“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