Page 1 of The Curse of McMillan Castle
Prologue
Many Years Earlier-McMillan Castle, 17thCentury Scotland
The clash of something heavy behind him caused Niall McMillan to spin towards the sound. For the third time this week, Osla’s self-portrait had fallen from its place on the wall. It made no sense. He’d ensured it was properly secured only two days ago. And yet, once again, the portrait had nearly landed on his head. Had it fallen one second earlier, or had his steps been one step slower, it would have. Frowning, Niall bent and lifted the portrait until Osla’s inky eyes were level with his own.
Not much scared Niall—he was the true monster to be feared within the castle—but as he stared into the inky eyes of his late sister-in-law, a shiver spread its way down his spine.
The portrait made him uneasy. It always had. From the moment Osla had finished the artwork, he’d objected to Baodan hanging it in the great hall. Not that the decision had been his to make. His brother was laird of McMillan Castle. At least for now.
He continued to stare into Osla’s eyes as he willed the sense of unease inside him to go away. He hated looking at her. The likeness to her was unsettling, the way her eyes seemed to track him as he walked was almost supernatural. Not that he believed in any such nonsense. Flesh and blood, here and now, that was all there really was. Once dead, you were simply gone. Forever.
Still, ever since Osla’s death, he wasn’t the only one who found objection with the painting. On more than one occasion, he’d overheard servants whispering of how they didn’t wish to be in the great hall alone. One of the cooks swore she’d seen the picture blink. And even their mother had told him in private that Osla’s portrait looked as if it ached to breathe, and if she stared at it long enough, she wondered if perhaps she would truly see Osla’s chest begin to rise and fall.
Breathe. Something Osla would never do again. Niall smiled as he thought back to the night the first part of his plan had been executed with such glorious perfection. The poison worked so much better than he’d ever imagined it would. And the weight she’d lost during her sickness made it easy for him to slide her out of the bedroom window once he’d wrapped the noose around the foolish woman’s neck.
Thinking of Osla’s death calmed him. The woman was dead. And with it, her secrets. This portrait could do him no harm now, even if it seemed determined to fly off its place on the wall with unsettling regularity.
Even so, perhaps it was better to rid all of them of its dreadful presence. Baodan didn’t need the daily reminder of Osla’s miserable face staring down at him. His brother was already gloomy enough since his wife’s death. If Baodan asked where the portrait had gone, he would simply blame it on a servant—perhaps the one who’d dodged his advances the other day in the hallway outside his bedchamber. He didn’t want that bitch around anymore either.
Two birds, one stone, as they say.
Smiling, his unease faded as he tucked the portrait beneath his arm and headed for the stables. He would go out for a long ride and give it to the first vagabond he happened upon once outside his brother’s territory. Perhaps the wretch lucky enough to cross Niall’s path could catch a price for the portrait, and the money received from it could see the poor man fed for at least a few moons.
It was a good thing he was doing, really. A generous thing. Sometimes it was good to do something entirely out of character.
Chapter 1
MacMillan Castle, 17thCentury-Many Years Later - October
Madeline
The sizzle of the stew bubbling out into the open fire it hung over caused me to jump as I stirred from my seat next to Henry’s bed. Once again, he’d persuaded me to tell him stories about my old life—my life before my daughter Rosie and I abandoned life in the twenty-first century for a much more difficult, and much colder life, in the seventeenth century. Shivering— something I was quite certain I hadn’t stopped doing since we arrived in this godforsaken century—I stood from my seat and reached for a heavy cloth so I could remove the old man’s dinner from the fire.
A long-time servant of McMillan Castle, Henry knew all about the magic that had brought so many to this time and castle. After several years of confusion and questions, Baodan McMillan, laird of my new home, decided that it would be easier for everyone if all those who worked for the McMillans knew the truth of the magic and time travel that seemed to be the heartbeat of his home. Sworn to secrecy, and with the threat of magic over them if they ever did let the castle’s secrets escape, no such slip-up had ever occurred.
The steam rising from the pot warmed me slightly as I stirred it to cool it down quickly enough for me to give some to Henry before I had to leave. Serving as a sort of home health nurse for Henry since his stroke was vastly different from the high-paced, non-stop work I’d been accustomed to at the Chicago hospital, but it had kept me busy enough for the past two months that I was now too tired when I crawled into bed at the end of the night to lie awake for hours and wonder if I’d ruined my daughter’s life by uprooting her and bringing her here.
“Why doona ye go back, lass?”
I paused my stirring and looked through the steam toward the old man. “Why do you ask that?”
Deciding that the stew would have to just sit for a bit before serving, I walked over to the fire, poked at it a bit, and pulled Henry’s sitting chair close to it before waving him over as he answered me.
“You’re nae less miserable today than ye were when ye first came to help me two moons ago. Why did ye come here if ye enjoyed life in yer own time, so much?”
The damage from the stroke made Henry’s words slow and difficult to understand, but after so many days with him, I’d learned how to decipher most of what he said to me.
It was easy for me to make life in my own time seem lovely when I regaled Henry with stories of running hot water and food delivery services, but the truth was, I’d been just as miserable there. Besides, we couldn’t go back. There was nothing left for us in twenty-first century Scotland, and Chicago held too many terrible memories for us to ever have a home there again, either.
“Do I behave miserably around you, Henry?”
He shook his head as he worked his way over toward me with his cane. “Nae, but that doesna mean that ye are happy, lass. I can see how much it takes of ye to appear so.”
I sighed. “Just because miserable is my normal, doesn’t mean that everyone else should have to feel as I do when they’re around me. Faking it is my only option. I used to think that one day the faking happy would stick, but I’ve since given up on that dream.”
It was a horrible thing to admit, but it was true. Some part of my brain could vaguely remember a different version of me existing—a lighter, happier, less perpetually moody Madeline—but I was quite certain that girl had died along with Tim. The grief I’d once felt for him wasn’t quite the same. I could now think of my late husband without my chest bearing down on me with such pain I thought I might die, but the person I’d been with him had yet to return, even all these years later.
The old man stared at me hard as I helped to lower him into his seat. “Pretending that much for that long will kill ye, Madeline.”
