn you, my story is going to sound more unrealistic.”

“I shall brace myself.”

A flicker of annoyance went through her eyes. His dry understatement was not lost on her and she did not appreciate his humor. She lifted her chin and continued, “Shortly after we left the cat, the storm came up. We were less than an hour from Loch Awe, certainly on the last miles of the journey.”

“There has not been a large storm over the past week, my lady. Rain and mist is always present, but the weather has not been violent.”

“I can only tell you what I experienced, Laird Macnachtan. The storm arrived suddenly, surprising us. It was powerful enough to sweep us off the road as if we were crumbs on a table. I could hear the men swearing at the horses. And then the horses started screaming. It was horrifying. The coach went off the road and began rolling down the mountain. Smith—she was my maid—and I were inside . . . and I could feel my bones break. I
experienced
the pain. I lost consciousness and when I woke, I saw Smith not far from me. I could tell she was dead. I knew I would be dead soon as well. I could feel myself failing.”

Heath stood, frowning. “When we found the accident, you were not located close to the maid where you could have a line of sight of her. In fact, it would be impossible for you to have seen the maid from where you were.”

“I was within feet of her,” Lady Margaret insisted. “I was staring into her face.”

“You must have moved because I discovered you away from the wreckage. You were on a bed of pine needles. There was copse of pines and you appeared as if you were sleeping there, your hands folded at your waist.”

“I was on my back?” She shook her head. “That could not be. I remember that I was on my stomach. And I could not move. I saw Fenella’s book. That’s how I knew it was in the wreckage. It had been in the coach with me and was within my view when I first regained consciousness. I tried to reach for it, but my arms wouldn’t move. They were broken.”

“They are not broken now—”

“I know
,” she said, rising to her feet and dropping the book into her chair. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand
any of this
.”

Heath leaned back against the desk. “I don’t believe in myths and legends. There is always a rational, logical explanation.”

Perhaps Lady Margaret was part of some ruse . . . and yet he could not imagine any reason that the Chattans would orchestrate the deaths of their own people for a pretense.

“You are thinking I am mad,” she said.

“I don’t know,” he conceded. “Perhaps you are merely confused.”

“I can understand how you might not believe me.” She straightened her shoulders and then said, “So, in the interest of you concluding that I am
truly
and completely deranged, let me finish my story. After I couldn’t reach for Fenella’s book and discovered I could not move in any way, I knew I was going to die. I expected it. A person
knows
when death is upon them.”

Heath had heard that before.

“That’s when Owl came to me,” she said. “The cat curled up next to me. I don’t know how she found me, but in that moment I was so thankful to not be alone.”

“You said you left the cat on the road behind you.”

“Yes, miles behind us, but there she was.” Lady Margaret drew in a deep breath and crossed her arms. “I try to make sense of it all. I can only conclude that Fenella was trying to stop me from reaching here, and Owl saved my life. She revived me . . . from death.”

Heath didn’t know what to think. “Why was coming here so important?”

“This is where it all began. Don’t you understand—?” She stopped, pushing a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Of course, you don’t. I’m not explaining myself well. You see, I am the first female born to our line since the days before Charles Chattan, the man who betrayed Rose Macnachtan. Harry believes that if anyone has the chance of breaking the curse, I do. And Owl,” she said thoughtfully, as if just beginning to understand, “protected me. Owl wasn’t evil like I feared. That is why I left her behind on the road. I feared her. And yet, now, I know she needed to be with me. She healed me when I was about to die.”

Heath made up his mind about her—she was as mad as a hatter. She was telling him a story that only an idiot would believe. And yet his attraction to her was strong.

She was the standard by which he’d compared all women. He hadn’t been so bold as to think that a woman of her class, of her bearing and wealth, would have any interest in a Highland ruffian like him, but he didn’t want his image of her tarnished, either.

He also didn’t want to encourage her wild-eyed beliefs by telling her something he knew—Marybone was nowhere close to the tower from which Rose Macnachtan was said to have jumped. She’d traveled to the wrong place.

“You think I’m balmy, don’t you?” she said.

The air changed between them. He felt her withdraw. The vulnerability left her and a mask seemed to cross her face. Right before his eyes, she became Lady Margaret Chattan, the Unattainable.

“I need your help,” she said, the words stiff, as if she had to force them. He was certain she was not accustomed to asking for assistance.

“What may I do for you, my lady?”

“Fenella’s book may still be where you found the wreckage. Will you take me there? I shall pay you for the service.”

“That is unnecessary—” Heath started to say, only for her to interrupt him.

“Of course, it is. You are a Macnachtan and I am a Chattan. I’m beginning to realize that my talk of a curse sounds fantastic to you, but it is very real for me. Is a hundred pounds enough for the trip?”

“A hundred?” Heath repeated, stunned by the amount.

“Very well, two hundred,” she said, taking charge and putting him in his place.

Heath’s pride bristled, but his common sense and the dire need to pay off the estate’s debts stepped in before he could refuse the money.

Still, a man shouldn’t humble himself.

“Three
hundred pounds,” he answered.

She blinked surprise and he felt a score of satisfaction. Her expressive eyes took on scorn. He met her gaze with a hard one of his own.

“If I’m going to be bought, my lady, I will not go cheap.”

There was a moment as she digested this and then she said, “Very well. When can we leave?”

“Tomorrow, depending on your strength.”

“Excellent.”

“Then tomorrow it is. First light.”

She nodded and took a step toward the door. “I shall be ready.” She studied him again and he saw her adjust her opinion of him. She had thought him safe.

He wasn’t.

“I would like to spend this evening at Rowan’s bedside,” she said.

“You may.”

She took several more steps and then stopped. “I don’t want you to think me ungrateful. I do appreciate all that you and your sisters have done. Is it possible on the morrow that I may pay respects to my servants?”

“Of course. They are buried in the kirk yard. It is on the way.”

“If there were any expenses—” she started, but Heath didn’t want to make the air more strained between them.

“There were none, my lady.”

“But the doctor for Rowan and myself?” she suggested.

“You are my guests. I only charge for outlandish requests.”

She frowned. “You believe we won’t find anything?”

“I’m certain of it. We were thorough in our search, Lady Margaret. We collected everything we found around the accident. The book you are looking for was not there.”

She placed her hand on the door handle. “I have a sense that you are wrong, my lord. My tale is unbelievable, and yet, you would be wise to believe.” With those words, she opened the door and almost walked right into Laren and Anice.

His sisters attempted to pretend that they were not eavesdropping, but they were not good actresses.

Even Dara was lingering in the hall.

“Excuse me,” Lady Margaret murmured, and gracefully walked away.

The women watched her go down the hall a moment before charging into the library. “You did tell us we could wait in the hall,” Anice said in defense to his unspoken accusation.

“Yes, but not with your ears to the door,” Heath countered.

“Did you believe what she was telling you?” Laren asked.

“If I could write this for the papers in London, I would,” Anice said. “People would be very interested in the reasons for her trip here.”

“Yes, brought on by the Macnachtan witch,” Heath gently reminded them. “We’d all be scandal broth, and you will do nothing of the sort, Anice. She’s a guest and she has been through a traumatic experience.”

“Where she died and a cat that only she can see saved her,” Laren said, revealing how effective their eavesdropping had been. “What nonsense. That tale is pure superstition. And if you think we’ll let you ride with her to the wreckage alone tomorrow, you are wrong.”

“Wrong?” Heath questioned.

“Yes,” Anice said. “We are not so much worried about witches as we are about Lady Margaret bewitching you.”

Heath started to laugh at his sister’s tart comment. “She’s
paying
me to take her,” he said in his defense, now believing the payment a good idea. “Don’t let your suspicions run wild.”

But his sisters were unconvinced by his protest. He could see their doubts in the lift of their stubborn chins and tightness of their shoulders.

They’d also be right.

Lady Margaret fascinated him. She was a glimpse of the world beyond, the world responsibilities had made him give up.

That evening, Lady Margaret did not join them for dinner. Laren sent up a tray but Cora reported Her Ladyship was not in her room. Instead, she was sitting with her servant as she had said she would.

When he went up for bed, Heath paused in front of Lady Margaret’s door. He considered knocking, but backed away.

Instead, he found himself going up the stairs to the Indian’s room. Here was the one person who could corroborate Lady Margaret’s wild story.

The door to the room was slightly ajar and Heath caught a glimpse of her presence before he barged in. He stopped outside the doorway out of respect for her privacy.

Lady Margaret was on her knees by the bedside, her hands folded, her head bowed in deep prayer.

The woman he’d seen in London, the Unattainable, was not one whom he had imagined praying, especially on her knees. That woman had been—what?

Beautiful? Yes. Celebrated? Certainly. Scores of men had followed her and the crowd on a busy London street had been aware of her presence. She was wealthy, young, a jewel of London society.

And then his memory caught on something else, something he had not noticed at the time but he realized now—she’d been unhappy. Whether he had recognized it or not, he had sensed it.

She’d been surrounded by hordes of admirers, and alone.

And here she was keeping vigil by a servant’s bedside.

He had few regrets in life. He was a man of action, not studious contemplation, but he recognized in her the weight of remorse . . . and he did not understand why.

Heath backed away from the door, giving her privacy. Nor could he shake the image of her humbled from his mind. He went to bed, but did not sleep until he heard the sound of her bedroom door closing, a sign that she had finally gone to her room.

The next morning when he came downstairs prepared to travel, not only was Lady Margaret dressed and waiting for him, but Laren and Anice were there and ready to ride as well.

Chapter Seven

H
eath hesitated on the last step of the staircase. He’d hoped his sisters had forgotten their threat to ride with him today, and well they knew it.

Laren had the audacity to look smug. “It’s such a lovely day for an adventure, Anice and I couldn’t be convinced to stay behind.”

The day was not that lovely. The weather was overcast and cold.

And while Laren had an excellent seat, it was well-known that Anice was a skittish rider and would prefer being anywhere save the back of a horse.

Heath looked from one sister to the other and wondered if they knew how foolish they were being.

But he’d not tell them that.

“Fine. We shall have an outing of it,” he said, turning his attention to Lady Margaret.

She truly looked stunning. Her riding habit was made of a blue material so fine and a cut so excellent it fitted her figure perfectly. The collar was black velvet and the buttons silver. She carried a whip topped with a silver and white ribbon tassel and wore a hat with a wide brim and low crown. Both items had some damage from the coach accident. The hat had lost some of its stylish shape and there was dirt on the ribbon tassel that would never be removed.

Still, in contrast, his sisters’ riding clothes appeared shabby and ill made. The material was stiff and the style obviously dated.

“Well, let us break our fast then,” Laren was saying, and led the way to the dining room. As she walked, she held the extra length of her skirt up in one hand in a gesture that was not common for Laren. He remembered their mother chastising her to stop dragging her hem on the floor. Just last week, when she’d gone riding, Heath had noticed that she still let her hem drag—but not today.

He disliked the fact he noticed.

Her Ladyship herself was very quiet. Tension seemed to radiate from her.

“You cut your hair,” Anice whispered, and brushed her fingers against the back of his collar. Heath was wearing a brown hunting jacket and black breeches. Not only were his heels worn, his boots also needed a good polish. He’d meant to do the task last night but had been called away over a dispute involving two of his crofters, both of them highly inebriated, the bloody fools.

“What did you say, Anice?” Laren asked in her lady-of-the-manor voice. “Please sit here, Lady Margaret, next to me at the table.”

“Heath cut his hair,” Anice repeated.

Laren snapped her head around to look. It was as if she had not truly noticed him when he first came down. Now she frowned in disapproval. He glared back at her.

Yes, he’d cut his hair a bit. It was still too long. There was no barber, save his sisters, and he hadn’t asked their help because he knew they would read too much into the action. They would believe he’d done it for Lady Margaret, and he had.

Yesterday afternoon, they had been encouraging him to snatch her up for a wife.

Now they behaved as if she was a leper.

They needn’t worry. Lady Margaret would have to be blind or a fool to take a fancy to someone like him. He had far more problems than solutions.

But he was male, and she was beautiful, and if his sisters wanted to scowl with disapproval, so be it—

He stopped his musings and frowned at the dining room table.

It
was different.

Usually, they either went down to the kitchen or little Cora would help Cook by bringing their breakfasts to them. They kept their life simple.

However, today the table was set with the best linens and dishes. Heath couldn’t remember the last time he had seen these linens.

Now it was his turn to frown at Laren. So she mocked him for trying to impress Lady Margaret while she was doing the same?

Sisters!

He pulled out his chair at the head of the table. “What shall be next this morning, Laren?” he murmured. “Will Cora come out dressed in Macnachtan livery?”

He received his sister’s coolest stare for his effrontery as she and Anice took their chairs.

Lady Margaret noticed none of it. She’d taken her seat, still very quiet, a small frown on her forehead.

Heath shook out his napkin. “I’m surprised there isn’t a little bell for me to ring for the servants.”

“She knows we are here,” Laren said stiffly.

Cora proved her correct by coming into the room with a tray. The girl was a wee thing and the tray held several bowls of morning porridge and slices of fresh bread and butter. Heath rose from the table to help her. He couldn’t keep from whispering in Laren’s ear as he set her porridge in front of her, “I’m surprised we are not having beefsteak.”

“We thought about it,” Anice said as he served her, and Heath started to laugh. “Behave,” Anice ordered quietly. “Laren truly wants to let Lady High-and-Mighty know that we are every bit as good as she is.”

But they couldn’t. His sisters knew nothing of the world beyond Marybone, but Heath had experienced the wonders and luxuries of London, things that Lady Margaret would accept as a matter of course, as her due. He doubted she noticed their extra efforts.

“Thank you, Cora,” he said as he took his chair and lifted his spoon. Porridge. It was the best they had to offer. At night it was fish, and noonday it was usually cheese and bread. “I assure you, Lady Margaret, you have never had porridge like this before.”

Her response was to look up with a distracted air as if she hadn’t even realized she had food in front of her. She turned her attention to her bowl. “Oh, yes, thank you,” she said, and picked up her spoon, only to set it down.

“I must say something,” she said, “and I’m going to apologize before I say it because I am certain I shall do a very poor job of it.” Lady Margaret turned to Laren. “Miss Macnachtan, I owe you an apology for behaving the way I did yesterday. It was poor form. I . . .” She paused as if reconsidering her words and then bravely pushed on. “I don’t say I’m sorry very often. I usually keep a firm distance from people. I’ve found it safer. This is new to me. I don’t know if Laird Macnachtan told you but I made the wrong assumption yesterday about the book in your library.” She looked around the table to Anice and Heath. “I may have assumed the worst of all of you. And in doing so, I’ve created a bad impression of myself. Please, I’m sorry. I know to an outsider my behavior seems bizarre. I no longer see you as enemies—and I know that sounds odd since you probably never even knew I existed until you found me on your land. But I am deeply appreciative and
humbled
by all that you’ve done for my staff and myself.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air.

He understood the courage it took to apologize. Now
he
was the one humbled.

Anice was the first to recover from her surprise. “You have nothing to feel ill at ease about,” she said to this woman she’d admired only through
on dits
in the papers and the like, a woman who’d had no substance to her until this moment. “We are honored to help you.”

“Yes,” Laren agreed. “You have been through a terrible experience. I seem to have forgotten that. Perhaps I should apologize myself.”

“Oh, please, there is no need,” Lady Margaret said.

“Oh, but there is,” Laren returned, her earlier coldness giving way to her usual generous spirit.

Heath was bemused by the ability of women to forgive so easily. All it took was a word, a gesture for them to band together.

“The porridge smells delicious,” Lady Margaret commented, picking up her spoon.

“It’s not the sort of dish you are used to,” Anice demurred.

“I like porridge for breakfast,” Lady Margaret said graciously, and Heath didn’t know if she was lying or not, but it didn’t matter. The tension in his sisters had eased, and they wouldn’t be teasing him about cutting his hair.

He’d just finished his bowl when a footstep at the door claimed his attention. He was surprised to see Dara there, dressed for riding.

“I’m pleased you haven’t left,” she said, entering the room. She reached for a slice of fresh bread. “I’ve decided I’m going with you.”

Heath stood. “Dara, do you truly want to come? You know where the accident was?”

She squared her shoulders, pausing long enough for him to see the struggle inside her. She swallowed the mouthful of bread. “I know, and, yes, I wish to accompany you.”

He released his breath in surprise. She had never gone to the place Brodie had died. For a second, he debated arguing with her, and then decided not to. It helped him to visit that oak tree. Perhaps it would help Dara in her mourning as well.

“We’d best start out then,” he said. “I told the lads I wanted the horses ready for half past eight and you know they shall be. There are not many hours of light on a winter’s day so we’d best be on with it.”

They left the table and headed out.

“W
hy did your brother hesitate when Lady Macnachtan asked to accompany us?” Margaret asked Laren and Anice.

Her apology had torn down the wall between them. She now rode an even-tempered, well-bred mare with Laren on one side and Anice on the other. The sisters were truly kind and giving. They didn’t seem to harbor petty jealousies like so many women she had known. Then again, London society was very competitive.

Laird Macnachtan and Lady Macnachtan rode on the road ahead, their heads together in deep conversation. A pang of jealousy annoyed Margaret. She usually didn’t experience such an emotion, but Heath Macnachtan had captured her interest, as perhaps should be expected considering the role his family played in her life.

Except it was the man himself who attracted her.

In spite of his devil-may-care manner, as exemplified by the haphazard knot in his neck cloth this morning, and his almost raw masculine energy, there was a more complex side to him. He’d been kind to her yesterday and patient with her agitated confusion. Anyone else would have locked her up.

She’d caught enough of the conversation he was having with his sister-in-law to know he discussed their tenants. It was a perfectly reasonable discussion for them to have, although Margaret was unreasonably aware of how lovely Lady Macnachtan was. She had a fragile air and Margaret couldn’t help but wonder about her story. Dara Macnachtan was too young to be a widow for long.

When Anice and Laren exchanged glances without answering her question immediately, Margaret worried that perhaps she’d overstepped her bounds.

Then, Anice said, “Our oldest brother was murdered. He was attacked on his way home from visiting one of our crofters. Someone shot him with a crossbow. Our trip will take us right to the place where he was killed. Dara has never been there since his death. Heath is right to be concerned.”

“I’m so sorry,” Margaret whispered, stunned by this information.

“We are as well,” Laren said solemnly. “I think the loss wouldn’t be so deep if we’d found who killed him and could ask why someone would take such a good man’s life.”

“There was no justice?” Margaret said.

“None,” Anice said, “and that hurts. Brodie didn’t have any enemies—”

“He had one,” Laren pointed out.

“Well, none that we knew. He was such a good brother and kind husband. It has been well over a year since his death, but we’ll never stop missing Brodie.”

“Especially as long as his killer is free,” Laren agreed. “I can’t even imagine how Dara feels. Brodie was her protector. He’d rescued her.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.

“Her father was the minister in Dalmally. He died unexpectedly and she had no relatives to take her in. Brodie had always been sweet on her. Even though they were both very young, he asked for her hand.”

“How old were they?” Margaret wondered.

“Just barely sixteen,” Anice answered. “Brodie had to talk to convince our father to agree to the marriage. They were together a long time.”

“And no children?” Margaret asked.

“None,” Laren said sadly. “Brodie would have been a wonderful father. Then again, there was still hope they would have a bairn or two. An heir.”

“This is very sad,” Margaret said. “You
do
understand what it means to lose a brother and why I am anxious to save mine.”

“We know all too well,” Laren said.

“The only good that came of Brodie’s death was that Heath finally returned home,” Anice said.

“Where had he been?” Margaret asked, her every instinct alert for news of him.

“He was in the navy,” Anice answered. “He had a commission and was gone for years at a time. He seemed to thrive on sea battles and adventurous places.” She gave a shiver as if such danger was distasteful. “He had to come home after Brodie died to take the title.”

“Is it an old title?” Margaret asked.

“Aye, very old, if you are Scottish,” Laren said. “It means something here, although I doubt if the rest of the world cares. We’ve always been too poor to advance our political fortunes.”

“But at one time, we were important,” Anice insisted. “And I believe Heath will see us through this crisis.”

“Do you mean the death of your brother?” Margaret asked.

“And the settling to the estate’s accounts,” Laren said. “What we lack in money, we make up for in pride.”

Margaret didn’t know how to respond. Of course, she had noticed that the Macnachtan were not wealthy, but she didn’t think them poor. What they had, they took care of. An example would be the horses they were riding. Someone had a good eye for horseflesh.

And yes, the sister’s riding habits weren’t as fine as Margaret’s, but they either knew someone who was clever with a needle, or they were themselves, because their outfits were well constructed and showed a bit of personality.

Margaret’s fashion taste was the product of dressmakers with critical eyes. She lacked the talent for individual flair and appreciated it in others.

But she was saved from further conversation by their brother, who circled his horse around to join them. “We are at the kirk,” he said, and directed them down a well-worn path to where a small stone church sat in an inviting dell surrounded by evergreens. A graveyard was off to one side.

Margaret was riveted by the sight of freshly dug graves. Seven in a row.