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.”
