Читать книгу His Immortal Embrace - Lynsay Sands - Страница 8

“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?”

“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 woman born in Rona’s line for four hundred and thirty-five years chose wrongly, gave her heart foolishly? Every woman, m’laird, ended her days gripped tightly by despair. The heart’s ache was deep and everlasting. ’Twas worse for the ones who actually married the men they loved, for they were bound forever to a mon they loved, one who had once loved them, but would ne’er do so again. Many lived to a great age burdened by that loss. Others couldnae bear it, and, despite the threat of suffering in hell’s fires for such a sin, took their own lives. My mother hurled herself into the sea, unable to bear the pain another day, a pain e’en the love of her children couldnae ease.”

It was Eric who finally broke the heavy silence. “Ye believe we are cursed then? That the ill fate which has befallen the MacCordys for so verra long is born of the curse of this one angry woman?”

“Are ye nay shunned?” Sophie asked softly. “Do ye nay walk alone? Do ye nay live in the shadows? Although the sun shines o’er the village, this place sits in the shadow. Do ye think that natural?”

“If this Morvyn couldnae end this curse, what makes ye think ye can?” asked Alpin.

“Weel, Morvyn ne’er came here,” Sophie replied. “I doubt any Galt woman has e’er come here. That could make the difference. I have the strongest feeling that I will be the only one to e’en try since Morvyn hid this chest. Ye may not believe in curses, m’laird, but I do, and I wish to try and end this one. I wish no more Galt women to hurl themselves into the sea out of despair,” she added softly.

Those last words killed Alpin’s refusal on his tongue. He could deny himself hope, but not her. Hope was a paltry thing to cling to; bitter, fruitless, and painful, but she needed to discover that hard truth for herself.

“Stay then, and play your games, but ye best not trouble me with such nonsense.”

Before she could protest that, he had called in two maids to take her and Nella to a room. Sophie decided she had pushed him hard enough for now. She had succeeded in getting permission to stay and try to find a way to end the curse. There was a chance she would not need his complete cooperation, but, if she did, there was now time and opportunity to sway him. As she and Nella went with the maids, Sophie prayed the hope that had stirred to life inside of her was not doomed to be crushed.

Alpin glared at the door Lady Sophie and her maid had disappeared through. He took a deep drink of the wine mixed especially for him, a thick mixture of sheep’s blood and wine. It fed the need which grew stronger every year and he doubted some wide-eyed lass could effect a cure. He wanted to feel pleased that the women descended from Rona Galt had suffered as his family had suffered, but could not. None of them had deserved the misery visited upon them. He also wanted to hold fast to his previous scorn concerning the possibility of a curse, but found himself wavering, and that angered him.

“Mayhap she can help,” said Eric, watching Alpin closely.

“So ye believe me cursed?” drawled Alpin. “Ye think our troubles caused by some woman long dead who danced about a fire one night, uttering those fanciful words as she sprinkled some herbs upon the flames?”

Eric grimaced and dragged his hand through his roughly cut dark hair. “Why do ye resist the idea of a curse? What besets ye and has beset every MacCordy laird before ye for hundreds of years isnae, weel, normal.”

“Not every disease affects so many people it becomes common. Just because an affliction is rare doesnae make it the result of some curse or sorcery.”

“Then, if ye truly believe ’tis nay more than bad blood, why have ye let the lass stay?”

Alpin grimaced. “A moment of weakness, or insanity. It was her wish to nay see any more Galt women hurl themselves into the sea out of despair. I have no hope left, but I couldnae bring myself to kill hers. ’Twill die soon enough.”

“I sometimes think that is some of our trouble. We have lost hope.”

“Only a fool clings to it for four hundred years,” Alpin drawled.

“Mayhap.” Eric stared out the window, seeing only another of the many shades of darkness he had spent his whole life in. “I often wonder if that loss of hope brought on this never-ending shadow we live under.”

“Ye grow fanciful. And, if it is born of the death of hope, then we best be prepared for it to grow e’en darker.”

“Why?”

“Because our little golden-haired Galt witch will all too soon be burying hers.”