Looking at his bride as she pulled herself back up into her seat, he supposed she deserved better as well, but he would not stop the marriage. Margaret had no care for him. She feared him and would undoubtedly be terrified by the changes that would come, but she would not be saddened by them. Margaret would not be hurt when he did not give her a child or come to her bed. There was a chance he might even escape truly consummating the marriage, and that weighed heavily in her favor. It was a dismal future laid out before him, but he had never held any hope for another, better fate, and he would not condemn a sweet sprite like Sophie to share it with him.
Recalling her parting words, he almost smiled. Mayhap not so sweet. She had strength, spirit, and a temper. Even when she was threatening to curse him, he knew she was perfect for him. Alpin considered the fact that he could not hold tight to her the hardest part of the curse to endure, and the cruelest.
“Who is that lass?” demanded Sir Peter.
The first words that came to mind were my love and Alpin was stunned, so stunned it took him a moment to compose himself before he could reply with any calm. “She is who she said she is—Lady Sophie Hay.”
“Nay, I mean what is she to ye?”
“Ah. Just another in a verra long line of people trying their hand at curing me of my affliction.”
“So she is a witch.”
“Nay, a healer.”
“Then what is that she just gave ye?”
Alpin slowly placed the amulet around his neck. “Something she made to bring me luck in the coming battle.”
“Then she is a witch.”
“Many people, e’en the most godly, believe in charms for luck, sir. Lady Sophie is a healer, nay more.”
Before the man could further argue the matter, Alpin drew him into a discussion concerning the upcoming battle. In some ways Sophie did practice what many would consider witchcraft, and those who feared such things were usually incapable of discerning the difference between good and bad sorcery. Alpin had the strong feeling she had other skills many would decry as sorcery, such as the sight, or some trick of knowing exactly what a person felt. One thing he was determined to do for her was shield her from the dangerous, superstitious fears of those like Sir Peter. It might even, in some small way, assuage the hurt he had inflicted. Or, he mused, he could allow himself to fall in the coming battle, ending her pain as well as his own. He sighed and forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. Fate would never allow him to escape his dark destiny so easily.
“That Lady Margaret is a worse coward than I, and that be saying a lot,” muttered Nella as she sat before the fire in their bedchamber sewing a torn hem upon one of Sophie’s gowns. “I wonder she hasnae washed her eyeballs right out of their holes with all the weeping she does.”
Sophie lightly grunted in agreement, never moving from the window she looked out of, or taking her gaze from the activity in the bailey. For the three days Lady Margaret had been at Nochdaidh, the girl had done little more than cry, swoon, or cower. Not one thing Sophie had said or tried had calmed the girl. At times, Sophie had wondered what possessed her to try to help a woman who would soon lay claim to the man Sophie herself wanted so badly. She just could not abide being around all that self-pity and abject fear. There were enough dark, somber feelings thickening the air at Nochdaidh without Lady Margaret adding more by the bucketful. That very morning Sophie had finally given up on trying to help the girl.
“I tried to give the lass one of my amulets,” said Nella, “but she just sobbed and crossed herself.”
“Ah, aye. Despite the denials of everyone at Nochdaidh, as weel as our own, Lady Margaret is certain we are witches.”
“Such a fool.” Nella frowned at Sophie, set her mending down, and moved to stand beside her. “What is going on?”
“The laird prepares to ride away to battle. He must fight the men who have been pillaging Sir Peter’s lands. A wedding gift, I suppose.”
“I am sorry about that, m’lady,” Nella said quietly.
“So am I, Nella.” Sophie sighed. “My anger has faded, but my unhappiness lingers. I have come to understand that Alpin believes he is doing what is best for me by pushing me away.”
“’Tis best for ye to have your heart broken?”
“So Alpin believes. He think ’tis easier for me now than if I stay at his side whilst the curse devours his soul.”
“Mayhap he is right,” Nella whispered.
“Nay. I believe I have finally figured out how to break this curse. ’Tisnae amulets, rowan branches, or potions that will save him. At best they but slow the change from mon to beast.”
“Then what can save him, m’lady?”
“Me.” She smiled briefly at an astonished Nella. “Aye, ’tis me. I am the key to unlock the prison of pain Rona built.”
“I dinnae understand.”
“Rona’s words were: ‘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.’ Until MacCordy weds Galt, Nella. Until a MacCordy laird chooses love o’er profit.” Sophie shrugged. “That wouldnae have to be me in particular, but I begin to feel that that is how it has come to be. Alpin cares for me, of that I have no doubt. Yet he turns from that and goes to Margaret, who will bring him land and wealth. He may do so for verra noble reasons, but ’tis still the wrong choice. Again. ’Tis Ciar and Rona all over again. I fear that the curse will ne’er be broken if Alpin does marry Margaret.”
“Then ye must tell him. Wheesht, ye have wealth and land aplenty, too, if that is what the mon seeks.”
Sophie shook her head. “He willnae heed me. Alpin denies there is a curse at work here, e’en though, deep in his heart, I think he kens the truth. He willnae allow me to enter what he sees as his private hell, to share in his damnation. And if I tell him of my wealth to make him choose me, will the fact that his heart welcomes that choice end the curse, or will it become just another choice of wealth and land? I dare not risk it, for I truly believe he must choose between wealth and love, turning away from one to embrace the other.”
“It makes sense, yet how can a curse tell the difference? It has no thoughts or feelings.”
“Something keeps it alive, year after year. Something keeps each MacCordy laird alive, keeps them breeding that heir to carry on the curse, and something keeps killing the love in the hearts of the men chosen by each daughter of Rona’s bloodline. I dinnae understand how, just that this curse somehow keeps itself alive and will continue to do so unless Rona’s demand is met.”
“So what can ye do?”
“Weel, I have a wee bit more than a week to make Alpin love me enough to want me to stay.”
“Aye. Unless, of course, he already loves ye and that is why he will make ye leave.”
“That is the dilemma I face, aye. Not an easy knot to untangle.”
Nella stared down into the bailey. “What is that strange cart? Do ye ken, it looks a wee bit like a coffin on wheels.”
Chilled by the image, Sophie wrapped her arms around herself. “’Tis what poor Alpin must shelter in if he cannae find and defeat the enemy ere the sun rises. ’Tis made of iron with holes at the bottom to let in the air and some light, yet keep out the sun’s rays. Once beyond the shadows, heavy cloaks arenae enough protection any longer.”
“Odd that none of the lairds simply walked out into the summer sun and let death