She stepped to the edge of the rock and stared down over the burning pyre. The flames licked the skirt of Rose’s white burial gown.
“My Rose died of love,” she said. She whispered the words but then repeated them with a commanding strength. They carried on the wind and seemed to linger over Loch Awe’s moonlit waters. “A woman’s lot is hard,” she said. “ ’Tis love that gives us courage, gives us strength. My Rose gave the precious gift of her love to a man unworthy of it.”
Heads nodded agreement. There was not a soul around who had not been touched by Rose. They all knew her gift of laughter, her kindness, her willingness to offer what help she could to others.
Fenella reached a hand back. Ilona placed the staff that Fenella had ordered hewn from a yew tree and banded with copper.“I curse Charles Chattan.”
Raising the staff, Fenella said, “I curse not just Chattan but his line. He betrayed her for a title. He tossed aside handfasted promises for greed. Now let him learn what his duplicity has wrought.”
The moon seemed to brighten. The flames on the fires danced higher, and Fenella knew she was being summoned. Danse macabre. All were equal in death.
She spoke, her voice ringing in the night.
“Watchers of the threshold, Watchers of the gate,
open hell and seal Chattan’s Fate.
When a Chattan male falls in love,
strike his heart with fire from Above.
Crush his heart, destroy his line;
Only then will justice be mine.”
Fenella threw her staff down upon her daughter’s funeral pyre. The flames now consumed Rose. Fenella could feel their heat, smell her daughter’s scent—and she threw herself off the rock, following her staff to where it lay upon Rose’s breast. She grabbed her daughter’s burning body and clung fast.
Together they left this world.
Six months to the date after his wedding, Charles Chattan died. His heart stopped. He was sitting at his table, accepting congratulations from his dinner guests over the news his wife was breeding, when he fell facedown onto his plate.
The news of his death shocked many. He was so young. A vital, handsome man with so much to live for. Had he not recently declared to many of his friends that he’d fallen in love with his new wife? How could God cut short his life, especially when he was so happy?
But his marriage was not in vain. Seven months after his death, his wife bore a son to carry on the Chattan name ... a son who also bore the curse.
Chapter One
London
April 1814
Thea Martin’s first thought upon receiving a letter from Sir James Smiley, Esq., renowned solicitor for Persons of Great Importance, was that her brother had hatched a new scheme to chase her out of London.
Her hands shook as she broke the sealing wax. So far, her brother Horace had attempted to bar all doors to her, an effort that had not succeeded, since London loved nothing more than a scandal—and the feud between the mighty duke of Duruset and his disinherited sister was great fodder for gossip.
Horace’s next action had been to block all reasonable landlords from letting to her. His machinations came to naught, because Thea was determined. London offered opportunities for herto make a living, something difficult for a penniless widow with children to do on her own elsewhere. This had been her home before she’d run away to marry Boyd Martin, and it offered the only hope for her small family’s future.
Thea had found a tiny set of rooms for let in a shabby building in a less-than-respectable neighborhood. It meant she would keep her boys in all day instead of giving them a garden for play, but it was a start, and that had been what Thea had needed—a new beginning.
Using the connections she’d made during her debutante years, she’d set about using the only skill she knew, matchmaking. She knew the ways of theton, she knew marriage, and she understood the desperation of parents. She also knew how to be discreet.
And if her brother was not pleased? Well, she was already disowned. What more could he do?
Thea feared she’d discover the answer to that last question in Sir James’s letter.
“What is it, Mother?” Jonathan asked. He was a bright, towheaded seven-year-old who wanted to be her protector. His brother, five-year-old Christopher, stood by his side, his little forehead wrinkled in concern. Their small family didn’t receive letters often.
“I will tell you in a moment,” Thea murmured. “Are you waiting for my reply?” she asked the messenger, who still lingered in the hall with a distasteful sniff at his surroundings.
