“It was left to me by my aunt. Ye see, Rona was my ancestor. I am one of a direct line of Galt women—”
She squeaked when he suddenly pulled his sword and aimed at her, the point but inches from her heart. The fury visible upon his face was chilling. Sophie was just thinking that it was a little odd to still find him so beautiful while he looked so ready, even eager, to kill her, when Nella thrust her thin body between Sophie and the point of Alpin’s sword.
“Nay!” Nella cried in a voice made high and sharp by fear. “I cannae allow ye to hurt my lady.”
“Now, Nella,” Sophie said in her most soothing voice as she tried and failed to nudge her maid aside, “I am sure the laird wasnae intending to do me any harm.” A sword through the heart was probably a fairly quick death, she mused.
“Are ye? Weel, ye would be wrong,” Alpin drawled, but sheathed his sword, the surprising act of courage by the trembling maid cutting through the tight grip rage had gained on him. “There would undoubtedly be some satisfaction in spilling the blood of one of that witch’s kinswomen.”
“Mayhap, but that wouldnae solve the problem.”
“How can ye be so sure?”
“Why dinnae we all sit down to discuss this?” said Eric, pausing to instruct a curious maid to bring food and drink before grabbing Nella by the arm and dragging her toward the head table. “Always better to sit, break bread together, and talk calmly.”
“Fine. We will eat, drink, and talk calmly,” Alpin said in a cold, hard voice, “and then they can leave.”
This was not proceeding well, Sophie mused as she watched Alpin stride back to the table. It was not going to be easy to help someone who, at first, wanted to strike you dead, then wanted you to leave. She should have suspected such a reaction. She had not sensed one good feeling since entering the shadows encircling Nochdaidh. Despair, fear, and a bone-deep resignation to the dark whims of fate were everywhere.
The laird was filled with the same feelings and much darker ones. When he had touched her hand it was not only attraction Sophie had felt, his and her own. There was anger in the man. It was there even before he had discovered exactly who she was. She had also felt dark, shadowy emotions, ones she had only felt on the rare times she had somehow touched the spirit of a predator, such as a hawk or a wolf. Alpin MacCordy was fighting that part of him, the part born of her ancestor’s curse. As she collected the chest with Morvyn’s things and started toward the table, Sophie hoped she could convince Sir Alpin that she could be an ally in that battle.
“What’s that?” demanded Alpin as Sophie took the seat to his left and set the small chest covered in runes on the table.
“The truth about the curse,” Sophie replied, opening the chest to take out the scrolls. “Rona’s sister Morvyn wrote it all down and, just before she died, she hid it. I found it whilst cleaning the cottage left to me by my aunt.”
“So, to help me ye thought it wise to bring more sorcery into my keep?”
Sophie was prevented from responding to that by the arrival of the food and drink. When Sir Alpin asked if her men needed anything and she told him no men traveled with her, the look he gave her made her want to hit him. She was pleased, however, when he cleared the great hall of all but the four of them as soon as the food and drink were set out.
“Ye traveled here alone? Just ye and your maid?” he demanded the moment they were alone.
“I have no men-at-arms to drag about with me,” she replied. That was close to the truth, she mused, for the men guarding Werstane were not yet her men, not in their hearts. This scowling laird did not need to know that she had slipped away unseen to avoid having to take any Werstane men with her. “I have a cottage, sir, and nay a castle like this.” It was another half-truth for, although she was determined to stick to her plan to hide her wealth, she found she did not really want to lie to this man.
“But your maid calls ye her lady.”
“Good blood and a title dinnae always make for a fat purse. I am a healing woman.” She unrolled the scrolls. “Now, about the writings Morvyn left—” She tensed when he touched the smaller one.
“This was written in blood.” Alpin studied the hastily scrawled writing. “Rage for rage,” he murmured then scowled. “Curse it, my Latin isnae so good.”
“Allow me, m’laird.” She saw how the other three at the table all tensed. “Without the herbs and all, they are but words.” She began to read. “Rage for rage, pain for pain, blood for blood, life for life. As mine shall walk alone, so shall yours. As mine shall be shunned, so shall yours. Your firstborn son shall know only shadows, as shall his son, as shall his son’s son, and thus it shall be until the seed of The MacCordy shall wither from hate and fade into the mists.
“From sunset of the first day The MacCordy becomes a mon, darkness will take him as a lover, blood will be his wine, fury will steal his soul, yearning will devour his heart, and he will become a creature of nightmares. He will know no beauty; he will know no love; he will know no peace. The name of the MacCordys will become a foul oath, their tale one used to frighten all the Godly.
“Thus it shall be, and thus it shall remain, until one steps from the shadows of pride, land, and wealth and does as his heart commands. Until all that should have been finally is.”
Sophie nodded her agreement with the action when both Eric and Nella crossed themselves. The laird stared at the scrolls, saying nothing, but she could feel his anger. She knew he wanted to deny the curse, but that a part of him believed in it.
“Why write such filth down?” he finally asked. “Why not let the words die with the bitch who spoke them?”
“Because Morvyn needed to ken exactly what was said if the curse was e’er to be broken,” Sophie replied. “Morvyn spent her whole life trying to undo the evil her sister had created. She failed, but hoped someone who came after might succeed.”
“And ye think ye are the one, do ye?”
His sarcasm stung. “Why not? And what can it hurt to at least let me try?”
“What can it hurt? I believe your ancestor Rona showed what harm can be done by letting a Galt woman practice magic. Ye must excuse me, but I cannae help but view any offer of aid from a Galt woman with mistrust.”
“Then view my offer as utterly self-serving. Curses carry a price for the one who makes them, m’laird. When Rona cursed your family, she cursed her own. ’Tis said that a curse will come back threefold upon the one who casts it. As every MacCordy of Ciar’s blood has suffered, so has every daughter of Rona Galt’s blood.”
“Ye look fine to me.” Too fine, he mused, but tried to ignore her beauty.
“Rona cursed your soul, your heart. In doing so, she robbed all women of her line of any happiness. The moment a Galt woman finds love, tastes the sweetness of having her love returned, ’tis stolen away from her. No Galt woman of Rona’s blood can hold on to her heart’s desire. She grasps it just long enough to ken the pleasure of it, to gain a need for it, and then it dies.”
“It sounds like a tale spun to explain poor choices in a mate.”
Sophie inwardly cursed. “Do ye really think every
