His Immortal Embrace. Lynsay Sands
door opened and Morvyn looked up at her sister. In the light of the torch Rona held, Morvyn could see the glow of hate and triumph in Rona’s blue-green eyes. Rona thought she had won some great victory. Morvyn knew otherwise and was not surprised to feel the sting of tears upon her cheeks.
“Rona, how could you? How could you have done this?” she asked.
“How could I? How could he?” Rona snapped, then frowned when she saw the blood upon Morvyn’s palm. “What have you done to yourself, you foolish child?”
Morvyn began to pick up her things and return them to her bag. “I had no ink to mark down the words.”
“So you wrote in blood?”
“ ’Tis fitting. The Galts and the MacCordys shall be bleeding for ages after what you have done this night.” She felt the heat in her stones as she put them away and hoped the power they had expended had done some good.
“You cannot keep such a writing about. Not only is it considered a sin for you to write at all, but those words could condemn me, condemn us all.”
“You have condemned us, Rona. You knew the dangers.”
“Unproven. That is proof of sorcery, however,” she said, pointing to Morvyn’s writing.
“I shall write the tale upon a scroll and hide it. Mayhap one of our blood will find it one day, one with the wit and strength to banish the evil you have stirred up this night.”
“He had to pay for what he has done!”
“He was wrong, but so were you. The poison you have spit out tonight will infect us all, the venom seeping into our bloodline as well as his. To do such magic on this night, at the birth of a new century, only ensures the power of the evil you have wrought.” Morvyn stood up and looked down at what she had written. “I fear you have stolen all hope of happiness for us, but I will not allow this to endanger your life. It will be well hidden. And every night for the rest of my life I shall pray that, when it is found, it will be by one of our blood, one who can free us all from the torment you have unleashed this dark night.”
Chapter One
Scotland—1435
Sophie Hay stumbled slightly as another fierce sneeze shook her small frame. A linen rag was shoved into her hand, and she blew her nose, then wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeves. She smiled at her maid, Nella, who watched her with concern. Considering how long she had been scrambling through this ancient part of her Aunt Claire’s house, Sophie suspected she looked worthy of Nella’s concern.
“I dinnae ken what ye think ye will find here,” Nella said. “Old Steven said her ladyship ne’er came in here; thought it haunted, and he thinks it may not be safe now.”
“’Tis sturdy, Nella.” Sophie patted the stones framing the fireplace. “Verra sturdy. The rest of the house will fall ere this part does. The fact that that stone was loose,” she pointed to the one she had pried away from the wall, releasing the cloud of dust that had started her sneezing, “was what told me that something might be hidden here.”
“And ye dinnae think this place be haunted?”
Sophie inwardly grimaced, knowing she would have to answer with some very carefully chosen words or Nella would start running and probably not stop until she reached Berwick. “Nay. I sense no spirits in this room.” She would not tell Nella about all the others wandering in the house. “All I sense is unhappiness. Grief and a little fear. It was strong here by the fireplace, which is why I was searching here.”
“Fear?” Nella’s dark eyes grew wide as she watched Sophie reach toward the hole in the wall. “I dinnae think ye ought to do that. Fear and grief arenae good. God kens what ye might find in there.”
“I am certainly nay sticking my hand in there with any eagerness, Nella, but,” she sighed, “I also feel I must.” She ignored Nella’s muttered prayers, took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached in. “Ah, there is something hidden here.”
Sophie grasped a cold metal handle on the end of what felt like a small chest. She tugged and felt it inch toward her a little. Whoever had put it into this hole had had to work very hard, for it was a tight fit. Inch by inch it came, until Sophie braced herself against the wall and yanked with all her might. The little chest came out so quickly, she stumbled backward and was only saved from falling by Nella’s quick, bracing catch.
As she set the chest on a small table, Sophie noticed her maid edge closer, her curiosity obviously stronger than her fear. Sophie unfolded the thick oiled leather wrapped around the bulk of the chest, then used a corner of her apron to brush aside the dust and stone grit. It was a beautiful chest of heavy wood, ornately carved with runes and a few Latin words. The hinges, handles, and clasp were of hammered gold, but there was no lock. She rubbed her hands together as she prepared herself to open it.
“What are all those marks upon it?” asked Nella.
“Runes. Let me think. Ah, they are signs for protection, for hope, for forgiveness, for love. All good things. The words say: Within lies the truth, and, if it pleases God, the salvation of two peoples. How odd.” She stroked the top of the chest. “This is verra old. It must have just missed being discovered when the fireplace was added to the house. I wouldnae be surprised if this belonged to the matriarch of our line or one of her kinswomen.”
“The witch?” Nella took a small step back. “A curse?”
“I doubt it when such markings cover the chest.” She slowly opened the lid and frowned slightly. “More oiled leather for wrapping. Whoever hid this wanted it to last a verra long time.” She took out the longest of the items and carefully unwrapped it. “A scroll.” She gently unrolled the parchment and found another small one tucked inside. When she touched the erratic writing upon the smaller parchment, she shivered. “Blood. ’Tis written in blood.”
“Oh, my lady, put it back. Quickly!” When Sophie simply pressed her hand upon the smaller parchment and closed her eyes, Nella edged nearer again. “What do ye see?”
“Morvyn. That is the name of the one who wrote this. Morvyn, sister to Rona.”
“The witch.”
“Aye. No ink,” she muttered. “That is why this is written in blood. Morvyn had naught else to write with and she was desperate to record this exactly as it was said.” Sophie opened herself up to the wealth of feeling and knowledge trapped within the parchment. “She tried to stop it. So desperate, so afraid for us all. She prays,” Sophie whispered. “She prays and prays and prays, every night until she dies, sad and so verra alone.” She quickly removed her hand and took several deep breaths to steady herself.
“Oh, m’lady, this is no treasure, is it?”
“It may be. Beneath that despair was hope. That would explain the words carved upon the chest.”
“Can ye read the writings?”
“Aye, though I dinnae want to.”
“Then dinnae.”
“I must. That chest carries the words ‘truth’ and ‘salvation,’ Nella. Mayhap the truth as to why all the women of my line die as poor Morvyn died—sad and so verra alone. I willnae read it aloud.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she felt chilled as she read the words. “I cannae believe Morvyn wrote this. She feared these words.” Sophie turned her attention to the larger scroll. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it?”
“I fear Rona deserves her ill fame. She loved Ciar MacCordy, The MacCordy of Nochdaidh. They were lovers, but he left her to marry another, a woman with land and wealth. He also left her with child.”
“As too oft happens, the rutting bastards,” muttered Nella.
“True. Rona was hurt and her pain twisted into a vindictive fury. One night she cursed The MacCordy and all the future MacCordy lairds. Morvyn tried