Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 5

A door below her window opened and she overheard Laren’s and Anice’s voices although she could not make out what they were saying to each other. She stepped back from the window lest they catch sight of her, but they were too interested in where they were going.

  She watched them follow a path off to the side of the house that led through the trees toward stables built of stone, wood and plaster. There were other outbuildings, but the stables were clearly the family’s pride.

  A goodly number of people congregated in the stable yard, milling around as if waiting for something to take place. She wondered what was going on.

  And then she noticed the figure of a tall, hatless man. Everyone at the stables seemed to be listening to or milling around him. He had dark hair and wore his coat open.

  Margaret could not make out his features but she had the unsettling feeling of recognition.

  Even from this distance, there was an air of command about him. She could tell by the way he sliced his hand in the air that he was not happy. His people stepped back and some hung their heads.

  This must be the Macnachtan. The laird.

  The link between her ancestors and Fenella.

  His sisters had said he had discovered the coach accident. Heath Macnachtan.

  As she watched, Laren and Anice set out to warn their brother Margaret was awake. Soon they would return to check on her and she’d lose this precious opportunity to find Fenella’s book.

  Margaret set to work, frantically searching her baggage for the book.

  Someone had organized her possessions. Hair ornaments were in one place, jewelry in another. Some of the items were Smith’s, and Margaret regretted she hadn’t been kinder to the older woman.

  Stockings and petticoats had been freshly laundered and folded. It took time to accomplish these tasks. Margaret frowned at the layers of cleaned clothes, a bit unsettled that someone had gone through her belongings.

  The first important item she found was the pistol her brother Harry had given her before she’d left him in Glenfinnan. He had taught Margaret how to shoot, so he’d trusted her to use the weapon if necessary.

  Margaret found the gun in her portmanteau, which had been with her inside the coach. She held the weapon in her hand, feeling its weight, and then pulled out the ammunition bag.

  The leather was water stained, an obvious sign of the storm she and Rowan had experienced, but the powder inside was not caked. Certainly, moisture would impact the powder, but to what degree? Harry had told stories of his men using powder that had been damp. The powder in the bag seemed dry now.

  The gun gave her a sense of confidence. She was no longer entirely at the Macnachtans’ mercy.

  Margaret returned to her search. She tried to be orderly, but the longer she looked, the more she panicked. She could not find the book. Everything that she’d had with her on the trip was here except for the book.

  Her suspicions of the Macnachtan motives had been correct. They had taken Fenella’s book. They were keeping it for themselves.

  Anger exploded in her mind. Her brothers’ lives depended upon her. Without the book, she was powerless.

  She had come here on a mission to save her family, and so she would.

  Margaret dressed quickly. She didn’t bother with her hair but reached for her fur-trimmed cape and threw it over her shoulders. She then loaded the gun, tucking the ammunition bag into a pocket inside her cloak.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “What is it?” Margaret asked.

  “I have a tray for you, my lady,” the young girl who had been watching for her to wake said. “It’s a bowl of broth and a bit of good bread.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Margaret said. And it was true. She didn’t need food. She was sustained by generations of righteous anger. “Return the tray to the kitchen,” she ordered.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Margaret waited a moment and then walked to the door. The hallway was empty.

  The gun in her hand, she left the room. The time had come to confront Laird Macnachtan, and he would give her back the book.

  The gun would help her see that he did.

  Chapter Four

  Whisky was the devil’s curse.

  And just as Heath Macnachtan stepped into the mucky pit of the pigpen, he wished he’d not indulged himself in it so much the night before. He was unshaven, having been woken from a sound sleep to chase pigs, and heartily annoyed, especially since he wasn’t the only one who had overindulged.

  His second cousin Irwin started every morning with a dram or two or ten. The man didn’t understand his responsibilities. True, at four and thirty, he had the simple mind of a ten-year-old child, but how difficult was it to remember to shut the pigpen every evening?

  This was the third time in the past two months he had forgotten.

  Usually, Heath could be patient with Irwin, but not this morning when his own brain pounded with dissipation.

  It was the English Chattan’s fault. Her presence made him feel as if a noose was tightening around his neck. The noose that had been placed there by Brodie’s death.

  She symbolized the outside world, the one he had been forced to set aside.

  God, he missed the sea. He missed salt air. He missed freedom. The uniform he’d worn had stood for something.

  Now he had nothing. He represented nothing. His realm was made up of these mountains and these irascible, lazy, disloyal, and infuriatingly opinionated people known as Highlanders. And he could no longer escape that he was one of them.

  Brodie and his father must be laughing in heaven.

  Marybone, the family seat, had been built almost a hundred years ago. The family had taken the gray stone from what had once been known as Macnachtan Keep to build the house and stables. The house was a sturdy four-story home that was drafty in the winter and an oven in the summer.

  In truth, the house was considered one of the region’s important landmarks, although Heath concluded that was because of the stables. That building had stalls for twenty horses and room for vehicles of all sizes, which his father had purchased even though they were rarely used. Most of those vehicles Heath had sold to pay debts.

  The majority of the stalls were now empty save for the bold Admiral and the mares Heath’s sisters and sister-in-law had to ride. Admiral performed double service as both Heath’s mount and the plow horse when one was needed.

  The mares were of genuinely good stock. Brodie had dreamed of breeding fine Thoroughbreds and had sunk a considerable amount of money he didn’t have into the endeavor.

  Behind the stables were several outbuildings for geese, goats and a cow.

  The pigpen was a new addition. Always before they’d let the pigs roam free, which was why, Heath was certain, they’d lost their herd. It was too easy for the Campbells to nab one whenever they had a taste for ham. Heath was determined to see the practice stopped, and Irwin seemed equally determined to let it continue.

  Heath and several others, including Rowlly and his wife, Janet, had spent a good hour searching for the young pigs that they intended to slaughter come spring. The bloody beasts had not been easy to find, while all Irwin would do was sit and boozily cry to his mother, Nila.

  “Don’t you blame this on my son,” she declared as Heath dumped the squirming pig Rowlly had passed to him into the pen to join the others.

  Heath shut the gate and slid the board in place to keep it closed before addressing her. He needed that much time to tame his temper, and decided it was hopeless. He’d lost his sense of humor the moment he’d seen the open gate and empty pen. “And who should I blame, Nila?”

  The others in the yard, the crofters who had aided in the search and the stable lads all stopped to listen close.

  “You expect too much of him,” Nila said. “He can’t be responsible.”

  “It is a gate,” Heath said. “You open it; you close it.” He demonstrated while Nila’s frown deepened, which was unfortunate. She had the looks of a troll with a wrinkled
face and huge nose. She needed to smile.

  God, he longed for the authority he had in the navy. There was little or no class structure in the clan. These people were kin. Clansmen, especially the women, didn’t hesitate to make their opinions known and argue with every single action he took.

  “He’s only forgotten three times,” Nila answered, spreading her arms to protect her son, who was twice as tall as she was. “But it isn’t his fault.”

  “And whose fault is it, Nila?” Heath demanded.

  “Yours. You ask too much of him. You ask too much of all of us.”

  Heath swore under his breath. “I’m asking you to help feed yourselves. We need those pigs so that we have bacon and hams for next winter. Or do you want another winter like this one where you are hungry all the time?”

  “You are the laird. It is your responsibility to take care of us.” Nila spoke to Heath as if he was as simple as her son and did not understand his duties. “You talk of feeding us but then you cut the widows’ pensions. You promised we would see the rest of our money, but we haven’t yet.”

  “Don’t use that tone on me, Nila. My father and my brother sold everything of value to keep this clan going but the world beyond us has changed. The old ways can’t work any longer. Each of us has to learn to carry his or her own weight. And you haven’t gone hungry yet. I’ve seen to that.”

  Heath knew he wasn’t speaking just to Nila and her son. The others listened as well.

  The immediate clan was made up of some thirty families numbering close to two hundred individuals tucked away here in the valley along Loch Awe. Once their numbers had been greater, but like Heath, many had been restless and had wanted to see what lay beyond Macnachtan lands. They had gone in search of opportunity, leaving behind the feeble, the lazy and the fools.

  This morning, Heath felt very much as if he belonged in the last category. Was it any wonder that the estate was in the hands of his creditors? Brodie had borrowed deeply to save this lot, a debt now on Heath’s shoulders.

  That meant he must preach independence, even when drink-bitten.

  And of course, he was too stubborn to walk away from it all. Nila’s opinions aside, he did feel a responsibility. As had his brother and his father.

  Owen Campbell’s offer to buy his land rested heavy in his mind. Money would solve all his problems.

  But he couldn’t sell. He wouldn’t. This was his legacy. His ancestors had nurtured, protected and led these people for centuries. He’d not be the one to fail them, although Nila was right about his cutting the widows’ pensions. There were twelve widows on the rolls, a school and a kirk to maintain, and a host of other obligations on top of the debts.

  He needed a miracle to find his way through this—and then God, in his holy humor, had sent the richest heiress in the kingdom to his door.

  But she was a Chattan and he a Macnachtan.

  Chattan. Stories behind that name were shared in the evenings when people wanted the entertainment of a good morality tale or to warn children of the evils in the world.

  There had been a time when Heath, much younger, of course, had believed those who claimed all Macnachtan woes stemmed from Chattan deceit.

  Now he understood the Chattans had nothing to do with the challenge of bringing this stubborn band of Highlanders into the modern world.

  “You will receive your money, Nila, but not if I must keep spending more to buy pigs to replace the ones your son let loose.”

  Hearing his tone, a wise man would have stepped back. Not Nila. She stood her ground, glaring up at him in defiance.

  “Well, Laird, you have your opinion, and I have mine,” she announced, her hands on her hips. “Don’t go believing that you can do as you please. There are the old ways, the right of tanistry.”

  “Tanistry?” Why was he arguing with this woman? He would rather return to his bed and perhaps have another nip of the bottle to cure the ache in his head.

  “Aye, tanistry,” she said. “The title of chief is voted upon by us and rotated between those with the blood to have the honor,” she said. “There is more than just you with the right blood. We haven’t changed things yet, but we might.”

  “Who told you this nonsense?” Heath demanded. “Swepston? Is the man calling up the law of the Druids now? Does he believe himself some priest prince?” Heath could almost laugh at the thought except he was so bleeding angry. He wanted to shake the silliness out of Nila.

  He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “Swepston whispers mutiny against me and my family. Well, hear me well, I am descended from Robert the Bruce and one of my line has been your laird from that time onward. Have Swepston come forward and place his claim. I shall settle it for him.”

  He’d knock him down with one blow.

  Nila’s response was a sniff. “Come, Irwin, I have chores for you at home.” She turned and walked off with all the bearing of a queen.

  Heath struggled with a strong, childish urge to run after her and give her a kick on the backside. He had just wasted his breath. She’d heard nothing.

  “You knew you wouldn’t win that battle,” Rowlly muttered. His wife nodded her agreement. Janet practically lived at the stables when her husband was there. She was a robust, handsome woman a half a head taller than Rowlly and the mother of his four sons.

  “I had hopes.” Heath swallowed his frustration. “Have one of the lads follow behind Irwin each night and each morning to see the gate is closed, and be certain Irwin knows that if that pen is left open again, I will take it out of his hide.”

  “Aye, Laird.”

  And that should have been the end of it. Heath expected them all to stop standing around slack-jawed and set to work. However, any move in that direction his clansmen would have made stopped as his sisters came running down the path from the house, their long cloaks flying behind them in their urgency. Anice said, “She’s awake, Heath. Lady Margaret is awake.”

  Even Nila did an about-face and returned to the stable yard.

  There were no secrets in the clan. Stories were shared with everyone. A whisper in the morning would be an outrageous tale by evening, and Heath could swear that most of the stories were about him.

  He also knew he couldn’t fight it.

  “The Chattan is awake?” Janet Macnachtan repeated. “She is alive, is she?” She spit on the ground to let the world know her thoughts. She wasn’t the only one who had spit. At the mention of the name Chattan, there was a robust round of spitting.

  Heath frowned. “We all knew Lady Margaret was alive,” he said, using Lady Margaret’s title pointedly to Janet. “And she is a guest here. I expect her to be treated as such, and no spitting on the ground. I’ll not have superstitious nonsense—” He saw Nila raise her brows. “I won’t,” he repeated, especially for her, and she could go tell Swepston as much. “If you disrespect a guest under my roof, it is the same as disrespecting me—and I shall not be pleased.”

  There was a moment of sullen silence. Glances were exchanged . . . and then they all made a pretense of returning to their chores. But it was for show. The quality of the work would not be good and would have to be redone on the morrow.

  Such was the nature of subtle insubordination.

  Heath turned to his sisters, who made fine targets for his foul mood. “We could show a bit of discretion here.”

  “Yes, we could,” Anice replied breezily, taking his arm and pulling him off to the side. Laren followed.

  “Is something the matter with Lady Margaret?” He’d sent word to her brother Lord Lyon in London explaining the accident, assuring him she was safe and appeared unharmed. Heath did not want to send another letter to such a powerful man reporting a new issue after he’d assured him all was well.

  “She’s fine. The picture of health—” Anice answered.

  “Surprisingly,” Laren interjected. “She was even puzzled at how she went through such an accident and escaped any injury. She wanted to see her Indian servant and seemed quite up
set over his injuries. It is strange she didn’t suffer any.”

  “It is odd—” Heath agreed, but Anice overrode him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Anice said. “Not now. She’s well and she is healthy and Laren and I believe you should court her.”

  Heath took a step back. “I’m sorry, I must have had my toes in my ears. I believe you suggested I should court Lady Margaret Chattan, the woman whose name can’t be mentioned without a rash of spitting. Even Janet, who always wears her best to church, spit on the ground.”

  Anice made a face as if he was being silly. “You should be in church more often, and, yes, spitting is disgusting, but this moment is like a Shakespearean play.”

  “God help me, Anice, don’t suggest it’s Macbeth,” Heath said. “I have no desire to chase witches in the forest or stab people in their beds.”

  “No, it is like Romeo and Juliet.”

  Heath directed his attention to Laren. “She wants me to drink poison?”

  “She wants you to wed the Chattan heiress,” Laren answered.

  “It might be easier to drink poison,” Heath responded.

  Anice made an exasperated sound. “Why are you deliberately not understanding what I’m saying?”

  “Because you are not being clear, dear, and Heath is teasing you,” Laren said. “Heath, here is a brilliant opportunity to solve our debts. You must court the Chattan heiress. You should marry her.”

  “And then the Chattans and Macnachtans will set aside our differences,” Anice announced. “Just as the Montagues and Capulets ended their feud and that is what I meant about Romeo and Juliet. I don’t want anyone bit by an asp.”

  “Asp? That is a different play, Anice,” Heath pointed out.

  “It’s unimportant,” Anice argued, too wrapped up in her ideas to quibble. “Asp, poison, what does it matter? Not when it is as if fate wants you to claim the Chattan heiress. And she is lovely, Heath. I considered that the bits I’ve read about her were exaggerations, but they are not. She is a beauty.”

  “Although,” Laren said, dropping her voice a notch, “she behaves a bit odd.”

  “And what do you mean by that, Laren?” Heath asked.