Chapter Seven

"P arlor and dining room are done," Gavin said, entering the study. "I set branches over the doorways as you asked. What can we—here, let me do that!"

Dragging a chair toward the doorway, Elinor stopped as Gavin took it. He stepped up, stretched to set a rowan branch on the high lintel, and got down.

"I do wonder how this could scare off well-entrenched ghosts."

"Rowan protects against witches and ghosts and the like. So does the color red. Hold out your hand." Rummaging in the basket, she produced a red string with seven knots along its length, tying it around his extended wrist. She wore a similar string, having knotted them previously as her grandmother had taught her.

He touched her wrist gently, fingers warm. "Protected, are we?"

"‘Rowan tree and red thread will leave ghosts all in dread,'" she quoted. "It also protects from an droch-shùil , the evil eye."

"Ah. What is next?"

"We set out the rest of the lanterns and candles and add juniper to the hearths. The smoke will cleanse the air of evil spirits."

In the library, they set out lanterns and lit candles. While Gavin placed rowan branches over the high doorways, Elinor tossed juniper branches on the hearth fire. She paused to watch the sparks and flames, inhaling the piney scent.

As golden light chased away the shadows, Gavin walked into the study and perused a bookshelf. Tall and lean in dark jacket and trousers, his handsome profile framed by chestnut waves, he ran a searching hand along the book spines. Watching him, Elinor felt a glimmer of hope, a rekindling after shadows. Was there truly a chance for them?

She entered the study as he pulled a small volume off a shelf. "Let me show you something."

As she sat in a red damask chair, he took its companion and began paging through the book, an old volume with a faded leather cover, handwritten in brown ink.

"A diary?" she asked.

"A history of the Stewarts of Braemore, written by Sir Josiah Stewart, my ancestor. I knew he had written about the family, but it was lost. I found it—well, just before you and I parted. It fell off a shelf at my feet."

"As if tossed there?" At his shrug, she leaned forward. "What is in the book?"

He opened facing pages filled with spidery handwriting. "He writes about Braemore, the family, the ghosts—and an old curse."

"Curse! Did you know about that?"

"My grandparents spoke of a vague prediction of misfortune, but tragedy can happen in any family. No one gave it much heed. The actual story had been lost, or perhaps deliberately hidden at some point."

"But Josiah knew about it."

"He did, and I have since verified the facts he gives about the medieval Stewarts of Braemore. He mentions the ghosts and a doomsayer's curse that was new to me."

"Doom! But what could it—is that thunder?" she asked, hearing a low rumble beyond the windows.

"The storm looks distant still, though it is getting dark. Here," he said, turning. "Josiah describes a malevolent spirit he saw in the tower, and names him."

"The knight?" She sat forward, eager and anxious.

"Knight and baron called Sir Archibald Erskine. He was a rival of Sir John Stewart of Braemore during the time of Robert Bruce. Erskine courted Sir John's daughter, Lady Matilda, according to Josiah."

"Is she the Gray Lady?"

"Likely so. But I never knew her name before this book fell at my feet."

"As if it were meant as a message. Fascinating." She smiled to cover a growing anxiousness as she glanced around.

"When I read this, I knew—I must act on it."

"Oh!" Realizing what he meant, she sat straighter. "What is the curse?"

"Listen." He turned another page. "Sir John Stewart refused to let his daughter marry Erskine, so the baron abducted her, carrying her off. Her brothers, three young knights, chased after them and brought her back, and dragged Erskine to the sheriff, who threw him in a dungeon. Married or not, the girl proved pregnant. Her son was born at Braemore, and she died shortly afterward."

"No wonder she looks so sad. What became of her child?"

"He was raised by his grandfather. When Matilda's brothers died fighting in the Scottish wars of independence, the lad inherited Braemore. I am his direct descendant. His name was Gabhan. Gavin."

Elinor gasped. "Perhaps she wants to be near you, since you have his name."

"An interesting thought." He frowned. "After her death, her kinsmen captured Erskine and threw him into the oubliette in the tower."

"So he died there."

"Eventually. They threw him food scraps and water to keep him barely alive. A form of torture. The pit is not wide enough for a man to sit or lie down easily. He suffered and died. But not before he cursed them."

Thunder rolled again. Touching the red thread around her wrist, she hoped it was indeed protective. "Go on."

Gavin drew a breath and began reading the passage. "After five hundred years," he summarized, "the laird of Braemore will lose all—lands, castle, fortune—and lose his lady love as well. And the Braemore line would end."

"His lady love?"

"Aye." He watched her steadily.

"Well, it may not happen," she said briskly. "The curse of an angry man may be meaningless after so long. When would the five hundred years end?"

"Tonight. Josiah says Erskine died on Samhain in the year 1320."

"And this is—1820. Oh, Gavin!" She set a hand to her heart. "That is why you sent me away. Why did you not tell me?"

"It was very unsettling. I did not want to distress you."

"Sending me away was far more distressing. I am made of sterner stuff."

"I know," he said gently. "But when I read the whole story—the ghosts, the curse ending soon, even the child's name—I simply reacted. I had to be sure no harm would ever come to you, even if—"

"Even if we parted. I see." Sighing, she wondered if he still thought so.

"Even then. But I should have told you. I apologize from my heart for that."

She rested her hand on his in silent acceptance. He grasped her fingers. "You are not one to frighten easily. What was it?"

"I could not risk any harm coming to you. I loved you too much." He met her gaze. "Part of me believed that I might be that last laird. Later—well, you became engaged. It was too late."

"Not at all. As for the curse, that evil baron is long dead, and we are very much alive. He can be rendered harmless."

"With rowanberries, string, and turnips?" He nearly smiled.

"There is more." A rumble echoed around the room. "There is thunder again—so odd for autumn."

"Not when it comes over the hills from the northeast. But it did sound strange. Elinor, listen to me now." Setting the book aside, he stood. When she rose as well, he took her hands. "I acted out of caution, perhaps fear. But the fact is—I love you. I never stopped. I did the wrong thing—I must freely admit."

She tipped her head. "Do you still think the curse is harmful?"

"Perhaps, as you say, there is something we can do." He lifted her hand, kissed it, cupped her cheek and kissed her gently. Her knees weakened with his touch—but a new roar of thunder startled her.

"That sounded like a growl," she said. In the hearth, the flames shot high, juniper crackling. Josiah's book fell from the side table and tumbled across the carpet; another book fell from a high shelf. As she cried out, Gavin slipped an arm around her shoulders.

"You're safe," he murmured.

"Could it be Erskine? But he is only in the tower."

"I doubt Lady Matilda would growl and fling things about."

"We need cold iron," she said. "I brought some small pieces, but we need more."

"Ah. That basket was heavy. They say cold iron discourages the faery ilk—ghosts too, then? Would iron fireplace pokers do? Your story mentioned cold iron, fire, and incantations too."

"I did hope to communicate with the spirits, perhaps convince them to leave."

"Aye?" Gavin cocked a doubtful brow. "Things are quiet again. Perhaps the wee troll heads are working."

But as he spoke, she saw a flash of light in the corner of the room. "Did you see that? It's as if they are listening. Can we go upstairs where you saw the Gray Lady?"

"If you like. That may have been a flicker of lightning." He picked up the basket and ushered her toward the stairs.