The witch’s chilling smile made him wish he had never asked. “Ye be mine for eternity, pet.” She dipped a nod at Aria’s limp form. “Yer wife returns, yer son is born, and Clan MacDanua gains an heir.”
“What do ye mean byI be yers? How would it be so?” He didn’t trust Morrigan. There had to be a sacrifice. Pain. Something tortuous. Morrigan thrived on such. “Would I know my son? Be able to train him up to be a good chieftain? Watch over him and live as a truly loving husband to my wife?”
“Of course.” Her seductive tone pulled him in, daring him to believe what he wanted so badly to be true. She drew a long, slender dagger from its sheath at her belt, brought forth blood from her palm, then held out her hand. “I need naught but a few drops of yer own lifeblood, my lover. To mix with my own.”
Ever so gently, Wolfe rested Aria back across the rock and stepped down beside Morrigan. He held out his hand. An uneasiness sent a warning tingle down his spine, making him tighten his buttocks and brace himself for whatever was to come.
She nicked his palm, pressed their bleeding hands together, and clasped them tightly. “Ye shouldha been mine, and now ye are,” she warned in a deadly whisper. “Body and soul. Blood and bone. Heart. Spirit. Mind. And especially all yer hopes and dreams.”
Black clouds rolled in, blotting out the sun. The wind roared, hitting Wolfe so hard that he nearly lost his footing. Waves thundered against the shore, and a heavy fog, a blinding mist, rolled in from the sea, cloaking everything in murky grayness.
Morrigan reached up and raked her nails down his face, blinding his left eye with searing pain and sending blood streaming down his cheek. An indescribable weight shoved down on his shoulders, making his back splinter and twist from the base of his skull to his tailbone. He caught hold of Morrigan by the shoulders and held fast to remain standing through the agonizing torture. “What have ye done to me?”
“Helped ye give birth to a legend, my unfaithful lover. Righted a few personal wrongs.” She jerked away, cackling when he stumbled to the ground. “Ye shouldha chose me as your wife, Wolfe MacDanua. But instead, when ye were not in my bed, ye scorned me. As did those of yer clan. Now ye shall pay. All shall pay. There will be no Lady Aria. No heir for Clan MacDanua. And to complete my revenge, I place this curse upon ye and on all those dwelling in this land. Every mother’s child best heed these words and pass them on to their children and their children’s children.”
She circled him, her unholy chant roaring louder than the wind and the sea. “When nightfall comes and the haar blows in, bar yer doors and cover yer heads. For the vengeful fog of Tarbat Ness comes to coax MacDanua’s pipes to play for the pleasure of she who ye scorned. If ye hear the melody in full, fall to yer knees and bid yer life farewell. For tragedy comes to take yer soul before the toll of the year’s last bell.”
With a cruel laugh, she ran her hand through the fog, then hit Wolfe with the set of bagpipes she pulled from the mist. “Play for me! Now!”
“A blood oath must be honored,” he bellowed, trying to rise from his knees. “Ye canna base a curse upon a falsehood.”
She cackled as she swept the fog away from the boulder and revealed Lady Aria’s body vanished. “Ye obviously know nothing of curses, my pet.” Lightning crackled all around. The air stung with its power. She threw the pipes back into his face. “Now, stand and play.” She stepped close and gently ran her nails through the blood on his face. “And dinna fash yourself, my once handsome lover. While the mist dances to yer mournful song, ye will be made whole again. Strong and virile as always. But once the sun rises and burns my precious mist away, my lovely curse will return ye to the form of the ill-sighted cripple—the image of yer true soul.”
Chapter Two
Tarbat Ness Point, Scotland
Midsummer 1599
“Same blood buta pure soul sacrificed for the lie told.”
“I know, Mama.” Ethne tried to coax another spoonful of gruel into her poor, addled mother’s mouth. She had no idea what the old woman’s words meant, and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the dear soul needed to eat. Mama was wasting away to nothing. “A bit more, aye? Ye’ve grown so weak with not eating. I shall have to take in yer shift yet again.”
Her mother turned away from the food, then stole a look back at Ethne and lifted a knobby finger. “I be Morrigan-the-least. Daughter of Morrigan-the-lesser. Granddaughter to the vile Morrigan-the-wicked. Hear me, child.”
“I know, Mama,” Ethne patiently agreed, determined to keep her mother calm. With a heavy sigh, she set the wooden bowl aside. Whenever Mama chanted her ancestry, all hope of getting her to eat was lost.
Her mother offered a weak smile. Her weary eyes crinkled at the corners. “But I didna curse ye with the witch’s name.” She lovingly rested her calloused hand on Ethne’s cheek. “Not for ye. My precious Ethne. Much too good for our vile bloodline.”
“Ye saved me, Mama.” Ethne carefully eased her mother back down onto the threadbare pillows of the narrow bed. “Ye are thegood one. Taking me in when my own blood abandoned me.” Ethne didn’t know the truth of her ancestry. Superstition and fear had caused her kin to leave her on the fairy mound because of her different-colored eyes, one blue, one green. Them and the devil’s mark on her throat, a jagged red splotch that her dear foster mother had said resembled the North Star—a truer point never to be found. “Now rest, aye? Rhona will be here soon so I can tend to my errands.”
“Ye mean to leave the offering at the ruins?” Ethne’s mother offered a hopeful smile. “I am glad for it. Each day ye go. Never shirking the need to right a terrible wrong.” She caught hold of Ethne’s hand and gave it a weak squeeze. “Promise ye will go until yer wee legs can carry ye there no more? Ye will never forget, aye?”
“I will never forget, Mama. Today, I’ll take a bit of the fried bread left from supper. And the last of the spring herbs.” Ethne pulled the covers higher around the thin woman’s shoulders, then gauged the amount of life left in the dwindling fire in the hearth. Perhaps another stick of wood. The tiny dwelling seemed overly warm, but with not an ounce of fat on her bones, her poor mother shivered and complained of being cold on the balmiest of days.
The length of the shadows creeping across the floor concerned Ethne. Rhona had promised she would finish with the man from the village with plenty of time to spare. Bless Rhona’s generous soul. If not for her bit of coin for the use of their only other room, Ethne doubted the three of them would survive. Those from Tarbat Ness shirked them because of the wicked one’s curse from almost two hundred years ago. Well, the men didn’t shirk Rhona because she was the village harlot. But all of them hated Ethne and her mother. And Ethne supposed it was rightly so after so many had fallen to the curse and met their tragic end after hearing the haunted mist’s pipes.
Their hatred and threats to stone her forced Ethne to make the long walk to the next settlement to fetch the things they needed with what Rhona earned. It was a hard journey alone. Especially in winter. But with a patch hiding one of her eyes, Ethne made it without complaining. When the angels took Mama away, she would leave Tarbat Ness, but not before. Only because Mama had begged her to stay. Begged her to make the wrong right. Her mother’s belief in her made her smile. Make the wrong right? How in heaven’s name could she bring peace to a haunted mist and free Tarbat Ness from the curse?
“Forgive me, Ethne. I know I’m late, love.” Rhona held tight to the tattered curtain covering the doorway, all the while tugging her kirtle back in place. She paused and glanced back, staring at something in the other room. The hinges of the rear door to the cottage creaked, then it rattled shut with a solid thud. Only then did Rhona relax and turn back to Ethne. “His son and brother came too.” She smiled and opened her fist, revealing three shining pieces of silver. “Now ye can buy that wool to make Mama a heavier shawl before winter.”
“Bless ye, Rhona. Ye are as good as gold.” Ethne added the coins to the drawstring bag she kept hidden behind a loose stone in the hearth. She hated that her dear friend had to submit to men who would never treat her the way she deserved, but without Rhona’s sacrifice, they would all die a slow death of want. She hurried over to the only table in the meagerly furnished room.
“And there’s still plenty of time for me to go.” Ethne glanced back at her sleeping mother. “I can make it to the ruins and give him his supper well before nightfall.” Anticipation at seeing him again lifted her heart, making it flutter.
“Why do ye love that cripple ye discovered living among the ruins?” Rhona gave her a teasing nudge. “Ye nearly fretted yourself sick over him this past winter.”
“I did no such thing.” Ethne placed as much of the fried bread and herbs that she thought they could spare into her errands basket, wishing there was more. His face was so gaunt. He needed a joint of meat, a keg of ale, and a kettle brimming with boiled vegetables and gravy. But that was not to be, and he always seemed so grateful for what she brought. It made her heart ache to have so little for him.
