Chapter Three

"W hen will ye tell her?" Mrs. Tarrel, as stubborn in death as she had been in life, shimmered into view.

Wolfe sagged into the tattered chair behind his broken-down desk and propped his staff against his knee. "When will ye relent and go to yer heavenly reward?" He already knew the answer, but the selfish part of him loved hearing it.

"When the curse is broken and yer life is returned to ye." She floated closer, clutching her pale hands across her broad middle, even though she was much like the mist. If he peered hard enough, he could see right through her.

She wore the same clothes she had on the day she died. A dark kirtle, an apron to keep it clean, and shoes with stubby heels that sounded like thunder whenever she hurried down the halls. Over the years since her death, she had learned how to make the same racket throughout the keep, even though she no longer had a solid body to aid in her noisemaking. He had laid her to rest in what was left of the chapel, regretting he couldn't do better by the dear woman who had shown him so much loyalty and motherly love.

"When will ye tell her?" she repeated, moving so close she hovered above his desk.

He glared up at her. "Ye should ken that without even asking. Ye are many things, Mrs. Tarrel, but simple is not one of them."

"Mistress Ethne willna run from ye." The housekeeper moved to the shattered window and peered out at the sea. Her wispy hair fluttered around her face as though dancing in the wind. "I told ye what I overheard at the pub. Who her mother is—or her foster mother, I should say. I dinna ken who her true family is. Although some say she might be from the next settlement over." After a judicious nod in his direction, she turned back to the stark view. "And there are those who hate what they did to that poor mother of hers because she bore the Morrigan blood."

"And yet they didn't lift a hand to stop it. Ye heard her screams that day, same as I." Wolfe didn't fault the villagers for hanging Morrigan-the-wicked or her daughter, Morrigan-the-lesser. But according to Mrs. Tarrel, Morrigan-the-least, Ethne's foster mother, had never been right in the head since the day the wicked ones had nearly beaten her to death for freeing the doves they used for blood sacrifices. And he felt sure that the torture of having half her face burned away hadn't helped her sanity either. "Ethne should take her mother and move from this accursed place." Two centuries of bitterness burned hotter within him.

"Mistress Ethne canna leave here anymore than ye can." Mrs. Tarrel floated back to him. "She takes care of her poor, troubled mother. Keeps the house and all the duties required while Mistress Rhona does what this world has forced some women to do for centuries just to survive."

"When ye lived, I dinna recall such a generous nature toward whores," he teased.

"At least Mistress Rhona doesna curse those who spurn her bed," she retorted.

He flinched as though she had struck him. The housekeeper had stopped mincing her words well over a hundred years ago. In times like this, he wished she would resume the habit. He lowered his gaze and worried his thumb across the gnarled knots in his twisted staff. "Mistress Ethne deserves better than me."

"Ye have learned much in the last two hundred years," Mrs. Tarrel observed. "Loneliness and pain are cruel taskmasters." She floated down to his desk and perched on it like a plump, wingless fairy. "Ye are a better man now than the one I served all those many years ago."

"And yet I send many to their deaths. Just as I sent Lady Aria to hers."

"The curse sends them to their deaths." Mrs. Tarrel shifted with a deep sigh as though she still possessed the need to breathe. "And the agony of losing her only child sent Lady Aria to hers." She crossed herself and looked upward. "God rest her soul."

"God rest her soul," he echoed, meaning every word more than anyone would ever know. "I hope the saints let her into heaven even though she took her own life. She didna ken what she was doing."

"She will be judged fairly." Mrs. Tarrel leaned forward and earnestly peered into his face. "As will you. By both God and Mistress Ethne, if ye will but give the lass a chance."

"Why after all these years—"

"Friend?"

The lilting voice that always lifted his weary heart reached him through the ruins. It was Ethne. Earlier than usual. Just as she had promised.

Mrs. Tarrel disappeared, but she wasn't gone completely. The nosy housekeeper couldn't help herself.

He struggled to stand, then hobbled outside with slow, painful steps that set his spine on fire. But the knowledge that Ethne waited for him somehow made the misery more bearable. That was why she must never find out who he really was. If she discovered him to be the cursed chieftain of Clan MacDanua, he felt sure he would never see her again.

"Friend? Are ye here?" Her call was louder this time, but her tone held a hint of something he couldn't quite place. Fear? Leeriness? A sense of urgency? What was it?

He forced his twisted body to move faster. "I am here, Ethne! I am here!"

Just as he cleared the door and spied her, she shrieked and fell out of sight behind a broken section of the skirting wall.

"That'll learn ye to stay away, ye vile witch!" shouted a lad as he stepped out from behind a tree on the other side of the road. "And here's another for good measure!" He hurled a fist-sized rock at the spot where Ethne had fallen out of view.

"Leave her be!" Wolfe roared. Ignoring the excruciating pain, he scooped up a stone and fired it at the boy. "Get out from here or I'll pipe the curse upon ye without the aid of the mist."

The lad's eyes went as wide as shields as he backed away. Then he turned and ran as though the devil himself had risen from the depths of hell to catch him.

Heart pounding, growling with every infuriatingly slow step, Wolfe hurried past the crumbling wall and dropped to his knees beside Ethne. "Dear God in heaven, they've killed ye."

"She is not dead," Mrs. Tarrel said without showing herself.

"Chase after that wee bastard and scare the life out of him, aye?" Ever so gently, Wolfe leaned over and raised Ethne's head, cringing at the purplish swelling above her right eye. Somehow, he had to get her inside. Within the protection of the castle. If he left her in the ditch, who knew what those heartless bastards would do if they found her?

"I made the wee demon shite himself," Mrs. Tarrel reported with a proud chuckle from somewhere above him.

"Well done, Mrs. Tarrel. Well done indeed." Balanced on his knees, Wolfe caught hold of Ethne's arms and pulled her across his shoulders as if she were a wayward sheep and he her shepherd.

"How can I help ye, my chieftain?" The housekeeper shimmered into view, flitting all around him.

"Ye can stop behaving like a feckin' moth." He grunted as he lurched forward but kept himself from going back down on his knees by slamming his shoulder into the part of the wall still standing. "Did ye ever figure out how to pick things up?"

"Aye, I'm getting better at it." She floated closer and fixed him with a concerned look. "But I dinna think I should risk trying to carry Mistress Ethne."

"I shall carry Mistress Ethne. Somehow." The horrific pain already had him trembling, and sweat nearly blinded him, burning his one good eye. "Fetch my stick, aye?"

"Aye, my chieftain."

With his focus locked on forcing one foot in front of the other and not letting Ethne slip from his shoulders, Wolfe slowly hitched his way toward the chapel. It took forever, moving at a snail's pace, and having to stop every few steps to gird himself against the excruciating pain. But he had to make it. The small kirk was his only hope. Not only were a few of its benches still solid enough to support his precious burden, but he doubted he had the strength to make it to the keep and up the front steps. Damn the vile Morrigan for cursing him into such a weakened form.

With the greatest of care, he eased her down onto the bench closest to the altar. A dusty pillow floated toward him.

"It was in the corner," Mrs. Tarrel said. "Brush the filth from it afore ye put it under her head, aye?"

Crouching beside Ethne, Wolfe dusted it off as best he could, then slipped it under her head. "She's fearsome pale, Mrs. Tarrel. That stone couldha killed her. Might kill her yet." He untied the blanket from around his neck, the gift from the sweet lass, and spread it across her. Then he sank to the floor and rested his forehead on the edge of the bench. He closed his eyes and begged the Almighty to save her.

"I said a prayer for her," Mrs. Tarrel whispered without showing herself.

"As did I, but I dinna ken if mine are heard anymore." He lifted his head and stared at Ethne, begging her to open her eyes.

"Water might help," the housekeeper suggested. "I canna manage that just yet, I fear. Forgive me, my chieftain."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Tarrel." With his staff securely wedged in a crack in the stone floor, Wolfe pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to the table behind the altar, the place where he sometimes sat and enjoyed the food that dear Ethne brought him. He didn't need to eat or drink to exist. The curse took care of that. But he could still taste. So he always enjoyed whatever she brought. Especially when she flavored it so nicely with kindness and caring. He filled his only cup from the pitcher of fresh water Mrs. Tarrel insisted he keep on the table. Thank the saints for the wise old woman and her odd beliefs.

He made his way back to the bench and scowled down at the cup and then at Ethne. Damned fool. What good was a cup of water when she lay still as a stone?

"Wet her face with its coolness," Mrs. Tarrel whispered. "It might help bring her back to us."

He lowered himself to the floor, biting back the pained grunt that movement always tore from him. But then he went as still as the lass herself, mesmerized by the simple perfection of her pure loveliness. Her long, dark lashes rested on her pale skin. Her ruddy curls—nay, not ruddy, but a deep, reddish brown, a rich shade like the coat of a purebred, chestnut mare. Their silkiness tumbled across the bench and reached the floor. The odd red mark on her throat reminded him of the North Star he had always trusted to chart courses when out to sea. Her ill-fitting kirtle hid her comely shape, making him wish things were different and he could provide better for her. She awakened feelings in him he thought to be long dead. Not lust but the need to care and be cared for, the ache to be needed. Shaking himself free of the daze, he dipped his fingers in the water and gently wet her cheeks and then her forehead.

"I need a cloth," he whispered, more to himself than the invisible Mrs. Tarrel.

"Tear it from the hem of yer léine," the housekeeper said.

Of course. Again, he was a complete fool. Others had always taken care of him. Never had he taken care of others. But he would do this and do it well—for his precious Ethne. After ripping free a hank of the cleanest part of his hem and wetting it, he carefully pressed its coolness to her throat and face.

The faster rise and fall of her chest encouraged him. She breathed deeper—a sure sign she was fighting her way back to opening her eyes. Her lashes fluttered, giving him hope. Then she opened them. A rare pair of jewels. One a brilliant sapphire. The other a sparkling emerald.

"Friend?" Her brows drew together, but then she flinched and touched her forehead. "I remember now," she said in a tremulous whisper. Her eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry. Soon as I am a wee bit steadier, I will go and never bother ye again. I swear it."

"Ye will not," he said, probably louder than he should have by the way her eyes flared open wider. "Ye will not," he repeated in a more mannerly tone. "That wee bastard should be thrashed for what he did to ye."

"They canna help it. They fear I am a witch." Her voice broke, and she tore her gaze from his, turning away and staring at the back of the bench as a tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trickled down into her hair. "And now ye know about me and all I had hoped to hide from ye."

"I know ye are the kindest—loveliest…" He struggled to tell her all that she made him feel, all the ways she eased his terrible loneliness. But he couldn't. To describe such unbelievable relief from the starkness of his torture was almost impossible. But he had to try. "Yer generous spirit. The purity of yer caring heart. My precious Ethne, ye make my existence so much easier to bear." He brushed the backs of his fingers across the soft curve of her cheek. But for her own safety, he needed to convince her never to return. Yet he couldn't make himself say the words. "Ye have brought so much comfort to this old cripple."

She turned back and faced him, her eyes still shining with tears. "Ye are not an old cripple." With the hesitancy of a skittish fawn, she reached out and touched his cheek below the rag covering his eye. "All I see is a courageous, caring man. Ye've treated me with more kindness than I have ever known." Her smile faltered. "Who else would risk giving a witch shelter after watching her stoned?" Her bottom lip, so tempting, so kissable, barely quivered as she hitched in a teary sniff. "And the berries I promised ye all spilled out. I'm sure they're trampled by now."

"They dinna matter." He clenched his teeth to keep from growling with pain as he shifted from his aching knees and sat beside her. A relieved huff escaped him as he leaned against the bench, took her hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "All that matters is that ye are safe."

"But they were the sweetest berries—"

"Yer sweetness is all I need, dear lass."

Her pallor disappeared and a lovely blush lent color to her cheeks. "Ye are such a fine man," she whispered. "Will ye still not share yer name with me? I dinna ken what to call ye."

"I have been alone so many years, I dinna remember it," he lied.

She squeezed his hand and smiled. "Then we shall choose another. What name should ye have?"

" Aonar comes to mind." The Gaelic for alone. More appropriate than she would ever know. And he didn't care what she called him as long as she kept coming to see him.

Her expression shifted to a gently scolding look that lightened his heart so much he almost laughed. "Ye dinna have to be alone anymore," she said. "I meant what I said about ye coming home with me." She blushed deeper and lowered her gaze. "Mama is there, and Rhona too, but ye can sleep in the spare room so ye willna be bothered by the rest of us." She gave a soft laugh that sounded like the sweetest music. "Rhona snores something fierce. She says it's me. But it's her doing it."

How he wished he could. But the curse forbade it. The last time he had tried to leave the ruins, even more excruciating pain than he already endured had sent him crawling back. Trying not to show his struggles with his misshapen body, he pushed himself to his feet and retrieved her cup. "Let me fetch ye some fresh water for a drink. Ye dinna need to sip from what I used to wash yer face."

"Why do ye always do that?" Ethne rolled to her side, then eased herself up to a sitting position.

"Do what, lass?" He daren't look at her. She might see into his fears, learn even more about his lonely soul.

"When ye dinna wish to answer something, ye act as though I never asked it." Her tone held a soft accusation.

He returned with the water and held it out. "I willna become even more of a burden to ye, Ethne. My place is here. Ye already risk yer life coming here to bring me food." His heart ached and dropped like a stone to the pit of his stomach. This dear lass deserved so much more. More than tending to an ailing mother. More than being stoned if the villagers saw her on the road. And it was all because of him. The selfish bastard who had brought down the anger of a demoness upon them all. "Drink, lass, and know ye bring me all the comfort I deserve by brightening these shadows with yer light."

She frowned up at him, ignoring the cup. "Ye are a good man, friend. I know it had to have caused ye unbearable pain to get me in here. Save me from the side of the road and from being stoned even more. I am not a fool. I see yer terrible suffering when ye're merely trying to stand in place. Ye deserve better than living like a rat in the ruins."

The caring in her eyes begged him to unburden his soul. The tenderness in her smile coaxed him to tell all. He fought it, for her sake and the sake of his own selfish need not to lose her. "Ye deserve better than me."

He set the cup on the bench beside her and hobbled over to the westward window to check the horizon. The sun had just touched the sea. She needed to leave, and soon. A soft touch on his arm made him turn. She stood so close—smiling up at him and muddling his mind with her gentle persistence.

"Please come home with me," she whispered. "I need ye as badly as ye need me."

He almost choked on a sob as he cradled her cheek in his hand. "Ye have no idea what ye ask, dear one. For yer sake, I canna do so." He let his hand drop and turned his gaze back to the horizon. "I see ye are much recovered. 'Tis a good thing. For now, ye must go."

"I willna go without ye." She took his hand, moved closer, and brushed a heart-stopping kiss to his cheek. "Come with me now. I shall help ye." She pulled his arm across her shoulders, hugged his waist, and turned him toward the door.

It took every ounce of decency he possessed to pull away and stumble back. He didn't want to send her away forever, but there appeared to be no other way. His selfishness had hurt others. Never would he hurt her. "No. I willna have it. Go now, Ethne. And dinna come back. Not ever. I dinna wish ye hurt any more than ye've already been."

"Ye dinna mean that." She jutted her chin upward, defiance flashing in her eyes. "Ye need me. Just as I need ye."

"I dinna need ye," he forced out, doing his best to sound angry. "Now go from here, witch!"

His heart shattered as her mouth dropped open and she stared at him, hurt and disbelief shouting from her. He turned away, unable to bear the pain he had caused, the pain he deserved. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, knowing the mist and the accursed pipes would come to him soon.

The chapel echoed with her hurried footsteps as she left him. Alone. As he rightly deserved.

Wolfe bowed his head and wished he had never been born.