The Devil’s Due Boucher, Rita (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📖

broken windows, seeking shelter from the rising wind and tendrils of overgrown vines on the stone gargoyles writhed like Medusa’s hair.

According to the local lore the decay was the direct result of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s curse. The structure built with bloody gold was doomed to fall as surely as the family that built it. Considering the castle’s macabre appearance and the unsavory MacLean legend, it was little wonder that the local inhabitants thought the place haunted. Certainly, years of neglect had rendered it almost entirely unfit for human habitation.

Shoving the last ear of corn in her basket, Kate hurried to the kitchen and set the vegetables on the table before rushing outside again, scarcely knowing which task to turn to next. The air was thick and heavy, weighing her down with weariness that went far beyond mere physical fatigue. A sense of futility overwhelmed her. In the time since her husband’s death, life had become a battlefield, with every day composed of a series of skirmishes in a fight for survival.

“She isn’t to be found, milady!” Daisy came up the path, her brow furrowed with worry. “Called and called, I did. Could she have gone into the older part of the castle, do you think? Rotted and dangerous, those wood floors. Nearly went through one myself when first we came here.”

“I doubt that she would play there. She fears the dark,” Kate reminded her, trying to reassure herself as much as the maid. “The lock on the tower door is repaired, so she can’t be up there.”

“Annie! Annie!” Daisy shouted frantically, raising her voice against the wind.

“She cannot answer you,” Kate said, attempting to remain calm. “Did you try calling for the dog?”

Daisy shook her head. “Cur!” she cried.

“Come here, you mangy Cur!” But the rumble of thunder swallowed her words.

Kate put her fingers to her lips and blew a piercing whistle which was instantly rewarded with an answering yap. “Hardly ladylike, but it works,” she said in answer to Daisy’s look of disapproval.

Within minutes, Anne came in sight at the top of the hill. Her little legs pumped furiously as she ran through the heather, herded toward the two women by a determined dog. As nearly as they could guess, border collies and beagles were part of the trysting mélange of breeds that had resulted in Cur.

“Thinks the lass is a lamb, the mangy mongrel,” Daisy said, pulling her apron over the girl’s blonde curls to shield her from the first burst of raindrops before sweeping the child into her ample arms.

“Thank heavens for those misguided instincts,” Kate murmured, bending to pat the dog on the head. “There will be a bone in the soup for you, tomorrow, laddie, and that is a promise.”

Cur barked, as if in understanding, his tail wagging as he followed the women and his two-legged charge into the kitchen.

Chapter 2

Duncan clambered up the sheer rock face, childhood memories supplying hand and footholds where an adult eye could discern none.

“Not again! I ain’t comin’ after you this time. You’re gonna fall flat, Major!” Fred wailed from the base of the cliff. “And where will that leave old Fred, I ask?”

“Your concern for my person is most touching, Fred.” Duncan called. With a grunt of satisfaction, he heaved himself up over the edge. He lay panting for a moment, his cheek pillowed on the cold stone. Despite the fact that his strength had been steadily improving, the climb had been far more difficult than he had anticipated. Nonetheless, when he rose to his feet, he was glad that he had made the effort.

Beinn Airidh Charr rose to the west, its summit obscured by gathering thunderheads. Where the sun still held sway, Loch Maree sparkled in jewel-bright splendor, its placid waters lapping at the rocky shore. The wind wailed like a mourner, rising in keening echoes as it whipped through his hair. Slowly, Duncan’s gaze was drawn eastward, but the sight that he sought was shrouded in mist.

Eilean Kirk . . . a peculiar mixture of fear and longing filled him. Like a fever in the blood it was. For the past twenty years he had thought himself completely cured. After all, he had been a mere stripling of fourteen when his mother had taken him from the crumbling ruin of her marriage. But now, the call of that pile of cursed stones pulsed within him with almost overwhelming force. This was his birthplace and although it had never been a true home, it was pulling him back like a flame-crazed moth.

He had never intended to return. Even now, every shred of sensibility screamed that he ought to climb down, get on his horse and ride southward as fast as the nag could carry him, leave behind those bitter memories that were suddenly surmounting long-built barriers. But Eilean Kirk was a sickness in the blood, as addictive as the poppy or the bottle. There was no place to run to anymore, no place to hide from the boy that he had been, the man he had become . . . or was there?

Duncan looked over the edge of the sheer precipice into the dizzying depth. A peregrine wheeled lazily, riding the currents. As a child, he had often dreamed of flight, soaring with the falcons. It would be so easy to step off the edge, to have one winged moment before oblivion. No bleak past to haunt him . . . no empty future to fear. A rock crumbled beneath his feet, sending a shower of rubble into the water far below.

“Major! Major!” the voice rode upon the wind.

. . . “What shall we do, Major?” Blevins voice was asking, the whites of his eyes wide with terror in his powder black face. “They have us surrounded, Sir.” Duncan could see the silent accusations on their faces, hear the French soldiers demanding surrender. A dozen anxious expressions demanded his answer . . . It was his fault . . . all his fault.

The stiff breeze