His Immortal Embrace

by Lynsay Sands, Kate Huntington, Hannah Howell, Sara Blayne

Genres: Anthologies; Romance Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

His Immortal Embrace The Yearning, by Hannah Howell Tormented by an ancient curse, the young men of Clan MacCordy reach manhood only to walk forever in darkness, thirsting for blood--and Alpin MacCordy is no different. He must wed for coin and land, despite his betrothed's terror--and his own fascination for another woman, Lady Sophie Hay. . . Bitten, by Lynsay Sands After brooding Keeran MacKay saves Emily Wentworth Collins from a storm-tossed ship: he offers her shelter in his secluded castle. But when a savage kiss reveals Keeran's true nature, Emily realizes that yielding to Keeran's untamed desire may change her own life. . .forever. Stranger in the Night, by Sara Blayne Georgiana Thornberry hopes to unearth ancient treasure while exploring the moldering ruins of her ancestral home. Instead she encounters Julius Lathrop. Does the enigmatic--and disturbingly attractive--stranger hold the key to a family legend? Or something far more sinister? The Awakening, by Kate Huntington Orphaned Thalia Layton is stricken to hear that her beloved, eccentric Aunt Cordelia has taken ill. But upon her arrival at Cordelia's remote estate, Thalia discovers that her aunt has harbored dangerous secrets--and that Thalia's own attraction to Adrian Lucerne, Cordelia's mysterious--and oddly nocturnal--companion, may prove to be a sensual temptation that will cost her life. . .

Release date: September 1, 2004

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 356

Sample

Scotland—A.D. 1000

“Nay!”

Morvyn Galt woke shaking and sweating with fear. The scent of magic was thick in the air. She scrambled out of her bed and yanked on her clothes. She could feel her sister’s anger, feel how Rona’s broken heart was twisting within her chest, changing into a hard, ugly thing that pumped hate throughout her body instead of the love it once held. Morvyn knew she would not be in time to stop the evil her sister stirred up, but she had to try. She grabbed her small bag and raced toward Rona’s cottage, praying as hard as she could despite her fear that her prayers would go unheeded.

When she reached Rona’s tiny home, she tried to open the door only to find it bolted against her. The smoke coming from the house was so heavy with the scent of herbs and sorcery that her eyes stung. She banged against the door, pleading with Rona as she heard her sister begin her incantation.

“Nay, Rona!” she screamed. “Cease! You will damn us all!”

“I damn but one,” replied Rona, “and well does he deserve it.”

Placing her hand over her womb, Rona stared into the fire and saw the face of her lover, her seducer, her betrayer. He was marrying another in the morning, forsaking love for land and coin. She would make him suffer for that, as she now suffered.

“Rage for rage, pain for pain, blood for blood, life for life.” Rona swayed slightly as she spoke, stroking her belly as she tossed a few more painstakingly mixed herbs into the fire.

“Rona, please! Do not do this!”

“As mine shall walk alone, so shall yours,” Rona continued, ignoring her sister’s pleas. “As mine shall be shunned, so shall yours.”

Morvyn scrambled to find something to write with. She needed to record this. As she sprawled on the ground to take advantage of the sliver of light seeping out from beneath the door, she realized she had no ink. From beneath the door she could see the smoke curling around her sister and saw Rona toss another handful of herbs upon the fire. Morvyn cut her palm with her dagger, wet her quill with her own blood, and began to write.

“Your firstborn son shall know only shadows,” intoned Rona, “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.”

Morvyn scattered her blessing and healing stones in front of the door, praying they might ease the force of the spell.

“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.” Rona felt her child kick forcefully as if in protest, but continued.

“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, 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.”

Morvyn sat back on her heels and stared at the door. She could not believe her sister had acted so recklessly, so vindictively. Rona knew the dangers of flinging a curse out in anger, knew how the curse could fall back upon them threefold, yet, in her pain, she had ignored all the dangers. Morvyn placed her hand over her heart, certain she could feel the pain and misery of countless future generations, those of their blood as well as those of the MacCordys.

The cottage door opened and Morvyn looked up at her sister. In the light of the torch Rona held, Morvyn could see the glow of hate and triumph in Rona’s blue-green eyes. Rona thought she had won some great victory. Morvyn knew otherwise and was not surprised to feel the sting of tears upon her cheeks.

“Rona, how could you? How could you have done this?” she asked.

“How could I? How could he?” Rona snapped, then frowned when she saw the blood upon Morvyn’s palm. “What have you done to yourself, you foolish child?”

Morvyn began to pick up her things and return them to her bag. “I had no ink to mark down the words.”

“So you wrote in blood?”

“ ’Tis fitting. The Galts and the MacCordys shall be bleeding for ages after what you have done this night.” She felt the heat in her stones as she put them away and hoped the power they had expended had done some good.

“You cannot keep such a writing about. Not only is it considered a sin for you to write at all, but those words could condemn me, condemn us all.”

“You have condemned us, Rona. You knew the dangers.”

“Unproven. That is proof of sorcery, however,” she said, pointing to Morvyn’s writing.

“I shall write the tale upon a scroll and hide it. Mayhap one of our blood will find it one day, one with the wit and strength to banish the evil you have stirred up this night.”

“He had to pay for what he has done!”

“He was wrong, but so were you. The poison you have spit out tonight will infect us all, the venom seeping into our bloodline as well as his. To do such magic on this night, at the birth of a new century, only ensures the power of the evil you have wrought.” Morvyn stood up and looked down at what she had written. “I fear you have stolen all hope of happiness for us, but I will not allow this to endanger your life. It will be well hidden. And every night for the rest of my life I shall pray that, when it is found, it will be by one of our blood, one who can free us all from the torment you have unleashed this dark night.”

Scotland—1435

Sophie Hay stumbled slightly as another fierce sneeze shook her small frame. A linen rag was shoved into her hand, and she blew her nose, then wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeves. She smiled at her maid, Nella, who watched her with concern. Considering how long she had been scrambling through this ancient part of her Aunt Claire’s house, Sophie suspected she looked worthy of Nella’s concern.

“I dinnae ken what ye think ye will find here,” Nella said. “Old Steven said her ladyship ne’er came in here; thought it haunted, and he thinks it may not be safe now.”

“’Tis sturdy, Nella.” Sophie patted the stones framing the fireplace. “Verra sturdy. The rest of the house will fall ere this part does. The fact that that stone was loose,” she pointed to the one she had pried away from the wall, releasing the cloud of dust that had started her sneezing, “was what told me that something might be hidden here.”

“And ye dinnae think this place be haunted?”

Sophie inwardly grimaced, knowing she would have to answer with some very carefully chosen words or Nella would start running and probably not stop until she reached Berwick. “Nay. I sense no spirits in this room.” She would not tell Nella about all the others wandering in the house. “All I sense is unhappiness. Grief and a little fear. It was strong here by the fireplace, which is why I was searching here.”

“Fear?” Nella’s dark eyes grew wide as she watched Sophie reach toward the hole in the wall. “I dinnae think ye ought to do that. Fear and grief arenae good. God kens what ye might find in there.”

“I am certainly nay sticking my hand in there with any eagerness, Nella, but,” she sighed, “I also feel I must.” She ignored Nella’s muttered prayers, took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached in. “Ah, there is something hidden here.”

Sophie grasped a cold metal handle on the end of what felt like a small chest. She tugged and felt it inch toward her a little. Whoever had put it into this hole had had to work very hard, for it was a tight fit. Inch by inch it came, until Sophie braced herself against the wall and yanked with all her might. The little chest came out so quickly, she stumbled backward and was only saved from falling by Nella’s quick, bracing catch.

As she set the chest on a small table, Sophie noticed her maid edge closer, her curiosity obviously stronger than her fear. Sophie unfolded the thick oiled leather wrapped around the bulk of the chest, then used a corner of her apron to brush aside the dust and stone grit. It was a beautiful chest of heavy wood, ornately carved with runes and a few Latin words. The hinges, handles, and clasp were of hammered gold, but there was no lock. She rubbed her hands together as she prepared herself to open it.

“What are all those marks upon it?” asked Nella.

“Runes. Let me think. Ah, they are signs for protection, for hope, for forgiveness, for love. All good things. The words say: Within lies the truth, and, if it pleases God, the salvation of two peoples. How odd.” She stroked the top of the chest. “This is verra old. It must have just missed being discovered when the fireplace was added to the house. I wouldnae be surprised if this belonged to the matriarch of our line or one of her kinswomen.”

“The witch?” Nella took a small step back. “A curse?”

“I doubt it when such markings cover the chest.” She slowly opened the lid and frowned slightly. “More oiled leather for wrapping. Whoever hid this wanted it to last a verra long time.” She took out the longest of the items and carefully unwrapped it. “A scroll.” She gently unrolled the parchment and found another small one tucked inside. When she touched the erratic writing upon the smaller parchment, she shivered. “Blood. ’Tis written in blood.”

“Oh, my lady, put it back. Quickly!” When Sophie simply pressed her hand upon the smaller parchment and closed her eyes, Nella edged nearer again. “What do ye see?”

“Morvyn. That is the name of the one who wrote this. Morvyn, sister to Rona.”

“The witch.”

“Aye. No ink,” she muttered. “That is why this is written in blood. Morvyn had naught else to write with and she was desperate to record this exactly as it was said.” Sophie opened herself up to the wealth of feeling and knowledge trapped within the parchment. “She tried to stop it. So desperate, so afraid for us all. She prays,” Sophie whispered. “She prays and prays and prays, every night until she dies, sad and so verra alone.” She quickly removed her hand and took several deep breaths to steady herself.

“Oh, m’lady, this is no treasure, is it?”

“It may be. Beneath that despair was hope. That would explain the words carved upon the chest.”

“Can ye read the writings?”

“Aye, though I dinnae want to.”

“Then dinnae.”

“I must. That chest carries the words ‘truth’ and ‘salvation,’ Nella. Mayhap the truth as to why all the women of my line die as poor Morvyn died—sad and so verra alone. I willnae read it aloud.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she felt chilled as she read the words. “I cannae believe Morvyn wrote this. She feared these words.” Sophie turned her attention to the larger scroll. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

“I fear Rona deserves her ill fame. She loved Ciar MacCordy, The MacCordy of Nochdaidh. They were lovers, but he left her to marry another, a woman with land and wealth. He also left her with child.”

“As too oft happens, the rutting bastards,” muttered Nella.

“True. Rona was hurt and her pain twisted into a vindictive fury. One night she cursed The MacCordy and all the future MacCordy lairds. Morvyn tried to stop it, but failed. Her fear was that the Galts would pay dearly alongside The MacCordy, if in a different way. She writes out the curse again and, trust me, Nella, ’tis a bad one. She expresses the hope that some descendant will find this and have the courage and skill to undo what Rona did. Ah, me, poor Morvyn tried her whole life to do just that, with prayer and with healing spells. She wrote once right after the curse was made, and again when she was verra old. She leaves her book of cures and spells as well as her stones. The use of the stones is explained in the book.

“Morvyn says she thinks she has discovered the sting in the tail of Rona’s curse. A Galt woman of their line will know love only to lose it, to watch it die or slip through her grasp. She will gain land and wealth, but such things will ne’er heal her heart or warm her in the night and she will face her death still unloved, still alone.” Sophie wiped tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And she was right, Nella. She was so verra right.”

“Nay, nay. Your ancestors just chose wrong, ’tis all.”

“For over four hundred years? This is dated. It was written in the year 1000. The verra first day.” Sophie muttered a curse. “That fool Rona sent out a curse on the eve of a new year, a new century. It was probably a night made to strengthen any magic brewed and she stirred up an evil, vindictive sort.”

Nella wrung her hands together. “There isnae any of that evil in this house, is there?”

Sophie smiled at her maid. “Nay. I sense that magic has been stirred in here, but nay the black sort.”

“Then from where comes the fear and sadness?”

“Heartache, Nella. Lost love. Loneliness.” Sophie cautiously picked up the two small bags inside the chest and gasped. “Oh my, oh my.”

“M’lady, what is it?”

“Morvyn’s stones.” She gently placed one bag back inside the chest on top of what she now knew was Morvyn’s book of cures and spells. “Those are her healing stones. These,” she clasped the small bag she held between her hands, “are her blessing stones.”

Nella stepped closer and shyly touched the bag. “Ye can feel that, can ye?”

“Morvyn had magic, Nella, good, loving, gentle magic.” She put everything back inside the chest. “How verra sad that such a woman suffered heartache and died unloved because of her own sister’s actions.” She closed the chest and started out of the room.

“Where are ye taking it?” asked Nella as she hurried to follow Sophie.

“To my room where, after a nice hot bath and a hearty meal, I mean to read Morvyn’s wee book.” She ignored Nella’s mutterings, which seemed to consist of warnings about leaving certain things buried in walls, not stirring up trouble, and several references to the devil and his minions. “I but seek the truth, Nella. The truth and salvation.”

It was late before Sophie had an opportunity to more closely examine her find. The house, lands, and fortune her Aunt Claire had bequeathed her were welcome, but carried a lot of responsibility. Aunt Claire had been ill during her last years, mostly in spirit and mind, and there was a lot that had been neglected. Although wearied by all the demands for her attention during the day, Sophie finally sat on a thick sheepskin rug before the fire, sipped at a tankard of hot, spiced cider, and looked over what her ancestor had left behind.

A brief examination of the book revealed many useful things, from intricate cures to simple balms. Sophie only briefly glimpsed the spells, few and benign, before turning to the explanation of the stones. She considered them a wondrous gift, having long believed in the power of stones, which were as old as the world itself. Sentinels and possessors of the secrets and events of the past, Sophie was sure all manner of wonders and truths could be uncovered if one understood the magic and use of them.

Still sipping at her drink, Sophie next turned her attention to the scrolls. She read both Morvyn’s letter and the curse several times before replacing them in the box. The truth was certainly there, but Sophie was not sure she could see the salvation promised. Nothing in Morvyn’s writings or the words of Rona’s curse seemed to indicate a way in which to end the despair suffered by so many Galt women.

Staring into the fire, she grimaced, for she could feel the spirits of those who had gone before, including poor old Aunt Claire. Generation after generation of Galt women, who briefly savored the sweet taste of love only to have it all go sour, had returned to this house to die or spent their whole sad lives here. Each one had spent far too many years wondering why love had eluded them, why they had held it for so short a time only to see it trickle out of their grasp like fine sand. Although she had only been at Werstane for a fortnight, several times she had felt the despair of all who had gone before, felt it weigh so heavily upon her that she had come close to weeping. If Aunt Claire had felt it too, had spent her whole life feeling it, it was no wonder she had become a little odd.

And now that she understood the curse Rona had set upon the MacCordys, understood the “sting in its tail,” as Morvyn called it, Sophie knew her fate was to be the same as Aunt Claire’s, as that of all the lonely, heartbroken spirits still trapped within Werstane. Her own mother had suffered the sting of their ancestor’s malice, but had let that despair conquer her, hurling herself into the sea rather than spend one more day in suffering. As Sophie faced her twentieth birthday, she was surprised she had not yet suffered the same fate, but love had not yet touched her. Most people considered her a spinster, an object of pity, but she was beginning to think she was very lucky indeed.

Sophie finished her drink, stood up, and set the tankard on the mantel. She would not join the long line of heartbroken Galt women. If it took her the rest of her life, she would end the torment her vindictive ancestor had inflicted upon so many innocent people. If it was God’s wish that the Galt women should suffer for Rona’s crime, surely four hundred and thirty-five years of misery was penance enough. Perhaps He wanted a Galt woman to put right what a Galt woman had made so wrong. It was her duty to try. And, she mused, as she crawled into bed, there was only one proper place to start—Nochdaidh.

“Nella isnae going to like this plan,” she murmured and almost smiled.

 

“I dinnae like this, m’lady. Not at all.”

Sophie glanced at her maid riding the stout pony at her side. Nella had not ceased bemoaning the plans Sophie had made in the entire sennight since she had made them. It had been expected, but Sophie was weary of it. Nella’s fears fed her own. What she needed was confidence and support. Nella was loyal, but Sophie wished she was also brave, perhaps even a little encouraging.

“Nella, do ye wish me to die alone, sad, and heartbroken?” Sophie asked.

“Och, nay.”

“Then hush. Unless Rona’s curse is broken, I will suffer the fate of all the Galt women of her bloodline. I will become just another one of the sorrowful, despairing spirits roaming the halls of Werstane.”

Nella gasped, then gave Sophie a brief look of accusation. “Ye said there werenae any spirits at Werstane.”

“Actually, I said there werenae any spirits in the room we were in when ye asked about them.” She grinned when Nella snorted softly in disgust, but quickly grew serious again. “’Twill be all right, Nella.”

“Oh? The woman in the village said the laird is a monster, a beast who drinks blood and devours bairns.”

“If he devours bairns, he obviously has a verra small appetite, for the village was swarming with them. And that village looked far too prosperous for one said to be ruled by some beast.” She looked around her, noticing how stark the land had grown, then frowned at the looming castle of dark stone before her. “That place does look a wee bit chilling, however. The boundary between light and dark is astonishingly clear.”

“Do ye feel anything, m’lady? Evil or danger?” Nella asked in an unsteady whisper.

“I feel despair,” Sophie replied in an equally quiet voice. “ ’Tis so thick, ’tis nearly smothering.”

“Oh, dear. That isnae good for ye, m’lady. Nay good at all.”

Sophie dismounted but yards from the huge, ominous gates of Nochdaidh and placed her hand upon the cold, rocky ground. “Rona’s venom has sunk deep into this land.”

“The verra ground is cursed? Will it nay reach out to infect us as weel?”

“Not ye, Nella. And what poison is here is for The MacCordy, nay ye and nay me.”

Nella dismounted, moved to stand at Sophie’s side, and clasped her hand. “Let us leave this cursed place, m’lady. Ye feel too much. What lurks here, in the verra air and the earth, could hurt ye.”

“I am hurt already, Nella, and I face e’en more hurt. Long, lonely years of pain, the sort of pain that drove my mother to court hell’s fires by taking her own life. The MacCordys also suffer. The pain should have been Rona’s alone, and, mayhap, her lover’s. Yet she inflicted it upon countless innocents. Aunt Claire did no wrong. My mother did no wrong. The mon behind those shadowed walls did no wrong. One woman’s anger has tainted all of us. How can I ignore that? How can I but walk away? I am of Rona’s blood and I must do all I can to undo this wrong. If nay for myself, then for the MacCordys, for my own child if I am blessed with one.”

“So, if ye can break this curse, ye will love and be loved and have bairns?”

“Aye, that is how I understand it.”

Nella took a deep breath, threw back her thin shoulders, and nodded firmly. “Then we must go on. Ye have a right to such happiness. And I can find it within me to be brave. I have protection.”

Thinking of all the talismans, rune stones, and other such things Nella was weighted down with, Sophie suspected her maid was the most protected woman in all of Scotland. “Loyal Nella, I welcome your companionship. I shall be in sore need of it, I think.” Sophie took the reins of her pony in her hand and started to walk toward the gates of Nochdaidh.

“’Tis as if the verra sun fears to shine upon such a cursed place,” Nella whispered.

“Aye. Let us pray that God in His mercy will show me the way to dispel those shadows.”

“A visitor, Alpin.”

Alpin MacCordy looked up from the letter he had been reading. His right-hand man Eric stood across from him at the head table in the great hall. There was no hint of amusement upon the man’s rough features, yet he had to be joking. Visitors did not come to Nochdaidh. Anyone traveling over his lands was quickly and thoroughly warned to stay away. The dark laird of Nochdaidh was not a man anyone came calling on.

“Has the weather turned so ill that it would force someone to seek shelter e’en in this place?” he asked.

“Nay. She has asked to speak to you.”

“She?”

“Aye.” Eric shook his head. “Two wee lasses. The one who calls herself Lady Sophie Hay says she must speak to you.” He suddenly turned and scowled at the doors. “Curse it, woman, I told ye to wait.”

“My lady is cold,” said the thinner of the two women entering the great hall, even as she pushed the other woman toward the fireplace.

“I am fine, Nella,” protested the other woman.

That soft, husky voice drew Alpin’s attention from Eric, who was bickering with the woman called Nella. He felt a slight tightening in his belly as the lady by the fireplace pulled off the hood of her cloak, revealing a delicate profile and thick, honey gold hair. At the moment she was distracted by her maid’s efforts to get her cloak off and the argument between Eric and Nella. Alpin took quick advantage of that, looking his fill.

Her beautiful hair hung in a long, thick braid to her tiny waist. The dark blue woolen gown she wore clung to her slim, shapely hips and nicely formed, if somewhat small, breasts. Her face was a delicate oval, her nose small and straight, and her mouth full and inviting. She was tiny but perfect. Her maid was also small, dark haired, somewhat plain, bone thin, and plainly not at all intimidated by the burly Eric’s harsh visage or curt voice.

Alpin rose and moved closer to his uninvited guests. When the lady looked at him, he needed all his willpower not to openly react to the beauty of her eyes. She had eyes the color of the sea, an intriguing mix of blue and green, and just as mysterious. Her eyes were wide, her lashes long, thick, and several shades darker than her hair, and her equally dark brows arced delicately over those huge pools of innocent curiosity.

For a moment he thought this beautiful young woman had somehow made it to his gates without hearing about him, then he looked at the woman she called Nella. That woman’s dark eyes were filled with fear and horror. She clutched one thin hand tightly around what looked to be a weighty collection of amulets draped around her neck. The women had obviously been thoroughly warned, so why were they here? he mused, and looked back at Lady Sophie. That woman shocked him by smiling sweetly and holding out her small hand.

“Ye are the laird of Nochdaidh, I assume,” she said. “I am Lady Sophie Hay and this is my maid, Nella.”

“Aye, I am the laird. Sir Alpin MacCordy at your service, m’lady.”

When he bowed, then took her hand in his and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, Sophie had to swiftly suppress a shiver. Heat flowed through her body from the spot where his warm lips had briefly touched her skin. She started to scold herself for being so susceptible to the beauty of the man, then decided she should have expected such a thing. They already shared a bond in many ways. They were caught in the same trap set by the vindictive Rona so long ago.

And he was beautiful, she thought with an inner sigh. He was a tall man, a foot or more taller than her own meager five feet. He was lean and muscular, his every move graceful. His hair was long and thick, gleaming black waves hanging past his broad shoulders. Even his face was lean, his cheekbones high and well defined, his jawline strong, and his nose long and straight. He had eyes of a rich golden brown, thickly lashed, and nicely spaced beneath straight brows. His mouth was well shaped with a hint of fullness she found tempting. If this was how Rona’s lover had looked, Sophie could understand the pain and anger of losing him to another, even if she could never forgive the woman for how she had reacted to those feelings.

“Why have ye come to Nochdaidh, m’lady?” Alpin asked as he reluctantly released her hand.

“Weel, m’laird, I have come to try to break the curse the witch Rona put upon the MacCordys.”

The disappointment Alpin felt was sharp. She was just another charlatan come to try and fill him with false hope. As too many others had over the years, she would ply her trickery, fill her purse with his coin, and walk away. She but hoped to slip her lovely hand into his purse using lies and fanciful spells or cures.

“The tale of Rona the witch and her curse is just that—a tale. Lies made up to explain things that cannae be understood.”

“Oh, nay! ’Tisnae just some tale, m’laird. I have papers to prove ’tis all true.”

“Really? And just how would ye have come to hold such proof?”

“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 himself, 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?”

“. . .