Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Read Online Free

were still wide open in terror.
    The ground was cold and hard. Broken pieces of the coach surrounded their bodies. There were trees here. Oaks and beeches.
    Every bone in Margaret’s body felt as if it had been broken. The pain was intolerable.
    She wondered where Balfour, Rowan and the others were. Here and there was a moan, or was that the wind? That angry, violent wind had turned calm. Listening a moment longer, Margaret realized there was no stirring or movement of life.
    In her line of sight, she could see Fenella’s book. It lay within reach of her fingers. The book held the answer. She must not lose it .
    She strained to reach for it. Her arms would not obey. They couldn’t.
    Margaret did not believe in tears. They served no purpose, but she began to cry now, silent tears that felt hot against her cold cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself. No, she wept for her brothers’ wives and the sons they would bear who would be marked with the curse. She wept for Balfour, Thomas, Rowan and the outriders, even for Smith, good people who did not deserve to die.
    Soon, she would join them in death, here at the base of this mountain—
    A purring caught her attention. Owl.
    The sound came from her right side. She could not turn her head to look.
    The cat nudged her cheek, and then gave it a lick as if to wipe away the tears. She felt Owl’s breath upon her skin. The cat nestled itself into the space between Margaret’s chin and shoulder. The purring grew louder and Margaret thanked God she would not die alone. In this moment, she didn’t care if the cat was Rose or Fenella or the devil. Margaret would accept comfort wherever she could find it.
    Warmth replaced coldness. The purring vibrated through Margaret’s being, easing the tension and the fear. Almost blissfully, she slipped once again from consciousness to meet her fate . . .

Chapter Two
    T here were some days when the only thing that could make a man feel better and take the edge off life was to plow a hard fist into another man’s face.
    For Heath Macnachtan, 16th chief of Macnachtan, raggedy clan that they were, today was just such a day.
    He had just returned from Glasgow after a very dissatisfactory visit with his late brother’s solicitor. The news was not good. The Macnachtans were paupers in spite of everything Heath had done to clear the debts over the past year since he’d taken over as laird. He’d poured every shilling he owned and had used every ounce of ingenuity he possessed to setting his family’s books to right—and it had not been enough.
    Now the family was in danger of losing the one thing that held them together as a clan—Marybone, the stone manor house that served as the seat of the Macnachtan and was the roof over his head.
    He knew his sisters waited for his return, anxious for news of his discussion with the solicitor. He wasn’t eager for the interview.
    Was it any wonder then that he would want to bolster his courage after a long ride with a stop at the Goldeneye, a rabbit warren of a pub beneath the shelter of some pines along Loch Awe’s shores? And perhaps between a nip of whisky and a pint or two of good ale he might realize a solution to his problems.
    It was possible. Not probable . . . but the world always looked better to a man after he’d quenched his thirst.
    Heath stooped as he walked through the Goldeneye’s door. As he took off his heavy woolen cloak, a remnant of his naval career, and hung it on a peg in the hall, he heard the companionable sound of male laughter coming from the taproom.
    The sound made him smile until he walked into the low-ceilinged room and discovered that the laughter was directed at his cousin Rowlly Macnachtan who also served as his land factor.
    Augie Campbell was making great sport of shoving Rowlly’s elbow every time he lifted his tankard up to his lips. It was apparently not the first time he’d done it. Rowlly’s shirt was covered with ale.
    “I don’t understand why you