Margaret spent the rest of the day scrubbing dirt and cobwebs from the windows and corners. Whichever part of the tower Angus and his men were in, she chose another.
By the time the sun touched the hills to the west, her place was much improved. With no glazing to fix the broken windowpane, they’d built her shutters to close out the wind and rain. She had a bed, raised off the floor. Best of all, she had a solid door that locked, with a six-inch-thick oak beam to bar it from the inside.
Angus herded his men out, back to the cart. Gillis had rounded up the hobbled horses he’d let graze as they’d worked.
“Thank you,” Margaret said to the two servants.
They mumbled some sort of reply.
“And, Gillis. Thank you for your help.” He nodded at her, smiled, and bowed before ducking through the door.
Angus followed on his heels.
“Sir,” Margaret said.
He turned.
“I don’t . . .” She had no idea what to say. So long had she lived feeding only off the wrongs of her past, she didn’t know how to manage a feast of kindness. “I’m sorry I am not better at expressing . . . I wish you to know I am most grateful.”
He nodded.
Hamish followed him out the door, tail whipping back and forth.
“Are you taking your dog?” she asked.
He smiled. “Have you come to your senses?”
Margaret shook her head.
Angus snapped his fingers and pointed at Margaret. Hamish turned and slunk back into her house. The poor thing wanted to go home.
“In the bottom of the basket, wrapped in cloth, is a venison bone. It is for Hamish. Give it to him after I leave, and he will be your friend forever.” After two more steps, he turned and said, “The dog has succeeded where I have failed.”
She watched the cart roll away. Soon as it dipped down and out of sight, she closed and barred the door.
She removed a folded parchment from her pack and spread it across the table Angus had given her. It was a map of all the Marches, Scottish and English. She’d paid dearly for this in Newcastle.
She didn’t know who the reivers were who took her family. She’d not been home when they’d come calling. That night, she’d crept out of the house to meet Timothy Tilghman at the standing stones. He was the blacksmith’s son. She was the daughter of a knight. Her father would’ve never allowed it. Her father had had a whole bushel of men picked out for her, but they’d all been fine and dignified and had wanted girls who curtsied gracefully and stitched a perfect seam.
Margaret was not that girl. She sword fought with her brothers, helped birth the lambs, and rode horses. ’Twas when her horse had thrown a shoe that she met Timothy. He came to the house, only a year older than her, but with shoulders and arms like a warrior.
He didn’t care that she was supposed to be a lady. He let her watch. Let her pull the red-hot iron from the fire and clang, clang, clang it on the anvil. He’d let her plunge it into the water and be bathed with steam.
So, yes. When Timothy asked her to meet him at the ancient stone circle, she’d readily agreed. What girl could resist? It was Margaret who had suggested the dead of night to avoid her father.
She slipped out the window and scaled down the rough timbers of the outer wall. The moon was high but shrouded in clouds. No one saw her leave. When she reached the standing stones, Timothy was already there.
She’d never been alone with a boy before. She thrilled with the adventure of it all. Everyone said the circle of rough, gray stones was an enchanted place. When the clouds parted for a moment and silver moonlight bathed the circle, she could easily believe it. She moved closer to Timothy in case the faerie folk were near.
“I have something for you,” Timothy said. “A gift.” He held out something long and thin, clothed in a wrap of fine wool.
She took it, dreaming all sorts of silly things. A piece of jewelry. Ribbons for a handfasting. Perhaps he would even ask her to run away with him.
She unfolded the cloth to find a dagger. She loosened it from the sheath. The grip depicted the body and head of a dragon; the blade was long and narrow, coming to a fine point. Tenfold better than any jewelry or ribbons.
“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She looked up long enough to see the large grin spread across his face. “Where did you find this?”
“I made it. For you.” Timothy stepped closer and fingered a lock of her thick, black hair. “It is called a misericorde.”
She wanted to kiss him. To brush her lips against his. To know what it was like to kiss a boy. She leaned closer, closing her eyes and feeling the charge of anticipation as he closed the distance.
That was when they heard the shouts. If her father found them together, Timothy would be hanged.
“It’s my father. Run!”
Timothy turned and disappeared into the night.
Margaret ducked behind one of the stones, waiting to see who approached. She heard more shouts, and a glow rose from the valley. Hartfell burned.
Margaret ran as fast as she could back to her home. The whole place was in a blaze of orange and yellow. The sound of metal clashing on metal came from the courtyard. And the smell of burning. Ashes fell from the sky like blackened snowflakes.
She stepped from the trees to see the firelight dancing off the steel helmets of the reivers. More than a dozen of them.
So much noise. She covered her ears. Yells from the reivers. The thundering of horses. Grunts and cries from the men trying to stop them. But it was only her father and a few servants against so many.
Smoke poured into the valley, stinging her eyes and lungs.
“Flee!” Douglas, the stable hand, had caught sight of her and cried. “Flee for your life, Lady Margaret.”
She backed away, ducking behind the barmkin wall. Then she turned and ran back toward the stone circle.
She didn’t stop until she reached the standing stones. Even from here, she could see the flames reach to the sky as her home turned to ash.
The brush rustled behind her.
“Timothy?” She spun around. He would know what to do.
A steel helmet with a perfect reflection of the moon on it was visible beside the tallest stone. It moved closer, backing her up against one of the ancient pillars.
“Don’t be afraid,” the helmet’s bearer said. “I mean you no harm, I assure you.” The man’s face was shadowed by the brim of his helm, but his voice was deep and rough. “I am a gentleman.” He came closer, lifting her chin with his finger. He couldn’t possibly expect her to believe his claim of no harm when the flames of her home lit the night sky.
Margaret tried to run, but he swung his hand across her face. She fell back, her head crashing into the edge of the tall stone. A flash of light blinded her, and a wave of energy thrummed through her veins, as if her blood were made of lightning. She fell onto the damp grass, and the thrumming stopped. She tried to rise, but her limbs would not respond.
The man picked her up, slamming her back against the rock. She clutched the misericorde from Timothy and slipped it out of its sheath.
He pressed her shoulders against the stone with his bare hands. His thumb grazed her neck. That was the moment she realized a curse had come upon her. In the instant of his touch, his wickedness flooded her mind. His intentions as clear as if she were thinking them herself.
She swung her misericorde at him, slashing him across his face. For one long moment, she stared into his wide eyes as blood seeped from the gash. A line that ran from forehead to cheekbone.
Then she ran. Once more, she fled into the thicket, caring not that the branches tore at her flesh.
At dawn, the fires had become embers, and all had been silent. She’d joined the other women in the courtyard, weeping and bemoaning the fallen. Her father among them. The rest of her family had been burned in their beds.
Margaret wiped her hand across her face to clear the memory.
Hamish lifted his head from his post by the fire and looked at her.
She must not let her mind wander so. She had managed to keep these visions at bay since arriving at Hartfell Tower. She had no time for them now.
The map. She was studying the map.
Margaret had not recognized who had done this to her. All had happened so fast. In the shadows of night, her memory of his face was unclear, but his voice and those words had never left her. Don’t be afraid. I am a gentleman. She had left her family alone, and somehow, between the reiver breaking her skull and the power of the circle of stones, she had received her punishment—her wretched curse.
The only way she could think to end it was to end the man responsible. Thus, her revenge was two-fold: justice for her family and a means to remove this affliction that tormented her life.
She did not know many of the clans in the area. She had been young and hadn’t paid mind to the goings-on of the border reivers. But she would find out now. It wouldn’t be that hard. A trip into town. A few discrete inquiries from folks who’d lived here long enough. Someone would point her in the right direction.
Once she found out who had taken her family, she would return the favor. Whether by crossbow or some other means, she would finish him.
* * *
After several more days of scrubbing and mending, at last, Hartfell was clean and organized. Livable. Angus would be pleased after all his censure of it being unlivable. Margaret settled back into one of the chairs, gazing into the fire but seeing nothing.
Hamish lay at her feet, working on another bone he’d dredged up somewhere. His tail swished the fresh herbs she’d strewn across the floor to counter the staleness and damp. With each pass, a wave of heather and woodruff lifted into the air.
This life was turning out to be better than she’d imagined, thanks in large part to the Robson brothers. Margaret found her head bobbing in her attempt stay awake.
Hamish perked up, intent on something outside. A fox, perhaps. They’d seen one investigating the tower last night. The dog rose and stood at the door, his head cocked and ears perked. Then he growled. A low rumble from deep in his throat.
“What is it?” Certes not Angus. Hamish would be wagging his tail instead of growling.
The low murmur of voices crept in under the threshold. Margaret reached for her crossbow.
“Hush,” she commanded Hamish.
The dog ceased his grumbling, but his hackles stayed up.
She loaded a bolt and pulled back the string. A moment later, someone pounded on the other side of her door.
Hamish growled again.
“Hush,” she reminded him.
If she did not answer, perhaps they would go away.
“Open up, lassie,” a man’s voice called, gruff and raspy. “We know yer in there.”