Chapter One

 

The curse returns

Lyongate Hall

Northern Scotland, early autumn 1822

 

Lucian MacRae stood before his bedchamber window, his entire world crashing around him as he stared out at the night-blackened vastness of the North Sea and the equally dark heavens. He could have stayed there forever, and would gladly do so, but that wasn’t possible. Not now, or ever.

Nor was he alone…

“Tell me again, Budge. I would hear it all, every grim word,” he said, speaking to the house steward behind him. The man who’d interrupted his sleep with such horrid news.

His father’s shocking end, then the damning discovery that his uncle, long thought to have been living a happy life in ever-hot and sunny Jamaica, was also dead.

Buried in Lyongate’s stableyard, a dirk between his ribs.

Lucian pulled a hand down over his chin, breathed deep of the night’s cold, briny air. “You are certain there’s no mistake?”

“Aye, sir. ‘Tis just as I told ye.” Budge’s voice, known to Lucian since childhood, echoed in the large room.

How odd that, to Lucian’s ears, the old man sounded as if he spoke from a place more distant than the moon.

“I still cannae believe it.”

“Aye, they’re both dead enough,” Budge confirmed. “Your father breathing his last in his carriage, still down in the gorge, as it was when found. Men are bringing him home now. They’ll haul up the carriage in the morning, by daylight. I’ve had others ride off for the sheriff, and your doctor.”

Budge hesitated, noisily clearing his throat. “Your uncle…”

“He’s been recovered?” Lucian’s gut tightened, bile rising in his throat. “Where is he now?”

“The men laid him out in the stable. Some of the women are seeing to him, then…”

He’ll be brought into Lyongate’s chapel, properly mourned and put to rest.

The unspoken truth hung between them as Lucian stood like stone before the window to the sea. Behind him, the sound of Budge shuffling his feet seemed louder than the pounding of the waves on the rocks below.

“The lassies will need a while,” Budge said. “He wasn’t in a good way. They’re facing grim work. Nae task for…”

Lucian kept his gaze on the sea. He wasn’t surprised when the aged steward couldn’t finish.

He also knew why Budge hovered on the threshold rather than coming into his bedchamber.

The room was no longer just Lucian’s. Thanks to one villainous act and the crash of a carriage, his bedchamber was now the privy sleeping quarters of the new Black Lyon and Laird of Lyongate Hall, and as such…

Tainted.       

Perhaps not so vile as the more lordly, top-most tower chamber where his father slept, or had. But he’d be damned if he would ever set foot there again. Nor would anyone else beneath his roof. That would be his first edict as the new Black Lyon.

If his mood worsened over the coming days, he might even order the room burned.

At the least, he should have it emptied and scrubbed. Or perhaps he’d simply lock the door, leaving the detritus of a twisted heart to the ravages of dust, grime, and time.

In truth, he didn’t know what to do.

He did know he was appalled.

His head throbbed just thinking of his poor uncle’s end. Did he even know? Was he dirked in his sleep?

Lucian prayed to the heavens that was so. He also wished he could spare his already beleaguered people the terrible days before them, a nightmare period sure to be filled with endless questions, intrusive probings, whispers and gossip, and – of course – seeing his father laid to rest, whatever his sins.

Stepping closer to the window, he stared out at the wind-tossed waves, feeling colder, more numb, than ever in his life. He also hoped that his new title and Lyongate Hall, along with his black hair and blue eyes, and his fierce love of the land, would prove all that he’d inherited from the man he thought he’d known so well, the father he’d admired so much.

The man he’d loved and trusted, believing in his honor for the entirety of his days.

Now…  

He shuddered, disbelief washing over him, horror coiling inside him. How he wished he could wake up again, this time discovering not Budge knocking on his door, but that he’d only had a dreadful dream.

Sadly, he knew better.

~*~

Lucian stood straighter, searched deep for the strength that ran in the blood of all MacRaes. Much as he’d prefer to shrug off the family curse, he couldn’t.

It was real, he knew.

He’d just always hoped it would fade away. Now it appeared to have returned.

Was this the payment for the transgressions of his ancestors? Punishment for his father’s villainy?

Both?

All these questions burdened him, so he flattened his hands on the broad stone ledge of the tall, arch-topped window and again inhaled deeply, grateful for the night’s cold. The brisk air helped chase the last dredges of sleep from his mind and the gods knew he needed a clear head to think… to plan… to wrest some sense of normalcy back into a world gone so bad, so dark and utterly mad.

“What of the woman? The one who came here some years ago, all agitated?” He turned at last to face the steward, dread already chilling his marrow. “What was her name?”

“Eh?” Budge angled his head, a crease appearing in his brow. “A fashed lassie?”

“Aye. She showed up not long after Uncle Alastair left us.” Lucian frowned, trying to recall what the Aberdonian actress had called herself. “Scarlett? Serena? Something with an ‘S.’”

For a long moment, the room went silent, even the wind and the sea quieting.

Budge’s brows drew together, the furrow on his forehead deepening. “I be thinking. It’ll come back to me.”

“She claimed my uncle was her lover and that he’d been murdered,” Lucian reminded him.

“Oh, aye.” Budge nodded.

“As proof, she cited the cessation of his visits, the breaking of a promise to take her to London, to start a new life there.”

Budge pulled a breath in through his teeth. “That was the way of it, true enough.”

“So it was.” Lucian remembered… 

His father had seen the woman shunted off Lyongate lands, telling her that his brother, the then-laird, had fled Scotland. He’d absconded to the Caribbean, choosing to live there, in the lush heat of tropical climes, rather than remain in the rugged wilds of the northern Highlands, watching Lyongate crumble around his ears. He’d had enough of freezing every winter, and walking around wet through the rain-drenched, mist-hung summers.

The sad truth was, Uncle Alastair hadn’t known much joy as laird.

His father, Lucian’s grandfather, had loved Lyongate as much as any MacRae laird, but he’d also had a weakness for women and whisky. So much so that he’d slid into a spiral of vices, including visits to gaming houses. His years as the Black Lyon of Lyongate plunged the estate into towering debt.

Uncle Alastair, upon assuming lairdship, spent his days bent double trying to repay his father’s loans. So no one wondered when he disappeared, leaving only a letter behind, saying he saw a new life as his only escape.   

He truly had despised Scotland’s cold, wet climate. The mist and rocks and long, dark winter nights. He yearned for sun and warmth, and above all, no cares.

Now…

Lucian clenched his fists, frowned at the wind racing past the windows. Obviously, Uncle Alastair never made it to Jamaica.

Had the actress made it back to Aberdeen?

Lucian feared she hadn’t, the dreadful suspicion icing his innards.

“Budge…” Dear gods, was that ragged sound his voice? “If you cannae recall the actress’s name, what do you remember of her?”

“She was flame-haired and high tempered.” Budge lifted a hand to scratch his bristly cheek. “That I know. She almost knocked me down when I opened the door. She stormed into the hall yelling like a banshee.”

“Aye.” Lucian nodded, remembering.

“Sally. That’s what she called herself.” Budge took a few steps into the room. When he halted, he bobbed his head. “That be her name. I have it now. She sang at the Shipman’s Dove, down by the Aberdeen docks.”

“Aye.” Lucian agreed, her face coming back to him. No longer the youngest, she’d had a few lines at her eyes and her full, round breasts were beginning to sag. But she’d still been beautiful. She’d had an air about her, the cheery, laughing-eyed charm of women who entertained in taverns and two-bit theaters.

But she hadn’t smiled when she’d come to Lyongate.

Lucian wondered if he’d ever smile again.

“Budge…” Gods, but he didn’t want to ask this. “I haven’t thought of this Sally woman in years. But…” He had to know. “Has anyone ever mentioned her since? Perhaps gone to Aberdeen to ask after her, or to see her perform?”

Lucian knew some of the Lyongate men went into the great granite city now and again. He also understood their reasons.

A hunkering medieval castle perched on a cliff, and away from everywhere but the darkening sea and swirling mist, could wear on some souls.

Not his, of course.

He loved Lyongate’s cold and bleak remoteness with a ferocity that sometimes worried him. He’d always felt a deep and powerful bond with the land, a sense of oneness with the rocks and heather, the sheer cliffs that supported Lyongate and the restless sea that boiled at their base.

He’d inherited that love of the land from his father, he knew. And his father before him and so on, back through the ages all the way to their ancestor, Renton MacRae, the first Black Lyon of Lyongate. Now that connection – leastways with his father – left an uncomfortable taste in his mouth.

It smacked of silence and secrets. The kind he didn’t really want to know, but now believed for he was blessed, or cursed, with a thinking mind.      

“Well?” He lifted a brow, his gut warning that the fate of Sally of the Shipman’s Dove was important.

Was, being the critical thought.

The steward blinked. “Begging your pardon, sir?”

Lucian leaned toward him, raising his voice a bit in deference to Budge’s aged ears. “Any of the men ever visit that tavern? Have you heard them speak of Sally?”

“Aye, well…” A red stain appeared on the older man’s cheeks. “I go there myself once in a great while. No’ for the lassies, mind.” He paused as a burst of freshening wind brought a hint of brine into the room.

Budge used the moment to glance at the windows, clearly embarrassed. “The Shipman’s Dove has good ale, they do,” he said, turning back to Lucian when the wind settled. “You’ll no’ be telling the missus?”

“Not a word,” Lucian promised. “Is Sally well?”

“She’s no’ there, sir.”

Lucian’s heart sank. “Is she singing somewhere else?”

“Probably is.” Budge crossed his plaid-draped chest. “In a choir of angels, most like. Word was she died some years back. Found cold as stone in her room at the tavern, the other lassies said.”

“The cause?” Lucian felt ill, resisted the urge to lean against the wall. “Did you hear?”

“No one knew.” Budge gave him the answer he’d expected. “Doctors dinnae take much care with dead tavern singers, them what entertains down by the Aberdeen harbor. I was told the doctor claimed her heart stopped.”

“So she’s gone.”

Budge tugged on his plaid, smoothing a fold. “She wouldn’t have been able to tell ye anything, sir.”

“True enough.” Lucian could hardly speak. Indeed, the actress was screaming in his ear. Her passing – which he did not believe was from her heart – only confirmed his father’s perfidy. The great lengths he’d taken to see his will done.

Clearly, Sally had known or suspected something. But no one believed her. And she’d been silenced before she could convince anyone.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I should go out to the stables, see how the women are doing with your uncle.” Budge edged back toward the still-open door. “By your leave?”

“Aye, go. I’ll join you as soon as I’m dressed.” Lucian strode to the door, waiting there as the steward scuttled away down the long, dimly lit corridor.

Alone again, he wondered if there was some truth to the rumors of darkness at Lyongate. He pushed the notion aside at once. Not an inch of Scotland was anything but good, beautiful, and even soul-stirring.

But he did allow for a strain of wickedness in his family.

Either way, he needed to hurry. 

He owed it to his uncle to attend him. Thank the gods his father had possessed a final shred of remorse, using his last breath to confess. Telling his would-be rescuers that, years ago, he’d killed his own brother and buried him in the stableyard…

A dark deed he’d felt compelled to do to ‘save’ Lyongate. He’d declared Uncle Alastair sealed his own grisly fate by declaring his wish to be done with all debt by selling the entire estate. Medieval castle and furnishings, the vast grounds, all clan livestock, even the right to the Black Lyon title.

Lucian’s heart squeezed. He, too, would have reeled at the threat of losing so much.

Lyongate wasn’t just a place.

It was also more than a home.

For the MacRaes of the far north, Lyongate was everything. The wild moorlands and rugged cliffs, the massive castle of ancient stone, even the briny depths of the North Sea, all came together in a tight weave of centuries-old legend and pride. Clan members felt that sense of belonging in every drawn breath, in each beat of their hearts.

No doubt, Lyongate was in Lucian’s blood.

Still, not even such a shattering loss would have driven him to take his uncle’s life.

His father had done the unthinkable.

Then he’d worsened it by rasping that he’d not sinned, for he’d had to seize lairdship. According to the men who’d found him, he’d sworn any medieval MacRae would’ve done the same, securing clan lands at all cost, even if the chief himself stood in the way.

And then he’d died.

Lucian closed his eyes. He pulled a hand down over his face, the weight of guilt – his, or not - almost bringing him to his knees.

But he wouldn’t buckle, wouldn’t weaken or surrender. No matter his lot, the stain that would soon darken Lyongate and his whole clan. He would persevere. He’d live his own ideal of his medieval ancestors, albeit he wouldn’t run around waving a sword or dirking men in their sleep.

He tossed a glance at the window, the distant horizon, silvered by the moon. Then he strode across the room and reached for his shirt and plaid, still tossed over a chair near his bed.

The laird’s bed, by all that’s sacred...

He was now laird.