Of course Margaret could not sleep.
She spent a good portion of the night going over Fenella’s book, trying to read the faded handwriting and make sense of words in the old Gaelic she didn’t understand. She wanted answers, solutions, and she wanted them now. That she could lose both her brothers was a horrific thought. They were all the family she had left—save for Neal’s unborn baby. And, if the curse went true to form, her new sister-in-marriage, Portia, was probably breeding as well.
Margaret could not stand aside and let those children be tainted with this curse.
The next morning, she was up early and ready to travel, anxious to be on her way to Loch Awe. She thanked General Montheath for the hospitality.
Harry and Portia managed to see her off. They both looked as if they hadn’t slept a wink the night before and were none the worse for wear. Margaret could only sigh. Love had made her brothers addle-brained. Here she was so worried ... and they were contentedly in love.
She did notice that Harry favored his left arm even more this day than he had the day before. He handed her his pistol and his ammunition bag.
“You know how to use this,” he said. “I taught you. Guard yourself well.”
“I shall,” she answered.
Margaret then hugged her brother, gave a perfunctory kiss on the cheek to her new sister-in-marriage, and climbed into her coach.
She traveled with a retinue. Her abigail Smith accompanied her inside the coach. Smith was new to the staff. Margaret’s longtime abigail, Rogers, had married one of the Lyon household footmen and had begged to stay in London. Margaret debated whether or not Smith would be with her long. The maid had very little personality and would never become the close confidant Rogers had been.
Four armed outriders, insisted upon by Neal, provided for Margaret’s protection. There were also her driver, Thomas, a coachman, Balfour, and now Rowan, Harry’s quiet Indian valet.
She wasn’t overly fond of Rowan. His loyalty to Harry was unquestionable, and yet there was something Margaret didn’t trust about him.
Thomas estimated they would reach Loch Awe in three, maybe six days’ time, depending on the weather. “There is no direct line from here to there,” he had informed Margaret. “Let us hope the weather is in our favor.”
No matter how long the trip took, it would betoolong for Margaret. She sat on the tufted velvet coach seat with her fists clenched, anxious to arrive at their destination—and uncertain of what to expect. Fenella’s book was on the seat beside her. Her brother’s gun was in a traveling bag at her feet.
A gentle mist had started outside. They’d had to close the windows against it. Margaret hoped it didn’t turn into a rain or, worse, sleet. She’d heard traveling in the highlands in winter could be treacherous.
“You should relax, my lady,” Smith advised. She was in the seat across from Margaret and was doing a bit of needlework to while away the time. Margaret didn’t know how she concentrated on the stitches without feeling slightly ill, especially in such poor light. Margaret couldn’t even read when she traveled.
“I’ll relax when we arrive at Loch Awe,”Margaret said. She’d not told the servants why they were making this trip. Balfour and Thomas, longtime retainers, were probably aware of the curse, but not the others. Well, save for Rowan.
And then she heard the meowing.
She frowned. “Smith, do you hear something?”
The maid scrunched her face and cocked an ear. “I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary, my lady.” She returned to her embroidery.
They traveled on and Margaret heard the sound again, loud and distinct this time. She scooted around on her seat. “I hear a cat. The sound is coming from the boot. No, it is coming frombeneaththe coach.”
“I’ve not heard a sound other than the coach wheels and the horses,” Smith replied. “Well, except for the arguing of the men in the box.”
“Then something is wrong with your ears,” Margaret answered. She knocked on the roof. There was a panel there that could be slid back and forth to allow her to speak to the coachman.
“Yes, my lady?” Balfour said. The misty rain splashed in through the door.
“There is a cat beneath the coach somewhere. Let us stop and rescue it.”
“Now, my lady?”
“Of course,” Margaret said, suddenly anxiousfor the diversion. It helped to have another concern other than the curse. “I would feel sad if something happened to the cat and we had done nothing to help.”
“A cat,” Balfour repeated as if mystified.
“Yes,a cat,” Margaret insisted.
The door was slid shut and within minutes the coach stopped.
