The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse

The Devil's Heart The Chattan Curse - By Cathy Maxwell

Chapter One


1814

The last days of December

The Road to Loch Awe, Scotland

Margaret moved deeper into the forest. The air was colder here but she sensed the chill rather than felt it. Such was the nature of dreams, and she knew she dreamed.

The path she followed was not easy. The forest floor was deep with damp, rotting leaves. The roots of ancient trees threatened to trip her. Heavy, gnarled limbs loomed overhead as if reaching out to claw her back. She carried a short sword in her hand.

She had come to battle the Macnachtan.

She knew they were close.

She did not know what to expect.

A faint green light appeared just around the curve in the path. Margaret paused. She tightened her hold on the sword. The time of reckoning had arrived. She must not lose her courage.

She stepped forward, the fear in her heart pounding in her ears.

At the bend in the road was a huge tree, an oak, with a trunk wider than the span of a man’s arms. She paused, knowing that her enemy was about to be revealed—and then the heavens opened.

Rain poured down, rain that changed to falling corpses. Dead, lifeless bodies, falling upon her from the oak’s mighty branches—

Lady Margaret Chattan came awake with a gasp. She had raised her hands above her head as if she could ward off the bodies—and she held them there, waiting . . . waiting for nothing.

For a long second, she stared around the confines of the rolling coach, needing a moment to recognize her surroundings, to realize she was safe. Confused, stunned by the horror of the dream, and more than slightly embarrassed, she lowered her arms.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

Margaret turned toward the speaker, her abigail, Smith, who had been hired especially for this trip.

Smith was a prim, self-contained sort who wasn’t any more certain of her new employer than Margaret was of her. For most of the trip, she’d sat on the coach seat facing Margaret’s. She’d always had a piece of needlework close at hand and an air of judgment on her round face.

She was knitting now. Her needles hadn’t even paused as she made her inquiry. It was almost as if she assumed Margaret would exhibit extreme behavior.

“I had a dream,” Margaret answered in a voice that encouraged no inquiries.

Smith had replaced Higgins, who had been Margaret’s closest confidante. She and Higgins had been together for over ten years. Higgins had recently married one of the household footmen and was now expecting. Therefore, she was unable to accompany Margaret on this trip.

If Higgins had been here, Margaret could have told her about the dream. Higgins had never sold information or gossiped, which had made her worth her weight in gold. Smith was different. The woman was gallingly curious about Margaret’s every action, and Margaret knew she annoyed the maid by being so tight-lipped about their purpose in Scotland.

Margaret sat up on the tufted velvet seat and lifted the flap over the coach window, needing to assure herself they were on a mountain road and not in the forest of her dream.

Winter had finally arrived in the Highlands. Over the past two gray and dismal days of traveling, they had encountered light snow, sleet, rain and, for one rare moment, the sun, proving what everyone claimed about the unpredictability of Scottish weather to be quite true.

Both she and Smith wore heavy woolen dresses and cloaks. They each had a fur-lined lap blanket over their knees, and neither had taken off her gloves. Smith even wore them as she knitted.

The wind seemed to whip at the window. At this particular juncture of the winding mountain road there were no trees to stop it. No gnarled limbs or rotting leaves. As far as Margaret could tell, they seemed to be the only living creatures in the world. There were no crofters’ huts, or a herd of sheep wandering over the rocky moorland, or a bird in the cloud-laden sky.

She let the flap fall back over the window. “Thomas says we should reach Loch Awe before nightfall.” She tried to keep her voice nonchalant, to hide the doubt and uneasiness inside her.

The task that lay ahead called for a warrior, not a confused, “pampered” miss who didn’t feel she had any purpose in her life and was all too aware of her miserable failings.

But she couldn’t let any of that show. She never could.

After all, she was Lady Margaret Chattan. Society thought her perfect, complete, whole. She was an acclaimed beauty and on all the best social lists, although she rarely went out. They thought her aloofness was due to her being imperial, discerning. They respected her for it. They speculated on whom she would someday marry and offered potential matches.

Little did they know she did not go out because she was not worthy of any honorable man. She was not what they thought her.

Not even her brothers Neal and Harry, the people who knew her best, were aware of how she had degraded herself—and God willing, they never would. It was her secret, one only Higgins knew. In the rarefied air of the highest ranks of London society an unmarried woman’s virginity was her badge of honor. Margaret had tossed hers aside for something as foolish as believing she’d been in love. Of course, she’d been very young when she’d done so, but she’d known what was at stake.

For a period of time, she’d carried on as if nothing was the matter, but it was hard living a lie and easier on her conscience to retreat from society. The curse offered the justification. She’d told her brothers she would not marry knowing that she could pass the curse on to her children. They’d understood. They knew the danger of love.

And now, to save them, the curse was calling her out.

The Chattan Curse. When a Chattan male falls in love, he dies.

A Scottish witch of the Macnachtan clan had placed the curse upon them almost two hundred years earlier when Margaret’s ancestors had left Scotland for England. And it had not been some bit of nonsense or hocus-pocus. The curse had claimed her father’s life, her grandfather’s, and their fathers’ before them. Knowledge of the curse and the dangers of love had always been a part of her life.

Unfortunately, and against all wisdom, both of her brothers had fallen in love and were the curse’s next victims unless she could stop it. Her oldest brother, Neal, Lord Lyon, had been too weak to walk when Margaret had left London. And Harry, well, Harry had surprised her.

He’d traveled ahead of her to Scotland in search of a Scottish witch who could break the curse. Instead, in that short period of time, he’d fallen in love and his left arm was already numb, one of the first signs of the curse taking hold.

She was their only hope. For this reason, she was on her way to Loch Awe, the family seat of the Macnachtans.

Smith interrupted Margaret’s thoughts. “I won’t be telling fibs, my lady, I’m tired of travel. It’s hard to believe we left London only six days ago. I feel as I’ve been around the world twice and back.”

Margaret was tired of travel as well. However, she felt herself bristle at the servant’s complaint. This was no pleasure trip but one of life and death.

If Harry’s suspicions were correct, Margaret could be the key to breaking the Chattan Curse. She was the first daughter to have been born since the curse existed, and Harry believed her birth might not have been just happenstance.

In Glenfinnan, once the home of Margaret’s ancestors, Harry had discovered a book of recipes once owned by Fenella Macnachtan, the witch who had placed the curse upon them. The book rested on the seat beside Margaret now. She’d read it front to back thrice over.

At first it appeared to be the sort of book one chatelaine passed down to another. The leather binding was cracked and worn with age. The records were handwritten and covered everything from how to make unproductive hens lay eggs to the refining of soap. But there were other entries as well, notes that read like spells. There was one for the lovelorn who wished to reclaim a lost love, with the word “Charles” written in the margin.

Charles, Margaret’s Chattan ancestor who was the first to die from Fenella’s spell.

Harry believed that Rose of the Macnachtan, the lass Charles had jilted to marry an Englishwoman, had written that inscription. She’d taken her life over Charles’s betrayal by jumping off the tower of her family’s keep.

He believed there were no more answers to be found in Glenfinnan and that they must go to the scene of Rose’s death—and he believed only Margaret could do it.

She prayed Harry was right but she had doubts, especially with Neal so dangerously ill.

What if she was traveling in the wrong direction? What if Harry was wrong and there was nothing that she or anyone could do to break the curse’s terrible power?

Right now, Neal’s unborn son would feel the weight of it. And if history were any indication, Harry, too, would sire a son before he died.

“If only I had a sign,” she murmured. Some indication that she was on the right path. Something that could give her hope.

“Something that would bolster my fragile courage.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Smith piped up, “I’m sorry, my lady, what did you say?”

Margaret waved her question away with the hand that had been resting on the book. “Nothing. I’m just musing.” Wishing was more like it. Or praying.

A small meow caught her attention. Owl, the strange little cat she’d found clinging to the undercarriage of the coach, poked her head out from under the far edge of Margaret’s blanket where she’d been curled up taking a nap. She now stretched in that indolent, satisfied manner of all cats as she eased herself out from under the cover. She climbed into Margaret’s lap.

Margaret had never had a cat for a pet. Her mother had not liked them.

However, Owl had captivated Margaret from the moment she’d laid eyes on the animal.

Beneath the mud from the road, Margaret had discovered white fur as slick as silk. But it was Owl’s ears that had charmed Margaret. They were folded over, an aberration of Owl’s birth, giving a flat, owlish shape to her head, an image that was enhanced by her wide eyes. Margaret had never seen such large, expressive eyes on a cat. Sometimes, they had an almost human quality. She’d heard that many white cats were blind or deaf, but that wasn’t the case with Owl. This strange little puss had the uncanny ability to give Margaret, who by her own admission could be overly tense, a sense of peace.

The cat began kneading her paws into the blanket over Margaret’s legs as if settling herself in. The sound of purring filled the coach and Margaret felt her worries begin to fade, especially as she ran her gloved hand over the cat’s fur. The stakes were literally life and death, but a sense of certainty filled her.

She was on the right path. Harry believed it and so must she. From here going forward, she must act on faith—

“Are you certain you are not coming down with an ailment, my lady?” Smith suggested. Her knitting needles had stopped moving and she eyed Margaret with great concern. “Perhaps we should return to England?”

“I informed you when I hired you that we would be making a hard journey.”

“Yes, my lady,” Smith answered. There was a pause. The maid seemed to be considering something and then said with an appearance of genuine concern, “I fear this trip is having an unusual effect on you, my lady.”

“How so?”

The maid frowned at Owl, who was blissfully enjoying Margaret’s attention. “Well,” she started as if finding the topic more difficult than she had imagined, “You had that dream that seemed to have startled you, and I, well, I fear it weighs heavy upon you.”

Margaret felt herself laugh. Yes, the dream had been frightening, but she was fine now. Bold, even. “It was a dream, nothing more.”

Smith’s frown deepened. “Dreams can mean the mind and body are not well.”

“I feel in excellent health,” Margaret answered. And she did.

The corners of Smith’s mouth tightened and she once again eyed Owl with grave concern. Smith might not be a cat person. Like Margaret’s mother.

Another mark against Smith.

Margaret knew she and the maid would be parting company the very second they returned to London. Until then, she’d had to tolerate the woman.

Owl lifted her chin up, silently begging for a scratch there, and Margaret was happy to oblige.

Smith grew more agitated.

She set her knitting aside, not bothering to fold her handiwork or give a care over losing stitches off her needle.

For a long second, she sat tense and nervous, and then, as if she could bear it no longer, she said, “My lady, I must speak and I pray you pardon me for being so forward.”

“Forward?”

“I don’t want you to think I don’t know my station.”

“I will think nothing of the sort. Speak. Higgins and I rarely stood on ceremony.”

A fear that she was dooming herself crossed Smith’s face, but when she spoke, the words practically exploded from her. “There is no cat.”

The charge seemed to hang in the air.

Margaret wasn’t certain she’d heard the maid correctly or understood her meaning. “Are you talking of Owl? Of course, there’s a cat. She is right here.”

Smith glanced at where Margaret’s fingers scratched the purring cat beneath the chin. Her gaze shifted back to meet Margaret’s. “No, ‘Owl’ as you call him—”

“Owl is a her.”

A flash of provocation crossed Smith’s face. “I beg pardon, my lady. Owl, as you call her,” the maid corrected, “is not there. You are playing with the air. Your fingers are moving but you are not touching anything. Now I want you to understand, my lady,” she hastened to add, “I have had my share of eccentric employers. Your secret is safe with me, but I believe you should know that I know there is no cat.”

For a moment, Margaret didn’t know what to say. If she’d had any second thoughts about terminating Smith once they returned to London, they were gone from her mind. She’d never let a servant go before. Her brother Neal’s holdings were vast and there was usually another position somewhere to place a retainer who was less than satisfactory.

But Smith’s outrageous charge would earn her a dismissal.

Instead of answering the abigail, Margaret reached up and knocked on the door that separated the interior of the coach from the driver’s box. Beside her, Owl stretched, spreading her toes to show her claws before settling back into a ball, seemingly uncaring of the turmoil her sweet presence had caused.

The door drew back. “Yes, my lady?” the coachman, Balfour, asked.

“Stop the coach. Stop it immediately.”

Thomas, the driver, had overheard the command and slowed the horses to a halt. The minute they came to a standstill, Margaret opened the door and climbed out. She held Owl on her shoulder like a baby. She did not worry about shedding on her blue merino dress. The cat had never shed. Not one white hair had ever been left on her clothing or blankets.

Along with Thomas and Balfour, her party included four outriders insisted upon by Neal for her protection. These men had been riding a short distance ahead, but seeing the coach stop, they now circled back to join them.

Also among her traveling companions was Rowan, an odd Indian man who served as her brother Harry’s valet. Harry had insisted Rowan travel with her to Loch Awe. Margaret was not comfortable with the decision. The quiet Indian’s presence had always been a bit unsettling to her. He always seemed to be watching, evaluating, and she sensed he saw far more than what made her comfortable.

Balfour and Rowan climbed down. Thomas stayed up in the box to hold the horses, who stretched and snorted their pleasure at receiving a break. Their breath came out in snorts of cold, foggy air.

“Yes, my lady,” Balfour said. “What is the matter?”

“Smith is telling me that she doesn’t see a cat. A cat that has been constantly by my side for the last two days of this trip. She has made a ridiculous statement and I want you to tell her that you do see the cat, Balfour.”

The maid had not followed Margaret out of the coach. She sat close to the doorway, her head bowed, her brows drawn together in concern.

There was a beat of silence.

Margaret had known Balfour most of her life. She had an easy companionship with the older man. She expected him to answer in the affirmative. After all, he’d been beside her when she’d pulled Owl out from under the coach.

“I see a cat,” Balfour replied . . . as if reaching a decision to agree with her.

Margaret did not appreciate the hesitation. “You don’t sound certain,” she challenged.

“With all respect, my lady, you said for me to tell Mrs. Smith I saw a cat. I said what you expected me to say.”

“I didn’t mean for you to repeat what I said,” Margaret snapped. “I want you to tell Smith the truth. There is a cat.”

“Do you wish the truth, my lady?”

“Of course, I wish the truth.”

The older man sighed and then admitted, “I don’t see a cat. I never have, not even when you pulled it from underneath the coach.”

Margaret rocked back a step, stunned.

Was this a jest?

Well, they’d picked the wrong time to play a game. She had too many matters of great importance on her mind to enjoy this. Some servants knew of the Chattan Curse but most did not.

Still, this sort of playfulness was out of the ordinary. And neither Smith nor Balfour was the playful sort.

Aware that the servants all watched carefully, Margaret didn’t know what to say.

The cat was right there in her arms. Margaret could feel Owl’s warmth, the weight of her body, the beat of her small heart.

She set Owl down.

The cat gave a small meow and then trotted to the side of the road to disappear into the brown grass and gorse to see to her private business in her usual fastidious manner.

Margaret watched the cat move away, but was conscious that everyone else’s eyes were upon her.

They did not see a cat.

And their expressions were ones of concern and worry.

Her gaze turned to Rowan. Solemn amber brown eyes met hers. He alone did not appear worried.

And Harry had insisted she trust him.

“Smith, hand me my cape,” Margaret ordered.

The abigail dutifully complied, handing Margaret the red cloak trimmed around the hood with sable.

“Rowan, walk with me a bit,” Margaret said, throwing the cape over her shoulders. She set off without waiting for him to obey. Of course, he obliged her, falling into step slightly behind her. Impatiently, she said, “Walk with me. I am not going to crane my neck to have a discussion with you.”

Fear made her voice a touch shrill. Walking would calm her and help her think.

Owl emerged from the brush and fell into pace with them. The cat was as loyal as a dog, following, then plunging into the grass, only to emerge up the road and wait for them.

When they were away from the others, she said, “You were standing beside me when I pulled Owl out from beneath the coach. You saw her, didn’t you?”

“I accept there is a cat, my lady.” His English was well-spoken with the faintest hint of an Eastern accent.

She frowned at this answer. “Did you see the cat or not?”

He didn’t answer immediately. She turned, confronting him, expecting an answer.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. He nodded as if confirming something to himself and then said, “The colonel saw a cat.” The colonel was her brother Harry, who held that rank in the Horse Guard.

“He did?”

“A white cat that he described as having folded-over ears and large eyes.”

A surge of relief shot through her. “That is Owl. That’s the cat I see.”

“Then there is a cat,” Rowan answered.

“But did you see her?”

There was a beat of silence. “No, my lady. I have not had the honor.”

Owl waited for them up the road. Seeing that they were talking, she sat on her haunches, her unblinking gaze upon Margaret.

“I’d asked for a sign,” Margaret whispered.

“A sign of what, my lady?”

“That we are on the right course. There is so much at stake, Rowan, and so little time left.”

The valet conceded her words with a nod.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I hold the cat. She responds to me. She purrs and presses her nose against my hand for me to pay attention to her. Her nose is wet, cold.”

“There are many things in this world that don’t make sense, my lady.”

“Such as?”

“A curse?” he reminded her with a faint smile.

“How I wish it did not exist,” she murmured. “How different my life would be.” She looked up the road where it curved as it went around the mountain. “If Owl is part of this curse, what role could a cat play?”

“In my culture, we believe souls can reincarnate themselves in many forms. Do you understand?”

“Explain.”

“Colonel Chattan and his wife both saw the cat. The colonel’s wife said the cat arrived in her house at the same time she discovered the book. No one else has seen the cat, until now. In my country, we believe what you call the soul never dies. We believe we can return or reincarnate ourselves into people or animals.”

“An animal does not have a soul. At least that is what the church claims.”

“And do you believe that is true?”

At that moment, Owl turned her attention from Margaret. She gave a delighted sound and pounced on something only she could see in the grass. Her tail swished with excitement. She glanced over at Margaret as if to include her in the hunt, and it almost seemed as if the cat smiled her pleasure.

“Whose reincarnated soul do you believe Owl is?” she asked Rowan. The question sounded unbelievable.

The valet smiled, a silent approval of her change in thinking, and then offered apologetically, “We don’t know. Colonel Chattan believes there are only two possibilities. Could she be Fenella? Or Rose? Then again, she could be someone completely different.”

“Why did he not tell me this himself?”

“The cat was not there at the time. And if he had told you of Owl, would you have believed him?”

Margaret’s silence said she would not have.

“Have you read Fenella’s book of spells?” Rowan asked.

“Repeatedly. Harry believes it may hold a secret to ending the curse, but I’ve found nothing.”

“Because you have not opened your mind to all the true meanings of the spells,” Rowan explained gently. “There is a spell in it for bringing a soul back to life.”

Margaret frowned. Had she read one? Would she have noticed if she had? Everything was happening too quickly. It was hard for her to grasp it all.

She looked back in the direction where Owl had disappeared into the grass. “It’s madness to believe an animal can have a human spirit. It’s madness to think I am the only one who can see the cat. Why? What could her presence mean?”

The wind seemed to have turned colder. Or was it fear that made her cross her arms in protection? She thought of her dream, of the bodies falling, of the menacing forest—

There was no forest here, only rocky mountain slopes.

“You do not have to continue on, my lady,” Rowan said. “Colonel Chattan wanted me to be certain you understood you have the choice to turn back. He does not hold you accountable for anything.”

“He’s my brother. He’s going to die unless something is done. Both of my brothers will. I must go on.” She faced Rowan. “You just told me that this cat could be a mystical force, whether for good or evil, and I’m the only one who sees her. Harry is right. I could be the key to ending this. I must go to Loch Awe.”

Margaret raised her hand, a signal for the coach. They did not hesitate but drove for her.

“Climb aboard, Rowan,” she ordered, opening the passenger door herself.

“What of the cat?” he asked. Owl was still hunting through the grass.

“We leave her here,” Margaret said. “Hurry.”

As he climbed up onto the box, Margaret took her place, slamming the door shut behind her. Smith sat in the far corner of the coach watching Margaret’s every move with wide eyes, her knitting needles back in her hands.

“Leave,” Margaret ordered her driver. “Take us from here quickly.”

There was a snap of the whip. The horses moved forward. The wheels turned.

Margaret leaned out of the coach window.

Owl appeared on the side of the road, a wiggling mouse in her mouth. The cat stared after the coach, not letting go of her prey.

Pulling herself inside, Margaret leaned against the seat, her hands tightened into fists—and then she noticed the book.

She picked it up and began flipping through the pages, searching for some clue that might have something to do with reincarnation.

But in truth, her heart felt as if it was breaking.

She hadn’t wanted to leave Owl behind. In a short period of time, the cat had come to mean a great deal to her. Perhaps too much.

Margaret had thought herself at peace in her loneliness. She chose to be alone. Love was not an emotion to be trusted. And, when love meant death, what other choice was there?

Whoever, or whatever, had created Owl now preyed upon Margaret’s loneliness, and she could not allow that.

Still, it hurt to abandon the pet.

She leaned to look out the coach window again. Owl was still on the road, a small white dot behind them.

They traveled around the curve in the road, and Margaret’s view of Owl was gone.

The violence of the storm caught Margaret’s small party unawares. They’d been on the road less than half an hour after leaving Owl when the weather had changed dramatically.

It started with the wind, which came roaring at them with a force stronger than any known and slammed against the coach so hard the vehicle rocked back and forth. Nor did it relent. Time and time again, the wind assailed them.

Thomas tried to keep the horses moving. The outriders flanked the coach, needing to stay close for their own protection. Progress slowed almost to a halt.

A white-faced Smith took to praying aloud and Margaret was silently echoing her words. She held Fenella’s book tightly with both arms, wishing there was a spell in it to change the weather.

Had Owl done this? Should she have left the cat?

Such thoughts were madness.

“It’s the Highlands,” Balfour shouted to Margaret through the door between them. “They say the weather changes in a blink.”

“Pull over then,” she ordered.

“We will once we find some shelter,” Balfour answered. “We are on the downward side of the mountain.” He shut the door.

“I’m not feeling so well, my lady,” Smith confessed. “How much longer will this go on?”

“Not long,” Margaret attempted to reassure her. “Lie down. You will feel better—”

The coach shook as if a huge hand of wind and fury had taken hold of it.

For a heart-wrenching second, Margaret could swear the coach was being lifted from the ground.

There were shouts from the men. The horses screamed.

The coach bounced with a mighty jolt and then listed dangerously to one side. The wheels had gone off the road and there was nothing to stop them from tumbling down the mountain slope.

Margaret realized they were doomed, and in the next moment, all thought in her brain was replaced with terror as the coach began rolling over and over down the mountain. Both women were tossed around in the coach, bouncing like marbles thrown into a container. Smith screamed and would not stop.

Margaret’s head hit the edge of the door beneath the coach’s window and the world went blessedly black.

How long Margaret had been unconscious, she did not know. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Smith’s face. The maid’s lifeless eyes were still wide open in terror.

The ground was cold and hard. Broken pieces of the coach surrounded their bodies. There were trees here. Oaks and beeches.

Every bone in Margaret’s body felt as if it had been broken. The pain was intolerable.

She wondered where Balfour, Rowan and the others were. Here and there was a moan, or was that the wind? That angry, violent wind had turned calm. Listening a moment longer, Margaret realized there was no stirring or movement of life.

In her line of sight, she could see Fenella’s book. It lay within reach of her fingers. The book held the answer. She must not lose it.

She strained to reach for it. Her arms would not obey. They couldn’t.

Margaret did not believe in tears. They served no purpose, but she began to cry now, silent tears that felt hot against her cold cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself. No, she wept for her brothers’ wives and the sons they would bear who would be marked with the curse. She wept for Balfour, Thomas, Rowan and the outriders, even for Smith, good people who did not deserve to die.

Soon, she would join them in death, here at the base of this mountain—

A purring caught her attention. Owl.

The sound came from her right side. She could not turn her head to look.

The cat nudged her cheek, and then gave it a lick as if to wipe away the tears. She felt Owl’s breath upon her skin. The cat nestled itself into the space between Margaret’s chin and shoulder. The purring grew louder and Margaret thanked God she would not die alone. In this moment, she didn’t care if the cat was Rose or Fenella or the devil. Margaret would accept comfort wherever she could find it.

Warmth replaced coldness. The purring vibrated through Margaret’s being, easing the tension and the fear. Almost blissfully, she slipped once again from consciousness to meet her fate . . .