“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 froman 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, Elinortossed 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.”
