"How can my family—my own mother—treat me with such coldness?"
Aggie snorted. "'Tis the way of the world, lass. Sad but true."
"I am naught but a pawn, a piece of property, a thing used to buy protection."
"Aye. You're a woman, grown."
"I've never belonged here. I wish I'd stayed in England." She'd always felt at home with her grandparents, her mother's parents, during the three years she'd lived with them as part of hereducationto learn refined English manners. Her outspoken grandfather wasn't exactly an expert on that. His salty language often earned him a slap on the wrist and a glare from her grandma.
"Your father was Scottish, as you are. And you'd best start acting it," Aggie said on her way out the door.
"Hmph." Catriona considered herself wholly Scottish when it suited her. But at the moment, she'd much rather be English and far from here.
She took the missive from her cloak pocket and re-read it. "The requirement is an exchange of deep love and unwavering trust. So, you must find your soulmate...." The solution to Brodie's quandary popped into her head. "Elsea MacAuley! Aye, that's it!" She would wager near anything that Brodie still loved his former betrothed, and likely, she loved him. "How will I find her?"
The answer came to her—the beloved image of the man from her sensual dream.
"Torr," she whispered. Elsea was his cousin, and he would know where to find her.
***
TORR STARED OUT THEwindow at Blacktower, a partial ruin that stood a mile or so from Castle Dubhuisge. He'd lived here for the past year, after the curse had destroyed his life.
The orange-yellow sun hung over the Western Highlands and reflected off the loch below, but the rest of the sky was gray. He did not look forward to this night. The scent of a storm wafted through the air, a violent storm.
"Here, lad. Drink this!" Finnian trotted into the chamber, his plaid robes flapping, and presented the vial with a flourish.
With much hesitation, Torr took it and eyed the violet-colored liquid. "What's in it?"
"Do nay be asking that." Finnian shook a gnarled finger. "I never reveal my formulas. Do you wish to be cured of the curse?"
"Aye, but you may well poison me in your attempts."
But Finnian had already closed his eyes and begun chanting in Gaelic, his long white beard swaying. He was a physician and inventor, but was he also a wizard? Torr had seen no proof of it.
He sniffed at the open top of the vial. It smelled like mint and some other familiar herb. Lavender? Thus far, none of Finnian's elixirs had worked any magic, though they did cause digestive disturbances.
Torr sighed, willing to try one more time. The curse had gone on for over a year, and he was ready to be rid of it.
He threw the liquid to the back of his throat and swallowed. It burned like hellfire all the way to his stomach. He coughed and tossed the empty vial onto the cluttered table. His stomach rumbled. Nausea welled up, growing intense. He ran to the open window, hung his head out, and retched. When his aching stomach muscles finally unclenched, the nausea was gone, and a cold sweat covered his body. At the basin, he washed his face and rinsed his mouth with water.
"You're trying to kill me, Finnian. I'll have nay more of it!"
The elder gaped at him. He might be a mediocre physician, but he sure as the devil was no conjurer.
"Pray pardon, lad. I did nay ken 'twould make you ill."
"I'll never be able to resume my duties as spokesman for Angus at this rate."
"Your brother loves and respects you."
"That matters not. Plenty in Clan MacElrath would accuse me of sorcery or possession and kill me when their chief is nay looking."
"Sir, I shall keep trying to discover the magic formula." Finnian bowed and shuffled from the room.
Torr regretted snapping at the old man, but because he was dealing with this curse, he was near his wit's end. Should he be resigned to the fact his life was over and that he'd never have anything beyond what he had now?
When he realized dusk was near, he hastened down the steps of the ancient tower and out into the cool evening air. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
He strode into the trees by the loch and removed his kilt and shirt. Daylight grew dim. The wind raised gooseflesh across his skin. When the sun dropped behind the highbento the west, a whirlwind of rage and power spun through Torr. His body again transformed into that of a white horse. Incredible strength infused his muscles. He galloped through the gloaming toward the loch. At the water's edge, he held his breath and dove for the depths. The icy water soothed his temper as he swam.
A while later, he waded onto the bank and shook himself. Lightning flashed nearby, followed seconds later by a crack of thunder. Rain pelted him. His muscles exhausted, he took what little comfort he could from this nightly ritual, the wind on his wet skin, the fresh flavor of the grass, much tastier than the dried barley he'd eaten all winter. As for the chill, he did not feel it. He sometimes suspected he was numb in this form, both inside and out. After all, kelpies were heartless water demons.
